Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 Read online

"He won't be eaten by a bear!" Will insisted. "It's the human beasts I'd worry about."

  "Consider me a beast trainer," Richard said with mock seriousness. "Like Caesar of old, I shall no doubt return to Boston with several frontiersmen snarling at the ends of their chains."

  Ames leaned over. "Keep in mind, Richard, that moral frameworks vary among different peoples. Logic is wonderful, and rational action provides a basis from which we can understand and interact with others, but you must always realize that not everyone shares your perspective. If morality were perceived universally, we should all embrace the same ethics."

  Richard shrugged. "Sir, I cannot help but believe that there is a supreme morality based upon rational action. Truth is either absolute, or it is nothing. The result is that anyone can be trained to accept a rational morality if they are indeed human. Do you see a flaw in that?"

  "In the grand sense of the human condition, no, I do not," Ames said with a slight smile. "That is exactly what I have attempted to teach you in my lectures. But the grand sense of the human condition, and the perceptions of the individual, are two different things." He paused, a kindly look in his eyes. "Be careful out there, Richard. Not all of the world is Boston."

  At that moment, Laura Templeton entered the room with a swish of her long dress. She smiled radiantly, a delicate girl with long blond hair, the curls gathered within a turtle-shell hair clasp.

  Richard stood, transfixed. She had to be the most beautiful girl in the world. The first thing a man noticed about Laura was her large blue eyes. Set in her alabaster face, they never failed to betray her animation and enjoyment of life. Now they sparkled in the lamplight. From her smooth forehead to her delicate nose and high cheeks, she looked regal. Full red lips made for smiling, and a pert chin, were framed by her heart-shaped face. A ruffled blue taffeta dress accented her slim waist and full bosom. The pleated lace on her cuffs almost obscured her slender hands and thin fingers. As she walked forward, her grace took Richard's breath away.

  Tom immediately stepped forward and bowed. "What have we here? Can it be? Has an angel truly blessed us with her company?"

  Laura offered her hand and tilted her head. "A good evening to you, Mr. Hanson, and thank you for your fine compliments."

  She greeted each individually, and stopped before Richard. "It is good to see you, Mr. Hamilton." Richard's heart skipped at her smile. "I hear that you are off on a great adventure."

  "Yes," Tom called. "He's going off to the wilderness to be scalped and eaten by a bear—though we've yet to decide if bears prefer to dine on men who speak Latin or Greek."

  "Greek, I'm sure," Laura supplied as she charmed Richard with her dimpled smile.

  Richard's breath had gone short, his face hot and flushed. He'd never known what to do with women, and here, for the first time, the most beautiful one in the world was staring up at him with those incredible sapphire eyes.

  "Yes," he forced the words, "I'm off. . . on business, you understand. I'll be back, of course."

  Her smile brightened. "But think of the adventure, Mr. Hamilton. You'll see so many marvelous things."

  "I will."

  "Come," Tom said, slipping in beside Laura and taking her arm. He gave Richard a deprecating glance as he guided her away. "Sit, and let us entertain you."

  Richard sipped his brandy, unable to do more than stand like a ramrod, as the others clustered around Laura. The talk turned to the lighter things, jokes and anecdotes, stories of rowing and parties, things he'd never had much to do with.

  Will came up to take Richard's arm, leading him to one side. Richard couldn't take his eyes off Laura. She sat at ease, laughing, surrounded by a knot of her admirers.

  "Quite a beauty, isn't she?" Will watched him from the corner of his eye.

  "Indeed."

  Will poured another brandy, lowering his voice. "You know, she's always liked you. Asks me innumerable questions about you."

  "Oh?"

  Will pursed his lips, frowning thoughtfully into his glass. "It wouldn't be a bad thing—you and her. Have you given it any thought?"

  "She's the most beautiful woman to grace God's great Creation." Richard took a deep breath to settle himself. "But.. .why me?"

  Will shrugged. "You'd make an admirable catch, Richard. You could provide for her in the manner she deserves. And, well, not that I'm a prejudiced brother, but I think she's the most charming girl in the world"

  "She is that."

