Read The Canyon of Bones Online
Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
The Canyon of Bones (14 page)
T
he young warriors were wreathed in smiles. They eyed Skye, studied Jawbone, who stood with his ears laid back, and then examined Skye's party, visible a mile back from that ridge.
he young warriors were wreathed in smiles. They eyed Skye, studied Jawbone, who stood with his ears laid back, and then examined Skye's party, visible a mile back from that ridge.
“Come. Visit. Smoke. People that way,” one of the warriors signed. He pointed northwest.
Skye would rather not, but saw little choice in it. All he could do was warn his people to keep an eye on their horses. There wasn't much else that they could call property or that the Gros Ventres would prize.
Skye nodded. His hands worked swiftly. He would return to his people and guide them to the village.
The sign-talker's hands responded. “We go with you.”
Skye acknowledged it and turned Jawbone back to his party, trailing along behind.
When he rode in, flanked by the Gros Ventres, his women watched warily, ready for trouble. But Skye possessed the only weapon among them, something the Gros Ventres swiftly realized.
“Mister Mercer, these gents are Gros Ventres, a tribe allied with the Blackfeet. They want us to visit them,” Skye said.
“Well, we'll do it.”
Skye studied the two warriors, who sat impassively on good ponies. They didn't grasp English.
“We'll go. Not much choice. These people can be very friendly or not, as the mood strikes them. Watch your possessions. Especially the horses.”
“Thieves are they?”
Skye shrugged. He wouldn't single out the Gros Ventres as being any more light-fingered than many others.
But Winding knew these people. “They've a reputation as moochers.”
“That's a Yank word I'm not familiar with.”
“They are known to overstay their welcome,” Skye said.
Mercer chuckled. “Very like us all. Let's go.”
Escorted by the young Gros Ventres, the party topped the ridge, descended into a grassy bowl, and discovered the village camped along Box Elder Creek. They had obviously had a successful hunt. Buffalo hides were staked to the grass, jerky was drying on racks, and the women were busy fleshing hides, making pemmican, and cooking.
The party was soon being scrutinized by the whole band, who crowded around, examining the blistered horses, the sole travois, the lack of weapons, and Mister Skye, the one person they knew.
“Sonofabitch!” said Victoria, walking beside Skye. She didn't like any people allied with the Blackfeet, and Skye guessed she despised these most of all for their sticky-fingered ways.
“I feel like a rabbit in an eagle's talons,” Winding said.
Nonetheless, the throng seemed perfectly cheerful, and
Skye spotted plenty of smiles along with rank curiosity as they all studied Skye's harmless and near-desperate group.
Skye spotted plenty of smiles along with rank curiosity as they all studied Skye's harmless and near-desperate group.
There would be the ritual visit to the chief or headman. He hardly needed to explain what had happened. The singed hair on horse and man, the soot-smeared clothing, the blistered backs of the horses, the makeshift tack, all told a story to anyone with eyes to see.
“Is there anything I should know about these people?” Mercer asked. “Do they worship a dragon goddess? Eat sheep's eyes? Sacrifice virgins to the sun god?”
“They're cannibals, mate. You'll end up in their stewpot.”
“Ho, ho. You make dangerous jokes, Mister Skye.”
“Anything for a good story, Mister Mercer.”
This was an ill-kempt camp. The lodges were scattered in random clumps. Latrine odors sifted through it. Middens of offal and bones lay everywhere. Mangy mutts circled the newcomers, some of them yapping or howling. The lodges sagged in the sun, many of them fashioned of ancient buffalo skins that had seen their day. This was a place of castaways. Still, this was not a permanent camp; it was a hunting camp, intended to serve its purpose for a few days. But Skye found himself aware of poverty here. These people had no wealth, unlike the proud Blackfeet to whom they were allied. He wondered if they were simply shiftless, or whether misfortune had afflicted them.
But they seemed cheerful enough. The crowd throbbed along beside them, scampering children, the boys naked; bronze women in summer calico. Chestnut-tinted old men wrapped in grimy white and red and black trade blankets. Toothless grandmothers, built like barrels, smiling through wrinkles in their corduroy faces, their faded dresses hanging loose.
The chief's lodge proved to be no larger than the rest. The headman waited, dressed only in a loincloth and moccasins, some scars of battle puckering across his ribs and arms.
Several elders flanked him. Clearly, they had received word and had arrayed themselves for guests.
