Chapter Twenty-One

Pulling out early, the cart train crept southward, following the general route McTavish and the boy had taken the day before. They made no effort to hide the dark swath of their trail across the frosty grass. It was too late for that, and would have been impossible anyway. Instead, Turcotte sent out twice the usual number of flankers, scattering them in every direction with instructions to range out as far as they felt necessary. But as the hours passed without any further sign of Black Fish or his warriors, the mood of the half-breeds became one of confusion. They had fought the Sioux too many years to believe they could get off this easily.

As one—man, woman, child—they eyed every distant ridge with suspicion, passed every coulée with dread. It was as if they expected the Sioux to sprout magically from the plain to fall upon them like the plagues of old. And yet in spite of the fear Pike saw on every face, no one suggested retreat. If there was fright, he began to realize, there was also an uncompromising stubbornness in their lives, a simplicity of purpose that somehow equaled courage. They were buffalo hunters, by damn, nothing would stand in the way of that. Not even the Sioux.

With this understanding of the Métis mentality, Pike finally began to grasp some of the mixed emotions McTavish felt for the half-breeds, the pride that ofttimes vied with exasperation.

They’d buried Little John McKay inside the circle of carts yesterday, with Catholic prayers in lieu of a priest and a proper ceremony, the beating of a wanbango and spirit songs chanted in Assiniboine for those gods not covered by the Roman faith. Afterward, Turcotte had ordered the livestock driven over the grave until no trace of it remained—a precaution against the Sioux who might have come back to open the grave and scalp and mutilate the corpse, or wolves and coyotes that would have dug up the body for food. There would be no cairn to return to, no landmark by which they would ever again find its location. Save for what remained in the hearts of family and friends, Little John McKay was gone forever.

Three of the wounded men rode in carts when the train pulled out, cushioned on robes against the harsh jolting of unsprung axles. Pike, his knee still too swollen to accommodate comfortably the curve of a horse’s barrel, started the day in one of McTavish’s meat carts, but by noon he had endured all he could of the vehicle’s slow, tooth-rattling pace and caterwauling shrieks. Dropping painfully to the ground, he saddled the seal brown gelding Michel Quesnelle had brought him that morning, then heaved himself astride the leggy animal. Leaning awkwardly to one side to allow his injured leg to dangle free, he’d kept pace with the carts.

Quesnelle had come to the McTavish camp in the murky light just before dawn while Pike, Alec, and Isabella were finishing their breakfast. He’d tied the seal brown to a cart wheel, then came over to stand in front of Pike.

“The pony is yours,” he’d announced without preamble. “It is a fine runner and is not afraid of buffalo. It will serve you well.”

Pike didn’t reply or even acknowledge the boy until after he’d left. Then he’d grunted softly, in wonder, and resumed his eating. He didn’t know what had prompted the youth’s generosity, nor did he care. It was enough that he had a horse again—seemingly free of any debt that might bind him tighter to the hunt—and that soon his time among the half-breeds would be over. Only McTavish held him back now. Not so much for the debt he still owed him, but because of his new-found respect for the iron-willed old Scotsman. Pike had already made his decision. He would wait for his wounds to heal, then run buffalo at least once more, adding as much meat and as many hides as he could to McTavish’s larder. After that, he would consider his obligation paid, kill Duprée, then flee to the mountains. Quesnelle’s gift would only make his leaving that much easier.

The frost was a long time burning off that morning. The days were continuing cold, with the scent of distant moisture. Soon now, Pike knew, the weather would change for good.

The caravan arrived at the northern edge of a huge burn late in the afternoon, the lead oxen halting as if they’d come to a solid wall of stone. Riding ahead, the men gathered around Antoine Toussaint, who had piloted that day, and the two forward point riders who had waited there for the train to catch up.

Toussaint was watching Turcotte questioningly. The latter stared across the blackened plain in the direction of the horse tracks leading into it.

“Big John and Gabriel,” Toussaint said needlessly, pointing out the trail with his chin.

“We cannot wait,” Breland said, as if to head off any discussion on the matter. “Already the season grows short.”

“But we must wait,” Noel Pouliot quickly countered. He, too, was watching Turcotte. When he saw the indecision on the captain’s face, he added: “What if there is no grass, René? What if the burn stretches all the way to the Missouri River?”

“There was grass to the east when I returned from Paget’s camp,” Breland said. “The fire could not have been too big, else it would have burned there, as well.”

Hesitantly Turcotte said: “I think maybe I agree with Joseph, Noel. He came north from Paget’s camp only a day or so east of here. A big fire would have burned that far. But I think also that we should remain here tonight and let the stock eat their fill. Maybe by morning Big John will have returned, and we will know more about what lies ahead.”

“There is daylight left now,” Breland argued. “And I smell snow.”

Turcotte nodded carefully. “I also smell snow, Joseph, but I do not want to let such a thing goad us into an unwise decision. I do not want for us to be stranded without grass for the stock. It is a gamble to tarry, true, for there is no water here, but, if it snows, there will be water enough, and, if it doesn’t, then tomorrow we will cross the burn and find a lake or river on the other side.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then Breland looked at Turcotte, his expression restrained. “You speak wisely, René. I agree. We should remain here overnight to allow the oxen and horses time to graze. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

They ran their carts into a circle and lashed the wheels together. Then, while the older boys grazed the horses and oxen away from the caravan, the women set about making camp. Night seemed to fall swiftly that evening, as if the darkness were a shade drawn over the land. Only a pale band of soft pearl remained in the west when Charles Hallet and Jim Patterson, the last of the flankers, came in. As they threaded their mounts through an opening made in the carts, a number of half-breeds began to gravitate toward them. Pike had been resting beside Isabella’s fire, but, when he saw the looks on the faces of the men as they dismounted, he pulled himself up with the aid of his rifle and hobbled over. He arrived just in time to hear Hallet say: “Very many. More than a hundred, easily.”

