Dark Passage

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “Take me to the Kainah,” Skye said, finding a few words.

  But Packs a Knife shook his head, and with a flurry of words Skye couldn’t follow made it clear that this party had other plans. He intuited that they were looking for some Cree scalps.

  Very well, then. Time to escape into the darkness before things took an unexpected turn. He dug into his saddle kit, found an awl, and handed it to Packs a Knife, who nodded. Then Skye made the sign for going. He pointed to himself, then held his right hand before him, palm upward, and gestured outward three times. The headman nodded.

  Skye turned his black away from camp, tugged on the line of his packhorse, and rode away, his back prickling. But no arrow stopped him. Swiftly the night cradled him in its safety. Not that the Siksika couldn’t follow and kill him; they could go wherever he could go. But Skye sensed that he was safe. He had found the courage to walk straight into a Blackfoot war camp and ask questions. Suddenly, as the merciful blackness engulfed him, he felt the terror depart. His body sagged, his muscles released, and an incredible weariness stole through him. He wanted to dismount and lie in the grass until he recovered his strength. But he rode on, not really knowing where he was going except that his horse took him alongside the river. He wanted to put distance between himself and the warriors, so he rode onward in the deeps of the night. He didn’t know where his passage took him, only that each step of the horses was a step toward safety.

  He hadn’t found out much. Sun Dance on the Belly. There was a lot of Belly River, and he could miss the whole affair. And what would the Bloods think of a white man showing up for their most sacred ceremony of the year? And in British Canada, where he was still a wanted man, as far as he knew? The Sun Dance would be held in the midst of that great fiefdom possessed by Hudson’s Bay Company—which had a price on his head.

  He had found out something this night. He could walk into the very camp of the Blackfeet and come out alive. If they had caught him running from them, he would be dead. But if he boldly walked into their company, he might live.

  He rode into dawn, amazed to see another day. The heavens grayed, forms began to emerge, and soon a hot sweet July day embraced him. He beheld a grand and open land, prairies laced with rushing rivers tumbling out of the great Backbone to the west. The Blackfeet claimed a mighty country, and it blessed them. He was too tired to continue, and the horses were dragging, so he turned up a side gulch, found a copse of box elder under a sharp low bluff, and made it home for the nonce. The shade would shelter him and the horses in the July midday heat; the innocuous grove of trees would conceal him from passing river traffic. He picketed the horses out of sight of the river, checked the warm slope for prairie rattlers, and curled up on a mattress of grass.

  That whole day spent itself without the presence of Skye, who slept the sleep of the dead after his ordeal. When he finally did awaken, twilight was not an hour away. He studied the country, looking for signs of passage, and finally decided it was safe to water the horses. He led them to the river and watched them lap up water, pause, and lap up some more.

  He felt lonely. For days he had traveled in solitude, enduring whatever fate was in store for him. He missed his old friends and knew they were gathering on the Powder River for the rendezvous of 1831. Maybe, if he raced south at breakneck speed, he might catch the tail end of it and enjoy one last hooraw with Jim Bridger, William Sublette, Davey Jackson, Joe Meek, and Jed Smith. The thought of that headlong plunge tempted him, but he knew he was already too late. He wouldn’t show up, and they would wonder about him. Beckwourth would show up and brag about his triumph over Skye, and boast that he had even made off with Victoria. And the free trappers would figure Skye either went under or had fled the mountains, a whipped dog. Maybe it was just as well that he didn’t go back this year. He scarcely knew where the Powder was, except that this rendezvous would be far to the east of the previous ones, out on buffalo plains, and closer to St. Louis.

  Missing the rendezvous made him feel bad. Those were his only friends. He was still the lonely Englishman with no roots anywhere, adrift in an alien world. He had come to love the mountain life, and had endured four years of it, enough to make him a veteran of the fur trade. And yet, without Victoria, it had all turned to ashes.

  He gathered his kit together, saddled his horses, and continued on alone, a solitary man who had never chosen to live out his life all alone. With the thought of rendezvous came the realization that real friends were more valuable than gold. Not all the wild beauty around him could assuage the hungers of his soul. No sweet wilderness or utterly free life in the midst of nature could equal the worth of a wife and friends.

