Rendezvous (34 page)

“It's the navy all over, mate. When you fight beside men, they look you over and you look them over.”

Sublette nodded. They hiked along the north bank of the Yellowstone after detouring around a canyon, and now passed through a forest of bare cottonwoods. Rugged white-tipped mountains rose in the north, separate from the great spine of the Stony Mountains that lay south of the river. This was the raw, noble, harsh country the Crows called home, glorious in the summer, vicious in the winter.

“You may have surmised that I'm leading up to something, Mister Skye. You've proven yourself even in the brief time you've been with us. Next summer, at rendezvous, I'm going to propose to my partners that you become a brigade leader. There would be a base wage of eight hundred dollars and bonuses based on the number of pelts your brigade brings in. With your skills, you would probably be rich in three or four years.”

Skye squinted at the distant mountains, which were dazzling in the morning light. His blue eyes, nested in hollows of reddened and weather-chafed flesh, seemed to seek visions in the thin winter air, and concealed from Sublette the thoughts that were crawling through Skye's mind. “I'll think about it, sir,” he said at last.

Sublette wouldn't be deterred. “Mister Skye, I well know your lifelong vision of educating yourself and going into business. It nursed you through years of grief. And nothing I'm proposing now would keep you from it if you eventually want to pursue it. But you've a chance here to establish yourself for the rest of your life. Will you at least think it over?”

“Yes, of course.”

Gunshot drifted on the wind, faint but unmistakable. The sound gladdened Sublette. It didn't signify war or trouble; it signified game. “Hear that?” he asked Skye. “That's meat.”

Skye smiled.

An hour later they came to a noble stand of cottonwoods beside the river, and found the hunters waiting there, fires already going. It was only midmorning, but the brigade was about to feast.

“Fat cow,” said Bridger, who had been out with the hunters. “In fact, three fat cows and one calf, and as many as we want. Two, three miles yonder.” He pointed north.

Fat cow! Word whipped through the brigade. Fat cow!

Sublette swiftly dispatched half a dozen camp tenders to help butcher and haul the meat. They would take it all and the hides, too, good gifts for the Crows. Butchering and transporting four buffalo was a major undertaking. They had come only a few miles this day, but so what? Starving men would have fat cow, and the horses could use a rest.

“Mister Skye, you stay. Unload and picket the horses on whatever grass you can find. We'll stay the night. This hyar campsite even has a name. Big Timber, named after those noble cottonwoods yonder by Lewis and Clark—actually Clark, coming down the Yellowstone with Sacajewea and a few men, heading east to meet Lewis at the confluence of the Missouri.”

Skye knew nothing of that, but he nodded and set to work, unloading the horses and picketing them one by one on brown grass where they could make a living. A vicious wind wailed through the naked branches of the cottonwoods, shooting ice into Sublette's flesh, but he didn't mind.

Fat cow!

Sublette stepped off his horse, unloaded and picketed it, and then cut deadwood from some nearby cottonwoods. It would burn hot and fast. Cottonwood smoke was foul compared to the resinous smoke from pine wood, but it made a good fire. He kept his Hawken rifle at his side, as always. Just when you thought you might be safe from the red devils, that's when they surprised you. But he had little fear of them now, in the dead of winter, when they would be telling stories in their lodges.

He noticed that Skye wasn't armed, and thought to tell the man. There were things Skye needed to learn.

“Mister Skye, where's your rifle?”

“With my gear, sir.”

“Have it with you. Someday that practice will save your life. And no matter what you're doing, eye the horizons constantly.”

Skye nodded, collected his rifle, checked the charge of powder in the pan, and set it close to him while he picketed horses.

By the time the first of the meat arrived—several huge chunks of haunch laced to the saddle—Skye and Sublette had a camp set up.

“Shall I start roasting it, sir?” Skye asked.

Sublette shook his head. “It ain't hump. Set it aside.”

Skye looked disappointed but said nothing.

