Though I was bone tired and ready for sleep, I sat silent and listened.
“A gust a’ wind blew the flap open and there stood a man. More a shadow. Not Father, another man, a white man young as Mother, wearin’ a cross shinin’ on its own. She was afraid but I wasn’t. I felt so I knew him though I can’t remember ever meetin’ him.” Jonathan stopped and laid another stick on the fire. “Like ya see someone where ya never been and a feelin’ comes outta nowhere.”
He rubbed his eyes again and looked right at me, “And you knew him too.”
Jonathan had shared his dreams or visions many times before and I took them in stride. I rarely dreamed and didn’t care for being drawn into his. Frankly said, there were times I resented his abilities.
“Mighta been our father,” he said, still staring at me.
“What are you saying? Our fathers ain’t no white men.”
“Father, ’fore we was taken,” he answered and turned away.
I stood and looked across the fire to him. We rarely spoke of the time before. For Jonathan, it was less than a distant memory. Ghosts from another past he could not remember, except through his dreams and visions. For me, they were memories I would as soon forgotten.
He stood and in the dark checked a couple of the pelts, caressing then blowing on them. I knew he had finished telling me the story, though it was not the end to his dream, and I did not care to question him further.
He changed the conversation.
“I met them men before, up at Rendezvous. Not that Baumgartner feller, never seen him ’til yesterday. After you hit that company man, the other two came a sniffin’ and a scratchin’ and offerin’ to buy our pelts. Hell, they was still stretched-out plews when they came ’round.”
“Did they mention who they represented?”
“No. I figured they was representin’ themselves. ’Sides, I told ’em you were the one to talk to.”
“Hmm, ain’t nobody independent, except you an’ me, brother,” I smiled.
Jonathan leaned over, picked up another pelt, and carried it back to the fire. “Woulda soon as sold ’em, I’d be with Yellow Bird and our son now.”
“And be out the profits we’ll make in St. Louis? We been over this and agreed.”
“Yes.”
“Good, ’nough said. Now about Baumgartner and his men, I don’t think they’re a harm but we need to stay vigilant, our eyes wide open all the way to St Louis. ’Sides, it’s too late to turn back now, ain’t it? If they come for us we’ll take ’em on like all them others who thought they could take on the Creed brothers!”
Jonathan shook his head while stroking the pelt. He gained the faraway look he so often showed when his mind went elsewhere. I had gathered grass to sleep on and was about to lie down.
“Zeb, I expect to be home ’fore real winter sets in.”
“Should be . . .” I muttered, “Should be.” I was asleep before my head hit the ground.
CHAPTER 4
The morning came early. I held my promise and found the mint a few feet into the forest, rekindled the fire and boiled water. I made biscuits and coffee.
Before the sun was up Jonathan had begun building a press to repack our pelts once they dried. It was primitive, like most trappers of our lot. Not at all like some of the presses used at Rendezvous and other traders’ camps. The fanciest was brought up by the American Fur Company and set at Fort William, at the mouth of the Yellowstone River. It had a huge screw with thick, iron plates that pressed the pelts to a width of mere inches. Jonathan built his press out of six posts tied together as a frame. Using a long pole and chain attached to the base of a tree, we were able to pack the furs for transport. With our possibles, powder and caps dried, and our guns well oiled, we were ready to travel on.
The boat was loaded by sunset and turned downstream. We decided to stay there that night then leave before dawn the next morning. Expecting to be at the mouth of the Missouri and onto the Mississippi by late afternoon, I prepared in my mind for the busyness of both rivers. Weighing the dangers and potential success of our endeavor, I was confident of the future.
The katydids were silent that evening. With little conversation between us, Jonathan held the first watch. I lay my head to the ground and went right to sleep.
