The Shirt On His Back - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,107
only man who could have recognized him for sure - er - died the first day we were in camp . . .'
'And I'm not entirely certain,' added Hannibal, 'that I'd recognize Jim Bridger or Robbie Prideaux, if you scrubbed and clipped them. For that matter, Mr Goodpastor - and I hope you'll forgive my making the inevitable inferences - it sounds as if there are men at the rendezvous who should have known the body we found wasn't you.'
'Make all the inevitable inferences you please.' Goodpastor plucked another rib from the fire, tore the meat from it with strong white teeth. 'They'd have known quick enough the old man you found wasn't Medicine Lynx - which was the name I went by when I was living with the Mandans in '09. When I was trapping down around Taos later on, I still went by El Lince. Carson and Bridger and a dozen of those boys would have known me, if they'd seen me face to face. I only started using my right name again when I went back to Missouri and met Mrs Goodpastor - Miss Milliken that was - and got into politics. But Grey sure as hell knows me. How bad was the old man tore up when he was found?'
'Bad enough,' said January, and Manitou - silent on the other side of the fire - looked away.
'But obviously Bodenschatz knew you.' Hannibal turned to the trapper.
'I'm hard to miss.'
Particularly, reflected January, surveying that bear-like hulk, if a man of such massive size had a reputation for ungovernable, murderous rage. Once Franz Bodenschatz had reached the frontier, rumor of his quarry would not have been hard to find.
Manitou frowned into the fire. 'And he'd seen me in the court. 1 musta seen him when he spoke to the judges against me, but them weeks gets confused in my mind. An' he was bearded at Fort Ivy. Nobody ever called him nuthin' but Frank in my hearin' - an' now I think on it, I'm not sure I ever saw him in full daylight.'
His heavy eyebrows drew down, trying to call back recollections of chance meetings, years ago, in that dark little store. 'Give me a hell of a turn, to see old Herr Bodenschatz's face in the lantern light. Near to cost me my life, too, for I slacked my grip on him and he got his second pistol out. I figured he'd come up with Franz, but it wasn't 'til you told me, Frank at Fort Ivy's name was Boden, that I knew how they'd found me.'
Outside, the camp had grown quiet. Somewhere, a woman sang to her children; elsewhere, a dog barked, the irritable yip of confrontation with some insignificant beast. January wondered if he'd be able to call all of this back to mind, to write it down for Rose - smiled at the thought of her envious lamentations: you actually stayed in an Indian encampment. . . !
And thought of Veinte-y-Cinco, close enough to the rendezvous to deceive herself that she could escape from her guards, swim the river, find her daughter . . .
And who could blame her? January closed his eyes: Mary, Mother of God, watch over her, who is trying to be the best mother she can be . . .
Much later in the night, he was waked from a light sleep by the sound of scuffling and whispering, close to the wall of the tipi. He thrust up the lower edge of the lodge skins and in the starlight he saw, a few yards away, Franz Bodenschatz struggling silently in the grip of two warriors, a knife in his hand. 'Is this how you treat your brother,' the German whispered furiously, 'who did all he could to help you avenge your people?'
The Indian - a young Omaha warrior whom January did not recognize - replied, 'My people are not avenged, and a man who seeks to do that which will cause the Crow to kill us all is not my brother. Come back and sleep. If the lies of the white men trap them tomorrow, the Crow will kill them, and you will be avenged.'
'Their lies will poison the minds of the Crow, as they have begun to poison your mind, Kills With A Rock. Else you would let me do what I have sought now for ten years to do. And as for sleeping, there is no sleep, when my goal lies so near to my hand.'