Authors: Barbara Ankrum
Mariah sighed, staring at his back as he trotted his horse ahead. As impossible as it seemed, her feelings for him were deepening. No longer could she look at him as simply a bounty hunter, an unscrupulous mercenary without virtue. Creed Devereaux was a complex man whose true depths she could only guess at. He was a man who needed more than he'd ever ask for, and one who'd doubtless given away more of himself than he'd ever admit.
By late afternoon they'd come to a broad, low-running creek that threaded through a high-walled gulch. It was shaded by dozens of cottonwood and birch and hedged by a bank of rock-bound bitterroot and bright crimson stands of Indian paintbrush. Creed had gone off on his own, under the pretense of catching fish for dinner, leaving her and Jesse to set up camp. The wolf had, not surprisingly, tagged along beside Creed, seemingly tireless after the long day's romp.
As Mariah had been doing for the past two days, she unsaddled Buck and Petunia, rubbed them down with handfuls of grass, and hobbled them near Jesse's stock. It was a chore she'd taken on voluntarily and she relished the time to be alone with her thoughts.
When she was finished, she carried a bucket to the edge of the shallow, rock-dotted creek and settled it into the water. The sun was a pool of orange, just dipping below the horizon of the western peaks in the "V" of the canyon, casting them in a pink blush. "Beautiful," she murmured, half to herself.
"It's called Wolf Creek," commented Jesse, who walked up beside her with an armload of wood, gazing at the setting sun sparkling on the water. "The Blackfeet have their own name for it.
Mahkwiyi Istikiop."
She smiled at the musical-sounding words. "What does that mean?"
"'Where the Wolf Fell Down.'"
"What a strange name."
"Most of the rivers in these parts have two or three names. The ones the white men give them and the Indian names. They're usually given for a particular event someone witnessed or for a spiritual belief. The story goes that Wolf Creek got its name because a Blackfoot brave saw a herd of buffalo go right over those cliffs, followed by the unfortunate wolf who'd been chasing them."
Mariah grimaced. "How gruesome...
Mahkwi
Asti—"
"Mah-kwi-yi Is-ti-kiop."
She pronounced it again and this time got it nearly right. "Well, it's quite beautiful when
you
say it.
Mahkwiyi—
that means wolf?"
He nodded with a grin.
She smiled, thinking of Mahkwi. "It's a perfect name for her. Where did you learn to speak Blackfoot?"
He stooped to gather more wood beneath a cotton-wood. "A man can't trade with The People for as long as I have without learning to savvy their language."
"Are you ever afraid, dealing with... with—"
A frown creased his brow. "Savages?"
She hesitated. "I've read stories about the Blackfeet. They say they're a brutal, warring tribe, guilty of many atrocities."
Jesse dumped the wood near the circle of rocks he'd gathered. "You believe everything you read?"
His question took her off guard. "I—well—"
"I haven't got much personal experience with the stories myself," he admitted, arranging the wood in a pile with tinder he'd gathered underneath, "but from what I've heard, I'd advise against it, Mariah. Nobody can know a people from a thousand miles off or by sifting through what they leave behind. Those two-bit word-slingers who tell tales about the West have likely never been here and if they have, they've only looked at one side of things.
"The Blackfeet are different from us in a lot of ways: the way they live, the God they worship, the way they dress. But they laugh, have young'uns, even love same as you and me. They've had their share of war and killing, but mostly it's with their enemies—the Crow, the Cree, or the Assiniboines. They go by their own set of rules that whites don't generally understand."
He struck a match against the sole of his boot, cupping it in his hand against the wind. The tinder caught and flamed, licking the underside of the wood.
"The world of the Blackfoot is a sacred hoop—in balance with all things," he went on. "They fight to protect what's theirs, to make sure they can feed their families. They're not so different from us in that way." He fell silent while he added wood to the fire.
She handed him the last log. "I suppose I've never thought of them in that light. As people, I mean."