Together, they pulled the red meat off the packhorse and set it aside. Sublette felt his belly rumble. He and Skye could be cooking this meat right now; he and Skye could be feasting, filling their empty bellies at last while the rest were butchering. But the thought of humpmeat, fatty and tender and laced with flavor, stayed him. Even starving men should wait a while for humpmeat. Or tongue. That was another feast. There was a lesson Skye would learn soon enough.

Another burdened horse arrived, bearing a green hide with a huge chunk of meat and bone within, along with a tongue. Sublette opened the parcel and eyed the meat happily.

“Mister Skye, that's hump. Run a cooking rod through it and start it roasting over a low fire. You'll see that it's worth the wait. And then start the tongue cooking.”

“My stomach doesn't agree, sir.”

Sublette laughed. “Damned English don't know fat cow from poor bull,” he said. “You see how that meat arrived special—all wrapped in a hide? There's a mountain message in it.”

Sublette helped Skye rig up the fire and block the wind that was whipping the flame. “I've camped here at Big Timber half a dozen times and every time the wind pretty near drove me out,” he grumbled.

No meat arrived for a long time, and then the whole brigade arrived at once, packhorses loaded, crude travois dragging huge hulks of buffalo.

“We been samplin',” said Bridger, whose cheeks were bloodstained. “Best lights I ever bit into.”

Skye looked appalled.

“Raw buffler liver, Mister Skye—it's a mountain man's sweet. This child'll show ye next time. And maybe we'll roast some boudins, too, as long as you're a pork-eater.”

“You actually eat raw meat?” Skye asked.

“Mister Skye, we got vices ye never heard of. We'll teach ye the whole lot of 'em, one by one,” Bridger said. “Now whar's that hump we expressed down hyar? I'm plumb sick of yore vittles—raccoon and swamp roots. This child don't eat coons and roots, you hear me?”

But Skye was grinning. He pulled the dripping humpmeat off the fire and began sawing down to the bone, sending aromas into the wind that drove Sublette half mad. The meat, blackened on the outside, remained pink at the center and dripped juices. Solemnly, the brigade gathered around the cookfire to observe all this.

“Ye don't get any, Mister Skye,” said Bridger. “Ye got to cook the next hump, yonder, and then ye can have our leavings. That's what ye desarve for feeding us dead fox and marsh roots.”

“That's right,” said Tom Fitzpatrick solemnly. “We've all decided that you don't get any. You can stick with your dainty British cookery.”

Sublette watched Skye redden and then relax, and then bellow. “Mr. Bridger, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he roared, “cook your own bloody meat.”

Old Gabe Bridger—who was scarcely older than Skye, actually—cocked an eyebrow, grimaced, looked exceedingly pained, and then hoorawed.

No pork-eater was Skye, Sublette thought. He was a mountaineer now.

Chapter 44

“The pale men are coming!”

Many Quill Woman heard the village crier, Buffalo Hoof, chant his message among the lodges of the Kicked-in-the-Bellies. Swiftly she drew a thick buffalo robe about her and slipped through the low lodge door into a wintry day.

She saw no trappers, but that was as it should be. Even in winter, the village wolf soldiers had detected the pale men far away, and reported the news to the chief, Arapooish, and the elders and seers. By the time the pale men entered, the village elders would be gathered before the chief's lodge to receive them.

Tonight there would be feasts and merriment. The People of the Raven had little to do in winter but tell stories and have good times around the lodge fires.

She waited impatiently, giving place to the warriors and elders as a young single woman should. Had he come? She would know soon. But she already knew, having seen with inner vision. Even though Skye had talked of going far to the east and the big waters there, he would come. She smiled. Magpie had known more of his future than he himself had. Magpie was a true counselor who saw all things and led Many Quill Woman to her understandings. Magpie didn't go south in the winter the way other birds did, but stayed right there, making a living even in the cold season.

Swiftly the lodges emptied themselves as the people dressed against the icy wind and gathered in the harsh sunlight to witness this event. Maybe the liar Beckwourth would be with them again. Beckwourth called himself an Absaroka chief, which amused her people. But he was a brave warrior and had fought beside her brothers in wars against the Siksika, so they would honor Beckwourth and supply him with women. Beckwourth never had enough of them. Many Quill Woman hoped that her father entertained no such notions about her. Let Beckwourth winter with Pine Leaf again. They were made for each other. The thought made her smile. Pine Leaf, the revered warrior woman of her people, didn't really like Beckwourth either but Beckwourth didn't know that.

