The Canyon of Bones (20 page)
Read The Canyon of Bones Online
Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
S
kye awoke to a sharp pain in his chest. He stared upward, found a Sarsi warrior over him, the man's lance stabbing into Skye's breast. He was one quick thrust from eternity.
kye awoke to a sharp pain in his chest. He stared upward, found a Sarsi warrior over him, the man's lance stabbing into Skye's breast. He was one quick thrust from eternity.
He lay very quiet but stared up at the warrior. He could see that the women were similarly impaled. It was light; well past dawn. They had not erected the lodge but had made their beds in a private corner of the flat, well away from Mercer and Winding.
Now he stared in terror at the young man whose lance pinioned him to the earth. The Sarsi was not painted this morning. He and the others had scrubbed away the hideous designs and colors that had marked yesterday's ceremonial visit to the bones. He was simply an alert young man, dressed only in a breechclout, his hair loose around his head and neck, a red headband holding it in place. Suspended about his neck was a small medicine bundle shaped of leather.
All Skye could do was wait and pray. Even to open his mouth, to yell, to explode in anger, could be fatal. The warrior
seemed to be waiting for something, and as the seconds ticked by, and Skye wondered whether this was his last day, he began to fathom what this was about.
seemed to be waiting for something, and as the seconds ticked by, and Skye wondered whether this was his last day, he began to fathom what this was about.
He was not wrong. In a while more armed Sarsi warriors appeared, pushing Mercer and Winding before them with their lances. Other Sarsi men had arrows nocked into their strung bows, ready for anything.
Mercer was putting a brave face on it, smiling, standing erect, ignoring the half-dozen lance points that were hovering inches from his body; points that could turn him into a pincushion in no time at all. He carried a piece of rock in his hands.
“They don't take kindly to my digging, do they?” he asked.
Skye did not respond but his stare caught Mercer and somehow subdued the explorer.
“I went for a tooth, just one old tooth,” Mercer said. “I tried the war hatchet and the axe, but all I did was shatter the blasted tooth. A man needs stone mason's chisels to cut out a bone or two.”
“Westminster Abbey,” Skye said.
Mercer managed a smile. An acknowledgment.
Skye felt the iron point dig into his chest and swiftly returned to silence. He waited, his pulse climbing, waited for death.
The older Sarsi, the only one with graying hair, appeared before Skye, and nodded to his young warriors. They withdrew the lances. Skye didn't dare sit up but a nod from the warrior told him he should. Slowly, he sat up. Slowly, the women were sitting up. Mary was very still. Victoria glared at Mercer with such heat in her face that Mercer could not escape the scathing rake of her gaze.
The chief began to say something in sign language, and
Skye followed carefully. The two men had taken the tooth of the ancient one. They had desecrated a holy place. They had offended the spirits. They had offended the Ancestors. They were worse than an enemy of the Sarsi; they were worse than a witch. They were the Evil Ones. The Sarsi would put them to death. Then they would decide what to do about Skye.
Skye followed carefully. The two men had taken the tooth of the ancient one. They had desecrated a holy place. They had offended the spirits. They had offended the Ancestors. They were worse than an enemy of the Sarsi; they were worse than a witch. They were the Evil Ones. The Sarsi would put them to death. Then they would decide what to do about Skye.
Skye turned to Mercer and Winding. “You've desecrated the ancient one, the holy place. You are more evil than enemies. You are more evil than a witch. You will die. They will decide what to do about the rest of us.”
Mercer absorbed that bleakly.
No one spoke. The Sarsi were all watching Mercer, watching to see whether he was a god-man, a prophet of the bones. Mercer wilted as the reality gradually pervaded him.
“Tell them I'll give back the tooth! I don't want it!”
He thrust the tooth fragment toward the headman, No Name, only to see it fall to the day. The broken fossil lay there, an accusation, the proof of evil. No one picked it up. Skye wondered whether these people were even allowed to touch the sacred bones.
He surveyed the scene. The light was quickening though this deep canyon of the Missouri still lay under shadow. Several lancers guarded the prisoners. Several more bowmen backed them. Two of the Sarsi had caught up the lines of Skye's horses and the one holding Jawbone was likely to get his head kicked in. But Jawbone, whose ears lay flat back, was behaving for the moment.
There was no escape.
Mercer must have been working from the earliest gray light, maybe hoping to chip out a tooth of the monster before anyone noticed. And now he was standing before the Sarsi, a condemned man.
