restless, disembodied spirit.
Up there in Blackfoot country was damn well going to be plenty of wolves to howl in the rain come spring. Maybe the cold of winter had killed all the pox. Nothing like that was going to live through the long, deep cold of this northern land. If the Blackfoot weren’t all dead from the disease, then at least the pox was finished now. And what was left of the tribe was nothing more than a pale shadow of what they had been.
Ghosts.
Mandan, Arikara, Assiniboine, and Blackfoot. And now the Crow.
Yellow Belly’s people might as well have been ghosts too. Day after day, week upon week, he and Waits-by- the-Water never could get very close to the village before camp guards rode up shouting, threatening, until she explained that she only wanted one of the warriors to bring her mother to the edge of camp. Just to see Crane’s face in the distance, to know she was still alive. To show her mother they were still alive and well. So Crane could see they were not being eaten by a terrible sickness.
The children waved to Crane across that distance, and their grandmother waved back—then suddenly turned, slump-shouldered, and hurried back into the village with her daughter-in-law’s arm around her shoulder. That retreat always made Waits-by-the-Water even sadder.
Something on the order of a week later Bass had finally convinced her they had no business keeping a vigil around the fringes of that camp of frightened people.
Ghosts, he thought. His wife’s family might as well be ghosts.
That last time Crane brought the rest of them with her, all of Strikes-in-Camp’s family. Bright Wings and the children waved before they turned to go. Then, before she retreated into the village, Crane pointed to an outcropping of rocks several hundred yards from the village. She gestured expansively, struggling to make herself understood.
Then Waits began to cry and held up little Flea to wave to his grandmother. Titus helped Magpie stand tall upon his shoulders as she signaled to that small, distant person. In the end the girl even blew kisses to her grandmother the way Titus taught her to do. Waits turned away with Flea, and they returned to their camp where his wife sobbed until close to sundown.
When they remembered the point of rocks. Hurrying there, Waits discovered a newly smoked antelope skin wrapped inside a piece of oiled rawhide. Within it rested several small gifts Crane had bundled together: a tiny deer-hair-stuffed doll for Magpie and a stuffed horse for Flea, two small whistles carved from cedar, while beneath them all lay a badger-claw necklace.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the necklace, pulled it slowly from the antelope skin.
“This belonged to my fa—” But she quickly remembered. “He-Who-Is-No-Longer-With-Us,” Waits explained, holding the claws and beads reverently across the palms of both hands.
“It is a very great thing for your mother to want you to have this,” Bass said. “Did he carve these whistles?”
“I think he must have,” she replied quietly, rubbing their red wood with a fingertip. “That was his name. I remember how our people knew of him because he could blow on a whistle he made with his own hands—blowing a sound just like the bull elk calling from the mountainside in the autumn.”
“Waits-by-the-Water,” he sighed, “your mother wanted you to have something of him to show our children.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, “a totem to show Magpie and Flea when we tell them about their grandfather.”
She put it on, and he realized she meant never to take it off. Right from the moment she dropped the necklace over her head, Scratch knew that somehow it made her feel closer not just to her father who no longer lived, but to her mother. Closer to her people.
But he never uttered a word about his deepest fear, more a regret. Titus never mentioned how afraid he was that in leaving those gifts for her daughter and grandchildren, Crane was saying that she realized she might never see those loved ones again. Then time and again he argued with himself, thinking the old woman hadn’t really been trying to say good-bye, believing they would never meet again.
So each day he wondered how long the Crow would keep them apart, and he worried if Yellow Belly’s band ever would allow Waits-by-the-Water back among her people, back in the arms of her family. For weeks now as winter softened its fury, they had remained no more than a day’s journey from the village. When it migrated to a new campsite—requiring more wood and water, more grass for their herds—Bass packed up his family and followed, never drawing close enough to cause the camp guards alarm, never working streams so close that the Crow village might spoil his trapping haunts.
Camping no more than a day’s ride from her people … just in case they might have a change of heart.
Every few days as he tended to his trapline, Scratch went to some high ground to scour the country for sign of the camp, the lodge smoke, any horsemen out for game until the Crow had run all the game out of the area. Sometimes the hunters, or those scouts who constantly patrolled the hills and ridges for sign of their enemies, would run across the lone white man at work in the icy streams, or on his way back to his camp with his beaver pelts. Never did those hunters come anywhere close enough that he could make sign, much less call out to them. Instead, they always stopped upon recognizing the trapper, turned about, and rode off.
Over and over he reminded himself that he couldn’t blame them. As cruel as it must feel to his woman, Scratch told himself he didn’t have the right to blame her people for their fear of him—and what poison they believed he represented.
After all they had somehow heard about the horrors of the pox, both those tribal legends of long ago and the fresh tales of summer’s terror on the upper Missouri, the Crow had reason to be cautious. Worse still, this new calamity fed the superstitious fear of those among the Crow who proclaimed there was now every excuse to drive the white men out of Absaroka. More and more of the Crow were ready to believe the leaders who spoke against the trappers and traders.
Where he once was welcomed, now he was feared, shunned, even hated. Perhaps Waits-by-the-Water did not truly know what hate was because she had never before experienced the hatred of others. Bass doubted she herself had ever hated anyone before. But he knew full well the power of hate. He understood how hate goaded a man into acts of revenge against those he despised, or acts of retribution against those who despised him.
Titus hoped she remained innocent, hoped she never knew either side of hate.
Sadness rode with them that winter—which meant that its handmaiden, called bitterness, could not be far behind.
That morning she didn’t say much in either tongue as the wolf awoke him before dawn. Titus pulled on his clothing, then quietly told her he would not return before sundown. He kissed her, feeling something in Waits-by- the-Water’s embrace of her longing to explain how bewildered she was. Instead of speaking, however, she only held him tight, kissed his mouth, then released him to the darkness.
As the black became gray, Bass dismounted, tied the horse and mule to the brush, then trudged toward the creekbank. The only sounds in the forest were his footsteps on the sodden snow, the slur of his elk-hide coat brushing against the leafless branches as he neared his first set. Of a sudden he grew concerned.
Standing at the snowy edge of the stream, he couldn’t make out the trap pole he had driven into the bottom of the creek several feet from the bank. Kneeling as he shoved his right sleeve to the elbow, Scratch stuffed his bare forearm into the ice-slicked water. Back and forth he carefully fished, his fingers searching—unable to feel the square bow of the iron trap, the wide springs, the pan or trigger or long chain.
“Goddamned beaver got away with it,” he grumbled as he got to his feet, flinging water off his arm before it turned to ice.
Later, when the light grew, he’d come back and wade on into this wide part of the stream, to try locating where in this flooded meadow the animal had dragged his trap. Somewhere out there in the faint smear of dawn one of the creatures had freed the trap from the pole, then drowned, sinking to the bottom with the weight locked around its paw. It was only a matter of his wading far enough, long enough, in the icy water to find both trap and beaver.
For the time being there was enough work pulling up the other fourteen traps, taking yesterday’s catch back to camp for his wife to begin her work fleshing, graining, and stretching. That started, he could return and look for his trap. As costly as such hard goods were in the mountains, a man simply couldn’t stand to lose one of his traps. Sweeping up his rifle and the rawhide trap sack, Scratch backed out of the thick willow and turned upstream.
A moment later he was standing on the bank, staring out at the glistening surface of the water, bewildered
