Ghost Dance

by T C Donivan

  “I will, certainly,” I promised.

  As quickly as normality had returned to my dear friend, it fled with equal alacrity as a feral look overtook him.

  “I’ll have them for you by the time you’ve saddled up,” he said, then turned and scuttled up the hill to his sad little hovel.

  He was good as his word, shoving Emerson’s slight tome and the sketchbooks into my arms before taking up his station again by the grave to begin his day’s meditations. I looked to Mozart imploringly.

  “There is nothing we can do for him now,” he said.

  “Another time?” I asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  Chapter 23 – Sebastian

  Annie was appalled by what I told her of Spence’s condition. When I described the apparition, she became even more alarmed, it taking all my powers of persuasion to prevent her from rushing to the campsite in an attempt to rescue him.

  “I’ve had no experience with the supernatural Clayton, so I’m not inclined to believe that what you saw was Rachel, but whatever it was, it doesn’t bode well for Spencer,” she told me.

  “I agree. Whether it’s Rachel, as Mozart claims, or something else, it preys upon his mind. I seriously doubt he will last the winter, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Then why don’t we leave?” She said.

  I gave her an odd look. “And go where? If the passes to California and Oregon aren’t blocked by now, they will be long before we reach them.”

  “I don’t mean to go to the coast. Just you and I should go to the mountains. It’s beautiful this time of year. We can set up a winter camp and hunt. The game is more plentiful than it is here at the Fort. We only need to travel a couple of hundred miles. We can be there in a week.” She paused. “We need to get away from this place,” she said.

  “You seem very adamant. Has something happened while I was away?” I asked.

  Annie stared off into the distance, her face awash with emotion. “I saw Little David.”

  “Where – when?” I exclaimed.

  “A band of Shoshone came into the fort the day you left. I recognized one of them as a hunting companion of David’s the day we were attacked on the Wind River. He knew me as well. I swear Clayton, the look he gave me, if not for the men at the Fort, he would have murdered me on the spot. I followed him back to his camp just outside the gates and saw Little David among them, but I didn’t dare go into the camp.”

  “I should guess not, they would have killed you.”

  Annie gave a wan smile. “I wouldn’t have cared if I thought I could free him, but I knew it would be a futile gesture. Oh how he’s changed Clayton. He’s grown tall, but so terribly thin. Anyway, I gathered some of the hunters who were loafing around the fort and took them back to the Shoshone camp as a bodyguard while I tried to make a trade. I didn’t know any of the other Indians. Kicking Eagle was not with them. Who knows, by now the others may have died? It’s a hard life.

  “The one I had recognized, who looked at me with such hatred, was their leader. He refused to parlay with me. He called me a liar and said that Blue Feather, which is Little David’s Shoshone name, was not a white man. I begged him to at least let me talk to him, but he became threatening and the hunters I’d gathered were not about to fight all of them for me, so I had to let it go. But Clayton, the worst of it was when I looked into David’s eyes. It was as if he did not see me. There was no hint of recognition. He wasn’t a baby when he was taken. How could he have forgotten me?”

  “To survive,” I said.

  “I tried to see him again, but they left that night.” She fell silent for a time. I was at a loss of what to say that might comfort her. Finally she said, “It was a gift really. At least I know he’s alive. It’s stupid, but after the fight with the Crows, I checked everyone of their faces. I was afraid that David might have been among them even though they weren’t Shoshone. All I could think of was that I might have killed him. I hope never to see another Indian as long as I live.”

  I put my arms around her. “Let’s leave this place. We can start tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, brightening somewhat. “But before we go, you should see Sebastian. Sosanna and I saw him at the fort yesterday. The boy has a dreadful cough and was white as a ghost.”

  “Is it the wound coming back on him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but you have to see him,” she said.