  Will placed a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Think about it. A union between our families might benefit all concerned." He paused. "She'd be a great help to you, especially now that you're taking over some of your father's responsibilities."

  "I suppose."

  Will shook his head. "I'd hate to see her spend her life with a rake like Hanson."

  Richard turned, staring at Laura as if at a sudden revelation. A girl like her? Married to him? A giddy excitement rushed in his veins.

  "Ah," Will said as he read Richard's expression, "so, you can be heart-struck. I was afraid you'd never come down from the clouds."

  "Clouds?"

  "Your endless obsession with philosophy, Richard. You have a keen mind, my friend. With the right application, there's nothing you can't do. If you turn that acute mind of yours to business as you have to philosophy, you'll be one of the most powerful men in Boston. You know that, don't you?" Will paused. "Stay a while after the others leave."

  Richard nodded, dazed. He almost had to shake himself as Professor Ames walked up and clasped his hand. "Richard, I'm taking my leave. I'll miss you in my classes. You've been one of the brightest students I've ever had the pleasure to debate." He placed a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Be prudent in your travels, Richard. Come and see me upon your return."

  "It's only for a short time, sir. You'll find me in the front row of your lectures again. I promise." Were it not for the whirlwind of sudden hope conjured by Will, Ames's departure would have saddened him to the core.

  Tom Hanson, of course, was among the last to leave, dominating Laura's time until the very end. He took the final opportunity to kiss the back of her hand.

  "Quite the ladies' man, our Thomas Hanson," Will noted after Hanson had finally retrieved his hat and coat and gone out into the night.

  "He's most interesting," Laura said evenly, casting a demure glance at Richard. "But I think there is more to life than parties and clever stories, don't you, Mr. Hamilton?"

  "Yes, of course."

  Laura smiled coquettishly. "Tell me about your trip, Mr. Hamilton. Oh, I so envy you. How wonderful to set out on a dangerous adventure! I want to hear all about it."

  Encouraged by the look in her eyes, Richard explained about his trip, and the philosophical challenge between him and his father. As he talked, the words seemed to come with greater ease. She hung on his every word, nodding, delicate hands clasped in her lap. What would it be like to hold hands like those?

  At last, when the clock struck one, he forced himself to take his leave. Will clapped him on the back and went to fetch Richard's hat and coat.

  For the moment, he was alone with Laura.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton," she told him, her voice intimate. "You've made this a most pleasant evening."

  Richard mustered all of his courage. "Will said that... that is, that I might hope to—"

  She cocked her head. "That you might come courting?''

  "Yes, that is, if you and your family—"

  "I would like that, Mr. Hamilton." Her laughter was musical. "I would like that a great deal. I can't wait to hear about all of your adventures."

  "Might I take the liberty of writing you while I'm gone? I'll send you a letter a day, I promise."

  "I would appreciate that, sir. And I'll write you, too."

  "I'd like that." Richard shrugged awkwardly. "But where will you send them? I'll be traveling, on coaches and steamboats and such."

  "Oh, yes, I see. Then, I'll just read your letters and wait until you've returned. But I do
want you to know I'd write if I could."

  He could hear Will's footsteps in the hall. She offered her hand. Trembling, Richard took it. His body thrilled at the touch. She seemed softer than down, and his lips tingled as they brushed the back of her hand.

  "Have a safe trip, Mr. Hamilton. I'll be waiting for you when you return." For long moments their eyes held, until reluctantly, she withdrew her hand.

  That smile had been for him, alone. He walked from the parlor like a drunken man, his heart pounding fit to break his ribs.

  Will waited with his coat, eyebrow lifted, a wry smile on his lips. "I do believe you've been enchanted, Richard."

  "Yes, enchanted."

  "Be careful, Richard. Come back to us."

  "I will, I promise."

  He walked out into the night, heedless of the cold.

