At last the river entered an intimate defile and he knew he was drawing close. He had set up his camp in such a place, out of the wind and hidden from view. He passed through the red willow brush and came upon the campsite so swiftly that he had not been cautious. But the Blackfeet had departed. A horse lay on bloody soil, brutally clawed and half-eaten. These were bloody grounds. The stink of terror reached his nostrils.
His hair prickled, and he squinted hard into the shadowed brush, fearing the wounded bear or even the Blackfeet. He saw nothing and heard only the beat of his racing heart. He began a systematic search, in wider and wider arcs, hunting for something, anything, he might use. But the gory site yielded nothing. He tried to fathom what had happened. As far as he could tell, they had not killed the bear. There was no carcass or entrails. But had the bear killed any of them? He found no evidence of it, but wished he could read sign as easily as the mountaineers.
He widened his search and came up with a broken arrow with a bloody metal point. He kept it. The sheet-metal point would make a tool. He studied the arrow, noting its fletching and the dyes that marked it. This was a Blackfoot arrow and he wanted to identify it, sear its markings into his mind. He found what appeared to be the bear’s trail through broken willow brush, and the sight made him prickle. The beast was leaking blood when it retreated. He hoped his bear brother would heal. How odd and savage it was to call the murderous grizzly his brother.
He widened his search until he knew for certain that the Blackfoot war party had left him nothing. Despair seeped through him. He could no longer build a fire, sleep warm, trap animals, fish, drive an arrow into game, escape the rain or sun, repair his moccasins, or ride to safety on his horse. He choked back desperation, knowing that despair wouldn’t help him. What would someone like Bridger or Fitzpatrick do? He gently probed the ashes of the fire, hoping to find a live ember, but he found only cold black disappointment.
Flies swarmed the carcass of the horse. Skye realized suddenly that he had a mountain of meat before him—if he had the courage to eat it raw. He wondered if he could slice it thin and jerk it in the sun a day or two. Wolves or coyotes or something else had gnawed out its belly and demolished a haunch. Feeling queasy, he set to work with his knife, slowly ripping and cutting hide back from a forequarter until he could saw at the flesh. This would be a long, miserable task. His new knife had already dulled, making the work all the harder. He squinted about nervously, worrying that the Blackfeet might return, or the maddened bear, but he discerned only the quiet of an August morning.
All that afternoon he sawed at the carcass, eating tiny, digestible slivers of raw horse meat. He could barely chew bite-sized pieces, but he managed to down thin wafers of flesh, and gradually his hunger eased. Green-bellied flies swarmed, making his task miserable. Once he found himself staring at a pair of coyotes. He rose, roared, and they fled.
Then he discovered the Blackfeet had left something after all: his belaying pin. They probably could see no use for it. He hefted the smooth hickory shaft and knew he had an effective club. It gladdened him. He returned to his butchering, determined to make enough meat to sustain him until—what? Until he got help? Until he was ready to go east again? He dreaded the answer. Late in the afternoon, he realized he couldn’t stay at this place of carnage all night, fighting off wolves and bears, skunks, raccoons, mountain lions, badgers, and whatever else would compete for the flesh of the horse.
He eyed his fly-specked pile of meat dourly, wondering how to carry it with him. Then he knew. Horsehair. He examined the long tail of the horse, discovering three-foot strands of durable hair. For once he was glad he had been a seaman. Swiftly he sawed off a mass of hair and knotted the strands into a web. He worked furiously, unhappy with the crudity of his efforts but glad to see something useful take shape. An hour later he completed a horsehair web that would carry the meat and might be useful in the future. He loaded his meat into it and stood.
He was ready to leave—but where?
He had come to the most paralyzing juncture of his life.
East across the plains with only a butcher knife and his wits? Or retreat back to the Snake and hunt down Sublette’s brigade? Or try to find the Kicked-in-the-Bellies, his little Victoria, and some sort of succor?
He started east. Boston. That was his objective, after all. But fifty yards down river he halted. There would be no help—but constant menace—for a thousand miles. He stood miserably, unsure of his course. And then he knew why he could not go east: even if he managed to find food, his moccasins would wear out. He would be forced to hike barefoot across merciless ground bristling with cactus, rock, sticks, debris. He needed a horse, weapon, spare leather, an awl, and thong to survive.
