Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 29

Ben Muldoon trudged head down through the shallow ravine, not caring that his footsteps had splintered the silence of the sun-dappled forest all the way to the river. As he tugged at the reins of the tall black horse plodding behind him, he wished he hadn’t left the main trail to follow this game track. He slapped at a cloud of tiny insects in front of his face and considered climbing back on his horse again, though each time he did, the low branches of spruce and cottonwood knocked off his flatcrowned black hat and scraped his face. No matter. He would be at the river soon enough.

Rounding a sharp turn in the trail, he froze as a blast from a gun reverberated in the stillness. In the same instant a bullet whistled past his ear. Dropping to his knees, Ben released his hold on the reins and, with shaking hands, steadied his rifle. He peered into the forest around him, his heart hammering and the inside of his mouth suddenly as dry as yesterday’s bannock. A twig snapped, but he turned too late. With the shove from behind, he lost his grip on his rifle. When he sprawled face forward, a brown hand reached for the gun. Fear galvanized Ben as he leaped up and lunged at his assailant. Dry branches of brush snapped as the two boys grappled and fell to the ground. In a moment it was over.

It was almost too easy, but as Ben looked down, he realized the Indian pinned to the ground was probably no older than himself and about twenty pounds lighter. He got to his feet slowly and backed away a few steps before bending to pick up his rifle. His eyes on his captive, he worked the lever to send a cartridge into the breech. “Get up.”

His prisoner lay still, eyeing him warily. Ben repeated his command, this time in halting French. The boy turned on his side and closed his eyes. Astonishment made Ben forget his anger. “Here now,” he commanded, prodding a leg with the butt of his gun, “you’ve rested enough. Get up.”

The silence in the forest lengthened, and for the first time it occurred to Ben they might not be alone. Perhaps the Indian was waiting for somebody. Ben darted quick glances over each shoulder, then turned back to find the boy watching him. Scowling, he jerked his thumb upward. This time the boy sat up cross-legged and stared at him. Satisfied he was making progress, Ben repeated his gesture, but his captive shook his head. “You will say I tried to steal your rifle, and I will be locked in a dirty jail.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Ben retorted. “I oughta say ‘better luck next time’ and let you go after you tried to kill me?”

There was no humour in the other boy’s smile. “If I had meant to kill you, you would not be speaking now.”

“You saying you didn’t try? I guess your gun just went off accidental like.”

“My shot was for a deer—an easy target until you came with more noise than a bear rolling downhill. Even so it is wounded.”

“Then why didn’t you follow the deer instead of jumping on me?”

A fleeting look of hopelessness crossed the Indian’s face before he muttered, “I have no more powder and shot.”

As he surveyed his captive, Ben thought he understood why losing the deer made him crazy enough to attack. Sun-browned skin outlined each rib and covered the boy’s arms as though there were nothing between it and bone. The skin stretched tightly over hollows under high cheekbones jutting beneath dark, deep-set eyes that glittered with anger now, as if they understood Ben’s unexpected flash of pity and rejected it.

Ben strode to his waiting horse and said gruffly, “Well, come on. You can’t shoot a deer and leave it to bleed to death.” When the boy hesitated, Ben grabbed the reins and started off in what he hoped was the right direction. Over his shoulder he called, “Come on!” Then he halted and turned. “Say, what’s your name, anyway? I like to know who I’m hunting with.”

Scrambling to his feet, the boy answered, “Red Eagle.”

“Come on then, Red Eagle. Which way do we find the deer?”

“I will get my horse” came the reply, and Red Eagle disappeared into the forest without a sound.

As Ben leaned against a tree and waited, a nagging uneasiness plagued him. It wasn’t the same worry that had knotted his stomach the day before when he left Gabriel’s Crossing for Fort Carlton. Then, certain his uncle must have returned to the fort, he had rehearsed over and over his explanation for taking his sister to Gabriel Dumont’s cabin. Even so, his uncle had been plenty mad until he learned Ben and Charity had had nothing to do with Dumont himself these past two months. That knowledge had caused Lawrence Clarke’s fury to be replaced by thoughtful contemplation as he rubbed the red tip of his long, thin nose and studied his nephew with pale blue eyes. Remembering now the relief he had felt when he thought his uncle’s anger had passed, Ben grimaced. He didn’t know then just what his uncle was planning.

Ben’s thoughts flew back to the present as the steady beat of hoofs reached his ears. In a moment Red Eagle was beside him, sliding off a weary dark brown horse. The Indian gestured over his shoulder. “A small stream runs down to the river. We will tie the horses there and follow the deer on foot.”

Under a mound of leaves and brush near where they tied the horses, Ben hid the old cap-and-ball musket Red Eagle carried, while the Indian moved through the trees and pointed at the ground. “Here,” he said.

