The Canyon of Bones (23 page)
Read The Canyon of Bones Online
Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
A
s that day waned, so did summer. Skye watched a gray mass rise on the northwestern horizon, and knew the seasons were changing. This land often received an equinox storm and this would be it. Whippets of cold air snaked through the coulee.
s that day waned, so did summer. Skye watched a gray mass rise on the northwestern horizon, and knew the seasons were changing. This land often received an equinox storm and this would be it. Whippets of cold air snaked through the coulee.
The women wordlessly undid the lodgepoles and erected them on the flat, well above the dry watercourse, but they stayed as far from Mercer as they could go. Gusts of air made it hard to raise the lodge cover. Skye wanted to help, but they had always chased him off. They soon tugged the heavy cover upward and pinned it together with willow sticks. Victoria, squinting into the rising wind, began collecting the heaviest rock she could carry and pinned down the lodge. Mary collected armloads of deadwood and stored most of it within the small lodge.
Skye looked to the horses, checked their pickets, released Jawbone to discipline his wild bunch, and headed for Mercer. The explorer had wrapped his robe tightly about him under the willow, and stared malevolently up at Skye.
“Maybe you'll have to drag me into the lodge if it rains, Skye. Then I'd ruin your sport,” Mercer said.
Skye wheeled away. He had no intention of sharing his lodge with Mercer if he could help it. But an icy rain would change matters. He would do what he had to do. He would shelter the fevered man even if that man was as loathsome as any Skye had ever met. Not many days past, Skye mused, he had liked the man.
He walked away from the willow to the sound of Mercer's cruel laughter resonating behind him.
There wasn't much to eat. They were down to a little pemmican. Skye knew that the eve of a storm was a very good time to hunt so he pulled his old Hawken from its sheath, checked it, and headed down the coulee hoping to scare up some meat. Jawbone trotted behind, an uninvited guest, but Skye let him come. The horse might be handy to drag a carcass to camp.
The farther he got from Mercer, the better he felt. He worried not so much about Victoria, who was tough, but Mary, who was open and vulnerable to Mercer's cruel taunts. Tonight in the darkness of the lodge he would gather his younger wife to him and simply hold her, and let his embrace tell her all that there was in him to say to her.
He saw the yearling buck frozen across the dry watercourse, its two spikes all the antler it could manage at that age. He lifted his Hawken, aimed at the heart, and squeezed the trigger. The old Hawken barked, its voice lost in the whirling wind, and the young mule deer crumpled where it stood.
“I am sorry,” Skye said. “You will give us meat and life.”
It was the Indian way to apologize to an animal just killed, and Skye had gotten into the habit of it. It was good, and was a reminder to spare life, take only what was necessary for food.
Jawbone trotted beside Skye across the rocky dry wash and up the grassy slope beyond, where the deer lay. It was dead. Skye's shot had gone two or three inches below where he had sighted, a fault of that particular weapon, but it had killed cleanly.
The young buck was too heavy to lift or drag but Skye was not three hundred yards from camp, so he returned, saddled Jawbone, collected some woven elk-skin rope, and returned to his meat.
It took Jawbone no time to drag the deer, by its hind legs, back to the camp. Skye looked for a place to hang the carcass, wanting any spot other than the willow tree where Mercer lay. He finally settled on a cottonwood near the cold spring. With the help of the women he raised the buck and began work. There was little time before full dark and maybe rain. He gutted the deer, scraped out the cavity, and then butchered a rib roast. It was cold and bloody work and the deepening dark made it dangerous too. But both of the women were with him, peeling away hide, sawing into tender meat, and soon, just before utter blackness overwhelmed them, they collected some venison steaks and ribs, and carried them to the lodge.
Skye raised the carcass several feet higher, and hoped that would discourage uninvited guests. But he doubted that he could lift the carcass out of bear range. It had grown so dark he could scarcely make out the lodge, and he hastened that way, aware that the temperature had dropped in minutes. Just before, it had been a mild summer's eve. Now it was wintry, not much above freezing.
Maybe it would cool off Mercer's fever.
The rising wind made it impossible to start a fire outside the lodge, though that would have been preferable for cooking meat. The sparks from their flint and steel flared and died
without igniting any tinder. Victoria, muttering, gave up and headed into the deep dark of the lodge, heaped some tinder under the smoke hole of the shuddering lodge, and nursed the tinder into flame.
without igniting any tinder. Victoria, muttering, gave up and headed into the deep dark of the lodge, heaped some tinder under the smoke hole of the shuddering lodge, and nursed the tinder into flame.
The women fed tiny sticks into the fire while Skye marveled at the bright warmth. One moment the world was dark and alien; now a tentative blaze was blooming in the lodge, casting friendly bouncing light everywhere.