  He rode ever northwest along the river, through a sea of purple and lavender and blue, as the twilight tinted the Great Plains and painted the distant buttes and steppes with shadow and darkness. The scene was a good imitation of his soul, he thought. There wasn’t much light within him.

  He rode into the deeps of the night, guided by a thin moon and an inertia that carried him into the jaws of death almost against his will. But when the hour approached midnight, as best as he could judge, he called it quits and made camp. He was out of meat, and feared that he would have to subsist in the morning on his old emergency food, the ever-present and foul-tasting cattail root.

  That night he sank into desolation. He couldn’t help it. The entire year since the previous rendezvous had been a disaster. From the time the Pawnees had stolen everything he possessed, to the time in the Crow village when he watched Victoria slip away from him and Beckwourth defeat him and frustrate his mission, to the bitter discovery of betrayal, to the long, hollow days and hours toiling eastward, to his miserable, lonely life as a trader in a remote cabin—all these things had crushed his hopes and dreams and had thwarted the life he had so bravely pursued ever since escaping the Royal Navy.

  He had a good kit, was armed, had horses, had all the means of surviving in a wild land—and yet lacked the most important of all things. The will to continue. The thought of the rendezvous had sent him into a downward spiral that made him wonder whether Barnaby Skye had been God’s mistake, an accident of Fate.

  The thought of the presence of God in all the corners of the universe, even here, a thousand miles from the nearest settlement, didn’t really comfort him. Where was God now, when he camped in the midst of the midst of the most dangerous tribesmen known to the trappers? And yet, in the soft silence and the midnight mists, he discovered the eternal stars, and with eternity came a vision of love. God loved him, and there was purpose in Skye’s life, if only he could find it.

  He could not remember the lucid and sweet supplications he once had read in the Book of Common Prayer long ago in London, so he recited the one he remembered, the one called the Lord’s, and asked for the courage to pick up his cross and carry it when dawn came.

  thirty—seven

  Skye awakened to a benign world. The terrors and loneliness of the night had vanished, and now he gazed upon a glowing land. He felt refreshed and ready to travel to the ends of the earth to free Victoria.

  Somehow, in the dawn of a sweet summer’s day, the Blackfeet seemed different and approachable. Did they not have their own honor, love their children, defend themselves against enemies, just like all mortals? Surely all that he had heard around the brigade campfires had been exaggerated. How the trappers loved to tell a tale and embellish it until it barely resembled reality. Something within him this golden morning told him that with courage, love, and faith, he would find his straying wife and win her liberty—and her heart.

  The trappers called them Bug’s Boys, the Devil’s boys, but there was a reason for that. Long ago, the Yank explorers Lewis and Clark had tangled with them, sowing the seeds of later trouble. But Skye wasn’t a Yank. He considered himself a man without a country.

  He packed his gear, paused at the riverbank to listen to whatever might be told on the breeze, and then he mounted and rode off, filled with a prescient belief that this very day he
would make friendly contact with the Devil’s boys. His path took him ever westward toward the Backbone of the World, which now loomed as a mighty rampart, layer upon layer of blue mountains that pierced the sky. He continued to follow the Marias, the stream that would lead him to the heart of the Blackfoot Federation.

  At noon he topped a grassy knoll and beheld a village in the distance, forty or fifty brown lodges camped on a river flat near abundant woodlands. He paused, soberly assessing his chances and his fate, and then touched the ribs of his black and rode straight down the long grassy slope. A while later the village wolves, the guardians, spotted him and raced out to confront him. He knew that fear or flight would kill him, so he made a show of waving at them and proceeding straight toward the village.

  They surrounded him, first two, then five, and eventually nine, the imperial warriors of the Blackfeet, all of them in leggings and little else. None threatened him; no one needed to. His rifle was sheathed, and they grossly outnumbered him. He held up a plug of tobacco, the universal peace sign. In spite of his renewed belief in the goodness of life and the comforts he had discovered in the past hours, fear crept through him. These warriors studied him, and none looked friendly. One of them, a leader no doubt, motioned him toward the village, so Skye spurred his horse and headed toward the lodges, surrounded by an imperial guard.

