Authors: Richard S. Wheeler

The Canyon of Bones (4 page)

BOOK: The Canyon of Bones

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V
ictoria was worried. In all the time she had known Skye, she had never seen him take to his robes after meeting someone. He wasn't sick. At least he said he was She had been beside him when he was fevered, injured, or exhausted. And when he was desolated or angry or starved or thirsty. But he had never been like this, lying in his robes and staring at the sky through the smoke hole.

The visitors had returned to their wagon after meeting the chiefs, so she headed there. Some sort of ritual was under way: one of them was bringing a bucket of icy river water while the big boss was setting out glass tumblers. It surprised her. One didn't see much glass. Half the people in this camp had never seen it. The big boss was lean, tanned, in a clean shirt, clean britches, and clean boots. He wore a wide-brimmed gray felt hat.

She thought some English would do: “Whatcha got there, eh?”

The big boss turned, surprised. “You speak our tongue?”

“Sure, pretty goddamn good too.”

“Ah! You're Missus Skye. Your reputation precedes you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that the men we talked to about this trip in St. Louis made mention of you. You're salty, they told me.”

“All I did was hang around trappers a few years. What's wrong with that, eh?”

“I'm sure that would do it. Come join us, Missus Skye. I'm Graves Duplessis Mercer. These gents are my helpers, Mister Winding and Mister Corporal, from Missouri in the States. They take care of my horses and the wagon. Come join us for an evening libation and by all means summon Mister Skye.”

“He ain't feeling so good.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. He promised to drop in for gin and bitters.”

“What's that, eh?”

“Spirits and a decoction of cinchona, guaranteed to ward off malaria.”

She didn't know what the hell that was all about but she liked the spirits part of it. “Serve her up, eh?”

Mercer waved her toward a camp chair and she settled in it.

Mister Corporal swiftly poured some spirits from a cask into a glass tumbler and added some of what they called bitters, whatever the hell that was. He handed it to her, she sipped, and sipped again, aghast at the flavor. It was plainly the most vile flavor she had ever experienced. She sipped again and the bitterness swilled down her throat.

“That's one hell of a drink,” she said. “It must give you great powers. The worse the taste, the bigger the powers. Does it make you fly? Do you see visions?”

Mercer grinned, baring even white teeth so perfect it made her ache. No one on earth had teeth like that except for
this man. She had heard that all the English had rotten teeth but here was one with teeth that came from heaven.

“It's gin, the favorite spirits of Englishmen,” he said.

“I'm going to get drunk,” she said. “I'm going to drink this stuff until I roll on the grass. This heals the sick. This makes the lame walk. This cures fevers. It wakes up the dead.”

“Ah, Missus Skye, you are true to form. Now I want you to tell us about your people. I try to learn everything there is to know about a place and the people in it.”

“What do you want to know?”

Mercer thought and sipped and thought. “Are there any other tribes here, people hidden away somewhere? People the world doesn't know about?”

“Hell yes, there's the Little People.”

“You don't say! Who are they?”

“Only the Absaroka see them. Sometimes they help us, sometimes they play tricks on us like the coyotes.”

“Ah, yes, but where are they?”

“Everywhere,” she said grandly with a sweep of the arm. She sipped more of that awful stuff, coughed, and smiled. “They could be right here and you'd never see them.”

“What do they look like, Missus Skye?”

“About so tall,” she said, pointing to her knee.

“Truly they must be taller than that.”

“Hell no. They're always hiding.”

“This is a joke, isn't it?”

“Ask any Absaroka! Ask The Big Robber, he's the chief. Ask Red Turkey Wattle, he's the man who sees the Other People.”

“A good story, Missus Skye. I'll make note of it. What do the Little People do to help you?”

“Hell, anything. Chase bears away, bring water, warn us about trouble, lead us to berries.”

“Do they look like Indians?”

“They look like people from under the earth.”

“Devils?”

“How should I know. I never saw one.”

“Maybe I'll meet someone who's seen one. Now, are there any other strange things here?”

“Damn right. The One With Big Feet Who Walks in Snow.”

Mercer stared. “More, please. This is valuable.”

“Ain't nobody seen him. But he's a big person, with bare feet twice the size of any of us. Big long steps, up on the snow, any winter.”

“Big Foot! Now we're getting somewhere. He is well known and I've been looking for Big Foot for years. He's been seen in Russia, Canada, Siberia, and now here.”

“What the hell is Russia?”

“A great northern nation across the waters. This Big Foot has a name. Yeti. Do you suppose there's a tribe of Big Foot?”

“Damn right. Thousands, all over the mountains.”

“What does the Big Foot look like?”

“Lots of hair, twice the size of us, big feet, carries a club. Very dangerous, very shy.”

“Could you lead me to his footprints?”

“Naw, you just find them when you're not looking.”

“Where?”

She sipped. “This stuff, it ain't gonna kill me, will it?”

“It's good. We drink it to ward off the intermittent fever.”

