The headman thrust the tea canister at her. She examined its contents, smiled. “Thé,” she said, and explained what it was to him. He nodded and spoke to her at length.
“You guest,” she said. “Allez.” He followed her to the chief’s portal and started to leave.
“Wait. What is his name? Will he trade for horses?”
She stared blankly.
He pointed to himself. “I’m Skye. Skye.” Then he pointed at the chief.
“Ah! Skyeskye.” She smiled and pointed. “Hemene Moxmox.” Then she pointed at other leaders and village men: “Eapalekthiloom, Ealaot Wadass, Hematute Hikaith, Chelooyeen, Alikkees.” Skye couldn’t even pronounce the names, much less repeat them.
Skye remembered the word for horse, and yelled it into the old man’s ear. “Cheval?”
Gallard nodded and said something to his wife. Skye dug into his warbag and produced his pea jacket, which he hoped to trade. She understood, and addressed her auditors at length. The headman took the blue woolen coat, examined it, tried it on—it was too long in the arms, but otherwise serviceable—and smiled. It would keep him warm next winter. And no one else in the village would have anything so magical. He talked at length with the Frenchman’s woman, and then with his friends, and at last nodded. A nod, at least, seemed to be a universal sign that Skye took for a yes. He waited impatiently, hoping he had been understood, afraid that he had just given away his coat as another gift.
But the iron-haired headman spoke gently to two young men, and these trotted off toward the fields where the herd grazed. Then he nodded Skye into his lodge. Skye discovered surprising comfort within. Its skin sides had been rolled upward a foot or so from the ground so that the spring zephyrs might percolate through and up the smoke vent at the top. Decorated parfleches held this family’s possessions. Pallets lined the periphery. A stone-lined firepit occupied the center, but the fire was out this warm day.
Skye’s dignified host walked around the firepit and placed himself opposite the lodge door. He beckoned Skye to follow and seat himself next to the host. Others in the village followed, seating themselves in a preordained order.
The headman withdrew an ornate pipe with a red stone bowl and a long stem from a leather bag, tamped what appeared to be tobacco in it, and waited. A young man appeared at the lodge door, bearing a hot coal wrapped in a leaf. It was passed to the headman, and in due course he lifted it with bare fingers, lit his pipe, and sucked until the tobacco was fairly ablaze. Then he lifted the pipe with both hands, chanting something as he did, in each direction of the compass and to heaven and earth. Skye knew this was some sort of important ceremony, perhaps a blessing of his presence in this village, and waited quietly. These people were in no hurry, unlike Skye, who itched to look at horses and select one.
The headman drew smoke, exhaled, and passed the pipe to Skye, who assumed he should do the same. Skye completed the ritual and passed the pipe along. The pipe went the full circle, no Nez Percé saying anything, then went another round, as a great peace descended on this group. Skye felt the peace, felt himself relax, and joined the quietness of spirit that seemed to occupy the lodge. He knew that this, too, was a lesson. Perhaps this smoking of the pipe meant something to all these American tribes. He would find out. Hundreds of questions had arisen in the last weeks, and he yearned to find the answers to them. For now, he had only his wits, his powers of observation, and perhaps whatever could be conveyed to him by an old deaf Creole and his younger Nez Percé woman.
These tribesmen had stopped time. Until this moment, Skye’s focus had been escape, survival, and the future. Now, in this breezy lodge, among these elders, he experienced only the moment, without thought of his bitter past or uncertain future. The headman talked a while, sometimes addressing Skyeskye, who grasped not a word, and then suddenly dismissed his guests with a gesture. One by one, the men stood and ducked out into the blazing sun. Skye followed. There, tied to a picket stake, stood two handsome ponies, each with the peculiar markings these people cherished, one white with black markings, the other brown with white splotches across its rump.
This was a critical moment in many ways. Skye had never before ridden a horse. He had seen horses, the big British kind, chestnut or bay or black, often in harness.