I heard the click and scrape of a flintlock, the sizzle of a spark, then silence. I opened my eyes to see Jonathan swiftly turn, pull a tomahawk from behind his back, and throw it through smoke into the forest. With the crack of bone and mush, a man fell from the shadows forward to the ground. His skull split through half his face, with the tomahawk still buried. I sat up and pulled my pistols. There sounded a muffled sha-boom from the forest directly in front of me; then another, louder sha-boom from behind. Blown back against a tree, I felt a piercing sting through my right shoulder, the pistol in that hand violently thrown away by the impact of the shot. Still holding a pistol in my left hand, I reached up and felt a hole. I ran my finger through the torn cloth and touched the burnt skin and blood beginning to flow down my arm.
“I told you bastards no shootin’ ’less we have ta!”
Two men crept out of the forest into my view, one tall and lanky and the other short and squat. The tall one stood over the man lying on the ground, then turned him over, “Now, look at poor ole Jeffery. I do believe he ain’t dead!”
Jonathan sat slumped over, motionless. Rudy moved around him and added a couple of sticks to the fire, brightening our camp. I could see Jeffery writhing in pain. Baumgartner slid a boot away from his clawing hand.
I took aim and shot. Baumgartner’s hat blew off his head and landed in the clearing. Rudy was at my side in an instant with a knife at my throat.
“Don’t kill him, don’t kill him now! He’s spent, can’t ya see?” Baumgartner hollered, waving a hand through the air where his hat used to be.
Rudy leaned into my face, real close, and smiled. I smelled his whiskey breath. “You one lucky buck tonight, hear me?” he said and nicked my left cheek by an inch. I swatted the side of his head with my pistol the best I could, knocking him back and away. He was about to run me through the neck when Baumgartner stepped up and grabbed his arm, pulling him off me.
“I said no more killin’!”
I heard a moan. Jonathan lifted his head and looked around, dazed.
“Well, sir, you ain’t dead, are ya?” Baumgartner turned away from me, chuckling. “The only one dyin’ now’s my man who’s got a hatchet in his head.” With a boot, he shoved Jonathan backward to the ground and kicked away his knife and pistol. Stepping back over to Jeffery, he kneeled down and leaned in close. While whispering to him, he grabbed the handle of the tomahawk and yanked. Dark bits of Jeffery’s brain, broken skull-bone, and drying blood came tearing loose, smeared against the glint of the blade. By the fire, I saw his whole body twitch a couple of times then he was still. Using Jeffery’s shirt, Baumgartner slowly wiped the tomahawk clean and handed it to Rudy.
“I sell to Frenchy, in St. Louie,” he said casually and tucked it into his belt.
Baumgartner, still leaning over Jeffery, whispered a last couple of words then stood up shaking his head. “Now, on to our business,” he said and stepped to Jonathan. Rudy joined him. “Let’s tie the slogs an’ we can talk a bit.”
They both picked up Jonathan and threw him against the tree. With a rope from our boat, Rudy tied us together. Jonathan slumped into my right shoulder, sending razor-sharp pains through my chest and arm. Where the ball lie buried deep in my back, I felt nothing but the dull thud of my heartbeat. The forest came alive with the chirping of katydids.
If I’m to dyin’ tonight it will be with my brother.
I closed my eyes.
Baumgartner slapped me awake as he did Jonathan.
“No time for sleepin’, gents,” he said, kneeling in front of us. Rudy had rekindled the fire to a blaze, lighting up an empty camp and our loaded boat moored on the creek. Jeffery had been pulled away with only the blood-soaked ground to
show where he died.
Jonathan stirred and opened his eyes. “Take what ya need and leave me an’ my brother be.” A trickle of blood ran out his mouth.
“I was the one who hit yer man. Didn’t figure the Company’d come this far for vengeance,” I said with a hoarse voice.
“Comp’ny? Hell, we ain’t with those thievin’ prigs. Fact is, I respect a man standin’ fer his own ’gainst them bastards. It’s that we, meanin’ me an’ Rudy here, poor Jeffery, if he were still livin’, an’ others not here, have a’ interest in them furs you an’ yer brother was takin’ downriver.”
I was bewildered by his speech. “You’re sayin’ the Fur Company has not sent their agents to steal our furs?”
Rudy spat. “Ain’t no goddamn Comp’ny man.”
