a big coon, or maybe a bear, and then, coming closer, he made out the shaved head with its comb of hair and the blanket gathered around the shoulders. From his vantage point above the lower growth the Indian was watching the camp. He was holding to his perch and watching.
Mack stopped his horse. The Indian had no gun and no bow that Mack could see. He would.have a bow though, if not a musket, hidden by his body or the folds of his blanket.
Mack dismounted and tied his horse and walked ahead, stepping soft. He began to feel the blood beating in him, and the breath light and quick in his throat.
At this range he couldn't miss. He had only to raise his rifle and line up the sights and squeeze the trigger. He couldn't miss, not if he chose to shoot.
He looked around for other Indians and saw none, and listened and heard, far off from pulse and breath, the voices of women cooking breakfast and the deeper tones of men catching tip their teams.
Even with the blood thumping in him and his lungs working, he couldn't miss, not if he fired. There was the barrel lifting and the sights lining up and the finger waiting on the trigger.
The Indian turned, his sharp face composed but watchful, and his eyes ran over the back country. Mack saw them nearing, saw them widen and fix in the shocked instant of finding him. They cried out. The eyes, the wordless mouth, the whole face cried, "Please! Please!"
The Indian dropped as the rifle cracked. He didn't shout or thug out. He hung for a bare instant, the please fading from his face, and then he dropped.
Mack ran up. The Indian was dead all right, dead as a damn doornail. He lay crumpled in the bushes with his old blanket and his proud wisp of hair, face turned up, mouth loose -a runty, thin man with scars on him and the marks of hunger, a Kaw who had asked please and got his answer, and now wouldn't have to ask any more or go without, either.
Mack stood for a long minute, hearing the camp hushed and then noisy with the alarm his shot had raised. A louse worked in the tuft of hair, and a small breeze fanned it. Watching, Mack felt fatigue dragging at him, felt loneliness and regret creeping on him and bearing him down. Now, unaccountably, he wanted to talk to Amanda.
Drive, plod, push, tug, turn the wheels. Eat dust, damn you! Eat mud. Swim in sweat and freeze at night. Work the sun up. Work it down. Wear the body limp. Keep moving.
Chapter Eight
THE KAW lay behind them, the Wakarusa and the Kaw and the Little and Big Vermilions and the Big Blue, each standing out in memory as the train wormed up and down the hills and sidewise through the trees, each costing something -time and sweat and breath, a broken tongue or piece of harness, and maybe a wetting if the wagon boxes weren't tight.
Once passed, they stood lonely and somehow dear in the mind. They were landmarks where there were no others, and so they were remembered, and the thought of them brought up remembered things, for often they camped at crossings and, for that little while, had a home again. Thinking back, while the raw breeze streamed at her, Rebecca Evans heard the children's cries again and smelled camp smoke and coffee and saw the wagons standing white in the late sun.
It was only then, after the wagons had been drawn up and the teams unyoked and the ox chains fastened wagon to wagon, that she had a real chance to talk to Lije or Brownie. They would let down then for a little and speak about their new home or maybe about their old one, and Lije would wonder how things were going back in Missouri.
She would wonder, too, though not so much about crops and critters, but about the well and its water sweeter than river water, and had the new people fixed the door and did their young ones call from the trees that Brownie used to climb. Or she would think about her sister, living at New Madrid, her little sister whom her mind couldn't picture grown up but still
Mack stopped his horse. The Indian had no gun and no bow that Mack could see. He would.have a bow though, if not a musket, hidden by his body or the folds of his blanket.
Mack dismounted and tied his horse and walked ahead, stepping soft. He began to feel the blood beating in him, and the breath light and quick in his throat.
At this range he couldn't miss. He had only to raise his rifle and line up the sights and squeeze the trigger. He couldn't miss, not if he chose to shoot.
He looked around for other Indians and saw none, and listened and heard, far off from pulse and breath, the voices of women cooking breakfast and the deeper tones of men catching tip their teams.
Even with the blood thumping in him and his lungs working, he couldn't miss, not if he fired. There was the barrel lifting and the sights lining up and the finger waiting on the trigger.
The Indian turned, his sharp face composed but watchful, and his eyes ran over the back country. Mack saw them nearing, saw them widen and fix in the shocked instant of finding him. They cried out. The eyes, the wordless mouth, the whole face cried, "Please! Please!"
The Indian dropped as the rifle cracked. He didn't shout or thug out. He hung for a bare instant, the please fading from his face, and then he dropped.
Mack ran up. The Indian was dead all right, dead as a damn doornail. He lay crumpled in the bushes with his old blanket and his proud wisp of hair, face turned up, mouth loose -a runty, thin man with scars on him and the marks of hunger, a Kaw who had asked please and got his answer, and now wouldn't have to ask any more or go without, either.
Mack stood for a long minute, hearing the camp hushed and then noisy with the alarm his shot had raised. A louse worked in the tuft of hair, and a small breeze fanned it. Watching, Mack felt fatigue dragging at him, felt loneliness and regret creeping on him and bearing him down. Now, unaccountably, he wanted to talk to Amanda.
Drive, plod, push, tug, turn the wheels. Eat dust, damn you! Eat mud. Swim in sweat and freeze at night. Work the sun up. Work it down. Wear the body limp. Keep moving.
Chapter Eight
THE KAW lay behind them, the Wakarusa and the Kaw and the Little and Big Vermilions and the Big Blue, each standing out in memory as the train wormed up and down the hills and sidewise through the trees, each costing something -time and sweat and breath, a broken tongue or piece of harness, and maybe a wetting if the wagon boxes weren't tight.
Once passed, they stood lonely and somehow dear in the mind. They were landmarks where there were no others, and so they were remembered, and the thought of them brought up remembered things, for often they camped at crossings and, for that little while, had a home again. Thinking back, while the raw breeze streamed at her, Rebecca Evans heard the children's cries again and smelled camp smoke and coffee and saw the wagons standing white in the late sun.
It was only then, after the wagons had been drawn up and the teams unyoked and the ox chains fastened wagon to wagon, that she had a real chance to talk to Lije or Brownie. They would let down then for a little and speak about their new home or maybe about their old one, and Lije would wonder how things were going back in Missouri.
She would wonder, too, though not so much about crops and critters, but about the well and its water sweeter than river water, and had the new people fixed the door and did their young ones call from the trees that Brownie used to climb. Or she would think about her sister, living at New Madrid, her little sister whom her mind couldn't picture grown up but still
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