The headman was eyeing him, waiting for something. Skye looked desperately for the old Creole or his woman, and could not spot either of them in the quiet throng. He studied the animals, looking for flaws, but he could scarcely tell a bad horse from a good one, and wouldn’t know a horse that misbehaved from an obedient and eager one. Each wore a leather bridle of Indian manufacture. Skye realized they had no iron bits, and surprised himself by understanding that these devices were hackamores, and they could be used to start, stop, and turn a horse as well as an English bit and bridle.
He turned to his host. “These are fine animals. I don’t know a thing about them. I don’t even know whether you mean for me to pick one, or keep both. I lack a saddle, and will learn to ride them as you do.”
The headman raised two fingers. “Skyeskye,” he said.
Skye nodded, the universal gesture of affirmation. “Thank you, Hemene Moxmox,” he said.
The chief nodded gravely. A small wave of his hand set one of the youths to demonstrate. The boy climbed easily over the back of the lighter pony, took the loop rein, and rode it in a loop. Skye watched intently. Then the youth rode the other in the same manner, and handed the reins of both to Skye. He took them as one would take the keys to a kingdom.
Chapter 15
Skye spent that night in the lodge of Hemene Moxmox. He didn’t sleep well. Everything was so strange, not least of which was the intimate presence of the headman’s wife and daughters, all of them crowded close. He heard movement in the night, breathing, snoring, people turning about. Someone left, and for a moment starlight appeared at the lodge door. Not even the crowded forecastle of the Jaguar was as packed and intimate as this.
But it was the presence of the women that troubled him. How did these people manage certain things? How could they all live through the nights without experiencing the stirrings that plagued Skye? A certain shyness tormented him as he lay there. He had suffered a living death in ships of war, and all the heat and need of youth had been ruthlessly suppressed. But now he lay within reach of several women, and his thoughts troubled and maddened him. He ached to leave the lodge.
Dawn crept in, but no one arose. He had already learned that these people weren’t in a hurry and didn’t count hours. They would arise whenever the spirit moved them. But Skye, restless and eager to be off, couldn’t endure his buffalo robe pallet any longer, and slipped into the hushed morning. He wanted to be on his way; if he missed the rendezvous of the Americans, he didn’t know how he might survive.
His horses had been returned to pasture by the headman’s youngest son so they could graze and water through the night. A few horses stood beside the lodges of their masters, ever ready for trouble or use. Skye settled quietly in the brown grass beside the lodge, absorbing the village. He felt at peace there even though it was as strange a place as he’d ever visited.
He wasn’t entirely alone. Here and there an old woman stirred, or someone headed to a brushy area. He supposed a village would have to move frequently to keep from fouling itself. But here there was land in such plenitude that moving from one locale to another offered infinite possibilities. A few dogs prowled, but these seemed to be the only night guard the village had. Most of the skin lodges had been erected in a large ring with a commons in the center. But here and there were other lodges situated without rhyme or reason.
He explored quietly, not wanting to disturb the dogs or the sleeping villagers. One lodge was empty, its door flap open. Smaller lodges, well back from the main circle, seemed to be occupied by single young men or the very old. Another, almost a hut, set well back from the village, puzzled him. Was it a place of banishment or taboo?
He studied everything around him, marveling at t
he uses of wood and bone and leather. Some of the ponies were hobbled, and he studied these devices, shaped like a figure eight, which caught the forelegs of the animals and prevented them from all but the smallest steps. He would need two, and if he couldn’t trade for them he would have to manufacture them. Most of the horses were tied with braided leather cord—something he could weave himself. He had braided a lot of rope for the Royal Navy. Most of the horses were ridden bareback, but he saw numerous saddles, too, ranging from simple pads to elaborate seats with high cantles and pommels. Where could he get one for himself? And a packsaddle for his spare?
The curs sniffed him and growled, threatening to awaken the village, so he returned to the lodge of Hemene Moxmox and waited outside its door, absorbing the redolence of an Indian village. The sun was well up before anyone stirred, and then almost by unspoken command they all were up and bustling about. The headman’s daughters appeared one by one and headed for the river and their morning ablutions.