He retreated to the campsite and watched two ravens and a hawk flap away from the carcass. Had his dreams died here? No. He would go east when he could. For the moment, he needed the help of the mountaineers. He needed an outfit and that meant working for the brigade. Another year would slide by before he could pick up shattered dreams.
Reluctantly, hating every step, he headed upstream. Fate had decreed that he would not reach civilization this year. He had to find Sublette’s brigade before he starved and before his sturdy Creole moccasins gave out. He hiked through dusk, retracing his route, splashing through icy rills and creeks because he could no longer ride a horse across them. In the last light he hunted for a place that might offer warmth, and found a spot. He settled at last against a south-facing rock that had absorbed the day’s sunlight and now radiated it.
He cut tiny slivers of raw horse meat, chewed and swallowed them one by one, until he could no longer see. He unlaced his moccasins, hoping to dry them out, and settled down to wait for dawn. But a wind rose, whipping icy air through his buckskins, numbing his toes. And a light rain fell for a while, making him all the more miserable. If he didn’t find shelter he’d die. He endured the stopped-clock night, working his arms and legs to drive away the numbness. Sleep eluded him. He was much too miserable. He heard the soft rustle of animals approaching and swiftly tied his net of horse meat high in a pine tree. Then he waited, his belaying pin in hand. But nothing happened.
Then, some time later, the cloud cover vanished and he beheld a sepulchral world lit by a pale moon. He would walk. Nothing else would do. He started up the gloomy river, stumbling through copses of pine and aspen, dropping into unexpected bogs, and sometimes pausing when a cloud bank obscured the pronged moon. A thousand desolating thoughts crowded his mind, but he furiously drove them back. He had not won his freedom only to surrender.
An odd purplish light tinted the land with the coming of dawn. Skye had no idea how far he had come. As the daylight intensified, rosing distant ridges and then painting them gold, he found himself in unfamiliar country. The Seedskedee meandered ever upward into bold mountains, golden in the low dawn sun. But he was lost. He studied the ground, looking for sign of his own passage. At some point yesterday he had descended a drainage, a lively creek, down to the Seedskedee, but he had crossed dozens of those and may have gone past his turnoff that would take him over the pass and down the Hoback to the Snake.
He studied the riverside trail carefully, finding no mark of passage, but he continued to ascend the river. The wilderness played tricks, making short distances seem endless. But now a deepening dread filled him. He did not know this country. The mountaineers understood it, but he had never set foot in it and didn’t know the way out. He hiked up the river until he judged the sun was at its apex. He found some cattails, pulled them up, washed the starchy roots, mashed them with a rock, and gnawed on the tan pulp.
But he was lost. Everything seemed alike: pine forests, swamps, the burbling river, bogs, aspen groves, the scent of sagebrush in the air mixed sometimes with the heady scent of pines. Sudden drafts of cold air eddied past him, and occasionally he stepped into warm pockets, where he lingered to let his cold limbs warm, and his wet leathers dry.
But the stark truth was, he didn’t know wh
ere he was, or where he was going, or what he should do. He was lost in all the ways a mortal can be lost.
Chapter 32
Skye knew he had come to one of those momentous crises that shape a mortal life. This journey had been filled with portentous events, things that would mould him for the rest of his days on earth. He was lost, tired, hungry, lonely, and without counsel. He had been robbed of sleep and his body felt leaden, dragging his spirits downward.
Despair was the enemy. Discouragement, defeat, surrender haunted him. He sensed he would never escape. He would die a terrible death here in a cruel wilderness. It had all come down to this, he thought bitterly. Was there no justice in the universe? Would those wigged and powdered lord admirals whose press-gangs had stolen life and liberty from him enjoy long and pampered lives while his bones moldered in a wild place?
He found a boulder heated by the early sun and sat against it, letting the wan warmth comfort his body. He closed his eyes, trying to summon courage. He had never felt so alone. And yet, as he sat there, he knew he was neither helpless nor alone. In all the years of his captivity he had never let his faith die: he had believed the God of Creation watched over him and would free him from his sea jail in His own good time. Now Skye was free—but where was God now?