They would need to cook the meat by suspending it over the flame on green sticks. Victoria sliced the bloody meat into thin strips, jabbed sticks into them, and set them beside the small fire. It would take a long time.
Looming out there in the night was the presence of the explorer, the ghost under the willow tree. Skye hoped the rain would hold off. He hoped this night not to suffer Mercer in close quarters. But he knew, somehow, it was a futile hope. There was rain-smell in the breeze and before long the rattle of rain would be heard on the lodge cover. He hoped the old lodge given them by the Atsina would turn the water and had been kept well greased.
It was odd. There in the sweet warm intimacy of their lodge, the world was good. Just outside, not eighty yards distant, lay a man who exuded evil: whose eyes and tongue were evil, whose sweat and spit and urine were evil, whose foul breath was evil. Mercer had not always been that way, but now he was a man unloosed from all restraint.
The rain hit as suddenly as a thunderclap. One moment the wind was eddying; the next, a roar thundered down on the lodge, spitting water through the smoke hole, each drop hissing in the fire.
Skye arose, wrapped a robe around him, and plunged into the night. He could scarcely get his bearings. He headed toward
the willow tree, found it, found Mercer sitting against the trunk, wrapped tightly in the robe.
the willow tree, found it, found Mercer sitting against the trunk, wrapped tightly in the robe.
“Come,” Skye yelled over the roar.
“Ah, the degenerate Skye is going to let me live!”
Skye whirled at him. “You will keep your silence. If you offend my women, I will put you out. Your fate is yours. Live or die.”
Mercer laughed. Even in that darkness, Skye could see those even white teeth all in a row.
Skye helped the man up and then plunged into the driving cold rain. Mercer followed.
“Bloody cold,” he yelled.
Skye didn't answer. He was done talking to Mercer. The next words he would say to the man would be,
Get out
. They made the lodge and stumbled into its warmth. The rain was driving at enough of a slant so that little was entering the smoke hole. Victoria had adjusted the wind flaps well, as always.
Get out
. They made the lodge and stumbled into its warmth. The rain was driving at enough of a slant so that little was entering the smoke hole. Victoria had adjusted the wind flaps well, as always.
It had been eighty yards, but Skye's and Mercer's robes were drenched. Mercer stumbled in and Skye pointed to a place at the door, on the right, the place of least honor. This guest in Skye's lodge would not be given the place of honor next to him, at the rear.
“Bloody wet evening,” Mercer said. He slid to the ground and cast aside his robe, its pictographs suddenly visible in the wavering light. Then he had the sense to stay quiet.
Victoria fed deadwood into the fire. It flared, and the meat roasting on sticks next to it bled juices. Skye settled back in his damp robe. He was thinking of a fine chill fall, with air crisp and clean, the sun warm on his back, heading toward Victoria's people after depositing this man in Fort Benton. He was
thinking of his newfound wealth, a hundred pounds, money to buy a new rifle, some blankets for his women, maybe some spectacles if one of the posts had some ready-mades. His eyesight was changing. It was harder to read and harder to see things at great distances. A hundred pounds would buy him a fine pair of cheaters.
thinking of his newfound wealth, a hundred pounds, money to buy a new rifle, some blankets for his women, maybe some spectacles if one of the posts had some ready-mades. His eyesight was changing. It was harder to read and harder to see things at great distances. A hundred pounds would buy him a fine pair of cheaters.
The women busied themselves in deep silence. Neither they nor Skye could escape the presence of that man lying there next to the door of the lodge. Now and then the lodge shuddered under the impact of a gale wind, and always the staccato roar of rain drowned out everything but the thoughts in one's head. The lodge began to drip in a few places, single beads of water slowly collecting, trembling, and then falling to earth. Skye rose, cut some white fat off the meat, let it soften in the heat, and then began rubbing the leaking spots. It did no good. This rain would drive through a pinhole.
The meat finally was brown and hot, and its savory fragrance filled the lodge. Victoria silently pulled a stick free, its slice of meat pendant on it, and handed it to Mercer, who accepted it with clumsy hands. It fell to the ground. He stabbed it and lifted it up.
He cleared his throat. “Mister Skye, Madame Skye, and Madame Skye,” he said. “I apologize to you for offensive remarks and equally offensive conduct. Thank you for letting me stay in this lodge.”
That was as startling as an earthquake.
“I am very sorry,” Mercer concluded.
No one spoke.
Time had frozen.
“Well, eat up,” said Skye. “Plenty of meat here, killed a buck, enough meat to fetch us to Fort Benton.”
Mercer bowed his head. “We thank thee, Lord, for these thy gifts.”
Skye paused. The women stared.
They ate in silence.
Which person residing in that body was Graves Mercer?