Ben pushed aside a bramble of wild rosebushes and saw the telltale splatter of blood. Together they moved through the woods, Red Eagle leading.

It was late afternoon when they found the exhausted animal drinking from a brackish backwater, dried blood caked on one front leg. Ben felt a surge of excitement as he lifted his rifle. Glancing beside him, he saw the eagerness on his companion’s face. “Take it,” he whispered, abruptly thrusting the rifle into Red Eagle’s hands. “It’s your deer.”

The Enfield spoke once, and the buck dropped. “Good shot,” Ben said when they reached the animal. “Right behind the ear.”

Red Eagle dropped to his knees and whipped out a long knife from the sheath strapped to his deerskin leggings. Once, as he prepared the deer for travel, he sliced off a thin strip of meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing hungrily as he worked. His upward glance caught the disgust on Ben’s face, and he scowled. “It is not so easy to wait to cook meat when you have none for three months!”

Ben said nothing. He knew by heart Uncle Lawrence’s speech about the Indians being hungry because they expected to be fed instead of raising their food on land the government had been good enough to give them. Even his uncle had to admit, though, that some of the white men hired to teach the Indians how to farm weren’t very helpful.

Although he had been raised to accept the judgements of his elders as gospel, Ben had a vague feeling of embarrassment as he watched the scrawny figure work over the deer. Impulsively he reached inside his grey homespun shirt for a package wrapped in oiled paper and held it out. “Here,” he said. “If you still got an appetite, you’d do me a favour if you eat this.” When the boy hesitated, Ben added, “I already had my fill, and the woman who wrapped that up likely might think I’m sick if I bring it back.”

Ben had expected Red Eagle to wolf down the bannock and meat, but the boy chewed slowly, surveying Ben as he ate. Between bites he said, “You are far from Fort Carlton.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “How’d you know I been at Fort Carlton?”

The reply was slow in coming. “Three months ago I took wolf skins to the fort to trade for flour. You are called Ben Muldoon, but in our camp you are known as Fire on Top.”

Ben was accustomed to comments about his unruly mop of bright red hair. It was too curly to trim neatly in the fashion of young men, so he was content to clip it off below his ears and let it blow freely. He grinned as he said, “That’s as good a name as any, I guess. But I don’t live at the fort anymore—at least for now. I’ve been staying at Gabriel’s Crossing for the past while. I rode to the fort today to see my uncle, and I’m on my way back.”

Red Eagle stared at Ben thoughtfully for a moment before he bent over the deer again. “So,” he said over his shoulder, “you share the cabin of Gabriel Dumont.”

Half wondering why he should bother to explain himself to an Indian, Ben said, “My sister got real sick at the fort, and some said I best take her to Madame Dumont. The Mounted Police took us over to the Crossing in a wagon a while back.”

Red Eagle nodded without turning around. “My people know of her also. She has healing hands.”

“I expect so,” Ben said, recalling the nights he had awakened to see the Métis woman dozing in a chair by his sister’s bed. “All I know is, Charity’s doing just fine now, but Madame Dumont says I shouldn’t take her back to the fort yet.” He half suspected she had become pretty fond of Charity and was making excuses to keep her as long as she could. He sighed. Truth to tell, Ben had hated having to tell his sister that their uncle might make them return to the fort when he got back from his trip to Winnipeg. At Gabriel’s Crossing Ben heard her laughter for the first time since their mother had died in 1882 almost two years ago.

Red Eagle stood. “I will get the horses.”

Ben surveyed the deer. “Where you taking it?”

The Indian jerked his head in a westerly direction. “A day’s ride.”

“That so? Which reserve you from?”

“Poundmaker’s.”

Ben whistled under his breath. “You’re a ways from home then.”

Red Eagle scowled. “Deer are few where we are told to hunt. White—”

“Hey!” Ben interrupted. “I just mean you got more’n a day’s ride.”

“My companions hunt, as well. We will meet upstream where the north branch of the river bends to the south, and return to Cut Knife together.”

“I know the place.” Ben squinted at the sun. “It’ll take you most of the night to get there. Why don’t you come back to Gabriel’s Crossing and start out in the morning? I don’t guess Gabriel Dumont would mind if you hang your deer in the ice shed.”

Some of the stiffness seemed to leave Red Eagle’s face. “It is Gabriel Dumont who told me there are deer in these woods.”

“Well, come on, then. It’ll save time if we pack this thing back to the horses.” As Ben bent to pick up one end of the deer, he felt oddly lighthearted.

Although Ben was big for his age and had inherited a powerful build from his Irish father, it wasn’t easy to get the inert carcass through the woods and slung across the back of Red Eagle’s horse. By the time they reached their destination, both boys were spattered with drops of blood, and the moccasin boots they wore were splashed with mud from the banks of the South Saskatchewan River when they crossed it upstream from Gabriel’s Crossing.

