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  Their ways matched for several miles, until they reached the turning that would take Hilaire to the Tygh village, a day's ride south. "I have been thinking," Hilaire said, when they paused to say farewell, "that my sister is right. I must choose whether to be white or Indian. I will speak to my father and think upon it. If I do not return by winter, I will not. You may keep whatever I have left at your father's lodge."

  Tenas Eena leaned across and embraced him. "Sometimes, cousin, you act more white than Wasco," he said, emotion thickening his voice, "but my father says that you are Wasco in your heart. You will return."

  "Perhaps." Hilaire turned the mare toward the south. How well he understood Fleur's dilemma. He had lived too long away from his mother's people, was the wrong color for his father's. No wonder Fleur wanted to go far away, where she could make a place that was hers alone. She had no one, belonged nowhere.

  Chapter Ten

  They was after him. He could feel them back there, somewheres on his trail.

  He'd come a long way and he had a long ways yet to go. Weeyum wasn't gonna let anybody cotch him, take him back to Marse Yates. He remembered what the marse had done to Toby, who'd run off ever' chance he'd got. After whuppin' him so bad they wasn't no skin left on his back, Marse had Toby's heelcords cut, so's his feet just flopped on the ends of his legs like a open gate swingin' in the wind. Then Toby had died of blood poisonin' in his back.

  Weeyum reckoned he hadn't wanted to live nohow.

  He couldn't remember gettin' to this place, where the gray-green brush was higher than a man's head and the trees had scaly branches that smelled strong and spicy, 'stead of leaves like they oughta'. Last he recalled, he was sneakin' along a river, slidin' amongst the cottonwoods, hopin' none of the folks in the wagons would cotch sight of him.

  But they had. "They musta," he muttered, trying to ignore the pain in his back. "Who else gon' whup me?"

  He stumbled as he went down another hill, caught himself before he could go careening tail over teakettle. Time to find a hidey-hole, whilst I still can.

  * * * *

  Beowulf led Flower across the ridge, down the other side into a willow-choked ravine. There he seemed to lose the trail, for he nosed about the edges of the thicket, whined, and nosed some more. Flower looked where he was sniffing. At first she saw nothing, then she realized that some of the limber shoots were bruised toward their bases, thickened where they had been bent almost to the ground. She pushed them aside and plowed her way into the thicket.

  "How did he find this place?" she wondered aloud when she had broken through into a tiny clearing. The stream, scarcely a handspan wide, gurgled along a winding, pebble-filled channel. Bordering it was a patch of grass, just big enough to provide a comfortable seat, and there she saw a depression. The grass had not all sprung back erect, and some blades were broken and wilting where a human foot had stepped.

  Another footprint--a heel print, really--marked where he had emerged from the thicket many feet upstream. For the rest of the afternoon she followed his trail, spending much of her time retracing her steps, casting about for the next clue to where William had gone. Twice she followed the excited dog only to find him scrabbling at gopher holes. After that she learned that when he went dashing away from her, he had been distracted by a scent more interesting than William's.

  "Why is he running away?" she asked the dog, when she had once again found a footprint, this one in the muddy edge of a seep. But she knew. The warmth of his skin should have told her that he was far more ill than he seemed. Now he was caught in a fever-induced delirium, and there was no telling where he would go or how far. I should never have left him alone.

  If anything happens to William--she would not allow herself to name what could befall him--I will never forgive myself.

  The sun eventually slid behind the mountains to the west, yet she searched until the dying light prevented it. Then she and Beowulf crept beneath a cedar and shivered through the long night.

  * * * *

  It seemed to Weeyum that every hill he climbed was a little bit higher, each canyon he half-walked, half-slid down into was a little bit deeper. Along about noon the second day of his escape, he crouched on a high ridge and looked to the south. Lawd a'mighty! This here's the up-and-downdest country I ever seed. A ways off to his left was a mighty canyon, far deeper than anything he'd crossed yet, and off the other way was a mountain the likes of which he'd never dreamed. It stuck way up into the sky, and was all white on its pointy top, like summer hadn't got there yet. He'd learned on his journey that there was places so high that snow lay on the ground all summer, but only in the shade and the north sides of hills. This whole mountain was covered with snow, and it looked to him like it never would melt.