The chief held up a hand in welcome, his face crinkled in pleasure. These people plainly were enjoying the prospect of guests. Then he signaled a word, bear, and pointed at himself.
There was no one who could translate, so Skye found himself using the time-honored sign language of the plains. Swiftly, he introduced his party. The Englishman, the Missouri man, the Snake woman and Absaroka woman who were his wives. He recounted the fire that had destroyed nearly everything. And told the chief he was glad to be welcomed among the Atsina. He used the name they gave themselves, not the French name trappers had bestowed on them.
The chief rambled, barely accompanying his long talk with signs, so that Skye caught little of what was being said. Still, there were scraps of information. The great prairie fires had pushed the buffalo this way, and hunting was good here. The People had no enemies, only friends. The visitors would be welcome to share the meat. Everything the village possessed now belonged to the visitors for their use, and everything the visitors possessed now belonged to the Atsina for the People's use.
That gave Skye pause. Was it rhetoric? Was it something larger, a justification for copping some horses? Uneasily Skye worked his way through the welcoming ritual, and then the chief summoned a pipe-bearer to bring him the peace pipe. There would be a smoke, a sacred affirmation that no harm would be received or given, and then his party would be free to make camp.
“And what have our visitors brought us?” the chief asked, his fingers filling in for words.
Skye knew at once that a gift was required. A gift he and Mercer didn't have.
“Nothing. We are poor. The great fire took everything.”
“That is a good horse.” The chief waved at Jawbone.
“You would find him dangerous, Chief Bear.”
“Then he would make good meat.”
Victoria watched, horror in her face.
“What's he saying, Mister Skye?” Mercer asked.
“He is expecting a gift and has his eye on Jawbone.”
“Tell him I will give him the giant horse. Not the one bearing our travois, but the other.”
Skye felt a flood of gratitude toward the explorer. “Chief Bear, grandfather,” he signaled. “It is our wish to give you the largest horse of all, that giant standing there. You will have the biggest horse you have ever seen. He is recovering from some wounds caused by fire, but in a short while, you will have a giant. He can pull twice as much as other horses.”
“Ah! So it will be! Welcome. The Atsina welcome our friend Skye. Welcome. Be our guests!”
“What's he saying?”
“He's welcoming us. He accepts the draft horse. He wants us to be at home among the Atsina.”
Skye felt momentary relief, but worries crowded his mind and he wanted nothing more than to escape gracefully, without arousing trouble that seemed to lurk in every corner. He wondered how many more horses this visit would cost.
Mercer led the great animal to the chief, who waved a hand and one of the younger of his family took the line. They peered at it, stood beside it, marveled at its height, carefully scrutinized the crusted-over wounds, talked much among
themselves, and seemed pleased. Now everything was smiles again.
themselves, and seemed pleased. Now everything was smiles again.
Some tension dissolved and Skye's party was led to a place just outside the village where there was some grass remaining for their stock. Mercer and Winding picketed their remaining draft horse and saddle horses while Skye turned Jawbone loose. If an Atsina tried to catch him, he'd have his hands full. And they had all been warned. Jawbone was no horse to trifle with.
Mercer seemed content to wander the village, study men, women, and children, his sharp eye missing nothing. Skye was plenty hungry, and so were they all, but so far they had not been invited to any feast.
But at twilight all that changed. Chief Bear summoned them all to a feast of buffalo hump, the finest meat available on the plains, and soon Skye and his wives were gorging on well-done, succulent meat that was roasted in such plenitude that they all ate more than their fill.
“Skye, this is the best boss rib I've ever sampled,” Mercer said.
And so it was. It came without adornment, no prairie turnips, no greens, no berries, but it sufficed this pleasant evening, as the sun swept toward its bed behind the western hills, and a lavender darkness crept over the cheerful camp.
He began to relax. Tomorrow, early, they would slip away, probably before any of these people stirred. They were not known for industry, or getting up at dawn to spend daylight at toil.
“I say, Mister Skye, this is capital. But I haven't a story. Can you think of something worth writing about?” Mercer asked, gnawing on a stem of grass.
“You could write about the white men wandering these plains. You've met two unusual sorts,” Skye said.
But Mercer dismissed the thought with a grunt.
Then an emissary arrived from Chief Bear, summoning Skye once again to the headman's lodge, where he sat upon a reed backrest, enjoying the company of half a dozen comely women.
“Mister Skye,” the chief signaled. “Night comes, the owl flies. And at night we think of other things. I will give you a gift. Take one of my wives this night. Send your men here and take them all. Enjoy them. They are very beautiful.”