  He in turn studied them, vaguely puzzled by something. They seemed familiar. He reached the outskirts of the village, and now the villagers crowded about, and once again he admired the people for their dignity and handsomeness. No Plains Indians he had encountered matched the Blackfeet in physical beauty, pride, grace, and carriage. They seemed familiar, and then he remembered: these people had traded at Berger’s log cabin. Skye had met many of them across the trading counter. They knew him for a trader. A flood of relief ran through him. They would honor him within their village as a protected guest.

  Piegans, then. And they would listen to his request.

  He passed well-made lodges, remarkable for their decorations. Many had what appeared to be a row of stars around the base, and all of them displayed beautifully dyed totem figures and colored geometric designs that spoke of the owner’s personal medicine. Their clothing showed the same care and elegance. They had fashioned it from a mixture of hides and furs and trade items, such as flannel, buttons, conchos, and jingle bells.

  By the time he reached a sort of plaza, or open space in the center of the village, the elders and headmen had already gathered there. He handed his plug of tobacco to the chief, who stood ahead of the others, and it was swiftly accepted. He now had the safety and courtesy of the village. There followed the usual Indian smoking ritual, and Skye puffed the pipe as it passed by, deepening the peace. They took their time, and it struck Skye there was wisdom in it. They could assess each other, compose their thoughts, rest, and prepare for whatever would come.

  Skye began with hand signs, plus the bit of their tongue he knew, and also a few English words. At Berger’s post the Piegans employed a bit of English, probably picked up from the clerks at Rocky Mountain House, the Hudson’s Bay post far to the north where many Blackfeet traded. These would suffice if Skye chose his signs and words carefully.

  He told them he wished to be taken to the Kainah, the Bloods, in peace. A band of them, which had traded at Berger’s cabin, had captured his wife, an Absaroka woman, and he wished to free her if he could by trading some things he had brought. He simply wanted his wife. He didn’t even know the name of her captor.

  “Grandfather of Wolves,” the chief signaled. “He has the Absaroka woman.”

  Finally, a name. That was his first real progress.

  “What band?” he asked.

  “I-sis-o-kas-im-iks.” Hair Shirts.

  “What are you?”

  “We are Sik-ut-si-pum-aiks, Black Patched Moccasins, of the Pikuni. I am Bull Turns Around.”

  “I am Skye.”

  “Why would a man want an Absaroka wife? We have better.”

  “I love her.”

  “Let her go.”

  “I will give a good knife to one who takes me safely to the Hair Shirts and Grandfather of Wolves. And a hatchet if I succeed.”

  Bull Turns Around pondered that. The elders sat quietly, observing Skye with questioning faces. One of them leaned toward the chief and spoke at length in the Blackfoot tongue. The chief nodded.

  “Every man should have a woman. But not an Absaroka woman. She must be a slave. We would like a trader in our band. We will give you a fine, works-hard Blackfoot woman, young and comely.”

  “I want only my Absaroka woman.”

  The chief pondered that. “We have among us Running Crane, nisah, elder brother, of Grandfather of Wolves. It is for brothers to decide.” He turned to one of those sitting just outside the circle of elders and addressed the younger man at length. Running Crane stood, responded slowly, and sat.

  “He will not go with the white man. It would cause trouble, asking for the slave. Grandfather of Wolves would be offended. Running Crane says for the pale man to turn around and go back now. This is not good.”

  Skye saw how this was going to end and lamented the defeat. But he would continue north, regardless.

  “Tell Running Crane his counsel is wise. But I must try. I would like to learn the language of your people for a few suns. Will Bull Turns Around give me teachers?”

  “That is a good request. We will teach you many words, but we cannot go with you to the Hair Shirts or help you. You will be a guest in my lodge.”