“Rightly so, Rudy, rightly so. Fact is we’re comp’ny men of a different sort.” Baumgartner gave a slight smile. “We represent a man who don’t believe in sharin’ the wealth with no middle man, meanin’ the man ’tween the beaver an’ him.”
“The man’s name?” I asked.
“Why, a Mr. Benjamin Brody, if ya must know.”
“St. Louis?”
“Oh, no, sir, St. Louie’s too back-washy fer as big a Brit as Mr. Brody.” Baumgartner laughed with almost a sneer on his face. “No, sir, he lives way south, down New Orleans.”
“Why you talk so much?”
He turned his sneer to Rudy, looked down his nose at him, and declared, “By afternoon, these here brothers’ll still be tied to this tree an’ dead. If it ain’t from bleedin’ outta the holes we shot through ’em, critters from them woods gonna eat ’em. No matter, we’ll be long down the river to St. Louie. So load up, ya Rusty Gut, we’re off at first light!”
CHAPTER 5
I heard someone singing.
It was near dawn and I had drifted off. The forest surrounding our fire was black and silent, as if there was no world left beyond the flames Rudy kept feeding. I heard a Lakota death song, barely audible, a whisper under breath. Sung aloud only for the man who was dying. The singing stopped and I felt Jonathan cough. A deep, gurgling, bloody cough that rattled my shoulder he leaned against.
Baumgartner lay on the grass bed with his head propped on his shooting bag. He spun the top hat in his hand by the brim around and around, then stopped and stuck a finger into the hole I shot through. My aim was three inches high from putting a ball through his head. He sat up, turned to me, and smiled, his teeth reflecting the flames of the fire. Still holding the hat, he stood, stepped across the clearing, and put a pistol to my forehead.
“This here hat was a gift from Mr. Brody. Ain’t the best I had but a fine beaver hat indeed. An’ now it’s got a hole shot clean through both sides.” Baumgartner cocked the pistol. “Ya ever had a hat like this here hat?”
“No, sir, I ain’t.”
“I can’t hear yer talkin’, mister.” He pushed my head up against the tree with the pistol’s barrel. “Speak up with some spunk in yer words!”
I spat out, “No, sir, I ain’t never wore nothin’ like it before!”
He placed the top hat onto my head, gently tapping it down. The brim scraped the bark of the tree. He pulled the pistol away and stepped back.
“Ain’t this the reason for your killin’ all them beavers packed over yonder in yer boat?” He leaned back in and tapped it again, lowering the left side almost to my ear. It smelled of river sweat and piss.
“Don’t he look good?”
Rudy glanced up from sharpening Jonathan’s tomahawk and mumbled, “Ever’ buck should wear one.”
Jonathan began singing again, this time louder and stronger. The vibration of his voice resonated through my body. I felt stronger.
“Soundin’ like a red nigger,” Rudy stood and stretched, still holding the tomahawk. “God, I hate ’em.”
“Now, Rudy, them native folk is our friends.” Baumgartner smiled again, a quick flash of white on a face covered in shadow.
The hat was still on my head, tilted to the side. Jonathan sang his death song. I looked up into Baumgartner’s burning eyes.
“Kill us and be done. Else you’re a walkin’ dead man, both of ya.”
Rudy was beside Baumgartner swinging the tomahawk from one hand to the other. “Day’s dawnin’, soon them bugs come up an’ eat yer skin. Eat holes right through ’til ya ain’t no more but bones.”
They both stood silent for several seconds.
“One of ya’s gonna die this mornin’, fer sure. Fer Jeffery’s sake.”
Baumgartner placed the pistol to Jonathan’s head and pulled the trigger.
The concussion blew my right ear out and the hat off my head. I must have fallen over for he grabbed my hair and jerked me back upright. Through the smoke of the shot his face peered into mine, close. He leaned into my left ear and whispered, “Think twice ’fore ya go shootin’ holes through ’nother man’s hat.” Then said casually, “Don’t kill him. Knock him in the head once an’ make him sleep. Oh, an’ get our rope!”
Rudy stepped up, holding my brother’s tomahawk in both hands.
