Fair Land Fair Land - A B Guthrie Read online

  He rode out in the direction from which the bear had come. He left the meat a quarter of a mile away from camp. He watched but didn't see Ephraim.

  The night chill was coming on when he got back to camp. They ate duck and a chokecherry paste the woman had ground up.

  The moon swelled on the eastern skyline, orange — red, ten times the size it would shrink to. Higgins, digesting his supper, had run out of words. It was just as well. Words clouded things, misting the moon, holding up the good feel of the breeze, mixing wrong with the cries of coyotes.

  It came on to bedtime or nigh to it. The woman had gone to her tepee, taking the child with her. The boy could walk but didn't dare to without his mother's hand in his. His name, she had said, was Nocansee, which sounded Indian but wasn't when you spaced it out. Summers smoked and let time slide by.

  When he looked at the tepee again, he saw the woman standing there, outlined, shining in the moonlight. Her gaze was on him. She made a bare movement with her head. So it had been before. So it had been with the Rees and Shoshones when he was young.

  He rose and moved toward her, and the tepee flap closed slowly, and Higgins said, "Christ sake."

  The child was asleep, and she was under a robe when he entered. Without words he took off his clothes. She turned down the robe for him.

  His hand found her bare skin and moved over and down. She smelled a little of woodsmoke, as he must smell himself, but mostly she smelled of clean, willing woman.

  Desire rose hard in him, desire that he had thought dying or dead and didn't care much if it was. Not now, though. Not now. She was moist and in-taking, and he felt loved by her tissues, and at the last she had clutched him and squirmed under him so as to give him the best of the last.

  He lay with her head on his arm and heard the cries of the geese and the songs of coyotes and the wash of wild waters, and he was on the keelboat Mandan again, back in time by fifteen years, and the Missouri ran under them, coming from the Blackfoot country to which they were bound. And on board was a little Indian girl, a doll child with big eyes, and she was the daughter of a Blackfoot chief, so it was said, whom the patron had found in St. Louis after she had been stolen away from her parents. He would take her, the patron would, back to her father and so make sure of friendly and profitable trade with the tribe. But the girl, that wisp of a girl, had slipped away just before they got there.

  He hadn't thought of her in a long time. Fifteen years gone by and all the trails traveled since then, the good years, the empty years, the fun had and the miseries endured, and friends dead and friends made while time flowed uncaring.

  Her name fluttered at the edges of his mind and then came in, and he knew it could not be. Over this great reach of country for two to come together like this! It was as unlikely as walking on water, as two needles coming point to point in a haystack. But maybe there was some direction, some guidance, some reason unknown to him. Maybe it was just chance, but one thing for sure: there was magic in the world.

  He said softly, "Teal Eye."

  She put a hand over his mouth. "Me know. Dick Summers."

  PART TWO

  15

  HALF a man's life, Higgins figured, was spent on a horse. Well, not half, but enough that riding came as natural as walking and made no call on the lungs.

  He kicked his horse gently and pulled at the rope that led to the two pack horses. The pack horses had slowed with age and were likely to stumble. That was one reason for his trip — to see about younger ones.

  It was early spring. The wild geese had flown north, honking their way through the skies. Wherever water was, the ducks had paired off, the males bright in their courting clothes. No flowers yet, but the first shoots had poked through the warming soil. On the plains the blooms would grow low, knowing the wind. Only the armies of grass dared to stand very high.

  He turned and looked back. There was the wooded valley of the Teton River, their home for more than three seasons now. It was better country for game, for buffalo, than the upper Dearborn. Sure, they had made a few sashays out from it, but it still was home. Four Persons was the name of the place, so Teal Eye had said, because four Crows had been killed in the valley. He took a last look, seeing their tepees snug on the far bank of the stream. Against the skyline the mountains thrust up, snow still on their heads. One stood out. A man could imagine a great ear, its side turned up to listen.