“Tae hundred, ’n’ nae a feather less,” Patterson insisted. His eyes looked big in the imperfect light, his face drawn.

“Maybe two hundred,” Hallet conceded.

Pike glanced slowly around the circle of half-breeds, noting their grim acceptance, the lack of surprise. They had been waiting for this news for two days.

“Where exactly?” a Métis asked.

“East of here about three hours.”

“And you are sure they crossed the burn?” Turcotte asked.

“They entered the burn, heading south,” Hallet replied. “I don’t know how far they went. We didn’t follow.”

A voice made edgy with fright said: “They will catch us on the burn and stop us there.”

Eva McKay—a widow less than three days—cried: “This is madness! The Sioux will kill us all if we do not treaty with them!”

There was a muttering of agreement. Breland hushed it with an upraised hand. “Non, we cannot! To show weakness now would only invite disaster. We must remain strong.”

Others—a clear majority, Pike thought—sided with Breland. A little round-faced half-breed with gaping front teeth said: “The Sioux are like dogs when they spot a crippled fawn, Eva. They would fall on us as a pack, and tear out our throats.”

But another shouted: “If they stop us on the burn, our cattle and horses will starve within days.”

Then someone else said: “Overnight, the oxen will crop the grass within a camp into the dirt. If they starve, it would be no more than twelve hours sooner than they would have on grass.”

“That is true,” said Pierre Campbell, the Métis who’d offered Pike breakfast after the first day’s fighting. “I came to hunt buffalo, not run from the Sioux.”

“Oui!” shouted Baptiste LaBarge. “We are hunters, non? We must follow the buffalo.”

Others took up the call, most of them agreeing with Campbell and LaBarge that they should go on. Only a few argued that there would be buffalo farther west, as well, and that it would be smarter to go in that direction.

Pike took it all in absently. It didn’t matter to him where they hunted. From here on, he waited only for his wounds to heal.

* * * * *

There was no fire in the lodge, and the darkness was complete save for a single star visible through a gap in the closed flaps covering the smoke hole. Celine lay on her back, staring at that twinkling bit of light. It reminded her of the ice crystals that used to form on the stone walls of her room at the Convent of Our Lady of Troy. Especially the outer wall, where the hoarfrost during the coldest weeks of winter sometimes grew more than an inch thick.

She focused her attention on the star because it took her mind away from the half-breeds’ recent engagement with the savages. During the battle, while other women had stood behind their men and helped reload, or took part in the actual fighting with their own long guns, Celine had cowered among the hides piled behind Big John’s carts, feigning deafness to Isabella’s commands. She had been too terrified to help, but, of course, the stupid bitches—every one of them smelling of grease and blood and sweat—were too ignorant to understand that. Even though they’d yelled at her as if she were a dog, she hadn’t cared. She was immune to their anger.

After the battle she’d attempted to prove her worth by helping with the wounded, but the jealous whores who had pleaded so selfishly for her assistance earlier now refused her every offer. So she’d retired to Big John’s carts, where she busied herself handing out balls of pemmican to whomever passed. It was that evening that she’d gone to Gabriel to mend the rift the American had created between them.

Celine knew the American wanted her badly. Once she had considered the possibility of becoming his woman, but it had become obvious he wasn’t the man for her. He didn’t understand a woman, or those things that made a woman special. He had become too accustomed to the red-skinned harlots of the unholy pays sauvage, and seemed content to wallow in that life the way a hog wallowed in mud. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Gabriel was much the same in many ways, but she also knew that Gabriel was still young and could be shown the errors of his thinking.

Besides, she was certain Gabriel was as dissatisfied with his life in the valley as she was. He just hadn’t yet figured out how to correct his situation. Celine could help him. If Pike was too stupid to want to see Boston or New York or Montreal, Gabriel wouldn’t be. He would take her to those places, and they would live in a splendor of warm homes and fine clothes, with succulent meals butchered and gardened by others. That was the life she craved.

There was a shout from one of the guards, an answering hail from somewhere outside the cordon. Celine sat up with a little, shivery cry, convinced the Sioux had returned for her. She stared at the dark wall of the lodge until the blackness there seemed to swim.

Isabella stirred, muttering something in Cree. Alec pushed his robes back and said he would go see. Voices outside rumbled low and cautiously, without meaning. The antelope hide door made a stiff, scraping sound as Alec exited the teepee, allowing a rush of cool air inside. Pike’s voice came to her through the thin hide walls, explaining to Alec that someone was approaching the camp, and Alec replied that it might be Big John and Gabriel. At mention of his name, Celine quickly fumbled into her coat and moccasins.

She paused outside for bearings. It was brighter than she’d expected. Although the moon had long since gone down, the stars seemed bigger and more numerous than ever before. She joined the flow of half-breeds hurrying toward the far side of the caravan. Perhaps thirty or forty Métis were already gathered at Nicolas Quesnelle’s carts, with more appearing every minute. Someone asked who it was, and Quesnelle replied: “Big John and Gabriel.”

Breland forced his way through the throng to climb onto the hub of an upturned cart. “Big John!” he called. “Is that you?”

“Aye, Joseph, me and Gabriel. We’re alone, and no sign of hostiles the day long.”

Celine’s heart leaped for joy. For two long days she had feared Gabriel would run off and leave her to Pike. Instead, he had returned. What further proof did she need of his love?