The door of the long whitewashed log cabin opened as they approached, and Madeleine Dumont called out a greeting, her strong, plain face transformed by her smile. It seemed to Ben that Tante Madeleine was different from most of the vivacious, chattering Métis women he had met. For one thing, she was taller, and her hair was somewhere between light and dark brown—the way his mother’s had been. Except for Charity, Ben liked her better than anybody. He knew no matter how hard he tried he would never be able to pay her back for saving his sister’s life. To show his gratitude to Tante Madeleine, he helped her whenever he could by looking after the herd of cattle and a half-dozen horses and by cutting hay for their winter feed. Doing it made him feel good; it was like being back on the farm by the Red River.

Tante Madeleine touched the deer. “You did well.”

Ben hastened to explain. “It’s not mine. It’s his.”

“We will share,” Red Eagle said.

Tante Madeleine didn’t reply, but Ben guessed she would find a way to refuse the deer without offending Red Eagle, even though their own supply of meat was low. Six times he had helped her carry food from her storehouse to those along the river who were too old or too ill to hunt for themselves. Had he known there might be deer so close to the village, he would have slipped through the forest more quietly and kept a better watch.

Ben peered behind the woman at the empty doorway. “Where’s Charity?”

“The Vanda children came by to hear her stories. They are down by the river.” The words were accompanied by a smile.

“We had our meal. After you attend to the deer and your horses, go down and wash. Yours will be ready.”

In silence they hung the deer from a beam in the shed before they turned the horses into the grassy pasture beside the stable and loped down the slope to the river. Near the rushing water, Ben veered sideways to a calm backwash and dropped to his knees, gasping with the shock of the icy water as he doused his hands and face. Although the sunny autumn day had been warm, the river was uncomfortably cold. Beside him, Red Eagle dipped his entire head in, then raised it suddenly, alert as a wild thing as he stared around, listening.

The murmur of voices drifted from upstream, and soft laughter, like the tinkling of a bell. “That’s my sister,” Ben explained. Pulling his shirt free from his dark corduroy trousers, he dried his face. “I’ll go tell her I’m back.”

Without inviting Red Eagle to accompany him, Ben clambered over the rocks along the shore until he reached a small clearing in the willow bushes clustered along the riverbank. Charity sat under an old spruce tree, one small, fat Métis child in her lap and four others in a half circle around her. Her hair, red as his own, but shot with gold, gave off sparks in the light of the setting sun. Ben noted that Madame Dumont had made yet another new dress for her. Below the heavy black cloak, the folds of her long skirt were spread on the grass. Its colour matched her eyes—blue as his own. But his eyes could see, and Charity’s could not.

He turned his head when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, ready with a retort if the Cree boy commented on his sister’s blindness. But Red Eagle was speechless, his mouth half open as he stared raptly at the girl. Ben moved forward, pausing as he felt a hand on his arm. “She is real?” the boy asked softly.

Ben’s mood changed. “Sure enough,” he said with a grin. He reckoned even an Indian couldn’t help but take in how pretty Charity was. Ben was proud of his twin.

“Ben!” Charity called, turning her head in their direction. “You’re late. Did you see Uncle? Is he very angry? Must we go back to the fort?”

“I sure did, and it’s all right. We can stay a while longer,” Ben said as he strode forward to lift the child from her lap. “Tell you about it later. Tante Madeleine’s waiting with our supper.”

“Someone is with you?”

Pulling his sister to her feet, Ben said, “An Indian named Red Eagle.”

A dimple appeared in one cheek as Charity smiled. “Hello, Red Eagle.”

The Cree said nothing. As far as Ben could tell, Red Eagle didn’t plan to do anything but stare.

Later, between spoonfuls of potage thick with potatoes and chicken, Ben explained why he was so late, but omitted he had first become acquainted with Red Eagle in a fight.

“I’m glad you found the poor thing, since it was wounded in the leg,” Charity said. “Else it would suffer. Is it very big?”

“Big enough so the horse had a hard time carrying it.” Ben frowned at Red Eagle, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Charity. “Haven’t you ever seen a white girl before?”

Red Eagle glanced sideways at Ben. “I have seen many white girls.”

Charity turned her head in Red Eagle’s direction. “Red Eagle! You do speak English. I thought—” She broke off, her face turning pink.

“Four years I was in a white school,” Red Eagle said softly.

Ben hadn’t thought to ask how his companion spoke such good English, and he looked at Red Eagle with interest. “Why was that?”

“I was taken into the lodge of Poundmaker. He sent his son and me to the school at Prince Albert.”