“Who knows where? When you're not looking, that's when you'll see the footprints. It'll lift the hair on the back of your neck. You see this footprint, and it's a person, and you peer around, and look into the pines and there's no one there, and something passes through you and you know you shouldn't see this.”

“Could you draw the footprints for me with my pencil?”

“I can hardly put quills down straight. Skye's shirts, they look like I got ten thumbs. How about more of this stuff, eh?”

She polished off the dregs and handed the glass to Mister Corporal. This was fun. She would get some booze out of it.

“Are there caves here?”

“That's where the Little People live.”

“Big people who make tracks in the snow, and little people in caves. Very interesting. These are Crow, ah, Absaroka stories?”

Victoria was feeling a little resentful. He had to be told everything three times.

“Lots of caves. That's where the Old Ones lived. They made pictures on the walls. These were First People. We don't go in there. Don't disturb the spirits. That is their place, not ours.”

“I'd like to see them. Are there any around here?”

“Naw, not here. Long ways away. But there's something not far from here you'd like to see. Big bones in the rocks. Big animals got turned into stone. Some bones south of here, some more up on the big river. The one you call the Missouri. Biggest sonsofbitches you ever saw.”

“Fossils. Yes, indeed. In England we have many. Seashells, things like that. Little creatures caught in stone from long ago. No, I don't need to see anything like that.”

She shrugged. “You don't want to see a big bone, eh?”

He smiled. “Actually, no. Or let me put it this way: it's low on my list of things to look at. Now, tell me about what the Absaroka do at night. Are there secret meetings out in the woods? What do you do on the night of the full moon?”

“You sure are keeping your eyes shut, ain't ya. This here
bone, it's sticking out of rock. It's bigger around than I am and taller than I am. Lots of others around there too.”

“I'm sure there's no bones like that. Not even an elephant has bones like that It's just the way the rock weathered.”

“Well, dammit, tha's that. I tell you about something around here and you say it ain't so.”

He smiled, revealing all those even white teeth. “Forgive me. Tell me about the big bone.”

“There's a mess of other bones. This is from a giant bird. Everyone says it's the bones of the big bird.”

“How big?”

She stared, finally pointed at a tall pine. “Big as that.”

His eyes twinkled. “You love to tell stories, I can tell.”

She stood up angrily and dashed the drink in the ground. “I don't want your gin. I don't want nothing to do with you.”

He absorbed that. “My most earnest apologies, Missus Skye. Maybe there are such bones. Maybe you'd show them to me.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won't. I don't want you messing with them anyway. Big spirits in there.”

“Let me refresh your drink, Missus Skye. In truth, I greatly desire your company because you can translate for me.”

“Fill her up, damn good spirits,” she said, and sat down again.

seven

G
ood stuff. The more Victoria sipped the gin and bitters, the better she liked it. Clean, tart taste, cool drink, just right. These British knew how to live. Wooee!

She sipped and eyed her host. This was good, sitting in a canvas chair with this Englishman. A drink for a story or two. The more stories, the more drinks. Hey hey, things couldn't be better.

Where the hell was Skye? He was hiding. She had never seen him hide before. Not in all the winters they had been together had she seen him hide from anyone. But now he was in the lodge with the robes pulled over his head hiding from this man. That was strange. She would tease him tonight. Make him ashamed of himself.

It worried her. He never missed out on a drink. Something was wrong.

Mercer was enjoying himself too. Sometimes his gaze drifted to the encampment. He seemed not to want to miss a
thing. If some boys knotted into a gang somewhere, his gaze followed them. He sipped, totally relaxed, plainly happy to be there.

“Missus Skye,” he said. “I consider this a most fortunate meeting. I want to learn all about your people. This is fortunate for me because you speak English. So I hope you won't mind if I ply you with all sorts of questions.”

“Then you write it all down?”

“I do. I write it down and publish it.”

“I've seen books,” she said. “Damn, I wish I could get the meaning out of them.”

“Well, I want to record everything about your people.”

“Such as?”

“Your rituals, your religion, your demons. When someone dies where does his spirit go? Up to the stars? Down into the ground? Up to the sun?”

“They start their spirit journey by greeting the elders, and then they head east until they get to St. Louis, and then they turn into mosquitoes and bite white men.”

He laughed. “Very good, Missus Skye. Now we're getting somewhere. Are there secret meetings in the night? All boys, all girls? All women? All warriors? All virgins? Do you sacrifice prisoners to the gods? Do you sacrifice animals? Do you drive a stake through the heart? Do you drive demons out of your village? Do you bury the old and the sick alive? What do you do with the sick? Do you have herbs and potions? Does a medicine man drive out the evil? What do you do with crazy people? How do you torture enemies?”

“Sonofabitch, you sure ask questions!” She eyed him. “Best damn questions anyone ever asked.”

“Is one animal favored over another? Do you eat the flesh
of other people? You know, to give you power over them? What do you do with criminals? Banish them? Kill them? Do you have fertility rites? Do men trade wives?”

Victoria sipped her drink. He noticed and smiled. “Have another,” he said.