He focused on that. He talked to God, told Him about the miracle of the grizzly that let him pass by, of food and succor that appeared when he needed it, of gratitude for being freed and alive and the master of his destiny. He didn’t know if his babbling was prayer, exactly—certainly not the sort that was recited in the Anglican masses he had attended—but it was a conversation with his Lord, and he felt peace steal through him.
When he opened his eyes he beheld the wilderness, golden in the early sun, not enemy but friend. Some crows cawed mightily. He watched iridescent black and white magpies terrorize lesser birds. He remembered that Victoria had called the magpie her medicine-helper. He felt the first zephyrs of the morning eddy past him, redolent of sage and pine and the mysteries beyond the next ridge. The bright sun pummeled his leather shirt, warming it and him. Its rays caught his thick beard, fondling his face, and his hurts ebbed.
This was Creation, undisturbed by man, and the sight of it moved him. He hadn’t expected that. This was not a dark and hostile Creation, but one that might serve him, nurture him, empower him, even as it empowered the many tribes who lived comfortably in the midst of it. Long before white traders showed up here, these tribes had drawn everything they needed, food and shelter, clothing, tools, meat, medicines, vegetables, seasonings, dyes, weapons, and more from this wilderness. The wilderness was his friend, his nourishment, his spiritual succor, his delight, his shelter, his fortress.
The day vibrated. Nothing felt quite as glorious as a late summer day in the high country. The heavens ached with joy. Skye stood, stretched, letting his new courage permeate his entire body. He knew he had come up the Seedskedee much too far and now he would retreat until he found the way to the Snake River. He sliced the last of his horse meat and chewed on it, finding the raw flesh foul. He spit it out. It had sustained him for a while but now he would need other foods.
He hiked downriver much of that morning and then found the turnoff. It showed signs of passage he had missed in the moonlight: his mare’s hoofprints. He climbed the trail all that day, past grassy parks dancing in sunlight, past burbling rills and creeks, past aspen glades where every leaf quaked. He passed beaver dams and ponds, thickets of chokecherry laden with ripe berries. These he plucked and gnawed, sustaining himself even though the well-named fruit had a vicious taste that puckered his mouth.
He topped the divide and knew he was once again in the drainage of the Snake. As he traveled he came across campsites, and he paused to examine each one for discards, lost tools, anything helpful. And they did yield a small harvest. At one he found a bone awl. At another a pair of worn-out moccasins, too small for his feet but with some usable leather. At another place he found what he supposed was a flint hide flesher. He plucked it up. Flint was precious. A piece of steel might give him fire, cooked food, warmth. He thought of trying the back of his knife on the flint, but hesitated. If he broke his knife, he’d be in even worse trouble.
His left moccasin wore through and he cobbled a patch on it, knowing it wouldn’t last long. And yet he kept on, sleeping under rock overhangs, dodging mountain rains, acquiring some cunning about wind and rain and cold. He survived on what he could harvest, which was little even in the season of fruits. But on the Snake River drainage he found camas again and kept himself alive by pulverizing its starchy bulbs. The camas were so abundant that his desperate hunger eased and life brightened.
A few days later he found himself back at the confluence of Henry’s Fork and the Snake. He arrived there on a hot August afternoon and searched the river bank, seeking signs of passage. But rain had obscured any sign. Now he faced decisions again. He could chase after Sublette’s brigade, plunging into new country, and quite possibly never contacting the elusive trappers. Or he could retreat to the Shoshone or Nez Perce settlements, places he knew and could reach. He headed north to join the brigade and win an outfit. Henry’s Fork took him across a vast tree-dotted plain with the three arrogant spikes of the Tetons looming far to the east.
His trousers had worn to rags so he employed his bone awl upon the rotting fabric, piecing them together. His moccasins were failing, too, and even his leather shirt had been pulling apart at the seams. The wilderness might be his friend but it wasn’t keeping him provisioned, and he worried about the future in his mind, desperate for alternatives. He had grown weary and listless, too, and ascribed the weakness to a lack of meat.
