Rendezvous (9 page)

“Then there must not be much else to do,” Skye said.

“It's our protection, ye well know that or ye don't know the country.”

“I don't know it.”

“I'm Ross McTavish, factor here, and ye speak an Englishman's tongue.”

Skye shrugged. “And you a Canadian's, I suppose.”

“You're not giving me a name.”

“Mr. Ogden told me Ronald Mackenzie would be here.”

“He's not. Ye have it wrong. Mackenzie founded it, eighteen and eighteen, when he was still a Nor' Wester. Then it was run by Alexander Ross. And now I'm the man. This is mine, all mine.”

“A Scots post, then.”

“And what is the matter with that? Ye be a bloody roundhead Englishman and think ye rule the world?”

“No, I rule only my own life.”

“Ye haven't given me a name, and I'll give ye no more time to think on it. If ye be not the deserter Skye, then prove it. It's the nose. McLoughlin said the sniffer would tell the hull story. And it does.”

McTavish reached under the counter and whipped a dragoon pistol up at Skye. “Now then, set down the pack and walk ahead o' me.”

“No.”

“What do ye mean, no? Do ye think I won't shoot? Put down the pack!”

Skye stared into the huge bore of that weapon and wished he hadn't surrendered to the impulse to stop here. This fierce Scotsman was going to try him. He didn't answer. Instead, he deliberately turned to leave, and took two steps toward the door when a deafening blast erupted behind him and his topper sailed off his head.

“Stop or I'll be on ye, Skye. That was a warnin'.”

He headed toward the door, heard McTavish leap the counter and plunge after him. Skye whirled, belaying pin in hand, and jabbed it hard as McTavish leapt at him. McTavish howled, pulled himself up, and rammed into Skye's torso. Skye rapped McTavish on the head and arms as he tumbled backward, not really wanting to hurt the HBC man, just to teach him a little respect. But the ferocious redhead wouldn't quit and used all four limbs, his skull, and his teeth, sometimes all at once. He tried to wrestle Skye's club out of his hand while not neglecting to knee Skye and bite Skye's arm.

Skye was losing his advantage, with McTavish staying well inside the swing of the club and twisting Skye's arms as they rolled over the earthen floor.

“You'll not have my name, not ever,” Skye roared between gulps of air.

McTavish was giving him a fair beating. Skye had rarely been set upon by such a fighter as this one. His mountainous nose bled, and his right hand was numb. The belaying pin dropped out of it. McTavish was on him, twisting his arm back, back, back until it threatened to snap.

“All right,” Skye muttered.

McTavish jammed all the harder. “Tell me you're Skye, ye bloody coward. Or lie to me if ye will.”

“I'll say nothing to you.” Skye peered up at the man through a haze of blood. His heart raced wildly.

“What does it matter? I've got ye. You're whipped and good. I'll ship ye to McLoughlin at Vancouver, that's what.” McTavish eased off Skye and wiped blood from his face with his cuff. “Get up now.”

Skye sat up shakily, uncertain which of his parts worked. His chest ached. His ears rang. The numb hand wouldn't hold a twig, much less his belaying pin.

“Ah, see here, this is a belaying pin. I've seen a thousand. Stolen from the Royal Navy. Deny that, will ye, Skye?”

McTavish picked up the pin and waved it menacingly. “What kind of lies did ye tell Ogden, eh? Try me and see if I believe a word.” He picked up Skye's warbag. “Where'd you get this truck? Stole it, I imagine. Stole the bow and arrers, stole the trap. I've got ye red-handed, ye thief.”

Skye's pulse settled and he recovered enough of his wind to talk a little. “I'm on my way to the rendezvous of the Americans. Ogden told me I could get directions here at the post.”

“He hates the Yanks, and he'd tell ye no such thing. What do ye take me for?”

“Man who comes to conclusions before he get the facts.”

“Well, are ye are aren't ye Skye?”

“Call me Mister Skye. I don't answer to Skye.”

“I'll call ye deserter. Get going now. I'm locking ye up until I decide whether to hang ye or slit your throat.”

It dawned on Skye that McTavish lacked the means to take him under guard back to Fort Vancouver. He doubted that the post had more than half a dozen men. He'd seen none within it, and only one out in the fields.

