The Canyon of Bones by Richard S. Wheeler

Author:Richard S. Wheeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

twenty-six

The young warriors were wreathed in smiles. They eyed Skye, studied Jawbone, who stood with his ears laid back, and then examined Skye’s party, visible a mile back from that ridge.

“Come. Visit. Smoke. People that way,” one of the warriors signed. He pointed northwest.

Skye would rather not, but saw little choice in it. All he could do was warn his people to keep an eye on their horses. There wasn’t much else that they could call property or that the Gros Ventres would prize.

Skye nodded. His hands worked swiftly. He would return to his people and guide them to the village.

The sign-talker’s hands responded. “We go with you.”

Skye acknowledged it and turned Jawbone back to his party, trailing along behind.

When he rode in, flanked by the Gros Ventres, his women watched warily, ready for trouble. But Skye possessed the only weapon among them, something the Gros Ventres swiftly realized.

“Mister Mercer, these gents are Gros Ventres, a tribe allied with the Blackfeet. They want us to visit them,” Skye said.

“Well, we’ll do it.”

Skye studied the two warriors, who sat impassively on good ponies. They didn’t grasp English.

“We’ll go. Not much choice. These people can be very friendly or not, as the mood strikes them. Watch your possessions. Especially the horses.”

“Thieves are they?”

Skye shrugged. He wouldn’t single out the Gros Ventres as being any more light-fingered than many others.

But Winding knew these people. “They’ve a reputation as moochers.”

“That’s a Yank word I’m not familiar with.”

“They are known to overstay their welcome,” Skye said.

Mercer chuckled. “Very like us all. Let’s go.”

Escorted by the young Gros Ventres, the party topped the ridge, descended into a grassy bowl, and discovered the village camped along Box Elder Creek. They had obviously had a successful hunt. Buffalo hides were staked to the grass, jerky was drying on racks, and the women were busy fleshing hides, making pemmican, and cooking.

The party was soon being scrutinized by the whole band, who crowded around, examining the blistered horses, the sole travois, the lack of weapons, and Mister Skye, the one person they knew.

“Sonofabitch!” said Victoria, walking beside Skye. She didn’t like any people allied with the Blackfeet, and Skye guessed she despised these most of all for their sticky-fingered ways.

“I feel like a rabbit in an eagle’s talons,” Winding said.

Nonetheless, the throng seemed perfectly cheerful, and Skye spotted plenty of smiles along with rank curiosity as they all studied Skye’s harmless and near-desperate group.

There would be the ritual visit to the chief or headman. He hardly needed to explain what had happened. The singed hair on horse and man, the soot-smeared clothing, the blistered backs of the horses, the makeshift tack, all told a story to anyone with eyes to see.

“Is there anything I should know about these people?” Mercer asked. “Do they worship a dragon goddess? Eat sheep’s eyes? Sacrifice virgins to the sun god?”

“They’re cannibals, mate. You’ll end up in their stewpot.”

“Ho, ho. You make dangerous jokes, Mister Skye.”

“Anything for a good story, Mister Mercer.”

This was an ill-kempt camp.

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