Skye was afraid of that.
“And, Mister Skye, send your wives to me. The younger one catches my eye.”
O
ver many years, Skye had learned to cope with practices and beliefs of the native people of North America. Often they didn't accord with his own. And now he was caught in a dilemma that instantly tortured him. Chief Bear was being hospitable. Lending an honored guest a wife or two was a mark of esteem. Offering the chief a wife or two was a mark of the visitor's respect. All this was simply the commerce of the plains, ordinary except to a European like Skye whose instincts were utterly different.
ver many years, Skye had learned to cope with practices and beliefs of the native people of North America. Often they didn't accord with his own. And now he was caught in a dilemma that instantly tortured him. Chief Bear was being hospitable. Lending an honored guest a wife or two was a mark of esteem. Offering the chief a wife or two was a mark of the visitor's respect. All this was simply the commerce of the plains, ordinary except to a European like Skye whose instincts were utterly different.
“Sonofabitch,” said Victoria.
“What did he say, man?” Graves Mercer asked.
Skye could hardly bring the words to his lips. “He's offered us the pleasure of his wives and wants me to reciprocate.”
“No! Really?”
“Hell yes,” said Victoria.
“Ah! At last! Something to write about! I've wandered over half of North America looking for a sensation, and finally I've found one!”
“Mister Skye,” said Mary, “I am honored. I will be the one-night wife of this fine Atsina chief. I will bring smiles to him, and feel rewarded by his happiness.”
“Dammit, Skye, tell him I am old and full of bad diseases,” Victoria said.
Skye lifted his top hat and settled it on graying locks, for once not only wordless but with no plan rising to mind. Beside Chief Bear, a dozen women smiled broadly. They could read the chief's sign language as well as Victoria and Mary could. Skye spotted the sits-beside-him wife, older, stern, gray, with great authority in her demeanor. She showed no pleasure in the honor of sleeping with guests but the younger ladies trilled and cooed and smiled broadly.
Skye surveyed them all and admitted to himself that Chief Bear had an eye for comely young women. In fact, most of these Atsina ladies were gorgeous, with flashing brown eyes, glossy jet hair in braids or hanging loose, golden flesh, and trim ankles. One in particular stared at him quietly, her young, golden face warm with anticipation, even as she stood higher and prouder that he might notice her. One glance at her, slim and sweet and eager, stirred him.
Skye puckered his lips. He wished to speak, but all he could manage was some fierce puckering of lip.
“By the Lord Harry, I hope you'll spare me a pair of them,” Mercer said. “What a dainty dish to set before the king.”
“Serially or at the same time?” Skye asked.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Mercer retorted.
Matters were getting out of hand.
“You must realize, Mister Mercer, that some of these lovelies might be infected. The venereal is common among them, and white men are more vulnerable to it than they are.”
“Trying to scare me off, are you, Skye?”
“What you do is up to you, Mister Mercer.”
“Will they expect anything from me, Mister Skye?”
“A baby.”
“Baby? Surely you don't mean it.”
“The Atsina would be enchanted if you were, ah, to father a child among them.”
Mercer began to shuffle, one foot and another, contemplating that. “Do I have my choice of lovelies?”
“You might offer another horse, seeing as how you don't have a wife to bargain away.”
“And Winding?”
“I imagine a horse would do it.”
“Absolutely delightful. How do I proceed? I can't even signal them, unless I just point at the lady ⦠maybe that one there, standing behind the rest. A slim beauty, solemn, not a bit of eagerness in her face.”
“I'm afraid, Mister Mercer, that the object of your desire is the chief's daughter. If you ask for her, you might get her for life.”
“Oh. Blast. Bad luck.” But then he brightened. “But good story. Shock London, you know. Old boys'll turn beet-red over their tea. Oh, what it'll do the prime minister. Ah, what it'll do in every rectory! Oh, what a stir at the Royal Society! Half the old dogs will run snuff up their nostrils, the other half will be envious of me.”
“Confession is good for the soul,” said Skye.
“How'm I going to write all this down? Have they paper and pencil?”
“Not likely. You can record it on your robe, using the greasepaint Victoria gave you, and a reed.”
“I'd have to smuggle the bloody robe into England.”
“Mister Skye, just choose a few,” Victoria said.
He knew she wouldn't mind it a bit if he wandered into the night with three ladies on his arm, even if she herself didn't want to become Chief Bear's paramour. But the Crow were like that.