“A shot would be faster, McTavish.”

“I dinna waste good powder and lead on a swine.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Then starve.”

“Water, then.”

“Help ye'self.” He motioned toward an earthen pot with a metal cup next to it. Skye drank, left-handed.

While Skye poured water down his parched throat, McTavish pawed through Skye's possessions. “See here, a pea jacket. Now I have ye. And a fine buckskin hide—that'll help pay for your keep. And an awl—good for one beaver from the Indians. And a seine. Hatchet, two knives, cup. Good enough. It'll repay HBC for the cost of dealing with ye.” McTavish carted every last item Skye possessed into a storeroom, closed the door, and turned the iron key.

Skye was tempted to bolt but knew he wouldn't get twenty yards in his condition, and wouldn't have so much as a knife to keep him alive even if he did outrun the factor.

“Write me a receipt, Mr. McTavish. A receipt for my possessions, if you will. Write that HBC confiscated these goods. Mr. McLoughlin would want that.”

“Ah, ye live in a fantasy, Skye.”

“Call me mister.”

McTavish cackled nastily. “I'll call ye whatsoever I set my mind to. All right. Walk ahead of me now.”

“Where?”

“That beaver press in the yard. I'll tie ye down good to the posts.”

So they had no way to lock him up, no way to take him back under guard. That interested Skye. “I want my hat, Mr. McTavish.”

For an answer he got a sharp crack of his own belaying pin across his arm. Pain shot through his shoulder and clear down his torso. Skye stumbled into one of the posts of the fur press and sagged there.

“Put your back to it and your hands behind,” McTavish said. “I've cord here to bale the plews, and it'll bale deserters just as fine. I wonder what deserters fetch by the pound.”

Skye hurt all over and was too tired to resist. But he had learned never to give up. He had spent weeks and months in ships' brigs, and now he would endure some more. “I'd like to sit down,” he said.

“Stand up or I'll poke you up.”

Skye felt rough hands wind cord tightly around his wrists behind him. Then McTavish tied Skye's ankles, too. Skye knew that in minutes his arms would hurt almost beyond endurance, and his tight-bound hands would prickle and go numb.

“Now, ye miserable deserter, I'll be taking your boots for insurance,” McTavish said. He knelt before Skye and unlaced a worn boot, yanking one and then the other off Skye's feet.

“What are you going to do, Mr. McTavish?”

“I'll think of something unpleasant, Skye.”

“Call me Mister Skye.”

McTavish laughed, and left him there to bake in the fierce sun.

Chapter 12

Skye didn't know how he could endure more pain. His arms felt as if they had been ripped from their sockets and his hands had gone numb. The day waned and at least he no longer suffered its heat, but he doubted he could stand much longer. If he slumped into his bonds, he would hurt all the more.

Then, near dusk, a paunchy Creole appeared in the yard and cut him loose. Skye fell to the clay, unable to make his limbs function at first.

“Come, eat,
mangeur du lard,
” the man said.

Skye struggled to his feet, staggered, and then followed the man into a kitchen area with a hand-hewn trestle table and chairs fashioned from poles and leather. McTavish sat at the head of it, looking like a choleric country squire just this side of apoplexy, while one other Creole sat halfway down, well below the salt. The Creole who brought in Skye sat down across from the other. Two young and pretty Indian women were serving.

“There you are, you craven Royal Navy scum,” McTavish said. “Sit down there at the bottom of the table where you belong. That's your gruel. Eat and don't complain. It's more than a deserter deserves.”

Skye beheld a skimpy bowl of oatmeal and a wooden spoon. He set about eating as well as his numb hands and shaking arms would let him. McTavish and the Creoles devoured their plentiful roast beef, squash, bread, dried-apple pudding, and garden greens, all washed down with red wine.

Skye glanced furtively at the women, both of them dressed in patterned calico gowns rather than native clothing. Each wore a ribbon in her hair, and both were uncommonly beautiful, with strong cheekbones, glowing amber flesh, and shiny jet hair. He wondered whose mates they were, if anybody's.

McTavish seemed even more sour than he had that afternoon, and he ate furiously, sawing and torturing the beef as if to humiliate it, glaring at Skye, belching and muttering. It took the man scarcely two minutes to down an enormous helping, but the Creoles dawdled with their food, more intent on enjoying it.

