The Way West (21 page)

EVANS WOKE UP early, before the camp was astir. He lay quiet, feeling done in but relaxed, done in from yesterday's long worrying, relaxed from knowing that Brownie was safe in camp again and none the worse for his mix-up with the Sioux. If he listened, he thought he could hear Brownie's breathing, from the bed laid near the tent under the sky.
   While he cocked his ears, there came to them a soft padding that he guessed was made by Rock, up early to see what the day had brought.
   It was dark inside the tent, so dark he knew Rebecca slept by him only by the soft breath-heave of her body. Outside it would be dark, too, and the juttings of land would rise strange and misshapen, the secrets of the night still on them, yielding slow to the weak forecoming of the sun.
   He let his muscles melt into rest, let run in him the returned confidence in the trip and Oregon and all. They would meet more trouble. The hardest travel, the steepest climbs, the biggest rivers, the greatest calls on strength and purpose still lay before them; but he was equal to it. Now, resting, knowing all was well, he was equal to it.
   A person could change in a day, or even an hour, from low spirits to hope. Yesterday, while anxiousness weighed on him, he had wanted to give up, to turn around and head back for the tame life of Missouri. He hadn't been able to keep himself from looking behind for Brownie, though he knew Rebecca was watching him from her seat in the second wagon, building up fears in her mind as he was in his own. Independence Rock was out of sight now that they had passed the Gate. There wasn't anything to be seen eastward except the rise they had come over in rounding the spur of mountain through which the Sweetwater cut. Only ahead could the gaze travel, running along the high, flat, sagebrushed valley, picking up Split Rock in the distance.
   It was, he had thought, as if all that lay behind them was forever gone, as if there was no return, as if the one hard choice was to go on. It never had struck him so strong before that he couldn't change his mind. They were cut off behind and closed in, far but fast, at the sides, by bald and stony mountains on the right, by green, high-rising ridges to the left. Where could that boy be? Blowed away by the tarnal wind that just now was falling off?
   "He'll be all right, Becky," he called back, setting his face in a smile. "You know how boys are. They got to have a look at everything, and time don't mean nothin' to 'em. Don't be gettin' in a flutter."
   He was in a flutter himself. What could have happened? What could be happening? Here it was drawing on toward camptime, and no Brownie. By now he could have chiseled out the names of all the company, alive and dead.
   He shut off the horrors that kept coming up -the rattlesnake lying on a ledge ready to bite the groping hand, the horse falling on its rider, the Indians sneaking up with drawn bows and scalping knives ready. He told himself it was just Tod's death that made him nervous, but still the fears arose. He should have gone back with Summers. He should have taken a party and gone back, though Summers waved the idea away. What good was Summers, good as he was, against a bunch of Sioux? He should have put aside the push, push, push to Oregon. Oregon didn't mean anything without Brownie, just like it didn't mean anything to the Fairmans without Tod.
   The shapes that rose ahead, like Split Rock, seemed queer and dangerous, standing hard and bare, standing purple and red under the tiring sun. They might be warnings, he thought, warnings not to go farther, to keep off wild, outlandish land untouched by the feet of the likes of him. Where was that boy?
   He shook himself for thinking womanish. He was half sore at himself, at Brownie, at the train, at the country, at the whole damn business. Missouri was better, Missouri and boresomeness and drudge work unmixed with anxiousness.
   He dropped back and spoke to Becky on her perch. "I'm goin' back, bein' as you're nervous."
   "You're nervous yourself."
   "Account of you," he answered, for once nettled because she could see through him.
   "Don't lie, Lije."
   "Ain't lyin'. He's bound to be all right."
   "I pray God so. You take some men with you."
   "Ah-h!"
   "You do that, Lije."
   "On account of bein' so helpless, I reckon? I'll tie this here team to the tail an' you drive the lead. The goin's good enough. Git down."
   He walked ahead and whoaed his team and tied her oxen to his wagon and saw her down and up again. Before he spoke to the steers, he got his rifle out.
   "You take someone with you, Lije."
   "Don't worry about that. You just watch the teams."
