Cheyenne Winter (10 page)

All that broiling day the engages unloaded the keelboat and toted bales, crates, and rundlets into the trading post. Inside, others shelved the goods in the trading room. Brokenleg helped as much as his bum leg would permit.

“Maxim, you check off them goods,” he said.

The youth glared at Brokenleg and vanished into the barracks. Brokenleg had no notion how to deal with him.

The keelboat floated lighter in the water as its bowels emptied, and Brokenleg wondered what to do with it. He didn’t want to return it — not when American fur owed him twelve oxen and six mules. The keelboat had become a sort of collateral. Better yet, a means to send his robes and pelts down the river and resupply the post. It was better than his livestock; less vulnerable to raids. And it didn’t require hay or pasture or constant vigilance.

But neither could it take his goods out to the villages the way a wagon could. That had been part of the strategy: they were going to whip American Fur by wagoning to the villages and trading there. But without livestock his wagons were dead. Which reminded him that he had a Pittsburgh stashed downstream — valuable property to recover if he could.

All winter and spring they’d toiled on the post, and now the original log building sat in the corner of a stockaded yard that formed a corral. Log outbuildings rose at its far side. They’d laid a puncheon floor in the post, which kept it warmer and cleaner. They’d flagstoned outside areas to keep the gumbo at bay. He called the place Rocky Mountain House but no one else did. The name Fitzhugh’s Post had stuck. This coming winter they’d live in much greater comfort. Stashed in the keelboat were three good stoves and stovepipe, which would heat better than the fireplaces and save a lot of wood gathering as well. There’d be one in the barracks; another in his own quarters and office; and a third in the trading room. “Fat cow,” he muttered, but he didn’t mind a bit.

By evening they were ready to trade once again. The shelves glinted with knives and awls and axes, ribbons and kettles. Other shelves held Witney blankets, mostly natural cream with dyed stripes, but some green and red and blue ones also. In the morning they’d run up the flags, fire a volley, and open the trading window once again — if anyone showed up. Not a Crow Indian had come around to watch the keelboat being unloaded, glimpse the foofaraw, work himself into a trading fever. Fitzhugh knew why: American Fur was practically giving its stuff away, selling at a loss, lavishing gifts on headmen, and would continue until it had destroyed the opposition. That’s how the giant had whipped the opposition many times. This was Crow country and Fort Cass had the Crows in hand.

Which meant that Fitzhugh needed to reach other tribes. With wagons. In the dusk he called his chief trader, Samson Trudeau, plus Abner Spoon and Zach Constable to him for a little powwow.

“We got the keelboat,” he said. “What do we do with ’er?”

“Cache it,” said Spoon.

“You got a place to cache a sixty-foot boat?”

Spoon grinned. “We could scuttle it. Bore a hole and sink it right hyar.”

“Hate to damage it. We could plug the hole, but it’d be somethin’ agin’ us if we got into trouble.”

“We could jist bucket water into it until she hits bottom,” said Zach Constable.

The idea of filling a sixty-foot hold with water using buckets seemed a little dubious to Fitzhugh.

“Roll it onto land?” asked Trudeau.

That’s the way Fitzhugh’s mind was running. A few logs for rollers and then the muscles of the two remaining saddle horses plus every man on the post. Let her sit on dry land.

“It ain’t gonna work,” said Zack. “Know why? They’ll use the trick you used. Send a whole Crow village hyar to camp betwixt us and the boat; then use them as a screen whiles they roll it back into the drink.”

“Roll her clear up to the flat?” asked Abner.

Trudeau frowned. “Eleven Creoles can do almost anything — even drag a keelboat up a fifteen-foot grade. But it will take a day to cut logs and levers.”

“Then think about her,” Fitzhugh said. He knew what he’d do in the morning: he’d ride over to Cass and negotiate fast — the boat for livestock. He’d cut any deal he could that would save him the job of hiding, scuttling, or drylanding that keelboat.

They ambled back inside, out of the soft summer dusk, and Fitzhugh was momentarily stricken with wonder. Here lay a post where none had been a year before. Here were seasoned traders, old coons, men of the mountains. Here was a pile of goods shining in the wavering light of small fire in the fireplace. He marveled that it had all happened; that they’d fought off the worst that American Fur could throw at them. He was filled with a strange and unaccustomed pride.