She thrust her half-emptied glass at Winding, who promptly refilled it and handed it to her. That gin was good stuff, oh ho ho! It was making her feel better and better. Damn, how could she answer all those questions?

Then she knew. She sipped, smiled, and sipped again.

“At the beginning of time there was a big raven. Its wings filled the whole sky. It had been born on a mountaintop and pretty soon it was bigger than the mountain. Then it flew here, casting a shadow so big that the world was dark under it, and it decided this was the place for the raven people to be. It settled on another mountaintop and opened its beak and began spilling out raven people â¦”

Now Mercer was scribbling busily, catching everything she said. Good. This should be worth a few more drinks.

“Out they came, many raven people, and they named themselves the People of the Raven, or Absaroka.”

“Good,” he said.

“They all had black hair, but then one had white hair, and the people knew they had to kill the white-haired one so they cast him into the sun.”

“Good, good, Missus Skye. The origins myth.”

“What the hell is that?”

“The creation story. All groups have one.”

“Well, all right. But the white one didn't die. It became the moon, so at night we see the white one, and know it was cast out of our midst.”

“Is the moon evil? Do you gather at night to look at it?”

“Oh, you bet. That's when we do the forbidden things. The nights of the big moon.”

He perked right up at that, staring at her with a devouring look. Good. This was fun.

He waited, pencil poised, but she simply sipped. Let him wait Besides, she didn't know where to go next

“That's when we sacrifice a baby,” she said. “Each full moon, the people give a baby to the pale god, deep in the night when the moon is big and fat.”

“Sacrifice! You don't say! How is the victim selected?”

“Not a victim, dammit, an honor. The holiest, most sacred honor. The shamans select the one, and make a bundle and place the bundle before that lodge.”

“And then the parents know their baby will be honored?”

“Hell yes.”

She had him running now. She finished her drink and edged the empty glass forward. Promptly, Winding filled it with more gin and bitters.

“This is done by the Wolf Society,” she said. “That's a secret society of young warriors. It's their task. If a young man really wants honors he will go steal a Siksika baby.”

“Siksika?”

“Blackfoot. The Piegans, the Kainah, the Bloods. They are the enemies of our people. A Wolf warrior must go all alone to the land of the Siksika, carry his wolf skin with him so he can wear it, and then wait to capture a baby. He lurks close to the Siksika camp, singing his song to the Wolf so he might succeed, and then when a mother is not looking, he creeps out, snatches the baby, and runs away with it into the forest. This is very difficult. Many of the Wolf Society die; the Blackfeet catch him and take their baby back and kill the Absaroka boy.”

“This is remarkable. How often does this happen?” Mercer asked.

“Not often. An Absaroka boy must have a vision, then pledge that he will take a Blackfoot baby, and then do it. After that, there's a ceremony on a big moon night. All the men in the society count coups. Then the baby is left for the wolves to eat. But if a coyote eats it, that's bad luck. Watch out for coyotes. They're bad luck.”

Mercer stared, slightly at a loss, and then wrote. The sun had set. A sweet cool evening breeze, scented with pine, drifted down from the slopes.

She was in fine fettle, and hurried on. The next one might be worth two or three drinks. “Now I'll answer another question. The Absaroka have the Wife-Trading Night.”

“You do? Then it's true. I heard about this in St. Louis.”

“It's true. It's the longest day of the year, when Sun doesn't go to bed but lingers on, and rises early. That's the night when everyone is happy. Wives are honored. It is the Night of the Wives. That's another Absaroka name for it.”

“Tell me, what happens?”

“Oh, I shouldn't talk about it. It is sacred, very sacred.”

“Please tell me. I'll not mention it or say where I heard it.”

“You sure? We don't talk much. It's great honor. Every wife, she wants to try it.”

He scribbled furiously, and then the lead snapped. He dug in his pockets, extracted a tiny folding knife, and whittled a new point on his pencil.

“Now I'm ready, Missus Skye. You were saying?”

“Ah, yes, the longest day, the light lingers, and husbands make big deals with friends, and give them their wives for the night, and because it's light everyone knows, everyone knows who goes to which lodge, eh? Sometimes when a wife is plain,
the husband, he gives his friend a gift too? An elk skin, maybe. Then the plain wife gets to enjoy the honors too.”

“Ah â¦ I see.”

Mercer looked like he was about to choke.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Fine, fine. Tell me more. Does this happen just once each year, on what we call Midsummer's Eve?”

“Hell no,” she said. “It happens all the time.”

Mercer was turning an odd red color. “Remarkable. I shall want every detail.”

But then the drumming began. She glanced at the meadow, and sure enough, a crowd was collecting at a bonfire, even as old men gathered into a drumming circle and began their plaintive songs to the demanding beat of the drums.

“I must go look,” he said. “We'll continue this little talk tomorrow, Missus Skye.”

She smiled. She was in a smiling mood. If there was anything the People loved, it was a good joke.

She drifted to her lodge, ready to confess what she had done and celebrate with him, but Skye was gone.

BOOK: The Canyon of Bones

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