“Please, Mister Skye, give me the honor,” said Mary, aglow.
Around them eager Atsina had collected. This was a good show, and word had spread through the whole camp. They would enjoy seeing who Skye selected, and would enjoy Skye's presentation of his ladies to Chief Bear, and maybe Bear's sons and sons-in-law.
All in all, it seemed a cheerful prospect.
But something was raking Skye's soul.
He stepped forward, and immediately the merriment and gossip stopped. What he would say with his fingers would be there for all to see, all to interpret. It would not be easy. The finger-talk lacked nuance and was unclear, sometimes dangerously unclear.
“My medicine,” he signaled, “is to live only with my wives. It is not in me to share them with you. It is not in me to take any of yours. It is the way I am. It is in me to believe this comes from the Great Spirit. You are good to offer these things to me. This is good according to your medicine. I wish you happiness and peace.”
“What's all that about?” Mercer asked.
“I was turning down Chief Bear. I said it isn't my medicine.”
“But, Skye, what about my story?”
“I impose my own rules of life on no man but myself,” Skye said.
“But you're employed by me. You didn't ask me.”
“Yes, sir, I am. No, I did not ask you. My domestic arrangements are my own.”
The chief thought about Skye's response for a while, frowned, and nodded. But there was grudge in his nod. Plainly he had been affronted. And plainly Skye's party was on perilous ground. But it was an ironclad rule of the plains tribes that hosts treated their guests with respect. Nothing would happen within this village. Probably nothing would happen at all. And yet Skye found himself ill at ease.
Mercer seethed all the way back to their campsite. As soon as he was out of earshot of the Atsina, he lashed out.
“I've walked across this continent looking for a sensation. I've suffered indignities, lost my outfit, lost a man, and lost my journals. Nothing happens over here. It's not like Africa or the Near East. All I've found is a big blank. What will I send to the seven newspapers that employ me? What sort of papers will I present to the Royal Society? Answer me that, eh?”
Skye stood stock-still.
“Now at last something happens. A chief with the morals of a rutting dog wants to trade women. A sensation. I can sell the story ten times over. At long last, after squandering months and a small fortune, we have something worth writing about. And what happens? You scotch the whole thing. I never thought I'd be hiring some missionary. I never imagined you'd wreck this entire trip. What's left, eh? Bones. I don't want fossil bones. I want sensation. You've taken a year out of my life. That's what this is about. A year out of my life. Lost. Gone. Dead.”
Skye had hoped for good pay, but now he knew he would get nothing at all.
“If you're discharging me I think we will head for Victoria's people, Mister Mercer.”
“What? And leave me here? Without a guide? Without a translator? Without anyone who knows the hand-talk? Without
a weapon? You signed on for the whole trip. You'll take me through.”
a weapon? You signed on for the whole trip. You'll take me through.”
“Very well. My advice is that we pack up and leave immediately. There's trouble here.”
“Don't be absurd, Skye. They're fixing to do some drumming, have a party, throw a fandango in our honor, and you want to sneak out.”
“Do you reckon one of those blistered saddlers which ain't ever gonna be good for much would fetch me a lady?” Winding asked. “I'm plumb lonesome.”
Winding's yearnings seemed to settle it for Mercer. “Are those nags good for anything?” he asked.
“Not for saddling, anyway,” Winding said. “Maybe you and me, we'd be getting the real bargain, eh?”
Victoria laughed; it was her rowdy, raucous laugh, the sort of laugh that evoked midsummer saturnalias among the Absaroka people.
“I don't know as how I'd want the chief's sits-beside-him woman anyhow,” Winding said.
Skye nodded. His women were already drifting into the village, full of merriment, full of devil-may-care, ready for a howl. And Mercer and Winding were headed for the horses, which were picketed on grass alongside some trees two or three hundred yards away.
Skye found himself alone. The whole world, in all its diverse tribes, enjoyed a happy time. Fiestas, potlatches, parties, balls, dances. He wondered why he felt so ill at ease about all that. Maybe it was because he had ended up a man without a country. His only land was not a place, but lay in the heart.
Other books
Ground Money by Rex Burns
Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett
The Road to Memphis by Mildred D. Taylor
Neil Armstrong: A Life of Flight by Jay Barbree
Lover Claimed by A.M. Griffin
Raunchy 2 by T Styles
Sapphire by Elayne Griffith
Difficult Lessons by Welch, Tammie
The Forge in the Forest by Michael Scott Rohan
Juggling the Stars by Tim Parks