Bit by bit, blue smoke layered the village as one woman after another stirred up coals and added firewood. They were taking their time about all this, too, and Skye realized it would be midmorning before he could leave. He decided to put the time to good use, and wandered freely, studying the manufacture of everything: saddles and tack, backrests, woven reed mats, buffalo robes, fish and meat drying racks, rawhide pouches used to carry goods, a packsaddle that looked rather like a sawbuck. A partly butchered deer hung high above the reach of dogs, but the birds—especially a bold iridescent black-and-white type—were feasting.
The headman’s women fed him some sort of fish cakes, no doubt salmon, on smooth slabs of bark, something to eat with his fingers. The cakes had an odd, nutty flavor, and he guessed the flour in them had been made from some pulverized root or another. Hemene Moxmox stirred about, occasionally eyeing Skye, but not trying to breach the barrier of tongue that kept them from conveying their thoughts to each other. It seemed best to Skye just to wait; events would take their course, and meanwhile he was studying everything in the village and learning swiftly.
When the time came, Hemene Moxmox’s son brought Skye’s ponies to him, and now a moment of truth arrived. He packed his warbag, gathered up his belaying pin and seine and sailcloth, and stared helplessly at the animals. A crowd had gathered, and while they were outwardly impassive, there were glints of amusement on those brown faces.
Skye approached Hemene Moxmox. “Though you can’t understand me, I want to thank you for your hospitality. I hope it’s understood just by this talk.”
The headman nodded solemnly.
Inspiration struck Skye. He had one more thing to give the headman—his big, bulky seine net. He hadn’t used it for a while, and with a horse to help him go after game, he could well part with it. He handed it to the headman, after rolling it open a way. It had been made of traders’ cord, patiently tied together by one of the fishing tribes, and had small lead weights along its bottom edge. “This is for you, sir,” he said.
The chief received the gift happily, his eyes alive with delight. He unrolled it, found it to be a majestic length and height, and spoke rapidly to several youths around him, who scattered into the crowd. The whole village, it seemed, had come to see Skye off.
Earlier, Skye had observed the youth swing gracefully over the bare back of the brown pony and ride him. The boy had done it in two stages, first up on the back in precarious balance, and then a leg over the croup. Skye set down his truck and gathered the rein. Then he leapt. The horse sidled away and Skye crashed into the earth. The crowd stared politely. Skye picked himself up and tried again. This time he catapulted clear over the pony’s back, and tumbled to the earth again. No one laughed, and Skye fathomed that would be impolite—at least until the village guest was safely out of sight.
Ruefully, Skye eyed the crowd, knowing what they thought of his riding abilities. But then Moxmox clapped his hands. The youths appeared at once, each bearing things, which they laid before Skye. One was a small pad saddle with bentwood stirrups and a leather cinch. Another brought some sort of saddle blanket made of soft hide. Another brought hobbles and braided halters and lead ropes to Skye. And the last gift was a packsaddle and an ancient pelt for it. Swiftly the youths saddled the two ponies. Skye stuffed the hobbles and spare line in his warbag and tied it on the packsaddle.
Then they helped Skye up on the brown horse. It skittered sideways, almost toppling him, but he managed to stay aboard. Now at last the villagers grinned, some making odd clucking sounds while others simply cheered.
“Thank you, friends,” he said, lifting his topper to them.
“Skyeskye,” they replied.
The horse alarmed him with every step, but he resolutely steered it away from the village and onto a trail they pointed out to him, and in minutes he was riding alone, wondering how to manage horses, fearing a runaway, fearing they would stop dead or bolt back. But they didn’t. They plodded steadily in a direction that took him away from the Snake. He realized he now had not only his own life and water and provender to worry about, but also those of his creatures. It would be entirely up to him to find grass and water, to rest them and keep them from injury, to examine their hooves and brush their backs. It was up to him to keep them from wandering or being stolen. To stay on board when they became excited or began to pitch him off. To track them down when they ran off. To catch them when they didn’t wish to be caught. He vowed he would learn.
