The Way West Part 21

He shook himself for thinking womanish. He was half sore at himself, at Brownie, at the train, at the country, at the whole d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k and one that had to be Brownie, one that was Brownie. G.o.ddam, 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, d.i.c.k?"

"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 d.a.m.n 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs to smoke with," d.i.c.k said.

"We'll keep 'em out of camp. They're touchy sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes."

"All right."

"Ain't much risk now, Lije, long as we're careful. Keep some shooters inside. Ain't nothin' whets an Injun's appet.i.te like scalps to be took safe."

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, their faces red- and black-smeared for the party. d.i.c.k stopped them fifty yards from camp, where Evans and the other smokers met him. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, speaking at his side.

"'Pears to me now's the time to get the saddle and rifle back, before we treat 'em."

d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k wasn't so long in putting the words into English. The Indians' hearts were good, d.i.c.k said. The country belonged to them, but still they let the white brother pa.s.s. 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 pa.s.s 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, d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sin' 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.

d.i.c.k put the one tongue into the other and afterwards said to Brownie, "You kin pa.s.s 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 d.i.c.k answered was, "Mostly, I keep 'em." He pa.s.sed the bucket among the Indians himself. The Indians drank, noisy as horses, and eyed the bucket after it was emptied.

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k'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. n.o.body had said anything about d.i.c.k'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.

The sentinel's rifle brought him out of bed. "Time to shine," he said as Rebecca stirred. In the lightening dark of the tent he pulled on his breeches and shirt, and then a jacket against the chill that night brought to this high country. Brownie already was up, about to go out, along with others, to round up tlie animals. "Mornin'," Evans said. "You dream b'ars last night, boy?"

Brownie grinned. "Injuns."

Evans collected a few sticks and whittled shavings and got a fire started. When Rebecca came out, he rolled up the beds and struck the tent and began packing the wagons. It took time to get started in the morning -critters to drive up, oxen to hitch, a horse to saddle, beds to roll, tents to stow away, breakfast to rook and eat and clean up after. Around him while he worked he heard and saw and felt the bustle of the other wagons. Later a man would just wish for miles to pa.s.s.

The sun was bulging up like a punkin. He could see where the Indians had camped downriver, but he couldn't see any Indians. Already they had lit out. And good riddance, he thought.

While he was thinking it, Tadlock walked up. "Those red devils stole two of my horses."

"No!"

"The horses were down to skin and bones. I hobbled them and picketed them close, outside the corral, so they could get some gra.s.s."

"An' they stole 'em?"

"I'd have sworn I'd hear them. Why, the mare had a bell on her.

"I be d.a.m.ned! h.e.l.lo, d.i.c.k."

d.i.c.k had come up so quiet that Evans didn't know he was there until his eye caught him.

"Tadlock here's lost two horses to the Injuns." d.i.c.k asked of Tadlock, "Them two?"

"Of course."

"I 'lowed it was risky."

"I couldn't starve them to death."

"Bones is better'n tracks."

"What do you propose to do?" Tadlock asked Evans.

"Eat and roll."

"You won't help me get them back?"

"It ain't worth the gamble, Tadlock."

"Particularly when the horses weren't yours."

Evans said, "d.a.m.n it, man! You was for rollin' when Martin was dyin'."

"That was different. We couldn't help him. We can teach these red devils a lesson."

"Be out of Sioux country in a shake," d.i.c.k put in.

"You wouldn't stop to think, Evans, that your boy caused the loss!"

"How's that?"

"He got us in the mess."

The words brought Evans up. He hadn't figured things that way, and no one would but Tadlock and maybe lawyers. Still it troubled him that he might be partly in the wrong. "I don't go along with you on that," he said, "but I'm willin' to leave it to the council. If they decide against me, I'll make the loss up to you."

Tadlock snorted.

d.i.c.k said, "To h.e.l.l with him then, Lije."

"I aim to do what's right."

"Right!" Tadlock's voice had a sudden fury in it, as if all that had happened against him was brought to point now. "But you won't track those Indians down?"

"No."

"I'll kill an Indian or two before this trip's over."

"No sense in killin' one that didn't do you wrong," Evans told him.

"One's like another."

"You faulted Mack for killin' that Kaw."

"I wouldn't expect you to acknowledge that the circ.u.mstances are different."

"Tadlock," Evans said, "I'm peaceable, but, by G.o.d, it's hard to keep from twistin' your neck!"

"It's the truth that roils you."

"That's as may be, but we ain't chasin' Injuns today, an' if you want to roll with us you best be gettin' ready."