“Tell them I will make it up. Tell them I am a priest of the bones.”
Skye shook his head slowly, but the headman caught the gesture and wanted a translation.
“He says he is a priest of the bones and will make everything right,” Skye translated, employing gestures.
The one with no name stared bleakly at Mercer.
He barked some sort of command to his group and they withdrew except for half a dozen who were guarding the prisoners. Skye watched them retreat out of earshot, toward the place of the bones, where they all paused to examine the ruptured rock, the damaged skull where the giant tooth had been torn out, taking some of the lower jaw with it judging from the rock still clinging to the tooth.
“What are they going to do, Mister Skye?” Mercer asked. He was now truly alarmed. It had taken him this while to grasp the trouble he was in; to understand that his luck, which had been with him across several continents and in all sorts of strange circumstances, had suddenly run out.
“They are going to decide our fate.”
“But I've offered to make it up.” It was a plaintive whisper from a man who had never grasped how different peoples are and how sharply they vary, and how goodness to one people is evil to another.
“Sonofabitch,” grumbled Victoria. This time the expression was directed toward Mercer.
Skye didn't know what to do or whether he could do anything. Powerful warriors stood ready to slaughter them if they showed any signs of trouble.
Over at the bones below the sandstone overhang the Sarsi sat in a circle and began a discussion, sometimes animated, sometimes so quiet it was hard to know whether anyone was
saying anything. But Skye gathered that an intense debate was in progress there, and he guessed the debate had much to do with Mercer's fate. The Sarsi did not want to anger the spirit whose bones lay just a few feet from them.
saying anything. But Skye gathered that an intense debate was in progress there, and he guessed the debate had much to do with Mercer's fate. The Sarsi did not want to anger the spirit whose bones lay just a few feet from them.
The sun rose, bathing the tops of the bluffs north of the river with gold. Mercer, weary of standing, slowly sat down. Winding joined him. Skye thought that Mercer's fate would probably be Winding's fate if both of them had been caught ripping the fossil tooth out of the sacred site.
The guards watched warily. Their lances had flat iron points made by Hudson's Bay Company, points that could pierce flesh as well as slice sideways. One point was caked in black dried blood. The guards were veterans, not a youth among them. They eyed Victoria and Mary, identifying the tribes by what the women wore.
The women would live. Skye was sure of it. He also suspected that they would become prisoners, maybe virtual slaves of the wives of these warriors. They might never see their own people again and might die far north in British possessions.
Skye drove such thoughts from his mind. If he focused on a way out of this, perhaps he could do something. But he didn't have the slightest idea of an escape.
As was often the case among plains Indians, the Sarsi took their time. But eventually the headman, who declined to reveal his name, rose, walked to the prisoners, and addressed Skye, his hands and arms forming quick, sure gestures.
“Not long ago a blackrobe came to us and told us about the religion of the white men,” he said.
Skye nodded. That probably was Father De Smet, or one of his assistant priests, who had done so much missionary work among the Blackfeet and other tribes.
“He told us about the god-man, the high priest of the people. Is this man here, who destroyed the bones, the god-man of your people?”
The question startled Skye. Where was this chief's thought running?
“No,” Skye signaled. “This man is a storyteller. He goes into strange lands and learns about them and goes back to his people across the big water and he tells his people what he has seen.”
“But he called himself a priest of the ancient bones. He is a grandfather, is it not so?”
A grandfather could be a revered elder. Reluctantly, Skye acknowledged that it was so.
“The white men hung their god-man from a cross, is it not so?” the headman asked.
“It is so.”
“Then we will do this. He must die. He angered the spirit whose bones these are.”
“But it is not the same.”
The headman stopped Skye's protest with a savage wave of the hand. “We will put him on a tree like the god-man of the whites.”
Skye stared at the headman.
“What's he saying? Tell me!” Mercer said.
“I don't think you want to know,” Skye said.
M
ercer whitened. “Am I to die?”
ercer whitened. “Am I to die?”
Skye nodded.
“But why?”
“You already know.”
“You must stop this! I didn't offend anything.”
“I will try.” Skye caught the eye of the headman and began the language of the signs. Let this man go. Do not hurt him. The spirit of the bones does not want him.
