The Shirt On His Back (24 page)

Gil Wallach had
taken Morning Star's canoe that had brought himself, Pia and Hannibal to the
island; it made January deeply uneasy to see the fiddler wade out into the river,
his clothes in a bundle on his head. Completely aside from the cold of the
snow-melt river, travel in the wilderness had made January aware of just how
swiftly the water could rise from a thunderstorm on the mountains miles away.
Nor had he forgotten the ambush on the night of the banquet.

'I'll pass like
a frightened rabbit through the bottomland without even pausing to dress,'
Hannibal had reassured him, 'and scamper down the trail in front of the AFC
camp. I assure you I scream very, very loudly when set upon. Someone will have
to notice.'

January kept to
himself the reflection that any ambushers might well originate from the AFC
camp, and took comfort - as he watched his friend reach the shore and vanish
into the black shadows of the bottomlands - in the thought that the targets of
the earlier assault had probably been himself and Shaw. Hannibal was fairly
worthless to anyone, though the thought of vengeful Sioux braves lining up for
the privilege of assassinating him to win the hand of Morning Star kept him
smiling all the way back to the shelter.

All any Sioux
brave had to do to win Morning Star's hand was lay in a stock of trade-beads
and wait 'til the end of the rendezvous.

Lying in his
blankets a little distance from the dying fire, January listened to the yipping
of the coyotes, the mutter of the river around the island's flanks, as the
images of Shaw, and Clarke and the crumpled, wolf-eaten bodies in Dry Grass
Coulee merged into the image of Victor Frankenstein, wrapped in furs, running
across the towering bergs of Arctic ice in pursuit of the thing he had created,
the monster that owed him its very existence.

I
have found the monster . . .

And
left the world you knew behind
. . .

Or is that me
I'm seeing
? he wondered in his dream. Bundled up in beaver fur, chasing
Death Himself, with Rose and his sisters - and his nieces and nephews whom he
cherished, and the music that was the golden heart of all his joy - all left
behind him, thousands of miles behind, in New Orleans . . .

When
I've avenged Ayasha's death, I can go home
...

But he knew
that, before he returned, they would all be dead.

Rose,
no, I'm coming back
. . .

'Winter Moon?'

He jerked awake,
groped for his knife which had been under the spare blanket rolled beneath his
head—

Morning Star, seated
cross-legged a yard away by the embers of the fire pit, held it out to him.

Bo Frye snored
on.

Behind the Sioux
woman, morning was a monochrome of misty lavender and the dense black-green of
the pines. January guessed he had slept less than two hours. The air was the
cold breath of God, and his eyeballs had the batter-fried sensation they did
during most of Mardi Gras.

'Where's Shaw?'

Morning Star
shook her head. 'We finished the burying; he sent me ahead to scout.' Her voice
was scarcely more than the waking-up clamor of every lark in the mountains.
'Twice we heard what he thought were movements among the trees up the coulee. I
found nothing, but the moon was low, and it was very dark among the trees. On
that second time Blanket Chief and Shoots His Enemy's Hand -' January
recognized two of the numerous names the Indians gave to Bridger and Carson -
'came riding from the river. I stayed out of sight and followed them back to
where I had left Tall Chief and Beauty by the graves of the others, but they were
gone, and the ground was rank with the smell of sickness, and of blood. Blanket
Chief and Shoots His Enemy's Hand searched the woods. It was only on account of
the wolves that they found the body of Beauty, torn nearly to pieces - and
scalped.'

'And Shaw?'

'I found no sign
of him. Nor did they. All the horses were gone also. When the moon went in I
came back here. Sun Mouse told me that Cold Face and the others had put you
here, to keep the sickness out of the camp. Are you sick?'

'No.' January
pulled his shirt on. 'And it's best you don't linger. Morales will be awake
soon and he's keeping an eye on us.' January glanced in the direction of the
merchant's small camp, though this was hidden by the island's rise. 'Others,
too, and they may send someone to check on us. I can't risk you being seen
here. The men are scared, and it'll be worse when Bridger brings back word that
the Beauty, and maybe Shaw too, took sick just from burying the dead. The
camp'11 quarantine a white man. I don't know what they'd do to one of your
people.'

Obediently,
Morning Star got to her feet and retreated to the line of stakes. January
followed so that they stood about ten feet apart.

'What should I
do, Winter Moon?'

'First, don't
let anyone know you were one of the burying party. I'll make sure Frye keeps
his mouth shut. Would your brothers, or others of your family, be willing to
cross the river to hunt for Tall Chief?'

'I have already
spoken to my brothers, and they have gone.' Morning Star gestured toward the
hills across the river - shadowy still, though the sky was filled with new
light. 'Chased By Bears said - and it is true - that this sickness seems worse
even than the smallpox. Why should we care, he asked, if the whites all perish
of it together? I said that Tall Chief is his brother now, and at least we must
learn what became of him. But more, I think, he will not do.'

'Nor should he,'
said January. 'Yet thank him for whatever he is willing to do to find the
source of the evil that I think is walking somewhere in this valley. I don't
know whether the evil that surrounded the old man by Horse Creek is a brother
to the sickness spirit or not. Yet each time I look, I see that the tracks of
the one lie close to the tracks of the other. And now I can't look for the
tracks of either.'

He stood for a
moment in thought, arms folded against the sharp chill, and passed all that had
happened the previous day, and the day before, through his mind: the long,
patient tracking of Groot and Clarke over the hills south of the camp; the bizarre
and horrifying rituals glimpsed through the trees in the Blackfoot village -
and the still-more-bizarre conversation with Wildman by the ashes of the
Blackfoot fire the following morning; Fingers Woman curled up beside her
husband on the reeking blankets, her head pillowed on the shoulder of the black
velvet coat.

In his pocket -
shut safely in his watch case - were four long splinters of burned fatwood that
he'd taken from the Blackfoot fire. Their pointed ends were tipped with dried
blood. What he'd seen hadn't been a hallucination or a trick.

Silent
Wolf is my brother
. . .

'Would you do
this for me?' he asked at length. 'Would you take the big buckskin mare that's
tethered at our camp and return her to Manitou Wildman? Tell him - and anyone
else you meet - that Tall Chief sent you back to camp the moment we saw the
bodies of the Dutchman and his party, without ever letting you get close. And
ask Wildman, would he come here to speak to me?'

The young woman
nodded and started to turn away. Then she looked back and asked him softly, 'Is
it true? Will I become sick, as Fingers Woman and the others became sick? Will
I die as they died?'

'I haven't yet,'
pointed out January. 'Nor has Frye. The sickness spirit has given us time, and
time is always a gift that must not be wasted.'

When Morning
Star had gone, January made his way down to the water's edge to gather up
driftwood and deadfalls, then returned to the camp to brew coffee. By the time
Frye woke, Pia had paddled over with a camp kettle full of bighorn sheep- ribs
and the information - called across the quarantine barrier, after she'd set
down the kettle for January to pick up - that Bridger and Carson had just
returned to the camp with the news of Clarke's death and Shaw's disappearance .
. .

And that Hannibal
had located Klaus Bodenschatz's hat.