Cheyenne Winter (40 page)

“No, I didn’t imagine it. I should have.”

“The chances of pulling Hervey out of that wilderness to stand trial are pretty — ”

“Slim. It’s a step that has to be taken.”

Mitchell nodded. “You have returns coming?”

“A mackinaw with five thousand robes and pelts.”

Mitchell whistled. “No wonder Hervey  . . . ” He stopped abruptly. “You licked them.”

“The price was too great,” said Guy.

“I was going to ask you whether it was worth it, but you’ve told me. God keep you, Guy,” said David Mitchell.

“In one way  . . . it was worth it,” said Guy. “Maxim had a vision of the world — and died a man.”

Moments later they walked along Front Street, the great river shimmering nearby, and into the grubby offices of Chouteau and Company. A clerk admitted them to Pierre Chouteau Jr.’s ornate offices.

“Ah, Straus, my condolences. I hope you got my wreath,” said Cadet.

“I did.”

Chouteau’s gaze settled on Hiliodore after raking Fitzhugh briefly. A question formed on his face.

“You had an engage named Raffin,” said Hiliodore.

“Ah, perhaps. I don’t know the names of them all. So many,
oui?”

“You knew him well.”

“Shall I order tea, gentlemen?”

“No,” said Guy. “We have only a question or two. What are you doing about Julius Hervey?”

“Hervey? Hervey? Oh. At Fort Cass, I believe. Should I be doing something?”

“Yes. You could discharge him. It would help your company.”

Billedeaux said, “We have a murder warrant for him. And another warrant. Will you instruct him to come down the river for trial?”

“Why, of course. Let the man face judge and jury. But I don’t think he’s guilty of anything. He’s a good man, what little I know of him.”

“You’ll discharge him if he fails to appear?”

“Certainly. We tolerate no lawbreakers in the company.”

“See that you don’t,” said Guy.

“This is an unfriendly visit,
mes amis.
Won’t you have tea? How are your returns, Guy? A good season?”

“We had a good season,” said Guy. “But it cost me a son, and Mr. Fitzhugh a wife, and the company horses, oxen, wagons, and other items. But a good profit if Dance’s operation succeeded.”

“It’s a hard business, eh?”

“A hard business,” said Guy. “And we lost.”

Author’s Note

In 1834, the aging John Jacob Astor sold his wilderness giant, the American Fur Company, to two buyers. Ramsey Crooks bought the Northern Department, centered on the Upper Great Lakes, as well as the company name. Pratte, Chouteau and Co. bought the Upper Missouri Outfit, but that company continued to be known as American Fur along the Missouri River.

Whatever the name, the company continued its ruthless treatment of all competitors, resorting to whatever method it could get away with. And since its crimes occurred in a vast wilderness, it got away with much. There were, of course, honorable men in that large company, among them three depicted in this story: Alexander Culbertson, James Kipp, and Peter Sarpy. There were others less honorable. My fictional Julius Hervey is based on the real Alexander Harvey, one of the most brutal men in the fur trade. He devoted his malign energies to the American Fur Company but was more a liability than an asset, and eventually wound up in opposition.

While my story is fiction, I have portrayed some historical fur trade people in it, including Captain Joseph Sire, Black Dave Desiree, David Mitchell, Robert Campbell, and Pierre Chouteau Jr. Big Robber was an important Crow chief. The tactics the fur company used in my story to destroy the opposition are fictional, but historically plausible. The usual method was to attempt a buy-out, and if that failed to resort to less savory methods, up to and including murder, usually by Indian proxies to avoid blame. The memoirs of Joseph LaBarge, as recorded by Hiram Martin Chittenden, describe two such attempts.

Alcohol was the central lubricant of the robe trade, and I have accurately depicted its transportation and use by traders. Congressional prohibition had no effect on the traffic, but did induce a certain caution among traders. The American Fur Company nearly lost is license when a rival trader revealed to authorities that it had a whiskey still operating at Fort Union.

The decision of my hero, Brokenleg Fitzhugh, to barter his Cheyenne wife to save the company, offends modern sensibilities about marriage but is historically plausible and accurate for the period. The liaisons between Indian women and trappers and traders were usually casual, although some, such as the marriage of Alexander Culbertson and his Blood wife, Natawista, lasted most of a lifetime. But more commonly these “country marriages” as the French called them were brief. Lewis and Clark’s translator Toussaint Charbonneau had numerous wives, of whom Sacajawea was only one. The Jesuit missionary Father Pierre-Jean DeSmet tried to regularize these liaisons, and did succeed in many cases. To this day one can find French names among the mixed-bloods enrolled in the reservations of Montana. Plains Indian marriage itself was casual, and it was no great dishonor to an Indian wife to find her possessions outside the lodge door. Usually she found another husband.

While this story is pure fiction, I have stayed close to history and the realities of the robe trade of a century and a half ago.