The Canyon of Bones Read Online Free
Author: Richard S. Wheeler
Skye was doing picket duty, mostly by watching the countryside from a sun-warmed ridge, when she appeared, smiled, sat down beside him, and made her intentions clear at once. He demurred, having only eyes for Victoria, but not without a struggle. She was a most attractive lady. âMissus Sheep Horns,â he had said. âI must keep an eye out for the Sioux.â
She had taken offense, got her revenge by telling every woman in sight that Skye wasnât much of a man. That got back to Victoria, who reported it to Skye, who tried to ignore it but couldnât, and never quite lived it down.
That was Crow sport. Trysts were as common as eating a supper. Divorces were the daily entertainment. Which, come
to think of it, was reason enough not to marry a Crow woman. He laughed at himself: all he needed to do was join the fun and quit worrying, and everything would be quite fine, and he might have twenty wives, severally and serially, before he departed from this world. Why was he so reluctant?
Romantic, thatâs what he was. Damned romantic.
Still, the notion that he might find a Shoshone woman swelled up in his head, though he hadnât considered it because he couldnât talk their tongue. But love has its own language and maybe they didnât need to talk. A few smiles would do.
Yonder, across the meadow, there might be a hundred eligible ladies of the Shoshone persuasion. And what better time to go courting than during this great summer festival, this moment of amity between tribes, this period of fun and races and contests?
He saw The Big Robberâs women erecting the chiefâs lodge, but the chief was already padding across the meadow to pay his respects to Washakie. Fires were blooming, pine smoke drifted on the breeze. Tonight there would be the first of many feasts, and maybe some dancing and drumming too. Who knows? These things happened almost unplanned, in some mysterious fashion that Skye never understood.
Then he found himself drifting toward the wagon and the white men. Curiosity drove him; that, more than wife-hunting, was much on his mind. These gents were a long way from anywhere; far from the road to Oregon; far from the river road along the Missouri. Far from any known wagon trail.
He headed that way, at once discovering that they kept an orderly camp. The light wagon was obviously in good repair even though they had crossed rivers and gulches with it, roped it down steep slopes, cleared trails for it through brush and
trees. For no ordinary wagon could get here; Skye could scarcely imagine how they managed it, or to what purpose.
The gents were lounging in canvas camp chairs. One stood when Skye arrived, the obvious owner of this outfit, nattily dressed, his face chiseled, his blue eyes bright, his smile genuine.
âAh, youâre Mister Skye,â the man said.
It no longer surprised Skye that his name was known even in remote corners. The man continued. âItâs a pleasure, sir. Iâm Graves Duplessis Mercer, at your service.â
A three-piece name. A rich man. But why?
four
A nd some familiar tones in the manâs voice.
âAre you British?â Skye asked.
âMy father was a captain in the Royal Marines; my mother a Frenchwoman. I grew up in Paris and know France better than my home country. I live in London.
And you, Mister Skye, are a Londoner, Iâve heard.â
âLong ago,â Skye said. He wondered for a moment whether to reveal more to this son of a naval officer. And decided to put it all before them: âI was a pressed seaman and jumped ship at Fort Vancouver in 1826.â
Mercer laughed heartily. âI would have too. Having volunteered for His Majestyâs service by press gang, you decided to volunteer your resignation!â
Skye smiled. Maybe the bloke wasnât going to be a pain in the butt after all.
âIâve heard a little about you; in fact, Mister Skye, Iâve been making inquiries. Now,
She had taken offense, got her revenge by telling every woman in sight that Skye wasnât much of a man. That got back to Victoria, who reported it to Skye, who tried to ignore it but couldnât, and never quite lived it down.
That was Crow sport. Trysts were as common as eating a supper. Divorces were the daily entertainment. Which, come
to think of it, was reason enough not to marry a Crow woman. He laughed at himself: all he needed to do was join the fun and quit worrying, and everything would be quite fine, and he might have twenty wives, severally and serially, before he departed from this world. Why was he so reluctant?
Romantic, thatâs what he was. Damned romantic.
Still, the notion that he might find a Shoshone woman swelled up in his head, though he hadnât considered it because he couldnât talk their tongue. But love has its own language and maybe they didnât need to talk. A few smiles would do.
Yonder, across the meadow, there might be a hundred eligible ladies of the Shoshone persuasion. And what better time to go courting than during this great summer festival, this moment of amity between tribes, this period of fun and races and contests?
He saw The Big Robberâs women erecting the chiefâs lodge, but the chief was already padding across the meadow to pay his respects to Washakie. Fires were blooming, pine smoke drifted on the breeze. Tonight there would be the first of many feasts, and maybe some dancing and drumming too. Who knows? These things happened almost unplanned, in some mysterious fashion that Skye never understood.
Then he found himself drifting toward the wagon and the white men. Curiosity drove him; that, more than wife-hunting, was much on his mind. These gents were a long way from anywhere; far from the road to Oregon; far from the river road along the Missouri. Far from any known wagon trail.
He headed that way, at once discovering that they kept an orderly camp. The light wagon was obviously in good repair even though they had crossed rivers and gulches with it, roped it down steep slopes, cleared trails for it through brush and
trees. For no ordinary wagon could get here; Skye could scarcely imagine how they managed it, or to what purpose.
The gents were lounging in canvas camp chairs. One stood when Skye arrived, the obvious owner of this outfit, nattily dressed, his face chiseled, his blue eyes bright, his smile genuine.
âAh, youâre Mister Skye,â the man said.
It no longer surprised Skye that his name was known even in remote corners. The man continued. âItâs a pleasure, sir. Iâm Graves Duplessis Mercer, at your service.â
A three-piece name. A rich man. But why?
four
A nd some familiar tones in the manâs voice.
âAre you British?â Skye asked.
âMy father was a captain in the Royal Marines; my mother a Frenchwoman. I grew up in Paris and know France better than my home country. I live in London.
And you, Mister Skye, are a Londoner, Iâve heard.â
âLong ago,â Skye said. He wondered for a moment whether to reveal more to this son of a naval officer. And decided to put it all before them: âI was a pressed seaman and jumped ship at Fort Vancouver in 1826.â
Mercer laughed heartily. âI would have too. Having volunteered for His Majestyâs service by press gang, you decided to volunteer your resignation!â
Skye smiled. Maybe the bloke wasnât going to be a pain in the butt after all.
âIâve heard a little about you; in fact, Mister Skye, Iâve been making inquiries. Now,
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