Every day was going to give him forced lessons in horsemanship, and he wondered if he would be up to the test. He rode quietly that sunny morning through a brown land of vast slopes and isolated green oases, always pausing at water. He soon ached in the saddle, and knew that these first days were going to be lived out in hellish pain.
But he was free. And he now had a mobility he never dreamed he might possess. He no longer struggled with his heavy kit, which rode easily on the animal behind him. Hesitantly, he kicked his pony into a trot. It danced along easily, jarring him with every step until he jerked the hackamore hard, and the horse settled into a lazy walk again. Next time, when he got his nerve up, he would try a canter. But for now he was more than content just to get to know his animals and master something about staying on a horse. He had to stay on; he doubted he would ever catch them again if he fell off. He studied his low rawhide saddle and found he could grip it if he had to, and vowed then and there to cling to it with an iron hand if he must.
He endured the pain until he could sit no more, and then slid off and walked, leading the animals and working the knots out of his legs and thighs. He marveled. Here he was, a British sailor who’d scarcely set foot on land since boyhood, leading two obedient horses as if he knew what he was doing.
He spent the rest of that day walking and riding, and in spite of his clumsiness he traveled many miles into dryer and harsher country. He had seen no one all day, but that didn’t mean he was safe. A lone man with horses would be an invitation to trouble. But he would give trouble as well as get it if it came to that. He was learning, and the more he learned, the safer Barnaby Skye, formerly of the Royal Navy, would be.
Chapter 16
Skye pondered his fate as he made his solitary way eastward along a trail he hoped would take him back to the Snake River. He knew what he had been; he didn’t know what he would become. He was still young, but unsure of himself. Why was Barnaby Skye set upon this earth? He could have answered that not long ago, but now he didn’t know.
His solitude troubled him. For years he had been stripped of his own will. The presence of other mortals around him had largely meant slavery, with only glimmerings of friendship from a few sympathetic shipmates. Now he was alone, free, sovereign, untroubled by the will of others—and desperately lonely. He needed friends, but had none.
The wilderness he saw about him, the vaulting slopes, the hot sun, a land scarred with angry black rock, made him pensive. Mostly it seemed benign but he knew that was an illusion, and every little while something happened to con
firm it. Once his horse bolted, almost unseating him, when a rattlesnake coiled upward. On another occasion he ran into a bull moose with humped shoulders, and whirled his horses away when it lowered its great rack and pawed the earth.
He could not afford mistakes, and when they did happen, he knew he must learn from them and never need another lesson. Once, when he failed to hobble a horse properly, it dodged him until he walked it down. On another occasion the brown horse yanked a picket pin loose and drifted away. He learned from those episodes that the horses stuck together. He could ride one and the other would follow, helter-skelter. But he knew that if both horses got loose, he would be in trouble.
He learned watchfulness from his horses. When they stopped suddenly, their ears perked, their gaze focused on something, he knew he should be looking that way, too. Once they halted in brushy cover, and he was just about to urge them out of it when he spotted an Indian party in the distance. A dozen males, armed for war and painted in grotesque fashion, topped a distant rise and continued at an oblique angle. Skye’s spotted horses had kept him from being discovered.
He had little difficulty feeding himself. He continued to harvest the bulbs of the blue flower and reduce them to starchy food. Each evening he staked and baited his trap a quarter of a mile from his camp, and often he caught something in it, a mink or weasel or chuck or raccoon. He butchered these into tasteless meat, and tried to preserve and flesh the better furs, especially the mink. He spent his evenings at that task, clumsily scraping with his dull knives, and then with a sharp piece of glassy volcanic rock.
He shot bobbing mallards or canvasbacks regularly, but they took a long time to clean and gut and cook. A pot of boiling water would have helped him pull the feathers, but he had only his large tin cup for a pot. Still, he occupied himself during the long spring twilights by preparing bits of food while he watched his horses graze.
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