  Two sleeps to Fort Benton. Two sleeps and the better part of three days unless a man had a burr in his pants. More than once he had bought whiskey there and tobacco and horseshoes when they had them. And because he was randy he had laid up with squaws and felt shitty afterward, not just because he might catch a dose. What he needed was a woman like Teal Eye.

  three winters, one hard, they had passed on the Teton, with nothing to do but chop wood, kill meat and try to keep warm. For a man who wanted to be footloose, Summers sure had hobbled himself. Father to a boy more than two years old, guardian or something to a blind one, near-husband of Teal Eye. Once in a while still Higgins could see the far look in Summers' eyes, the look of things undone maybe, the look of other times, other places, ahead or behind. Who could tell?

  When her time came on her, Teal Eye had ordered the men away, pointing low to the westem sky for the hour of return. Summers had fumed but obeyed. When they got back, there was Teal Eye on her feet and a boy baby cozy under a blanket. Summers had watched it and watched it and one day came out of the tepee with a smile on his face and a choke in his voice.

  "Hig, he can see! My boy can see!"

  So now here he was, one mateless Higgins, bound for the fort with a hell's list of things to buy and to do if he could. Trade in skins that Summers had gathered, buy supplies, buy horses if he could, and, of all the damn things, get a stand on a preacher if he could find one. Summers wanted to get married but not by a priest.

  "I got nothin' against Catholics," he had said, "but it's not my religion."

  Higgins had to grin. "Not mine either," he answered and went on, knowing he spoke for both of them. "No tellin' what is."

  "I'll take what I know against what I don't."

  He rode on through the spring day. It was all fresh — fresh sky, fresh earth, fresh growth. The sun was kind and the west wind pushed him along. A long-billed bird circled around him, crying alarm. An early nester, he guessed. A couple of prairie chickens flushed up from some bushes. Their chuckles might be those of a girl. To his left was a small bunch of buffalo. One had calved. The skyline waved ahead of him, unfixed and far off. He camped and ate jerky that Teal Eye had fixed and had a pipe afterward and went to sleep counting the stars.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when he wound down a long slope and came in close sight of the fort. It rose there, gray, without windows, and might have housed dead people. Two blockhouses with loopholes rose above the walls and jutted out from them. The whole building, he knew from before, had been made of mud shaped into big bricks and then dried. It couldn't be burned down, that was for sure. Close by, beyond some trees, the river ran. On the far side, upstream, a bare bluff stood. A little dancing wind played with dust there. A few tepees were scattered around the fort, the homes, he reckoned, of fort loafers or sometime workers.

  He rode by the fort and watered his string, then came back and tied the string to a tree. He unlashed the two bundles of furs he had brought. They were heavy but not beyond carrying.

  A small door opened in the sally port, and the guard said, "Hiya there, Hig. How'd you winter?"

  "Saved all my parts anyhow. Major in?"

  "Yep. You know where."

  He walked into a big yard with storehouses right and left and behind him. An Indian was dickering at one. At another two men were stacking buffalo hides. A clerk or some such was watching and counting. The hides made a stink. The agent's quarters were in the rear. Higgins knocked and was told to come in.

  Major Culbertson sat at a rough desk. Papers with figures on them lay on it. He got up and move
d ahead to shake hands. "Welcome, Hig. Put those furs down." Culbertson was a large, friendly man with a mustache and beard and a high forehead. He had a look of good faith about him. "Glad to see you. Take a chair."

  "Open for trade, Major?"

  "That's what we're here for, but why be so sudden? Hard winter, you had?"

  "We made it through. Had meat enough. You ask me what's hardest, campin' out way we do, and I would say keepin' clean."

  "I can imagine, lice and all."

  "No, sir. No lice in Teal Eye's camp. You can bet the whole fort on that."

  "Go on."

  "Hands, face, the whole hide, that's what's hard to keep clean. Without soap, I mean."

  "It's not much of an item of trade with us. The staff uses it mostly. I think we can spare a few bars. It's harsh, you know."

  "Not nigh as rough as sand."

  Culbertson smiled. "How about a drink?"

  "I wouldn't want to hurt your feelin's by refusin'."