  So, miraculously, Skye found himself safe among the fearsome Piegans, in the very lodge of the chief of the Black Patched Moccasins. He intended to put every moment to use, mastering the tongue, absorbing the customs, picking up any bits of information that might help.

  The visit turned out to be fruitful for both sides. The Piegans were starved for information about white men, especially the Yanks they hated so much. They knew many of the trappers by name or reputation, which surprised Skye. Somehow word filtered through the tribes. Ashley, Jed Smith, Jim Bridger were all familiar to them, and their young men dreamed of killing them all. They wanted to know where white women were hidden and why the men came alone. They wanted to know why the trappers armed the Crows and Shoshones and all the rest of the enemies of the Blackfeet.

  Skye couldn’t answer adequately, especially with his sketchy knowledge of their tongue and the hand signs. But the elders, who came to smoke with Skye each day, were patient, and whenever there was confusion or misunderstanding, they paused until Skye or they made themselves clear. Skye, in turn, learned much about the fierce Blackfeet; how they loved their children, how the husbands lorded over their wives, whose duty was to obey without question anything that their men demanded. Skye saw several terribly scarred women whose noses had been cut off. He learned that these women had been unfaithful, and cutting off their noses—making them forever ugly—was the penalty. Skye wondered how feisty Victoria could long endure under such a Blackfoot regimen. She would either be killed as a rebel or die of despair. He had to reach her, and soon.

  But the delay helped. He began to understand the daily rhythms of life in a Blackfoot village; the habits of the horse herders, the war games played by young men, the equestrian skills of the warriors as well as the powerful religion and spirituality that guided these war-bent people. Each warrior had cried for a vision had a spirit-helper. But they worshiped Napi, Old Man, lord of the universe, but also something of a jokester who could foil their dreams and plans.

  He learned words, but knew there would be too little time to become fluent enough to converse. He focused especially on family words, for these would be the ones he would need the most. The word he wanted the most was “wife”: nit-o-ke-man. Just as helpful would be “husband”: no-ma. “Father” was ni-nah; “mother,” ni-kis-ta, while “son” was no-ko-i, and “daughter” was ni-tun. All that was good. He could now tell the Hair Shirts he was looking for his nit-o-ke-man.

  Skye sta
yed until the village prepared to leave for a buffalo hunt. The Piegans were less committed to the Sun Dance than the Bloods, and often ignored the ritual. He learned that the dance was new to the Blackfeet, though well established among the Plains tribes to the south, including the Crows.

  Skye didn’t want to go on a hunt; he wanted to find Victoria, so he departed, giving gifts of awls to the chief’s women, who had waited on him as if he were a duke. He rode north, while the Black Patched Moccasins rode south, toward the Judith Basin, where they knew the buffalo were thick.

  It had been a good visit. He began to doubt all the terrible stories about the Blackfeet he had heard from the Yank trappers. These northern Indians were as amiable as any other, he thought. He would find the Blood bands gathered at Belly Buttes, near the Belly River, observing the sacred ceremony that involved purification, self-torture, an ordeal of endurance, and petitions to Sun for everything from healing to victory over enemies. Skye thought that would be a good time to deal with them, and so he rode north, refusing to worry about what fate might have in store.

  thirty—eight

  The Bloods found buffalo on Big Sandy Creek, west of the Bear Paw Mountains, and raised their lodges there for a hunt. These hides would not make good robes now, with the winter hair clinging in patches and the summer hair not yet grown, but the hides would make fine lodgecovers, clothing, saddles, and moccasins, while the meat would provide a feast. Some of it would be jerked into trail food for warriors on the warpath.

  Victoria’s young body healed, but her spirit languished. Day by day she drudged, doing whatever the women of the lodge demanded. Mostly they gave her the most miserable of tasks, scraping hair off a hide staked to the earth until it was naked leather, and then brain-tanning it. She was used to such toil. That was the lot of women among the Peoples. So she scraped with a metal-edged fleshing tool the Bloods had gotten from the traders, slowly peeling away hair and flesh, working on her knees in hot sun, enduring the smell and grease and clouds of green-bellied flies.