Jesse smiled sadly. "You and the rest of the country. There's a lot about the Blackfoot way of life I admire. In fact, I think in some ways they're more civilized than we are. Does that shock you?"
She considered it for a moment. "A few days ago, I might have been appalled," she admitted. "Now that I've gotten to know you a little better, I'm certain there must be some merit in what you say."
"Careful, Mariah, you'll turn my head." A teasing glint sparkled in his light blue eyes. "You'll find things out here are rarely what they seem. Take you, for instance."
"Me?"
"You don't look like the type of woman who'd brave a trip alone to Montana, or one who'd have a burning desire to leave civilization for this." He gestured at the wildness around them. "But here you are, going across country with the likes of Creed Devereaux."
"Yes, who could have imagined that?" she replied sardonically, inhaling the fragrance of wood smoke.
He grinned and set his tripod over the fire. "I'd wager Creed's not exactly what you thought he was either."
The good humor slipped from her face. "Oh? And what's that?"
"A bounty hunter. A killer."
"He's both of those things."
"Yes... and no."
"What do you mean? I saw him gun down a man in cold blood. It happened right in front of my very eyes."
"Oh, I'm not saying he didn't do it. But you don't know the whole of it."
She hugged her arms. "Why don't you tell me?"
His lips curved into a half-grin as he fed the fire several larger sticks. "It's not my place to do that. If Creed wants you to know, I reckon he'll tell you."
Her shoulders slumped. "Creed doesn't tell me much about himself. In fact, if you've noticed, he's barely speaking to me. I don't really know him at all."
"Not many do. Most folks who come out here are either runnin' from something behind them or looking for a future. Not a one of 'em wants their pasts turned over by someone else's spade. A man doesn't have to talk for people to know who he is. What a fella does counts for more than all the talking in the world."
She absorbed what he'd said in silence, watching the flames gobble up the pyramid of wood. Jesse made a pot of coffee and hung it over the fire.
"You've known each other for a long time," she said, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "Has Creed always been the way he is now? He seems... lonely, sometimes bitter."
Jesse reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarette paper and his drawstring pouch of tobacco. "Not always. Life hasn't been kind to him and that's a fact. He's chosen a certain road and it's not an easy one. But like me, he's a survivor and I expect you're cut out of that same cloth."
"A few days ago, I would have taken offense at that," she said with a grin, "but I'll take it as a compliment today."
Jesse returned her smile. "So meant."
They sat together watching the flames in silence, content to reflect on their conversation. The lid of the coffee pot rattled with the fragrant steam that mingled with the tang of wood smoke.
Her thoughts turned to Creed, as usual. She wondered about what Jesse had told her. What was it that drove a man to become what Creed Devereaux had become? What forces in his life had made him choose the difficult road Jesse spoke of? He wasn't an ordinary man. At least, clearly, Jesse didn't think so. If she didn't miss her guess, there was a touch of hero worship in Jesse's eyes when he spoke of Creed. What did they share and how was it they were close as brothers, yet hadn't seen each other for years?
She glanced off in the direction Creed had gone, wishing suddenly he'd come back, miraculously healed of the bitterness that had settled like a mantle over him in the past few days.
"He's fine, Mariah. He just needs some time alone, I expect," Jesse said, following her gaze.
A flush crept up her neck at his perceptiveness. It was a bit disconcerting to realize she was so obvious. "He must have had to walk a ways to find a good fishing pool." She chewed nervously on her bottom lip. "It's starting to get dark. You... you don't suppose anything's happened to him, do you?"
Jesse laughed. "Creed? He can take care of himself. Most of the time," he added under his breath. "By the time he gets back, we're gonna be hungry enough to eat the worms he's using for bait." Mariah laughed with him, glad to leave dismal subjects behind.
From a short distance away came a sound neither of them recognized at first. As it came closer Mariah knew it was a man's voice singing:
"Chante, rossignol, chante
'Ow long, 'ow long 'ave I loved you?