  Culbertson reached in his desk and got out a bottle. From a shelf he took two glasses. He didn't believe in dinky drinks. Sipping, he asked, "What all do you need, Hig?"

  "I could leave the order with one of the men?"

  "Nonsense. When you or Dick Summers come in, I want to see you. Now what do you need?"

  "Tobacco and whiskey, first off."

  The items went down on a piece of paper. "And?"

  "Meal or flour if you have any. Dried beans, too. The quiet kind."

  "I believe we have a few pounds of beans. I can't guarantee the silence."

  "Put saleratus down, then."

  "Saleratus? Lord, we're not exactly a grocery."

  "A pinch or two in the pot quiets the beans down."

  "Maybe we can find some."

  "How about horseshoes?"

  "I'll speak to the blacksmith."

  "A couple of blankets. Teal Eye wants 'em. And some beads. She does purty beadwork."

  "All that's not so much."

  "I'm comin' to somethin' else. We need horses, good ones, four of 'em."

  Culbertson looked at the furs on the floor and shook his head.

  "I'm afraid — "

  "Not for them. Here." Higgins reached in his pocket, got out the two gold pieces Summers had given him and handed them over.

  "Hum," Culbertson said. "It's enough, but you know our Indians attach no importance to gold. It has to be translated into goods."

  "I figured that. Will you do it?"

  "It will take time. Minimum two days. I must get in touch with some men that I trust. But, sure. I'll tackle it."

  He poured another drink. "Now back to your order. What else?"

  "I might think of somethin' while we wait."

  "Good enough. Let's look at the furs."

  "Beaver and mink."

  Culbertson left his chair and stooped and, one by one, felt of the pelts. "Those were the days," he said as if speaking to himself. "Fine furs. Not coarse stuff. Not buffalo hides and tongues."

  "Summers would as lief bring in his own skin as bring in a buffalo hide."

  "Yes. Yes. These, you know, aren't worth what they were, but they'1l more than cover your order. You'll have something coming back."

  "Make it credit. And, hey, before I forget it, how about scissors?"

  Culbertson smiled. "Scissors, too?"

  "Handier than a knife sometimes."

  Culbertson returned to his chair and asked after a swallow, "How is Summers?"

  "Same as usual. Damn good man."

  "No doubt about that."

  "He still wants to get married. He's set on it."

  "I ought to know. Every time he's here, maybe half a dozen times altogether, he badgers me about it, as if I could produce a preacher out of thin air. Too bad he won't have a priest."

  Culbertson sipped at his whiskey and smiled, looking satisfied as he spoke. "This time I just may be able to oblige him."

  "You got a preacher in stock?"

  "We don't deal in that kind of cloth, but it happens there's a minister here. Methodist. He's out exploring or teaching the Gospel right now. I'm expecting him for dinner."

  "Wil1 you make it so's I can talk to him?"

  "Easy. You'll eat with us, too. There'll just be four, you, the minister, Major Dawson and I. My wife and the children are visiting her people, the weather being nice for a change."

  "Dick'll thank you. So do I."

  "Fine. Now where are your horses?"

  "Tied to a tree outside."

  "Turn them into the corral. Safer that way. We have a little feed left."

  * * *

  Higgins tended to the horses. He bought a towel and a comb on credit and then, seeing no washstand, went down to the river where he washed hands and face and combed his hair. The river ran clear, as it wouldn't when the rains came. It was time to chop off some of his hair.

  He looked at the sun, almost out of sight behind the big hill. Time for supper? He didn't want to be early or want to be late. He asked the guard at the door when the major's suppertime was.

  "About now," the man told him.

  Two men were in the office with Culbertson. Culbertson waved a hand and said, "Cood timing, Hig. I want you to meet Brother Potter and Major Dawson. Gentlemen, Mr. Higgins."

  The one he called brother stepped forward, saying, "Bless you. Brother Culbertson has told us about you." His hand was big and solid. He was a stocky man, not quite fat, with a bald head and a long coat, which told the world he was a preacher. Major Dawson smiled as he held out his hand. He was thinner than the other two and looked more used to the weather. Shaved smooth, his face was a little pinched up between nose and chin as if he found things to laugh at.