How handsome was her village this year. They were fat because they had made a fine fall hunt, and had many robes and parfleches full of pemmican and frozen buffalo quarters hanging high above the snapping jaws of dogs. They had traded many beaver pelts at the rendezvous and now the warriors were decked out in crimson or blue, and women were wrapped in thick blankets with black stripes at either end, and had tied their straight hair with ribbons gotten from the traders. Oh, how she loved her village, with smoke curling from its many lodges, and fat horses gathered nearby, safe from the Siksika dogs. Here were great men and seers, the proudest of the Absaroka people, choosing to live in the village of the great Arapooish, vanquisher of the Siksika, terror of the Lakota, and the only chief in many years who blessed his people with good times.

She saw the pale men enter the village, and as always they excited curiosity. Where were their women? Why did these men come to the mountains without their wives and children? This thing had baffled her people and none of the elders or seers could explain it. Somewhere, these trappers had hidden their women. Most of the Absaroka had never seen a pale woman. Many Quill Woman had never seen one, and she suspected they must be ugly and mean, so the pale men were ashamed of them. It was said that the pale women were kept in a hot land far to the east because they could not take cold weather, and there the pale men repaired now and then to add to their families. What a strange custom.

The Goddamns made a great show, riding in procession into the village, escorted by the Kit Fox Society, the young warriors doing the policing of the village this winter. The Goddamns did not sit proudly on their ponies, with backs straight, like any Absaroka man or woman. These pale men slouched, and spat—a terrible insult—and even looked directly at the Absaroka instead of averting their gazes as politeness required. Still, they made a great spectacle, and Many Quill Woman thrilled at the sight of these barbarous men, so empty of manners and so lax in their conduct that they scandalized her people.

Their terrible beards plumed their faces until one could scarcely see the face hidden by them, as if the beards were masks to conceal these men from the eyes of the seers, who plumbed the depths of all mortals. They wore magnificent hats and headdresses, all of their own design, obviously their secret medicine. Some were made of fox or beaver or otter, some made of buffalo or the material they called felt. They carried their heavy rifles in saddle sheaths, usually fringed and decorated. But not one of them dressed like another, and each was so different that she could hardly say that they were all of one tribe.

She watched eagerly, awaiting the sight of the one she ached to see, and wondering if she would recognize him behind his beard. She would. She would know his blue eyes and his big nose. She spotted Beckwourth—ah, how he was smiling, his brown eyes dancing with delight. And she spotted others she knew from previous visits, all bristling with beards. Many passed, strange men, and then she saw him near the rear, just as he saw her.

Her heart soared. “Mister Skye!”

“Victoria!”

He had come. Her inner vision had told her he would, but she had doubted and now was ashamed. His gaze bored into her, searching her, noting everything about her, and she flushed with warmth, even in the biting cold. But he had stopped the procession and he knew suddenly that he must move on. There were welcomings to be completed before she could greet him.

She raced toward the great lodge of Arapooish, twenty-two poles, big enough for six wives. There would these pale men be welcomed. She felt aglow. She could not say why she felt so happy. Skye was not a great man among them, and he was near the rear, giving place to the leaders of the brigade. Why did she care? Maybe a witch had cast a spell, or even an evil spirit from under the waters, swimming among the fish in the places of the dead.

The leaders of the pale men dismounted before Arapooish and the elders, leaving their horses to the lesser ones like Skye who stood back, a man without status among them.

Beckwourth did the honors. He could speak the tongue of the People.

“My esteemed chief, Arapooish, Rotten Belly, we have come to offer you gifts,” he said, enjoying himself. But Beckwourth always enjoyed himself, even when he shouldn't. “Here, behold the tobacco,” he said, handing her chief a twist. That was ceremony. The gift of tobacco signified many things, but most of all peace and friendship. Her chief nodded, and his son, Arrow, accepted.