Skye wondered whether the women would join the men at table, but they simply hovered about, serving seconds to all but Skye. He caught them glancing shyly at him, their gazes alive with curiosity.

“No wonder the Royal Navy suffers. If it's manned by the degenerate dregs of England like you, the King's foreign affairs are doomed. I could've whipped you with one arm tied behind my back, Skye. I ended up beating you with your stolen belaying pin. The King's navy's rotten to the core, a paper tiger, and you're the proof of it. Where'd they pick ye up? Out of some bloody penal colony?”

Skye saw where this was heading and kept his silence.

“Ah, I'm right, then! They took you out of some stinking gaol where they keep all incorrigibles. It was that or Botany Bay, no doubt.”

Skye finished his oatmeal gruel, well satisfied with the plain dish.

“That's where they got you, then. Ye deserve to hang. Ye don't even speak back to me because ye know it's so, Skye.”

“It's Mister Skye, sir.”

“It's what I bloody well choose to call ye. Now, then, I'm putting you out.”

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't. Ye can't get ahold of the simplest idears because you're a degenerate with a brain the size of a pea. I'm putting ye outside the gates and I'll keep everything—your stolen goods and your boots. How's that for a verdict? Go, and don't come back.”

Skye sat stock still.

“I can't take you down to Vancouver, blast it. If ye'd skulked in a week ago, I'd have sent ye down the river with the pelts. I sent Pambrun and Vincennes with the spring returns. And Pryor's taking trade goods up to Spokane House. There's but three men here—Gris, there, Souvanne, there, and me—and I can't spare a man and I won't be feeding you and guarding you and dirtying my post for a bloody month while I wait for relief. So get ye out, ye filthy deserter.”

“That's murder.”

“Of course it's murder. You won't last a week. Any good Creole or HBC man'd make it, but not some dross from a London lockup.”

“Are you judge, jury, and executioner?”

“I am all of that, Skye. I'm also king. This is my bailiwick. My word is law and my fists enforce it.”

“It's Hudson's Bay's bailiwick.”

“I'll do what I please, and it pleases me to put you out. You're done? Go!”

Skye refused to move.

“I said go. Gris, open the gates and throw 'im out.” The factor bolted up from his rude chair and loomed over Skye with cocked fists.

“If you're going to murder me, Mr. McTavish, you'll do it here, not outside your gates.”

Skye's pulse leapt. He would fight here and die, then. But they would not throw him out in the cold, barefoot and without a kit. Without a flint and steel.

The Creoles stood reluctantly.

“Return my kit and I'll walk out. Otherwise, I'll fight to the death.”

“
Sacrebleu,
McTavish!” Gris exclaimed. “I will get his kit and put him out. It is
assassinat.
”

But the factor didn't wait. Grinning, he closed on Skye, delight firing his burning blue eyes. “Teach you another wee lesson, eh, Skye? Show the Royal Navy's scum what a Hudson's Bay man is?” McTavish's voice rose high and crackled.

“It's Mister Skye, sir.” Skye rose quietly from his chair. “And you'll have to kill me.”

The Creoles were holding back, wanting no part of this. He ached from the afternoon's ordeal, from sunburn, and from his previous set-to with this vicious Scot. Anger percolated through him, softly at first, and then with resonance. Some obdurate courage rooted Skye to his spot in that dining hall. He knew that he would not leave that hall conscious—or alive. It came down to life or death, and so he waited.

McTavish paused, glaring at Skye, comfortable with his belly full of meat. The women watched silently. Skye could not say what sort of mood or menace or courage he conveyed in that taut moment, but McTavish paused.

“You mean it. I'd have to kill you.”

“If I don't kill you first.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Try me. I've nothing to lose.”

This was the moment, the hinge of fate. Skye waited. He would die here or not. But he would not die helpless and barefoot in the wilderness. He stood ready to kill McTavish with his bare hands.

McTavish glared unhappily, muttered something, his face reddening. “All right. I dinna want an inquiry. Mind ye, I'd as soon bash your skull in and throw you in the river, but I don't want to report it. Damn ye. Go to the Americans. You're not a worthy subject of the Crown.”