The men seemed to be waiting for something. And then he remembered. He’d promised a gill at this moment; a gill each when the post was stocked and back in business.

“Har, we got us a little celebratin’ to do,” he yelled. “I’m gonna wet my dry.”

Men whooped. Several dashed for the alcove in the trading room where the casks of spirits lay out of sight. The rest grabbed tin cups. They wanted their gill straight — pure grain spirits. Fitzhugh wondered if they’d be fit for the trading tomorrow — or whether he’d be fit. He watched them pull the bung and screw in a brass bung-faucet, and hoist the cask to a counter. They let Trudeau do the honors, knowing his version of a gill was generous. He let the clear fluid fill each cup to the halfway mark, and endured the hoorawing of men who wanted more. Fitzhugh himself felt a mighty thirst abuilding and slid his cup under the faucet, too. No one could drink pure spirits undiluted, though a few sipped and sputtered and gasped, and surrendered to the water dipper.

“Mountain dew,” said Constable, grinning.

Brokenleg hunkered down outside the post along with the rest, sipping steadily, ignoring the rumblings of his empty belly. It was better to wet his whistle on an empty gut anyway, he thought. He slapped away a few mosquitos but otherwise the late July night was perfect; the heavens clear, the summer breezes cools. He felt a fine buzz build in his head, the world wobbled, and he thought he had life beavered down.

Until Dust Devil plunked herself down beside him, a cup in her proud little Suhtai hand. “You promised,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what he’d promised. “You git our rooms cleaned up?”

“You promised. Now we go.”

“You sippin’ Great-Father’s milk?”

“I am all alone. Only woman here. We go get your wives now. Sisters. You made the big vow.”

“Sisters. Sisters.
Sisters.”
It was coming to him. He sipped more of the strong water and contemplated it. Three Cheyenne sisters just pinin’ for him.

“Aw,” he muttered.

“You come get my sisters and make wives or I’ll go away.”

“Not until mornin’ nohow.”

“You’re not a blanket chief,” she said, her face mocking in the moonlight. “Maybe I’ll find a real blanket chief.”

“Haar.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say but he was thinking of something to do.

“A real blanket chief would like all sisters, four Suhtai Tsistsista sisters, daughters of a great medicine-maker.”

“Haar.” He sipped. The water and spirits tasted more like mountain whiskey.

“You make a great oath, make the word, and don’t keep it. Bad-tongue. Damn liar,” she said. “White men are buncha lairs. You biggest liar.” She sipped mightily.

“Haar,” he said.

“Slaves too. I want some dumb Absaroka slaves. I make them cook and clean.”

“Haar.”

“Tomorrow we’ll go to my father’s village and make wives.”

“Got to open trade.”

“Him, the trader, he can open trade. Lousy Absaroka, they don’t tan good robes. I get you good Tsistsista robes and wives.”

“Haar!”

He heard the babble near him soften; men listened to Dust Devil and him or drifted to their robes after a brutal day. She tugged at him, her eyes devilish and her mouth smirky. Her hands wandered.

“Haar,” he muttered, and drained the rest of the ambrosia. She helped him up, always a painful task because of his stiff leg, and dragged him into the shadows of the post and to the rear, their quarters.

She closed the door and giggled.

“Haar,” he roared, the sound rumbling through the post, echoing into the barracks. “Haar  . . . ”

“Blanket chief,” she said, and groaned.

The spirits buzzed.

He slept into the morning, along with the rest except Maxim, who was waiting like a little vulture when he stuck his aching head into the sun.

“It’s gone,” Maxim said triumphantly. He pointed to where the keelboat had been tied.

Gone. Hervey and Sandoval had wasted no time grabbing their keelboat back. Brokenleg laughed. He’d have done the same. No doubt it was now on its way down the Yellowstone, heading for Wolf Rapids. But it left him feeling naked. Except for two saddle horses he had no locomotion, no way to take his wagons out to the villages.

Over the winter he could build mackinaws, the flat-bottomed boats that had been the time-honored way to float furs down the rivers. Mackinaws were one-way hulls, abandoned at their destinations. He peered about the sun-gilded flats and saw not a lodge on this opening day of trade. There was his post, bulging with the resupply, its shelves holding an alluring assortment of things tribesmen hankered for. All those Crows camped around Fort Cass knew it but none came. It irked him: five hundred lodges a few miles away; over three thousand Crows from several bands — and not a one toting robes to his trading window.