  He looked around for Dawg, realized he hadn't seen the big, brindle mutt since he'd woke up. Had they took him, too? Shot him?

  A picture came to mind, of Dawg snarling and barking, attacking a big, ugly bassard. Then falling, limp as a wet rag, bleeding from a gunshot at close range. He'd watched Dawg lay there all day in the hot sun, never moving, but the next morning he was gone, only a dried puddle of blood marking where he'd been.

  I should'a took care of him. Then he remembered why he hadn't. He'd been tied, hand and foot, stretched out flat on the ground between two trees, until the muscles in his shoulders locked up into screaming agony from being held over his head. Silas had been close by, tied the same as he was.

  Silas? Who's Silas?

  Now he knew he was out of his head. Dreamin' of things that never happened. People he didn't know.

  He looked down the slope in front of him. It went down a long way, leveled out at the bottom. There was trees there, looking like they grew along a river, maybe. And where there was rivers, there was generally breaks, rough, cut-up country where a body could find a good place to hole up.

  He needed a place like that. He was still feverish, still about half muzzy. On feet that seemed heavier with every step, he started down the hill.

  * * * *

  The second day Flower found it even more difficult to follow William. Beowulf was proving a poor tracker, easily distracted by the sent of rabbit, mouse, and quail. She could not complain, though, for he fed them both, very well, with what he caught.

  Late in the afternoon she climbed to the top of a long ridge, one which gave a clear view to the south where the canyon of the Deschutes cut deeply across the plateau. Somewhere not too far ahead was a Tygh village where she might be able to get food. Perhaps even help in finding William. She shaded her eyes and searched the near distance. There! That must be it.

  If she hurried, she might be able to reach the village before nightfall.

  * * * *

  When he finally got to the bottom of the hill, Weeyum found hisself a big cottonwood and hunkered down under it. He was hungry, but there'd been water aplenty in the little streams draining down off the ridge. Tomorrow he'd set hisself a snare and maybe catch a rabbit.

  A rustle in the leaves startled him, then he saw a fat, squirrel-looking critter scurry across an open space. Right now I'd settle for squirrel. Roasted, fried, or raw.

  A cold wind blew up that night, and before morning it rained. Weeyum kept mostly dry under the tree, last years' leaves piled over him like a blanket. When dawn broke, it was gray and damp. His belly demanded food, or he'd have stayed in his warm nest all day long.

  He found raspberries and some powdery blue berries that drooped in wide clumps from tall, arching branches. He tried them, but they was about half seed and their sour taste puckered him up good. Down next to the water, a rushing, rocky stream, he found some of the yellow berries that Flower called currants and ate them too.

  Flower? He saw a sweet face, wide gray eyes, a smile that came seldom and was all the more precious for its scarcity.

  Where'd I know a woman like that? She's beautiful!

  "You's dreamin', boy. Jus' dreamin'."

  The water looked cool, like it would soothe the
burning that came and went in his body. But it was wild and fast. Was he to jump in there, he'd be carried all the way to the Mississipp', sure enough.

  He walked along the bank, until it turned from damp earth to sharp, black rock. But there seemed to be a trail, so he followed it, until it led to a cliff where the river fell into a deep canyon. Spray rose and wet the rock on which he stood, rock that shook under his feet with the force of the water roaring over the falls.

  Spray that cooled him.

  Weeyum shivered. He was burnin' up, yet somehow he was freezin' too. What he needed was a place he could have hisself a fire. He felt in the pockets of his britches, but found no flint, no steel. They must'a took it from me. Bassards!

  The faint trail wound down away from the cliff, right along the brim of the canyon. He followed it, not caring where it went. As long as he was moving he was warmer than when he was standin' still.