  FOUR

  It is thus certain that pity is a natural sentiment, which, by tempering in every individual the act of self-love, contributes to the preservation of the entire species. It is this pity which hurries us without reflection to the aid of those we see in distress; it is this pity which, in the state of nature, takes the place of laws, manners, virtue, with this advantage, that no one is led to disobey her gentle voice: it is this pity which will always hinder a strong savage from robbing a female child, or infirm old man, of the living they have acquired with pain and difficulty if he has but the slightest prospect of providing for himself.

  —-Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

  As darkness fell, Heals Like A Willow remained huddled beside the rocked-up burial crevice. Snow continued to fall, spun into patterns by the wind rushing over the caprock and down into the valley. Cold had leached into her back from the sandstone. She shivered. Empty. Her insides felt like a rotted log. How numb and cold could a person get before all feeling faded away into nothingness? The crunch of moccasins on the crusted drifts might have been a dream.

  "Willow?" the scratchy voice barely penetrated her foggy hearing.

  She didn't look up, content to drift among images from the past. Her son's bright eyes danced with joy as his father played a finger game with those chubby infant hands. Squealing giggles mixed with strong male laughter to echo hollowly in her memory.

  "You can't stay up here." The thin voice was heavy with the Ku'chendikani accent. "Smell the wind. The clouds are going to break and the night will be clear, deep cold.. . bitter enough to make the trees pop."

  The words lost themselves in thoughts as muzzy as cattail down.

  "Willow?" This time a hand prodded her shoulder, intruding bluntly.

  She blinked and twisted her head to stare up past the snow-crusted hood of her buffalo robe. Two Half Moons, her husband's aunt, appeared as a dark blot in the indigo twilight.

  The old woman reached down to poke her again, harder this time. "Come on, girl. Dying up here won't do anyone any good."

  "Freezing," Willow whispered absently. "It's an easy death. So cold at first. . . and then the warmth steals over you until the shivering stops. Warmth . . . out of painful cold. Strange, isn't it? That freezing to death is that way?"

  Two Half Moons looked up at the murky sky. "Hot and cold. Man and woman. Night and day. Front and back. Two sides to everything, girl. That's how Tarn Apo made the world. All we see is one side at a time, but look through the night and you will see dawn."

  "And death?"

  "Look through death and you will see life, pet!" The old woman made a frustrated gesture. "But why am I telling you this? You're the one with more questions than is good for you. You're not going to change, are you? Stop questioning old Slim Pole? Stop annoying the puhagan and elders with your ideas?"

  Willow resisted feebly as the old woman pulled on her. In the end she needed simply to remain limp to defeat Two Half Moons' efforts.

  "All right," the old woman sighed, settling against the sandstone next to her. "I've seen five tens and five winters, girl. Perhaps that's enough, eh? I'll just sit here and freeze with you. We can talk about the two sides of things as our flesh grows colder and our souls grow warmer."

  Willow remained silent-Two Half Moons grunted, then said, "Of course, people who freeze to death don't think too straight after a while. I've seen men forget which way they were headed... walk off trails they'd used for years. So, a couple of hours from now, as the cold sets in, we might be mumbling and cackling like sage grouse hit on the head—and making just as much sense."

  Through her robe, Willow felt the old woman shiver, and could hear the elder's jaws making a slapping sound that would have been clicking had any teeth remained in her mouth. "Napia, why don't you go back to camp?"

  "If you're fool enough to die up here for no reason, why can't I? You're still young. But me, I'm old. Can't do much any more."

  Willow endured another attack of shivers. Two Half Moons would make this a matter of wills. Out of stubborn contrariness, she'd force herself to die here, too.

  "I just want to be left alone." Willow hugged herself. The chill had eaten through the layers of her moccasins and her feet ached.

  "Alone, hmm? How many have I buried in my years? I couldn't bury my mother and father. I can remember that day very clearly. We were up north, on the Musselshell River. The bottoms are good there. Plenty of room to run horses. The Pa'kiani came out of the trees . . . killed my father outright as he started out of the lodge. A Pa y ki shot him in the face with a gun. I was inside and he fell back on top of me, his blood and brains all over my dress. They took my mother captive, made her a slave. I heard later that the warrior who took her beat her to death. It was in the winter. She was pregnant with that Blackfoot's child. A boy who escaped the next spring said that the camp dogs ate her, chewed on her frozen body where it lay in the snow."