The headman, the one with the secret name, growled and abruptly slapped Skye's hands and arms with an arrow. The blow stung. It was a command: no protests, no resistance, no signs, no words. Skye felt rage boil through him, found himself staring into three lance points and a nocked arrow, and he subsided.
The morning sun caught the cliffs high above the river bottoms and painted them gold.
“What are they going to do to me, Skye?” Mercer asked.
But Skye simply shook his head.
Several of the Sarsi headed for a willow grove with axes and
cut two stout poles, each about six feet long. These they laid on the ground and forced Mercer and Winding to lie across them, so the poles were under their shoulders. Then the Sarsi bound the arms of each man to his pole with sopping wet rawhide. Their arms were anchored at elbow and wrist Skye knew that the rawhide would dry into a steely binding, and shrink in the process, gradually cutting off circulation at wrist and elbow.
cut two stout poles, each about six feet long. These they laid on the ground and forced Mercer and Winding to lie across them, so the poles were under their shoulders. Then the Sarsi bound the arms of each man to his pole with sopping wet rawhide. Their arms were anchored at elbow and wrist Skye knew that the rawhide would dry into a steely binding, and shrink in the process, gradually cutting off circulation at wrist and elbow.
Victoria muttered softly. Mary was horrified.
The Sarsi lifted each man to his feet. Now their arms were outstretched to either side and firmly anchored to the pole across their back. They could not eat or drink or perform any function with their hands. And in time the pain in their shoulders and arms would become excruciating.
Sharp commands from the headman made it clear that the Sarsi were leaving and taking their prisoners with them. A Sarsi youth collected the Skye horses. Jawbone had sense enough not to fight the cord that drew him. With a word, the headman started them all up a winding trail that climbed steeply through juniper to the rimrock high above.
“Where are they taking us, Skye?” Mercer asked.
Skye quickly shook his head. Silence was best just now.
It was hard for Mercer and Winding to climb that trail with their arms outstretched and tied to the pole. They were utterly helpless to balance themselves. Skye and Mary and Victoria followed, watched carefully. All of Skye's possessions followed, on the packhorses.
The Sarsi traveled quietly, padding up the steep grade, sometimes over rock ledges, sometimes up cliffs that were hard for the horses to negotiate.
“My arms are killing me, Skye. Make them cut me loose. Beg them. I'll do anything they ask. I'll be their slave if they want a slave. Just cut my arms loose.”
The headman listened, no doubt surmising what Mercer was saying without requiring Skye's translation. But he said nothing. The trail was steep and just staying upright occupied all of them. Then suddenly it topped the bluff and they stepped into harsh sunlight blazing out of the east. It was already heating the sandstone. In a few minutes the whole party collected on the flats at the top of the bluff. Below, the Missouri River ran its silvery way toward the east, still caught in deep shadow. The river flat and the sandstone ledge that protected the bones lay directly below, perhaps three hundred feet. Skye could see the high plains stretching toward the heavens at some hazy horizon an infinity away. Every rise in the land cast its long shadow as the sun struggled upward from its night-bed.
The headman studied the cliff below him. About twenty feet below was a narrow sandstone ledge that capped a stratum of rock. A game trail led down to that ledge. He motioned Mercer and Winding to follow him down there, and motioned Skye and his women to stay put.
Mercer warily slid down the game trail, obviously knowing he was helpless to stop the descent if he should lose his balance. Winding followed. Several Sarsi followed them, carrying more of the well-soaked rawhide thong. On the ledge they bound Mercer's ankles and knees with the rawhide and tied the sopping leather tight. And then they did the same to Winding. Then they swung Mercer's legs around until they dangled over the ledge. And Winding's. Now both of them were poised on the lip of the ledge, their arms tied to the poles across their backs. They could not walk or stand. They could not untie themselves and escape. They could only sit on the brink of eternity.
Skye suddenly knew how this would end. When the
deepening pain in their shoulders, or the tightening rawhide cut the circulation in their hands or forearms, or their thirst, or the heat of the midday sun, became more then they could endure, they would do the one thing they could manage: kick themselves over the ledge and fall a hundred feet free and clear and then bounce another hundred or more over scree and talus. They would end up on the sandstone overhang protecting the bones, and add their bones to the boneyard. The Sarsi had arranged it so that Mercer and Winding would, of their own volition, give themselves to the spirit of the bones.
deepening pain in their shoulders, or the tightening rawhide cut the circulation in their hands or forearms, or their thirst, or the heat of the midday sun, became more then they could endure, they would do the one thing they could manage: kick themselves over the ledge and fall a hundred feet free and clear and then bounce another hundred or more over scree and talus. They would end up on the sandstone overhang protecting the bones, and add their bones to the boneyard. The Sarsi had arranged it so that Mercer and Winding would, of their own volition, give themselves to the spirit of the bones.