   He walked back along the oncoming line, expecting to borrow a horse from one of the drivers. He was about halfway to the horse herd when, beyond it, beyond the straggled line of cattle, upcoming from the far rise, he saw heads lifting, and shoulders, growing into horsemen that he took for Indians. He couldn't be sure. He waited, squinting, with dread sharpening in him, and saw two figures unlike the rest and one of them like Summers. His eyes filmed with straining.
   He knew what he had to do. He knew what a captain had to do, regardless. He shouted, "Botter! Bring your horse! Quick!"
   He jumped on, throwing out, "Injuns! Git the men to push the horses up! We'll corral."
He galloped to the head of the line, crying, "Injuns! Come on!" as he galloped, waving the train on toward the stream where it would be sure of water come a siege. He curved it around on the bank. "Cap your pieces, all of you! And stay inside. I'll look."
   He wrenched the horse around to his own wagons. "Becky, I seen Dick, and Brownie, I think. Looked all right."
   He didn't wait for her answer. He kicked the horse, hearing her protest at his riding alone, and reined out to meet the party. The drivers had brought the horses close and headed the cattle for the river and were making for the corral, racing to see who got there first. He shouted angrily, "Davisworth! Git the horses inside! You and the rest! You got time for that."
   It was Indians all right, Indians and Dick and one that had to be Brownie, one that was Brownie. Goddam, he thought and no disrespect intended- it was sure enough Brownie, and Rock trotting by the side.
   He rode for the bunch, and they for him, until thirty feet apart, when Summers reined in and held up his arm for the rest to do so. "Company, captain," he said. "Nabobs from the Sioux."
   Of the words that crowded Evans' mouth only a few came out. "You two all right? They peaceable?"
   "They won't rub you out, 'cept in fun."
   "What do I do, Dick?"
   "Git your pipe out and act to be loadin' it. That's peace sign."
   "All right."
   "I'll camp 'em off a piece and fix for palaver soon's they can fancy up. I'd just as lief hold 'em the night, for there's a village around somewheres. Can't take on the whole damn tribe."
   "Kin Brownie come on?"
   "Let 'im stay. He's beaver, sort of, that they aim to trade. I'll bring him directly."
   Looking into the dark faces of the Sioux, seeing the bows and spears they carried and their eyes mean under the feathered hair, Evans couldn't keep from saying, "I told you it was dangerous, boy."
   "Pick some men for these niggers to smoke with," Dick said.
   "We'll keep 'em out of camp. They're touchy sons-of-bitches."
   "All right."
   "Ain't much risk now, Lije, long as we're careful. Keep some shooters inside. Ain't nothin' whets an Injun's appetite like scalps to be took safe."
   Dick spoke to the Indians, and they talked among themselves, turning their eyes on Evans as if to see was he really friend or foe. They slanted for the river, toward a spot a holler and a half downstream from camp.
   Evans didn't wait to see them get there. He rode to the corral. "Everything's good," he told Rebecca before he began to give directions. "I'll trade a bead for Brownie by and by. Now set easy. I ain't got time for talk."
   For smokers he named Patch, Byrd, Carpenter, Mack, Gorham, and himself and on second thought added Tadlock, who could do more harm with a rifle in his hand than a pipe. It was a good selection, he figured, that left in the corral some of the better shots, like Daugherty and Hig and Shields.
   The Indians showed up soon, led by Dick, their faces red- and black-smeared for the party. Dick stopped them fifty yards from camp, where Evans and the other smokers met him. Dick said, "Set in a half circle," to the white smokers and the same, seemingly, to the Indians, for they slid from their horses and let themselves down, grunting, all except one young one who'd been named to tend the stock.
   While they were seating themselves, Evans chose a spot by Brownie. "How's it, young'un?"
   "They got my rifle and saddle."
   "I knowed I shouldn't've left you at the rock for a tomfool thing." There was still the edge of soreness in Evans' voice. He added, "It's all right, though, long as you come out on top."
   "All set, Lije." It was Dick, speaking at his side.
   "'Pears to me now's the time to get the saddle and rifle back, before we treat 'em."
   Dick said, "Right. It went plumb out of my mind." He spoke then to an older Indian, the chief by the looks of him and the manner of the others, and the Indian spoke back, and turned and said something to a young one with a scar on his face. The young one got up, his eyes sulky, and made for the Sioux camp.