  ****

  Zenobia had moved their wagon into the fort for the coming winter and constructed a makeshift sickroom in it for his young patient. I marveled at the wonders the doctor had worked with such primitive equipment. Every form of comfort available had been worked into the wagon bed. A mattress stuffed with goose down feathers lay on a slat frame. Beside it was a long table filled with books, sweet treats and medical concoctions. On the floor was a chamber pot. Sebastian lay in the bed half dozing, Zenobia in a camp chair beside him perusing a book of medical anatomy. I poked my head through the opening at the rear of the wagon.

  “May I come in?”

  Upon my announcement, Sebastian sat up on one elbow and grinned at me. His countenance was near as shocking as Spencer’s. As Annie had noted, the boy had turned a ghastly shade of white since I had last seen him, or more accurately yellowish as a lemon. Zenobia motioned me to enter.

  “I heard you were a bit under the weather,” I said attempting to scrape the mud off my boots on the edge of the tailgate.

  “I’m fine,” Sebastian said indignantly. He poked a finger at Zenobia. “But he insisted I take to the bed for a day or two. It’s just this blasted Crow knife wound. If I’d been faster, I’d have smacked the coward’s brains out before he could stick me. But I won’t it make me an invalid!”

  “Just until your strength returns,” Zenobia assured him.

  “Is it healing?” I asked.

  Sebastian proudly pulled his shirt open to display the ugly scar. The knife had dug a longer trench than I had known, leaving a jagged cut at least four inches in length across his chest just above the heart. Though more than a month had passed, it was still red and raw looking.

  “He won’t rest long enough to let it heal. It’s still suppurating. The lung cavity fills with blood and fluid causing pleurisy,” Zenobia explained.

  “Ah,” I said nodding as if I understood any of it, which I did not.

  Zenobia got up and offered me his chair while he went out to attend to some chores.

  I sat down beside my young friend. “Lend me that extra pillow,” he asked.

  “Who sewed this?” I asked admiring the needlework on the pillowcase.

  “One of the trader’s wives. She’s the bastard child of a French-Canadian trapper. Quite good at her work though,” he said.

  The obvious scorn in which he held the woman brought back all the memories of the youth’s highhanded ways which had so irritated me when we were in close quarters. I smiled at him.

  “So what have you and that wild woman of yours been up to? Give me all the details.” He asked grinning wickedly. I ignored the question and told him about the visit to Spencer instead. The revelation seemed to affect Sebastian deeply. “He’s lost his mind hasn’t he? I think I could deal with any physical ailment, but to lose your mind is unthinkable.”

  “He’s sick with grief. I hope he’ll come round soon. Mozart seems to think so,” I said.

  “Mozart? What does that ignorant darkie know?” He asked.

  The conversation continued in the same desultory manner for the better part of an hour. Finally, I begged supper and began to make my goodbyes.

  “I may not see you for a few weeks. Annie and I are planning on going into the mountains to make a winter camp,” I told him.

  His face lit up with envy. “Damn, if I were well I should go with you. Maybe I will anyway! Zenobia’s nothing but a damned old fool.”

  “Not this time Sebastian, another,” I said.

  He gave me a sullen look. “You all treat me like a cr
ipple.”

  “We don’t Sebastian. We only want you to be strong. You’re our finest hunter,” I told him.

  The compliment perked him up considerably. We clasped hands in parting. As I started for the tailgate, he called out to me, “Clayton, I hope you don’t hold it against me, the day I left you with the Indians.”

  “Of course not. I would have done the same if I’d been in your shoes,” I said.

  He nodded. “Right enough. Well then, have a good winter. I’ll see you in the spring.”

  I waved and stepped down off the wagon. Zenobia was waiting for me. “Can we walk a ways together?” He asked.

  “How is he really?” I wondered once we were well out of earshot.

  “I fear he has a liver ailment which is why the knife wound does not heal. I’ve always thought that was at the heart of his troubles. He’s not able to keep much food down. The next few weeks will be decisive,” he said.

  “This damned primitive place. If you only had a modern medical facility,” I said.

