forever."
"Maybe so." Summers was silent for a minute. "You ascend the river only for the return. You ought to shine when the steamers run."
"Never!"
"They're on the Missouri a'ready."
"The Duncan ! And to Leavenworth only!"
"They aim to try the whole distance."
Jourdonnais' dark head shook. "It is foolishness. The Missouri never know where she run, here today, over there tomorrow. Sandbanks, sawyers, towheads, embarras . The steamer be smash' before she start."
"You'll see," promised Summers and sucked on his pipe. The breeze died and the walnuts quit whispering. From the boat there came the sound of coughing and a long moan.
"If only we get there," said Jourdonnais.
"This child'll see about those poor bastards," the hunter said, rising.
The patron put out an arm to hold him back. His gaze was on the ruffled shimmer of the river. From it there came a shout.
"Ahoy!" shouted Jourdonnais. "Who is it?" Boone turned to Summers. "It's a raft, ain't it?"
"Pirogue."
"Bercier, Carpenter and La Farge: "
" Mandan , Jourdonnais." The patron had started for the bank. The others followed him. The pirogue was a black patch on the water. The paddles caught the moonlight as the men brought her in under the stern of the Mandan .
The steersman said, "We thought to be in St. Louis before now."
Jourdonnais caught the mooring rope. "The food is warm. Coffee we have. Beaucoup," he said, as if coffee was a rare thing on the Missouri.
The paddlers rested their oars. "The good God help me," said one, "but my ass aches!"
Boone's eye caught the barest movement on the Mandan and made out, by squinting, that it was a small head poking up, the head of the little squaw looking down on the pirogue.
Summers asked, "What's the cargo?"
"Bear oil. Lard for St. Louis."
"Bear oil, in March?"
"Cached it last season. It's sweet enough still."
"Climb ashore," Summers invited.
Stiffly the men started to rise. Half-risen, they stopped and listened. Their faces turned up to Jourdonnais. "Bellyache," he explained. "Two got the bellyache." The men at the paddles looked at each other and aft at the steersman. After a long silence the steersman said, "We are behind already."
"The moon she's up for long time," said one of the paddlers, and let himself sink back.
"Merci beaucoup," acknowledged the other. "We move along. The oil maybe spoil."
Jourdonnais tossed the painter back to them and with his foot started the pirogue into the current. The paddles glistened, the patch of black receded, until Boone could not tell what was boat and what was wave.
The patron's gaze was out on the water. "You watch camp," said Summers. "I'll see about the sick."
Boone and Deakins followed Summers to the fire, where he cut and lighted a spill. They went back to the keelboat with it, climbed the side and let themselves down in the bow. There was a smell there, a hot, sour smell that made Boone wrinkle his nose. The moaning had stopped. They heard, instead, a strangling, snoring breath. Summers handed the spill to Boone. "It's fever of some cut," he said.
Two men lay side by side on buffalo robes, half-covered by blankets. "Can't keep covers on 'em, but still I got an idee sweatin' is the ticket." One of the men had turned on his side and lay there without moving. The other was on his back. His eyes glistened in the light of the flame. "Water?" asked Summers. The man's hard breath caught at his cheeks, puffing and pulling them as he breathed in and out, changing his face from thin to fat. Boone heard the rattle of phlegm in his chest. He felt a movement on his leg and started from it. It was Painter, the black cat, rubbing against him. He put his free hand down and felt the cat's spine against it. The cat meowed once and began to purr, like a small imitation of the sick man. From the cargo box six pairs of green eyes looked out, the bodies behind them lost in the cage and the dark. Boone felt a little shiver along the back of his legs and up his spine, thinking they
"Maybe so." Summers was silent for a minute. "You ascend the river only for the return. You ought to shine when the steamers run."
"Never!"
"They're on the Missouri a'ready."
"The Duncan ! And to Leavenworth only!"
"They aim to try the whole distance."
Jourdonnais' dark head shook. "It is foolishness. The Missouri never know where she run, here today, over there tomorrow. Sandbanks, sawyers, towheads, embarras . The steamer be smash' before she start."
"You'll see," promised Summers and sucked on his pipe. The breeze died and the walnuts quit whispering. From the boat there came the sound of coughing and a long moan.
"If only we get there," said Jourdonnais.
"This child'll see about those poor bastards," the hunter said, rising.
The patron put out an arm to hold him back. His gaze was on the ruffled shimmer of the river. From it there came a shout.
"Ahoy!" shouted Jourdonnais. "Who is it?" Boone turned to Summers. "It's a raft, ain't it?"
"Pirogue."
"Bercier, Carpenter and La Farge: "
" Mandan , Jourdonnais." The patron had started for the bank. The others followed him. The pirogue was a black patch on the water. The paddles caught the moonlight as the men brought her in under the stern of the Mandan .
The steersman said, "We thought to be in St. Louis before now."
Jourdonnais caught the mooring rope. "The food is warm. Coffee we have. Beaucoup," he said, as if coffee was a rare thing on the Missouri.
The paddlers rested their oars. "The good God help me," said one, "but my ass aches!"
Boone's eye caught the barest movement on the Mandan and made out, by squinting, that it was a small head poking up, the head of the little squaw looking down on the pirogue.
Summers asked, "What's the cargo?"
"Bear oil. Lard for St. Louis."
"Bear oil, in March?"
"Cached it last season. It's sweet enough still."
"Climb ashore," Summers invited.
Stiffly the men started to rise. Half-risen, they stopped and listened. Their faces turned up to Jourdonnais. "Bellyache," he explained. "Two got the bellyache." The men at the paddles looked at each other and aft at the steersman. After a long silence the steersman said, "We are behind already."
"The moon she's up for long time," said one of the paddlers, and let himself sink back.
"Merci beaucoup," acknowledged the other. "We move along. The oil maybe spoil."
Jourdonnais tossed the painter back to them and with his foot started the pirogue into the current. The paddles glistened, the patch of black receded, until Boone could not tell what was boat and what was wave.
The patron's gaze was out on the water. "You watch camp," said Summers. "I'll see about the sick."
Boone and Deakins followed Summers to the fire, where he cut and lighted a spill. They went back to the keelboat with it, climbed the side and let themselves down in the bow. There was a smell there, a hot, sour smell that made Boone wrinkle his nose. The moaning had stopped. They heard, instead, a strangling, snoring breath. Summers handed the spill to Boone. "It's fever of some cut," he said.
Two men lay side by side on buffalo robes, half-covered by blankets. "Can't keep covers on 'em, but still I got an idee sweatin' is the ticket." One of the men had turned on his side and lay there without moving. The other was on his back. His eyes glistened in the light of the flame. "Water?" asked Summers. The man's hard breath caught at his cheeks, puffing and pulling them as he breathed in and out, changing his face from thin to fat. Boone heard the rattle of phlegm in his chest. He felt a movement on his leg and started from it. It was Painter, the black cat, rubbing against him. He put his free hand down and felt the cat's spine against it. The cat meowed once and began to purr, like a small imitation of the sick man. From the cargo box six pairs of green eyes looked out, the bodies behind them lost in the cage and the dark. Boone felt a little shiver along the back of his legs and up his spine, thinking they
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