His humor departed him as he reviewed the whole business. He’d lost twelve oxen and six mules at the hands of those people. The oxen were a dead loss. He couldn’t replace them here. Neither could he replace them with horses or mules because he lacked the harness for three wagons. But he did have harness for one; he could put one wagon into use if he could get horses and break them. Breaking mustangs to harness would be slow toil but he could see no other option.

“Well,” he muttered to Maxim, “if they ain’t comin’ here, I’m goin’ to them. You’re clerkin’ today. Go set yourself at the tradin’ window. You an’ Abner.”

“I don’t wish to,” the youth retorted.

“You got somethin’ in your craw. Get it out and get busy.”

“You forced me to come here but you won’t force me to work.”

“Them that don’t work don’t eat. I’ll see to it.”

Maxim flushed but held his ground. “It’s crooked work. The robe trade is disgusting. We broke the law. We didn’t put those spirits on board — but we might as well have. I’ll starve.”

“Then you’ll starve, boy.”

It infuriated Brokenleg. The little snot. But he’d deal with it later. He had more important things to do than cope with a rich man’s brat. He limped to the stockaded pen, found his special saddle, the one that accommodated his stiff leg, and threw it over a chestnut, savagely drawing the cinch tight. He lumbered aboard and leaned over to slide his stiff leg into the long stirrup. Then he kicked the horse viciously with his good heel, setting it into a panicked trot up the Bighorn toward Fort Cass. Within a mile he encountered the Crow horse herds, grazing close to Fitzhugh’s Post because the grass around Cass had been devoured. It burnt him to think about it. He’d built his post enough miles away from Cass to ensure that he had pasture. He’d by-god like to wring Hervey’s neck.

Still — horses were on his mind. He slowed his chestnut to a lazy walk and studied the Crow ponies as he wandered through them — multicolored mustangs, small, mean, bone-headed, roman-nosed, shaggy and tough. They came in every color from spotted Appaloosas to paints to solids, with coyote duns predominating. Most were saddle-broke; none were harness-broke. Some danced away at the sight of Fitzhugh but others, gregarious and curious, followed behind, poking a nose into his chestnut’s rump until it squealed and kicked them away.

Herding boys watched him warily. It was their job to prevent theft and each was well armed with a trade rifle. That was fine with Fitzhugh.

Half an hour later he reached Fort Cass and the huge village of Crows surrounding it. Smoke from hundreds of morning cookfires layered over the tan lodes. The fort rose golden and sullen in the early light. At mid-morning — trading followed Indian time — the outer gates would swing open and the shutters of the trading window would swing apart and the exchanges would begin. Cass radiated arrogant power; a force that magnetized several bands of Crows and pinned them there with promises of cheaper goods, better payments for robes — and threats of retaliation if the chiefs drifted to Fitzhugh’s Post.

It was a formidable force, Brokenleg knew, the threats of being cut off, charged double, denied gifts, eating even more corrosively into the headmen’s thinking than the value of competition. If they’d had any brains they’d play off one post against the other the way trappers played off one beaver outfit against the other. But old Chouteau’s grip on these Crow bands was phenomenal.

The whole flat hummed with quiet, early-morning activity. Women vanished into brush for their morning toilet; others carried iron pots or tallow-dressed skin buckets to the Yellowstone for water. Others, the very young and very old, scoured the nearby timber for dry wood, finding none that had been overlooked by a thousand others in previous trading seasons. It baffled him that none of them girdled those cottonwoods and willows for future use, making a common supply of dry wood. But none ever did; none ever looked beyond her immediate needs and as a result they forayed a mile or more just to collect a day’s supply of sticks, which they carried over their backs in shawls.

He wandered through the concentric rings of lodges looking for the ones that would be a little larger, a little better decorated, and most importantly, which had the ensigns of office before them: elaborate medicine tripods, feather-bedecked lances thrust into the clay, lodges with several wives busy before them.

He spotted several but kept hunting for one in particular, the home of an old friend from the beaver days, Chief Fat Belly. Brokenleg and Jamie Dance had wintered with that band more than once, back in the sweet, rambling, trapping days. He found Fat Belly’s lodge at last, far east of Cass and close to the glinting Yellowstone.