  Willow closed her eyes.

  "No, I didn't get to bury them, but I did bury three of my children ... all very young. My sister and two brothers. Cousins, so many cousins," Two Half Moons continued. "Twice the White man's spotted sickness has come and taken people, one after another, from my family until I thought no one was going to be left. Once there were so many we just left them lying in their lodges where they died, and fled to the high mountains, preferring to take our chances with Pandzoavits, the rock ogres."

  Willow shook her head. We live in an age of unhappy ghosts. "Better to die and let our souls find their way to the Land of the Dead. No smallpox. No sickness at all. Plenty to eat. Animals always willing to be killed. No pain, or cold, or misery of any sort. That's what Slim Pole says."

  Two Half Moons snorted. "I thought you didn't believe the puhagan. ''

  Willow stared into the gloom. The snow fell in small crystals, like a powdery dust. "Later, when this is all over, I won't. Up here . . . with my husband and son so close, I have to. It's for them, you see. I believe with all of my soul. I followed the rituals as the Ku'chendikani teach them."

  "And your Dukurika don't?"

  "Grandmother used to tell me that the Ku 'chendikani had learned so much about horses that they forgot most everything else that was important."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as the way the people used to be. She says the Ku 'chendikani used to stay in one place, moving through a smaller territory. They weren't concerned with wealth, with horses and White man goods. She thought I was a fool for running off with my husband. That I'd be treated like a pack dog instead of a person."

  "You've always been different." Two Half Moons grunted as she resettled herself. "But your grandmother may not be wrong. I remember my grandmother saying the same thing. She was young when the horses came. She always thought we were crazy to have chased the Pakiani out of their lands, pushed them far to the north. But then, we had horses and they didn't."

  "And what did it get you in the end, Aunt? They traded for the White man's guns—and got horses of their own. Now look what's happened. They've pushed us clear back into the mountains. I've heard they want to kill us all. When you push on
a sapling, you must expect it to spring back."

  Two Half Moons chuckled. "You've always had that way about you. Had your husband not been such a great warrior, someone like Iron Wrist would have beaten it out of you."

  "Only once, Aunt. I'd have vanished into the mountains and that would have been the last anyone would have seen of me."

  Two Half Moons considered for a moment. "I can remember my grandmother talking just like that. Perhaps you are right. We have changed. Horses are things for men, not women. When the elders died out, so did women's voices in the councils. I remember... yes. In the old days, the women spoke. They knew the places where the plants grew, where to find water and which camping spots were good. As the years passed, such decisions began to be made by warriors. The old camps weren't any good because they didn't have enough grass for the horses, or the trails were too rough for horses to travel down the sides of the rim-rock."

  Willow watched the snow fall and looked for patterns in the swirling flakes. "And women started doing all the work, processing the hides, sewing the lodges, carrying the firewood. They became as captives, more like slaves. Among the Kuchendikani I have seen men who love their horses more than their women."

  Two Half Moons frowned in displeasure. "I've thought about it from time to time. Who doesn't think back as they grow older? Your grandmother knows what some of the rest of us are too blind to have seen because it was right in front of us." She shook her head in the gloom. "When I was young, I told my children about life in the old days. About men, women, and children working together to trap the animals on the fall hunt. I told them about roots, and storage pots. And then I told them how much better life was when men started to ride out on fast horses, and we traveled constantly in pursuit of the buffalo. I told them that even when we were starving during the dry years—and starving worse during the bad winters. Funny . . . how we fool ourselves."

  Heals Like A Willow knotted her hands inside her mittens. "Among the Dukurika we starve, too, but it's only when all the caches have been eaten. And even then we remember to strip the pines of bark, to lay snares for the elk along the trails to the feed grounds, and to stretch nets in the trees to catch wax wings. At least we have a little food in our bellies. Not like the Ku'chendikani, who have to boil their moccasins for the broth and chew hard strips of leather."