  The rock was slick. He picked his way carefully, stepping careful on the bare places. Below him the river was still white-capped, but it no longer thundered. Now that he was out of the spray, he felt hotter than ever, and weaker. He leaned against a squared-off boulder and rested, wondering where he was going. And why.

  All he knew was that he had to keep movin'.

  That was when he spied the nest. Three small tan eggs in a grassy bowl, right out on the edge of the cliff.

  His mouth watered. Food! His belly rumbled.

  He took a step, reached toward the nest.

  The hillside broke under him. He slid, fell, and landed in icy, swirling water.

  * * * *

  The pack was heavy on her back, but Flower did not mind the weight. Now they had food, When she found William--when, not if --she would be able to feed him, to strengthen him so that his body could fight the infection that must be making him feverish.

  If only she had gotten to the Tygh village sooner. She was not fluent in the Chinook jargon that served as a trade language along the Columbia, but she knew enough to understand that she had missed Hilaire by only a few hours. He had left her belongings in the chieftain's care, with a short note that told her only that he was taking Windchaser to his father.

  What of the mule? she wondered.

  Once well away from the village, she opened the pack, heavier by far than it had been. William's buckskin clothing was folded carefully on top of his moccasins. The next layer included her calico dress and linen petticoat, the woolen sweater, and both blankets. A coil of rope, slender, braided from cedar bark. At the bottom was food--jerked meat, dried fruit and fish, coffee, tea, and her packet of yarbs. Therese must have sent the food. We had not so much.

  She checked. William's gold was still sewn into the tail of his buckskin shirt. Her small pouch with the rest of the coins was tucked away among the packets of yarbs. "I would rather have had more food," she said aloud, thinking of the long road to Oregon City.

  Beowulf whined, his head cocked to one side as if asking why?

  "Never mind. We must go. Can you find William?"

  The dog gave a sharp bark and lowered his nose to the ground.

  "Not now, you silly animal. We are a long way from where we last found his tracks."

  She found his trail again that afternoon, down at the bottom of the ridge. It wandered towards the river, no longer showing any attempt at concealment. Twice she saw where he had fallen, and once there was dried blood on the still compressed grass. Beowulf snuffled around and then took off at a fast lope towards the river. Flower followed, more slowly.

  The last footprint was close to the water's edge, in ground softened by the spray from a waterfall. It was plain, the heel imprint deep, the toes evident. Oh, William, couldn't you see that way is dangerous! The footprint pointed along the black rock that broke away in a sheer drop to the base of the waterfall, toward a narrow, sloping game trail that clung to the very edge of the cliff.

  Flower was undecided. Would he have gone that way? Or would he have turned back, gone upstream where the hills gave way to broad, almost level ground?

  Beowulf yipped. She looked for him, saw him well along the cliff path, his tail wagging, his mouth open in a dog-smile. "Come here!" she called. "We go this way."

  He yipped again, lowered his nose to the ground.

  "Beowulf! Come here!"

  He ignored her and continued along the narrow path.

  She followed, stepping carefully, feeling the power of the waterfall vibrating through her feet. The dog kept his nose to the ground, intent. Gradually the black rock gave way to soil, to a steep slope that still hung high above the water. Flower lost her footing and slid sideways, barely catching herself with a handful of sagebrush. Ahead of her Beowulf was still nosing the ground, but he was no longer moving.

  Carefully, testing every step, she followed. The dog had found a killdeer nest, holding three eggs. "Be careful," she cried. "Don't push them over!" She was reaching for them, mouth watering, when she saw the scuff mark, the loose soil where something large had slid toward the edge. Heart in her throat, Flower leaned carefully out, holding to a clump of bunchgrass for balance. Yes! The marks extended down the hillside to where it changed from slope to cliff, then disappeared.

  And toward the end of the slide, there was a dark stain on the soil. Dark like blood.

  William!