Mercer saw it all now, and craned his head upward to Skye.
“Good-bye, then,” he said.
“I will do what I can, any way I can.”
“You were right, Skye.”
“We can go fast or slow,” Winding said. “Our choice. They ain't killing us. We'll be doing the job ourselves.”
“Tell the Royal Society. Write them. Don't leave out anything.”
“How much time have we got?” Winding said.
Skye shook his head. How thirsty would they get? How hot? How long could they endure the pain in their shoulders and arms?
“Do not give up hope. I will return if I can, as soon as I can.”
A sharp rap from the headman's arrow, which he employed as a nasty little club or crop, lashed Skye's face.
Then several of the Sarsi brought twists of sweetgrass, coarse and dry, and laid them between Mercer and Winding.
“What are they doing, Skye?”
“Sweetgrass smoke purifies you, cleans your bodies for the sacrifice to the spirits.”
The headman glared at Skye but did not lash him.
The Sarsi struck flint to steel, showering the dry sweetgrass until it began to smolder. A pungent and pleasant smoke began to rise from the small pile, curling outward, drifting over Mercer and Winding. Skye had sometimes burned sweetgrass himself and bathed in its smoke. It was a tribal custom that he found comforting and cleansing, though he could not say why.
The sun rose higher, blinding the two on the ledge, who could not protect their eyes or turn away from its glare. Skye pitied them and felt sheer helpless anger roll through him. He searched wildly for a way, for a club. He would find a stick and wade in, crack heads, push Sarsi over the cliff, until the lances found him. But what good would that do?
It was all about religion again. Offend another man's religion and hell would break loose. Challenge belief, question faith, desecrate an altar, violate a taboo, laugh at rituals, and you would stir the most volcanic emotions residing in the soul. Mercer had violated a religion. Skye doubted he would ever see the man again, and hoped he would push himself over the edge sooner rather than later; avoid suffering rather than torment himself to the last. By afternoon, at most, if the day was hot, both men would be out of their heads.
The Sarsi sat quietly, watching the sweetgrass smoke wash the sacrificial victims, knowing the smoke would prepare the two men for their rendezvous with the spirit of the big bones. The Sarsi were in no hurry. It was well to sit and watch, and know how perfectly the two suffered from heat and pain and thirst and hopelessness.
The sun climbed until the sandstone around them radiated its heat. And then the headman, he of the secret name, rose, gestured, and the Sarsi bone worshipers collected their
own possessions as well as Skye's laden horses, and prodded their other prisoners away from the fatal ledge. That country was impassable, and it was necessary to retreat from the headlands back to the high plains and pick up a trail there. Skye had no idea where he and Victoria and Mary were being taken. They were on the south side of the Missouri; the Sarsi lived far to the north. Fords of the Missouri were few and often dangerous.
own possessions as well as Skye's laden horses, and prodded their other prisoners away from the fatal ledge. That country was impassable, and it was necessary to retreat from the headlands back to the high plains and pick up a trail there. Skye had no idea where he and Victoria and Mary were being taken. They were on the south side of the Missouri; the Sarsi lived far to the north. Fords of the Missouri were few and often dangerous.
He had been so absorbed with the explorer's fatal circumstances that he hadn't given much thought to his own or those of his wives. Now, back from the ledge, the prisoners were given their horses and Skye found himself astride Jawbone, who itched and twitched under him. He had all his possessions except his Hawken and axe, which the Sarsi wisely kept.
Victoria rode silently, her face stony, and Skye knew she thought the punishment was just and proper. Mary was far more anguished, fighting back her grief.
They rode west for miles, and then the headman of the unspoken name halted them at a high plains seep to water their horses and rest in the shade of two or three willows there. This was coulee country, a land of giant gullies each leading down miles of prairie to the Missouri River.
The women retreated to find some privacy down one of those giant grassy gulches, leading their horses with them. The Sarsi didn't much care. Eventually Victoria returned with her horse, but not Mary, and in the milling of packhorses and Jawbone's wild bunch no one noticed as they started west again, except Skye.
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