  Zenobia shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter. The liver and lungs will heal themselves, or fail. There is no treatment for it other than rest.”

  “I thought he was getting stronger,” I said.

  “He pushed himself too hard. He’s impossible to control until he’s bedridden.”

  “I understand. I would not wish to be confined to a sick room either. My father never believed anyone was sick as long as they could move,” I said.

  “It’s a damned stupid attitude that kills more people than infection,” Zenobia said sharply.

  I told him of Annie and my plans. “Should we stay?” I asked.

  “No, he’d suspect we were conducting a death watch if you cancelled your plans. He’ll be all right, I’m sure. This will give the two of us to have some time to be alone and talk.”

  “Take care doctor.”

  He took my hand in his. “I wish you good luck and a safe journey.”

  I had a bad premonition as I left them. I knew we should stay, despite Zenobia’s assurances, but after the experience with Spencer, I felt even more inclined to get as far away from the scene of our miseries as I could. Annie and I packed our goods that night. We made sure that Mozart and Sosanna were well stocked with provisions for the winter and left the next day.

  Chapter 24 – The Winter Camp

  A solitary magpie called out, skipping from branch to branch in the frozen forest above our heads. We lay among the dead leaves and virgin snow, still as the hand of God in a moment of sublime contemplation, Annie beside me, her long black hair tied into a pony’s tail that hung down her neck. Deerskin moccasins, leggings and shirt the color of tanned gold covered her long limbs. She rested her slender Kentucky rifle in a crook on a fallen log, its butt nestled against her shoulder, seeming an extension of her taunt form.

  A Pronghorn Antelope moved mysteriously among the fog shrouded trees, its odd, short crown of antlers like the horns of a Minotaur. She took careful aim, admiring the elegant shape, then squeezed the trigger. The rifle’s muffled report echoed softly in the mountain forest. She burnished the stock of her gun with the sleeve of her jacket before slipping it into the rawhide sheath she kept to protect it against the weather.

  We lay quietly for a long time, waiting to make sure no other human had heard the shot. We rose from our hiding place, stepping carefully over the log. I watched her, imagining her movements akin to that of a ballet dancer’s. Her body was lean and hard, muscles as supple as a mountain cat. Kneeling over the dead creature, she said a silent prayer then began to skin it. I joined her.

  We worked methodically, carving up the animal as skillfully as any Philadelphia surgeon, removing the most edible parts and wrapping them in a canvas pouch. Finally, she rolled the bloody skin up and tied it to my pack. Our work complete, we moved away into the forest leaving only the bony carcass of the elk as evidence of our passing. The snow was knee deep, but the weather was lovely. I supposed the month was January, but I had lost track of time, days and weeks meaning nothing here. Annie drew the soft, felt hat from her head. Sweat beaded the crest of her temples. She smiled at me. I rubbed the beard on my chin.

  “Does it bother you?” She asked.

  “It makes me feel like a porcupine.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  “Then I shall keep it.”

  “I would have cut this mop of hair, but Hawker insisted it would diminish my stature among the Indians we dealt with,” she said.

  “How so?”

  She assumed Hawker’s nasal tone, “There’s none of these redskins have seen a white woman dressed in buckskins totin’ a rifle. If’n you cut your hair like a man, it will only rouse their curiosity the more, making it twice as likely some young buck will try to bother you just to see what’s under yer britches – and besides, they respect a luxuriant scalp. Makes it worth their while to kill you, if they’ve the notion.”

  I laughed. “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  I felt emboldened by the direction of the conversation to ask her about something that had been preying on my mind. “It never bothered your, Hawker and Noah’s unnatural desires?”

  “Why should it Clayton? They treated me well and it was none of my business. Does it bother you?”

  “I suppose. To call a boy a sodomite when I was at school was the ultimate insult. I don’t take it as lightly as Spencer.”

  “So what would you do about it?” She asked.

  I considered the question. “I suppose it is meaningless. As you said, it is none of your business, or mine. But men rarely grow beyond their schoolyard prejudices.”