“This gonna hurt’cha, buck.”
He swung down and the world went black.
CHAPTER 6
I lie on the bottom of the river with my right arm caught underneath the hull of a broken, sunken boat. I reach a hand up, breaking the surface of the water. A rope is laid gently across my palm and I pull it tight. One arm is wrenched up and away toward the glittering sun. The other arm is buried deep, up to my shoulder in the silt and sludge of the black river bottom.
The rope goes slack. I lie beneath the boat holding my breath and the rope.
I tried opening my eyes and could not. They were stuck shut. I raised a hand and heard a dog growl, so close its breath was on me. It backed off a bit and with two fingers I pried my right eye open. The sunlight was excruciating. The dog licked my face and the left side of my head. With every touch of its rough tongue a ratcheting pain surged through my body. I tried knocking it away but could not. The dog kept on licking, barking, and growling, as if it was protecting something. I then realized there were two of them. They had begun to fight over my bloody wounds and Jonathan’s dead body.
“I found ’em, Papa,” somebody yelled. “I think one’s alive!”
I closed my eye. The light and pain began seeping away and I drifted back to sleep.
I hear singing.
A single voice begins. Others chime in, one by one. A choir of voices spiral through me. Call me. I see no light, only a black void, opposite of light yet warm, comfortable.
I feel no pain.
I know no past or future, only the presence of my brother. The choir fades to his single voice, then nothing.
I was out for a long while, maybe as much as two days and nights. I never asked for how long. When I woke, I lay on a straw bed with the smell of an oak fire and biscuits. Something lay with me on the bed. I reached down and felt fur. As I gently stroked the dog, it licked my wrist and arm, comforting me.
I opened my eyes. I saw nothing but moving shadows against muted light. I closed them and touched the side of my head. A dull ache became an intense, shooting pain. I groaned and pulled my hand away from the swollen knot. It seemed the whole top of my head was wrapped in a bandage.
I opened my eyes again. A young woman sat beside the bed. Though I was sweating, I felt cold and began to shake. She laid a cool, wet cloth against my cheeks and forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. My left cheek burned from the cut.
“Shhh now, you’re hurt bad. But, we’re here and taking good care of you. Make you fit as a Blue Moon in September, Papa likes to say.”
For the first time in a year or more, I heard a woman speak in English.
“Your fever’s not broke but it’s come down some. Papa says the ball went into your shoulder but it ain’t come out, that it may have to stay inside you . . .” She took a breath. “That he’s seen wounds like this in the war that’s healed up fine.” She leaned in and wiped my
brow. Her buttoned sleeve brushed my cheek. She smelled of lye soap and birch bark. My shaking slowed.
“Papa says you’re the lucky one,” she whispered and went away.
I fell back to sleep.
I woke to a putrid stink. Rotting meat is what it smelled like, as if someone had left a beaver carcass lying in the sun for two days. I wondered why these folks would allow their cabin to stink as it did.
It was either late afternoon or early morning as sunlight shone dim through the slats in the walls. There was no fire or smells of food cooking, only the dreadful stench of death.
I raised my right arm off the bed a few inches and let it fall back, then squeezed both hands into fists. I was weak but felt I could hold a pistol if need be. My sight was clearer but not quite right.
I wondered where my knife was.
I also wondered where that God-awful smell was coming from.
I could see the silhouette of a man at the foot of the bed. The cabin was dark except for the roaring fire behind him. Steam from a bucket of rocks rose, so intense I could barely breathe. Stripped to the waist with wounds open, I felt sweat and stench pouring from my body, drenching the straw mattress.
“You’re still dying.”
The man slowly walked around to the right side of the bed, holding what looked like black mud in both hands. I heard only his whispers and him squishing the concoction together. He spat into the mud and slapped some of it onto my shoulder, slathering the mess deep into the stinking, open wound. Still whispering, almost a prayer, he spat and slapped the rest onto the swollen sore on my head. Before passing out from the heat and pain I again smelled birch bark, and wild onions.
“Now you’ll live, young friend, God has said so.”
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