  "Major Dawson is the actual agent here, I'm so often away," Culbertson said. "Business in St. Louis and elsewhere."

  Dawson shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "The de facto factor just in his absence."

  The men were all dressed in town clothes — cloth coats, cloth pants, cloth vests, neckties. No place for buckskins, Higgins thought. No place for worn and soiled leather. But what the

  hell?

  Culbertson opened a door and said, "Dinner is ready."

  There was a table in the room with a white cloth on it. There were knives and forks, spoons and glasses. Culbertson asked them to be seated, showing them where. A woman came in with a bottle. A part-blood, she wore a skirt and a blouse. "A little wine for thy stomach's sake, Reverend?" Culbertson asked as the woman started to pour.

  "How can I refuse when the words are in the book? But first, brothers, please, the blessing."

  He had a passel of things to say to the Lord before he came to amen.

  The woman brought in a hump roast on a platter. Next time in, she carried a big bowl of hominy and a saucer of sliced onions in vinegar.

  "The Lord's bounty," Potter said, eyeing the food. "His infinite bounty."

  "It will be more bounteous when the boats start arriving," Culbertson said while he carved. "Meat and hominy, that's standard winter fare. And this is the last of the onions."

  "There'll be a slew of 'em growin' wild in two-three weeks," Higgins said, just to be part of the talk.

  Dawson smiled at him, nodding. "Right."

  "I suppose you live mostly on straight meat?" Culbertson asked Higgins.

  "Only kind of. Summers' woman knows a lot about wild stuff, roots and leaves and berries and such. We live pretty good."

  Potter swallowed a mouthful of meat, chased it with a drink of water and said, "The man's wife, you mean?"

  "Well —— "

  Culbertson came to his rescue. "You pitch us into a subject I had thought to talk about later. Perhaps it's just as well. The man, Dick Summers, I count with our better men."

  Higgins said, "Count higher."

  Culbertson smiled and went on. "For a number of years he has lived with an Indian woman. They have a child now. He wants to be married, but not by a priest."

  Potter said, "I see."
r />   "Pity you're not a Presbyterian," Dawson put in.

  "Let not us Protestants quarrel," Potter told him. "I wouldn't say the same of the Papists." He went back to his plate.

  "To go on," Culbertson said, "it would take most of a week for Summers and his family to get here. Can you wait, Brother Potter?"

  Potter passed his plate for more meat. He chewed and thought. "I could perform the ceremony there."

  Higgins took a long breath. "It's a long ways. I been makin' cold camps."

  "I wouldn't advise it," Dawson told him.

  "I would go in the hands of the Lord and fear not."

  Culbertson put his folded hands on the table. "You wouldn't have to be afraid of our Blackfeet with Higgins leading you. He is by way of becoming a legend. May I tell him, Hig?"

  "If you want to."

  "The Blackfeet call Higgins Broken Mouth, the Friend of the Great Bear. And his friend, Summers, he is the Bear Maker. Come a pinch, he can summon the white bear out of the ground, out of the air, out of nowhere, but there it will be."

  Higgins said, "That was a long while ago."

  "That's why it's a legend. Tell how it all came about, Hig."

  "Summers does better."

  "Belief in miracles is not restricted to us," Dawson said, not as if it mattered.

  "Go ahead, Hig."

  So he told them about Old Ephraim and the meeting with the Blackfeet and Old Ephraim towering up just in time.

  Potter had cleaned his plate. He leaned back and told them, "I must meet this man Summers."

  "You won't be disappointed," Culbertson said. "Say, Hig, what's his interest in a killing that occurred four or six years ago?"

  "You got me."

  "It seems that two men friends, white, coveted the same Blackfoot girl. Or maybe one just suspected the other of playing him false with the woman. It didn't happen near here, and the truth is hard to come by. Anyhow, the one man killed the other and took off, never to be seen again hereabouts."

  "And the woman?" Higgins asked.

  "All I know is she wouldn't stay with the tribe."