T
he Missouri River is a tough stream to ford, even at low water. Skye had to get his party across it to reach Fort Benton. He didn't know which ford to use so he followed the trail most heavily worn, and found it winding into an ancient bed of the river and then around a bend to the actual channel where the river sparkled. The adobe fort loomed across the water on a broad flat, its bastions guarding its walls. Lodges were scattered around it.
he Missouri River is a tough stream to ford, even at low water. Skye had to get his party across it to reach Fort Benton. He didn't know which ford to use so he followed the trail most heavily worn, and found it winding into an ancient bed of the river and then around a bend to the actual channel where the river sparkled. The adobe fort loomed across the water on a broad flat, its bastions guarding its walls. Lodges were scattered around it.
This trail took Skye and his party upriver a mile and then it dropped straight toward the water's edge close to the smaller opposition post, Fort Campbell. The river ran low now but that was a lot of river between the south bank and the north, and the water wasn't moving slowly, either. It was hurrying here, sucking at anything in its way.
Skye turned to Mercer. “I'm going to have Victoria lead your horse.”
Mercer nodded. He had been subdued ever since that night of the storm. His hands were all but useless, and Skye didn't want him trying to rein a horse, especially if the ford
involved a drop-off and the horses had to swim a channel. It would be all Mercer could manage just to stay in the saddle.
involved a drop-off and the horses had to swim a channel. It would be all Mercer could manage just to stay in the saddle.
Victoria took Mercer's reins. Behind them, Mary was herding the packhorses and the wild bunch trailed along at its own pace. They were all on the bank, staring at the icy water, which showed not a ripple that might suggest a ledge or a ford.
“Let me sound it out,” Skye said, steering Jawbone toward the cold water. The horse hated cold, laid back his ears until they were flat on his skull, and then minced in, high light steps that splashed water everywhere. The ford descended quickly until water was pushing at Jawbone's belly, and Skye was keeping his feet high and forward. The flow threatened to push Jawbone off balance but the determined young animal bulled ahead and then suddenly the bottom rose. They could traverse the river there without swimming.
Jawbone clambered up the north bank and shook himself so violently he almost tossed Skye to the ground. Skye watched the others plunge in, start a hundred-fifty-yard passage. It went smoothly. Mercer kept his balance even when his horse began sidestepping under the pressure of the flow. Victoria made it, but her moccasins and lower skirts were soaked. Mary had a hard time dragging the packhorses into the river, and in the middle, when the current was wetting their bellies, two of them bolted forward, the packs rocking on their backs, the lodgepoles and lodge careening behind them. The wild bunch simply swam. Then, suddenly, they were on the north side, water rolling off them, thoroughly chilled. The sun had lost its summer's potency and now was a wan and subdued friend.
The American Fur Company post stood downriver, its flag flapping quietly. Skye had worked for the company back in
the beaver days. Now its business was buffalo hides and peltries of all sorts.
the beaver days. Now its business was buffalo hides and peltries of all sorts.
There it was. Civilization of a sort. It basked in the bright light, snugged under yellow bluffs. It had been erected maybe fifty yards back from the riverbank.
Every hour of every day the clear cold water of the Missouri, fed by mountains upstream, hurried past on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. For Yanks, it was passage home. For Skye and Mary and Victoria, it was just another big stream.
This was a sleepy afternoon hour. Skye saw no one moving through the scatter of lodges around the post, or anyone entering the massive, and wide open, front gate. He rejoiced. His long hard journey was done. He would soon have Mercer settled there, awaiting transport downriver. Then Skye and his wives would stock up. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. It would buy rifles and blankets and tools and kettles and horse tack. It would fix his family's fortunes for a year or two.
He had done it: taken the London explorer where he wanted to go, shown him what he wanted to see, saved him from fire and other disasters, nursed his health, shared stories. Skye had faithfully done what he was hired to do and had done it well. Now would be the harvesttime, a farewell to the adventurer. They would outfit and head south. Who knows where? Victoria's people, maybe. Fort Laramie, maybe. There was work to be found at Laramie, on the Oregon Trail. People wanted guides with them.
But all that could wait. He watched Victoria wring out her skirts, Mary smooth the doeskin and let its water drip away. He watched Mercer, who sat quietly, eyeing the fur post a mile distant.
It was time to move. Skye led them along the riverbank,
past the opposition post, over level meadow worn by the passage of countless horses. They reached the scatter of sagging buffalo-hide lodges that dotted the plain. Then Victoria urged her pony forward until she was alongside Skye.
past the opposition post, over level meadow worn by the passage of countless horses. They reached the scatter of sagging buffalo-hide lodges that dotted the plain. Then Victoria urged her pony forward until she was alongside Skye.
“Sarsi!” she said.