  “That is sad.”

  “There’s something else I’ve been thinking about.”

  “What is it?” She asked.

  “I don’t want you to misunderstand, as I wish I had done it instead of you and I would have if my mind had not frozen, but does it ever bother you; the killing of Kingfish?

  She did not answer for a long time. I silently cursed myself for the monstrous curiosity that lurked at the pit of my soul. We walked along, the weight of my ill considered question bearing upon me like the ignoble deed it was.

  Finally she replied, speaking in a soft voice, “I’m bothered, but not by the killing. I was serious when I proposed we drop him in the river the night before. It would have been a nasty business, but in this country we have to be a law unto ourselves and a man like Kingfish is a menace to our fragile society. I was more troubled by the quick judgment all of you made to kill him and then let Spencer go about torturing him. It made us no better than the monsters who murdered Rachel. I greatly respect the Plains Indians, except for their practice of mercilessly torturing their captives. When Spencer began to imitate them after we had just buried poor Rachel, I couldn’t bear it. But to answer your question, no, the killing doesn’t bother me. I just wonder how long the rest of you would have let it go on.” She flashed a shy smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not criticizing you Clayton. You’re a good man and you were the only one to speak up and try to stop him.”

  “Everything you said is true,” I agreed.

  I was grateful for her absolution and vowed never to raise the subject again. A hawk cried out above us. We looked up and watched it wing across the sky, admiring its majesty. The air was sharp and crisp, as sweet as icing on a cake. It filled the lungs with strength, driving out the poison of the last few months.

  We came finally to the home we had made. Like Spencer, we had burrowed into the steep side of a hill, but constructed it carefully, covering the ceiling and walls with sturdy saplings and pine boughs. We had built a chimney of stone inside our house and caulked its chinks with mud, though we cooked outside except in the worst of weather. The horses were similarly sheltered against the elements. Our base camp was roughly two hundred miles west of Fort Laramie, well above the South Pass of the Rockies that served as a highway west for the immigrant wagon trains.

  We dined on our elk that night as a storm roll
ed in across the mountains shaking the roof of our house. I checked to make sure the horses were well hobbled and safe from the tempest, then sealed off the entrance as Annie fixed the fire. Our practice was to read to one another at night after supper. Our resources were limited, our total collection being only a half dozen books, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Shakespeare’s Sonnets, my own personal favorite, Voltaire’s Candide, two collections of poetry, Coleridge and Byron and the book Spencer had lent me, Emerson’s Nature. We had made the latter our reading material for the last several nights.

  “What do you think of it?” I asked Annie as we settled in for the night.

  “It’s good.”

  “You haven’t said that much about it. You’ve lived in the wilderness, do you think he knows something, or is he full of prunes?” I asked.

  She laughed quietly. “I wish I had the perspective of the author. He has something, but I’m afraid the accoutrements of nature have become to me as commonplace as a workman’s tools.” She hesitated. I could sense a swell of bitterness catch at the back of her throat. “It’s difficult to not let the deprivation overcome the beauty of it. I’ve near starved to death and the people I love, more than once.”

  “I’m sorry. I feel an ass for having imposed the silly thing on you,” I said.

  “Not at all Clayton. It is beautifully written and I love the philosophy. It’s all a matter of perception. My reality is Mr. Emerson’s fantasy. It changes like light through a prism. Both may in turn, be true and false.”

  I considered the notion. “I wonder if you’ve unearthed the key behind Berkeley’s Theory. If it can be neither proven, nor dismissed, therefore is it both true and false, depending upon the perception of the individual. I like the idea. It’s succinct and accurate. Spencer and I debated the silly notion over the course of a thousand miles and most of a year, but you’ve reduced it to its basic element in a heartbeat. You have a facile mind.”

  A shy grin worked at the corners of her pretty face. “You give me too much credit. I was only talking about Emerson’s book. You’ve applied it to something entirely different.”