One early morning he spotted a group of riders so he hid in a thicket of red willows. Some southbound warriors passed him by. Or maybe they were hunters. He didn’t know. They weren’t painted. They had two horses apiece, and from the little Skye knew about such things, he supposed they were buffalo hunters, saving their fresh horses for the chase. They didn’t see him or suspect his presence, and soon they were gone. The sun had been up only a short time; maybe he could find their camp.
He followed the fresh trail northward for an hour or so, and discovered the camping place beside the river. Smoke coiled from a dying fire. A gutted yearling elk hung from a heavy limb. They had eaten what they could and abandoned the rest. Joyously, Skye added twigs to the embers, blew gently, mumbled magic, and evoked a fire. Then he scrounged for deadwood, having to search wide and far because he lacked the means to hack it from the surrounding cottonwoods, alders, and willows. He butchered great, dripping slabs of red meat from a haunch and skewered them with a green twig, his stomach rumbling with anticipation.
While the meat roasted, he cut more elk meat into thin strips he intended to smoke into some sort of jerky, no matter that he might spend two or three days at it. He had not eaten like this for weeks and he intended to make the most of his bonanza. Thus did he spend that sunny day—eating, gathering firewood, cutting haunch and neck and rib, smoking, and drying meat. He peeled the hide farther and farther back as he worked, and finally he spent an hour at twilight cutting most of the hide free of the hanging carcass. He found his fleshing tool and began to scrape the inside of the hide, doing it awkwardly until he staked the hide to the ground so he could get some purchase. It was slow, hard, unpleasant work, interrupted by trips to feed the precious fire. By the time that darkness engulfed him, he had cleaned much of the hide.
He foraged for firewood again, afraid that he would lose the fire in the night, and eventually rounded up enough to keep it going. He would sleep warm that night for a change. He pushed ash over some live coals, built up the fire, and settled down, feeling content at last. One war party had taken everything away from him, another had left him these gifts. Even here in these wilds, his fate had been decided more by other mortals than by nature. It was something to think about.
That night he slept on his new elkhide, welcoming whatever small relief it offered from th
e hard earth. He smoked meat all that night, rising instinctively when the fire needed tending. In the morning he roasted camas bulbs, pushing them as close to the flame as possible while he continued to smoke meat. He ate ravenously, his appetite whetted by the previous feast. Then he devoted the entire day to his tasks—preserving every scrap of meat that he could, scraping and softening the elk hide, collecting firewood, roasting camas bulbs until he had a formidable larder. He spent a second night at that fire, reluctant to surrender it but knowing he had to push ahead. Somewhere in this vast wilderness was a brigade of trappers who would welcome him into their ranks. And somewhere—he was hazy about the place—a slim girl living among the Kicked-in-the-Bellies of the Absaroka people would welcome him to her lodge, and perhaps to her arms.
He left at dawn, saddened to abandon the fire. His horsehair net was burdened now with smoked and dried elk meat, roasted camas bulbs, the discarded moccasins, the scraping tool, his belaying pin, and the stiff, rolled-up elkhide. The weight of all this was surprising, but it gladdened him: now he was a man of substance.
The overcast sky that morning reminded him that soon the season would change. Even now, in this high plateau, he felt the sharp night chill, which would soon deepen and last longer and longer as the sun fled south. He hurried north, sometimes intersecting tracks he thought might be Sublette’s, but he didn’t really know. Most of the trappers’ horses were unshod, and most of the men wore moccasins, which made their passage little different from the passage of the tribes.
His Creole moccasins finally gave out, and he painfully fashioned new soles out of his elkskin, and anchored them to the worn soles with his bone awl and some thong. It took half a day, but he was not barefoot, and that was a miracle.
He ascended Henry’s Fork, passing through a gorge into alpine parks laced with lodgepole, swamps, and broad grassy vistas. He saw abundant game but he had no means to shoot any, and was constantly reminded of how helpless he really was. He spotted buffalos one afternoon, a small group that included a bull and several calves, and he marveled at them. The monsters got wind of him and raced away at surprising speed. Skye knew he would not be feasting on humpmeat soon, not unless another miracle happened.
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