Never, never well I forget."
"Who the hell is that?" Jesse muttered to himself, staring in the direction of the sound.
"I can't see anyone through all the trees," she replied. "What's he singing?"
"It's an old voyager's song, A La Clair Fontaine."
"What?" Mariah stared at him in surprise. "What's wrong?"
"Just to be safe. Keep quiet." He cocked his rifle.
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Indignant, she glared at his back. The first person they'd seen in days, and Jesse was getting ready to shoot him!
The resonant voice grew louder:
"Now I 'ave lost my sweetheart, Wizzout any reason at all. Eet was just a bouquet of roses. Zat I forgot to geeve 'er.
Chante, rossignol, chante
'Ow long, 'ow long have I lov—"
The man's singing stopped abruptly as his horse entered the clearing and the stranger saw Jesse's rifle pointed at the opening of his colorful blanket capote. A large crucifix dangled from his neck on a thick silver chain. He was dressed like a trapper, she imagined, though she noted he had no pack horse loaded with skins like Jesse.
His sharp, dark-skinned features gave her the impression he was a half-breed, but his smile was white-toothed and pleasant. Behind him a few paces, a squaw mounted atop a paint horse drew to a stop as well, her exquisite face devoid of any expression. A thick buffalo hide fell around her shoulders against the cold.
The breed's obsidian gaze took in the entire campsite in a glance from beneath the brim of his hat; then he spread his hands wide to show he had no weapons. "Eh,
mon ami,
so unfriendly? You do not like my song?"
Jesse's eyes narrowed. "I'm a cautious man."
"C'est bien, monsieur.
So am I. But I mean you no 'arm as you can see. We are just passing through."
"Maybe you should just keep passin' then."
Undaunted, the stranger nodded at the fire. "We could use some coffee. We 'ave traveled far." At Jesse's scowl, he laughed and added, "I will not seeng,
mon ami."
Jesse's gaze didn't waver. "What's your name, friend?"
The stranger's eyebrows went up in mock affront. "Ees a personal question for such a short acquaintance, no? But because the smell of your coffee stirs my 'un-ger, I weel tell you. My name ees Bouchard. Marcel Bouchard. Thees ees Raven, my woman." The squaw's gaze slid apathetically between Jesse and Mariah. The dewclaws decorating her blue cloth dress rattled with her every breath in the eerie silence.
"Surely we can offer them coffee," Mariah said quietly. "There's plenty. It would be rude to turn them away, wouldn't it?"
"No one ever died of rudeness," Jesse answered in a low voice.
"Don't be silly. They're just traveling like us," she whispered emphatically. "Where's the harm?"
Jesse sighed deeply, considering the logic of what she'd said. He lowered his rifle and nodded toward the fire. "You're welcome to a cup. Mariah, see if the coffee is brewed yet."
Pierre LaRousse smiled at the ease with which they'd accepted his lie. He dismounted slowly, leaving his hands visible to the pair. His gaze took in the man's blond, sunstreaked hair, his clear blue eyes and full beard. Something was wrong. Unless Downing and Daniels had been drunk when they'd seen the man called Devereaux, this wasn't him. Yet, he puzzled, he traveled with the woman. The one named Mariah.
Jesu!
He would slit Downing's throat if he'd sent him on a fool's errand.
It mattered little. He would find out if this was the one and, if not, he would kill them anyway. From the looks of the packs stacked on the ground nearby, there was a winter's fortune in pelts inside.
Motioning Raven off her mount, LaRousse's gaze went to the horses grazing nearby. Three riding horses and two mules.
Three.
His blood pumped harder. There was another one, but where? He swept the clearing with an intensive glance.
"Are you headed south?" Jesse asked, pouring two tin mugs of coffee.
Distracted, LaRousse swiveled his gaze back to Jesse. "East, to zee the Musselshell," he lied easily. "To my woman's people."