He studied the lodges, not certain of it. “You sure?”
“The same ones!”
Skye was suddenly grateful they were in the powerful reach of the post. He slowed until Mercer caught up.
“Victoria says those are Sarsi lodges and likely the same bunch. It makes sense; come south to visit the bones, come here to trade before going back to British possessions.”
“You don't say! Will they ⦔
Mercer's sudden fear was palpable.
“Posts are safe ground. They won't touch you.”
“But, Skye. Sarsi? Protect me! What if ⦔
“Mister Mercer, sit up. We'll ride in there and you have nothing to worry about.”
But as they approached and were recognized, they had plenty to worry about. Sarsi swiftly congregated around them, their gaze on Mercer, following along with every step of the horses, even as Skye's party pierced the great gate and entered the post's yard, a small rectangle girt by high adobe walls, the warehouse, and other rooms.
They were the same band of Sarsi, all right. There was the headman, he who had a secret name, and there were the others. Mercer began chattering and shivering. He seemed half wild. A few of the post's engaged men materialized from various rooms, their dress drab compared to the brightly clad young Sarsi.
Skye looked for trouble and saw none. The Sarsi stood in deep silence, their gaze riveted upon the one back from the dead. Skye spotted a man who might be in charge.
“Can anyone talk the Sarsi tongue?” he asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“Skye, sir. Mister Skye.”
“Ah! I should have known. I'm Ezekiel Lamar. Let me fetch the trader.”
“Good!”
Skye hoped it might be Alexander Culbertson, who had governed this post for a generation but had retired to Peoria, Illinois, with his Blackfoot wife Natawista. Culbertson had come upriver frequently since then, sometimes bringing the annuities the Yank government gave to the Blackfeet, sometimes bringing the post its resupply from the American Fur Company. Officially, he was still the post's factor even though he was largely an absentee one and in charge of all the upper Missouri posts for American Fur.
But it was no man Skye knew: a beefy Scot, Andrew Dawson.
Skye dismounted and shook hands.
“What brings these Sarsi in here? Why do they stare at that man? Who's this fellow?” Dawson asked.
Skye made the introductions. “Mister Mercer is the explorer, here from London, collecting stories.”
“Fine, fine, but why are these Sarsi staring at him?”
They were indeed staring, their gazes riveted on Mercer, who shrank under them, rubbing his arms, and looking about ready to leap off his horse and flee.
“Long story, Mister Dawson. But would you do the honors?”
The trader nodded.
“Tell their headman, whose medicine is to reveal no name, that Mister Mercer lives. See what the man says.”
Dawson conducted a considerable conversation with the headman, using no hand-sign that Skye could follow.
“It seems that his people sacrificed Mercer to the spirit of the big bones but here he is. That can only mean that Mercer has powerful medicine. They have gathered here to see the medicine man, dead and now alive, bearing the bruises of his death. This makes not a bit of sense to me, Skye.”
“I would be most grateful if you called me Mister Skye, sir.”
“Yes, yes, your reputation precedes you. But here they are. There's Mercer. And now he's the object of their veneration, it seems.”
Mercer began laughing wildly. “Bloody savages, almost murdered me, left me to die, killed my teamster too. And now they think I'm bloody immortal. Hang the whole lot, I say, string every one up, send them all to hell.”
Skye started to object but Dawson suddenly loomed large, standing close to Mercer and his horse. “Mister Mercer, they're in awe of you. They have their own beliefs about life and death. They are friends of us all. There will be no more of that talk. They trade here. Friendly people, friends of the Piegans and Bloods. Do not make trouble for yourself.”
“Make trouble for myself! My God, man, they made trouble for me! They tied me up and left me to perish! Hang the lot!”
Dawson was not pleased. He turned to the headman and spoke at length and listened at length. Then he turned to Mercer.
“You are absolutely safe among them.”
Mercer nodded curtly, dismissing the Sarsi. “When can I get transportation downriver?”
Skye stared. Mercer had turned abrupt and demanding again, his gaze imperious, his manner imperious, his posture lordly. He was addressing underlings and servants and rabble.
“No one is traveling that I know of, sir. Not until spring.”
“Then find me a boat! I'll go myself!”
Dawson smiled. “Mister Mercer, dismount, I pray. Come join us for a supper. We've much to discuss.”
“I will not abandon this horse until these vermin are driven out of this place.”
Dawson saw how it was with Mercer.
“They wish to place gifts at your feet. They wish to be touched by the man with medicine. They wish to bestow a name, He Who Has Come from the Bones.”
Skye helped Victoria and Mary off their ponies and began putting his horses into the pen with the help of Lamar. Out in the yard, Mercer sat his horse, gazed imperiously at the young Sarsi quietly collected around him, and the minutes ticked by without any change at all.
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