   They waited for him, the whites sitting silent and unarmed, glancing now and then to the corral as if to make sure the riflemen were ready, the Sioux grunting once in a while, their bows and spears laid by, as Summers had directed.
   The young Indian came back, carrying the saddle and rifle, and pitched them in front of the chief and went and sat down, his face still surly. The chief pointed while he spoke. Dick picked up the stolen things and set them before Brownie. The saddle had been slashed with a knife, out of spite, Evans guessed.
   The chief was speaking. His voice came out, loud and measured, and his hands worked to it. There was a kind of force in him, a kind of practiced enjoyment like in a white politician holding a crowd. It seemed he spoke for a long time, though Dick wasn't so long in putting the words into English. The Indians' hearts were good, Dick said. The country belonged to them, but still they let the white brother pass. They let him kill meat and scare it away, so that they had to hunt far for it and their young ones cried hungry in their lodges. It was the way of white men to make presents, of powder and lead and beads and red earth for the face. That was good. Let the white man pass in peace, though he frightened the game.
   Evans knew it was his turn then. As captain he had to speak for the whites. While thought circled in his head, Dick said, "Tell 'em anything, Lije. I'll fix it in Indian talk. Tell 'em your heart's friendly, but your arm strong if need be, and you got some presents for 'em to show what a heap you love 'em. Tell 'em we're just passin' through and don't aim to settle. Spread it out, and kind of make a show. Brownie, fetch that pack I got my Injun plunder in."
   Evans made his voice roll out and his arms work. The white men were going to the big waters of the west, where their great father owned land. They came as friends, as the Sioux must know, for they brought their women and children with them. Men did not take their wives and babies to war. They were friendly folks, the train was, but powerful and ready to fight if they had to. Every man had a rifle and knew how to use it. They had brought presents for the Indians and pretties for their squaws, and they were glad to smoke with their friends, the SIOUX.
   Dick put the one tongue into the other and afterwards said to Brownie, "You kin pass them awls around now, one to each, and then the tobacco the same way. I promised 'em a little whisky, Lije, fer the fix was tight."
   He went to the corral and came back with a burning stick and a bucket and tin cup. "Won't be enough to put the devil in 'em. I watered 'er down. Now, Brownie, them beads to the chief, and the vermilion."
   Tadlock spoke the first word spoken by the other white men, saying, "I think whisky's bad business."
   "'Tis so."
   "You think a promise has to be kept -with savages?"
   All Dick answered was, "Mostly, I keep 'em." He passed the bucket among the Indians himself. The Indians drank, noisy as horses, and eyed the bucket after it was emptied.
   Dick got out a pipe, an Indian stone pipe with a long stem, and lighted it with the brand, pointing the stem north, south, east, west and up and down before he handed it to Evans. "Start 'er around, Lije."
   It all went off easy enough. The Indians got up and went to their horses after burning up three or four pipes of Dick's tobacco, taking along as a final present a big chunk of meat that the train's hunters had killed. Later, downriver, their fire made just a spark in the dark, put out now and then by a moving body.
   So here he was, Evans thought, lying melted in his bed. Grayback farmer. Captain. Speechmaker. Speechmaker and show-off. Him, Lije Evans, that didn't like speeches and didn't like shows, leaving them to the Tadlocks of the world. And to hear and see him were just half a dozen white men and the rest red, haunched down with their knees up and not enough clothes on, hardly, to patch a bullet with, their ears not understanding, their eyes dark and demanding on him, the bared skin of their shoulders and bellies looking like leather in the low-lying sun. It made him want to laugh that he had found a kind of pleasure in the speech, feeling sureness in him and strength while the words sounded out. Things drove a man away from his wishing.
   Things changed the train, too. Like with rules. Nobody had said anything about Dick's whisky. Rules? You hardly thought of them but made out as best you could according to the time. You voted them and let them lie. No whisky. No swearing. Whippings for rape and adultery and fornication. The moral law. The train was moral enough. Wasn't a woman inviting anything, as far as he could tell, nor any man behaving bold. Still, the way it was with men, maybe the rule served a purpose, 'specially with unmarried ones about. Just because a rule wasn't broken was no sign it wasn't needed. Maybe just the fact of it kept it from being broken. He was amused a little, though. there wouldn't any whip get him, nor any man get to Rebecca. Gently, in order not to wake her, he put his hand upon her.