  For a moment she could not move, then she pulled herself back. This river emptied into the Deschutes not too far from here, and if he was swept that far, he had no chance. The Deschutes River was one that even the local tribes respected, wild and strong, with impassable rapids and waterfalls nearly all the way to where it emptied into the Columbia.

  Across the river the canyon walls were as steep as here. He could not have climbed out. Not there.

  "Come. We will search," she told the dog, unwilling to give up until all hope was lost.

  Although the hillside she traversed remained as steep as ever, the opposite wall gradually leveled at its base. The river bent and ahead she saw a low bench across the river. A little farther on, she found a creek on her side, small and almost dry, but big enough to have worn a trough down which she could climb to the water's edge. Once there she looked across again and saw that she was directly opposite the mouth of another creek. There was even a narrow beach there, where a man might have found refuge.

  If he was conscious.

  And if he was not? His body...No! He could have been washed ashore.

  She shaded her eyes against the bright sun, but could see no farther than a few feet from the shore. The ground rose gradually, then seemed to level for a short distance before rising again in a steeper slope perhaps a hundred yards from the river. Beyond that was another level bench, backed by a sheer bluff. If he is over there, he will not go far.

  She set her pack down, looked about her. Where the creek on this side emptied into the river, a short section of log, torn roots still attached, was wedged between two rocks. It was about two handspans in diameter, half as long as she was tall. Opposite the roots, a splintered end was evidence of a lightning strike.

  "I hope you can swim," she told Beowulf. Quickly she dig the rope out of her pack, pulled it from hand to hand, estimating its length. Perhaps.

  Before she could have second thoughts, she stripped her dress and leggings off, stuffed them and her moccasins into the pack. Naked, she shivered in the breeze, even though the sun had a bite to it. She had never been a strong swimmer, had never enjoyed water play as some of her friends had.

  After making sure it was securely closed, she looped her pack's straps around the roots, wedged it between the two biggest stubs, and tied it firmly with Beowulf's leash. Then she attached the rope to one stub, pulled it to the other end of the log, and tied it again, this time after looping it around the circumference.

  That done, Flower looked at the river again. Although it had calmed somewhat, whitecaps still broke its surface. She would have to swim hard, fast. A difficult task, with a rope in tow.

  I can do it, she told herself. I
must do it.

  The log resisted her push, but eventually she had it fully in the water, not quite afloat, but ready to swing freely into the current at the slightest pull. She looped the free end of the rope around her left ankle twice, tied it securely. Then she knelt before Beowulf, took his head in her hands. "You must swim with me," she told him, looking into his golden wolf's eyes. "If I do not succeed, then it will be up to you to find him. He is over there. I know he is." She leaned her head against the dog's, eyes closed, sending a prayer to Christian God and Guardian Spirits.

  Let me do this thing. Let me find him and keep him alive. He is a good man

  Before she could lose what little courage she had, she plunged into the water and struck out toward the opposite bank, swimming as strongly as she could.

  The rope slowed her. Wetted, it was caught in the current and pulled downstream. Feeling as if it had just dripped off a snowbank, the water sapped her strength, tired her. But she kept stroking, kept kicking, even when she saw that she was drifting far from her intended landing place.

  Cold. So cold. Her arms were leaden, her body weak. She fought the water, then went under when something caught her ankle. The rope. She had reached the end of the rope.

  Panicked, Flower stroked harder. She could not kick with her right leg, for the rope was stretched taut, but her left flailed, rolling her to her back, forcing her head under. She choked when water ran into her nose, her mouth.

  From a distance she heard a bark. Another. As if Beowulf was calling to her.

  Forcing herself into calm, Flower stopped fighting the current. She drifted, floating on the surface. When she no longer gasped for breath, she turned her head. Beowulf had made the crossing and was standing at the water's edge. Watching her. Waiting.

  Strength returned to her limbs. The water no longer seemed so cold. She rolled back, started stroking again. Only this time she paced herself, stroking, breathing, stroking, breathing.