Rendezvous by Richard S. Wheeler Page A

blade and grinned. Skye’s shaving gear included a battered white mug, some soap, and a shaving brush, and with all these and some river water he shaved himself while the villagers crowded about.
    The man took the razor and handed Skye the quiver and bow. Skye rejoiced. With luck and some hunting skills, he might feed himself. He counted eleven arrows: enough to keep him fed.
    He turned to his host, wondering what to give the man for his hospitality, and finally decided he could surrender his woolen skullcap. He handed it to the headman, who grinned and put it on. A swift command sent his wife hurrying into the bark hut, and she returned with a beaver-felt top hat, a trade item from Hudson’s Bay. Much to Skye’s delight, it fit, perhaps too snugly but it would stretch with use. The brim would shade his chapped face and keep the rain off his neck.
    He ached to do more trading, especially for a horse, but he saw none. He doubted these fishing people had any. He knew what he would offer for one: his pea jacket. The new leather shirt would do for warmth, and summer was coming. After thanking his hosts with gestures he hoped would be understood, Skye departed eastward, enjoying his new wealth. He had a little antelope meat and some fresh fish—and a bow and arrows.
    He examined the arrows, curious about their manufacture. They had been made from reeds and had sheet-iron points bound to the shaft with sinew. The points were trade items from Hudson’s Bay. The bow had been fashioned of a blond wood that reminded him of yew, and was strung with animal gut. He would have to be careful with it because he lacked a spare string. As he walked, he nocked arrows and shot them ahead, getting the feel of the weapon. He collected the arrows as he passed by. He knew he had much to learn, and his efforts had been awkward. He didn’t even know how to hold the bow and arrow. But by the nooning, he was getting better.
    The country turned rugged again, and the river boiled between dark rock cliffs. The road veered sharply away from the Columbia and ascended a steep and much-used trail. Plainly these narrows blocked passage along the river and one had to detour around them. He could hear a faint roar as the Columbia bored through the gorge. When at last the trail took him back to water, he found himself in a land largely devoid of trees.
    That evening he counted the day a good one. He baited his hook and line, and then practiced with his bow and arrows, gaining skill through the dusk. No longer was he helpless. But skill with a bow wasn’t the same as being a hunter. He rarely even saw an animal. But as he penetrated these steppes day by day, he spotted distant herds of antelope, and once he saw wild horses. His first success with the bow was a humble one: he shot a raccoon. Greedily, he dressed the animal and then built a fire to cook it. The result was abominable, but the mouthfuls of soft meat helped sustain him. He counted it a milestone.
    He had better luck with his fishhook and line, occasionally netting a salmon that kept him fed for two days. The weather warmed, and his passage would have seemed idyllic but for his constant hunger. He was plagued by loneliness, too, and ached to talk with someone, anyone. How far to Fort Nez Perces? How far to the edge of the Oregon country? How far to the American settlements? North America was a vast continent, but he had hiked eastward for weeks on end. Surely he would arrive at the Atlantic side soon. Or would he?
    He was traversing a vast plain, broken by outcrops of dark volcanic rock and populated by horses that galloped madly away as he approached. He ached to capture one, but he knew little about them. He had never sat a horse.
    His boots fell apart, and he repaired them with his awl and some thong. His trousers wore to pieces, and he sewed the rents and patched them with sailcloth. All this time he saw no one, and his loneliness ate at his spirits. Was this all there was?