Death Rattle (59 page)

“Well I’ll be jigged—you’re a white fella,” exclaimed the man stepping from the open gate of his log post, peering up at Titus Bass before he glanced over those warriors and women, children and old people, all arrayed across the prairie behind Scratch. “From a ways back, you looked about as Injun as the rest of them you brought with you.”

“Guilty there,” Titus answered with a smile. He held down his hand to the man. “Name’s Bass.”

“Murray,” he replied with a real burr to the r’s.

“Met a fella same name as you down to Bents Fort last fall. You related?”

“Don’t have any relations in the country,” Murray admitted.

“Mite s’prised to see a man’s built anything here on the river,” Titus said as the last of the Crow came up noisily and started to dismount in the meadow nearby.
“If’n it don’t make you no nevermind, this bunch’ll make camp here for the night.”

“Where you bound downriver?” Murray inquired.

“Tullock’s post near the mouth of the Tongue.”

“Tullock is no longer there,” Murray explained. “Last I heard he’s nowhere to be found on the upper river. Don’t know where he’s gone.”

“Don’t say?” Bass replied with a little suspicion.

“And his old post, Van Buren, is no longer there. We burned it last autumn.”

That struck him as downright criminal. “Why the devil you burn Tullock’s post for?”

“Under orders to, by Culbertson, company factor up at Fort Union. A year ago May he sent ten of us upriver with Charles Larpenteur in charge, ordered to close down Van Buren and build this post.” Murray held out both arms expansively to indicate the compact log stockade enclosing the post that stood no more than one hundred feet square. A handful of stone chimneys constructed of river rock poked their blackened heads above the eight-foot walls.

Bass cleared his dusty, parched throat. “So this here’s American Fur?”

“And me as well. I’ve been the trader for more’n nine months here already,” Murray admitted. “Larpenteur was called back to Union last November—so it’s just me and four engages.”

Titus finally swung to the ground as his wife and children came out of their saddles. “So Tullock and Van Buren ain’t no more.”

“No, sir. You know Tullock long?”

“Me and him go back some. What’d you name this place?”

“Larpenteur named it for our chief factor.”

“Fort Culbertson?”

“No. We’ve blessed it with our factor’s first name,” Murray declared. “You’re standing at the walls of Fort Alexander.”

Over the next few days the visiting Crow went about their business with the powerful company that had
brought an end to both the beaver business and the mountain rendezvous, the economic giant who had crushed a glorious way of life in its mighty fist. It surprised Titus to discover he was still sore having to deal with American Fur again, but he reminded himself he’d done it before. What few furs he had managed to trap the previous spring did garner some shiny geegaws for the children, a few yards of wool cloth for Waits, and that much-needed powder and bar lead. Their trading done with Murray at this new Yellowstone post, Yellow Belly’s band turned about on the fifth morning and started upriver once more.

That second winter began early and proved to be even harder than the last. Spring was long in coming. Because the weather had made them prisoners, few of the Crow had many furs to trade on their next journey down the Yellowstone to Fort Alexander.

“Murray here?” Titus asked the figure stepping from the gate as he and two dozen of the Crow men dismounted in advance of the village.

At first the solidly built man did not acknowledge his question; instead, he shaded his eyes that early autumn day and noted the dust haze rising over the hundreds of Crow who were steering their herds into the expansive meadow filled with grass already cured by the first frost.

“No, Murray doesn’t work here no more,” the stranger replied as his eyes finally came back to look upon Bass.

After another full round of seasons spent listening to nothing but the Crow tongue, Scratch’s ear picked up a strong Scottish accent, all that much heartier than Murray’s brogue. “You in charge?”

“No. The factor’s named Kipp.”

“He here?”

“Inside. Come with me,” the man offered, then he gestured at the Crow men. “Three of them at a time, only.”

Scratch hit the ground and rubbed his aching knees. With the advent of every year he resented that pain brought of being in the saddle a little more. Holding out his hand, he said, “I’m Titus Bass.”

“Robert Meldrum,” the man answered, brushing a thick shock of sandy brown hair from his eyes. “You live with this band I see.”

“With my wife, young’uns too.”

Meldrum surprised Scratch when he turned to face the throngs of Crow men and suddenly began speaking loudly, in a respectable Crow. “Your chiefs must decide who among you will be the first to come inside and smoke before trading. We’ll set the prices, then the trading can begin in earnest after sunrise tomorrow.”

As the headmen gathered to discuss who would accompany the trader into the fort, Bass grabbed the white man’s elbow. “You speak good Crow, Meldrum.”

“Had some practice,” the trader replied.

“Figgered you for a Scotchman, from the sound of your words.”

“I’m Scots, that’s for sure,” Meldrum admitted with a characteristic burr. “Born on the moors in the second year of the century. Came to Kentucky with me parents.”

“You’ve been out here for some time,” Titus observed.

“Came west with Ashley’s trading caravan in twenty-seven. Didn’t go back with the other clerks after rendezvous.”

“Twenty-seven …” And he pondered the roll of sites. “I recollect that’un was held over at the bottom of Sweet Lake.”
^*

“Still some small affairs back then,” Meldrum declared as he kept his gray eyes pinned on the Crows’ deliberations. “But they got bigger.”

“An’ noisier too,” Scratch said. “So how come you speak such good Crow?”

“Married one. It helps.”

“Damn if it don’t. Haven’t got me no idee how a fella gets along with a Injun gal if he don’t know her tongue!”

“Most fellows, they have no intentions of sticking around long enough to learn to speak their woman’s language.”

That evening Scratch and his family were invited to sit for supper with the post’s factor, James Kipp. Even more so than Robert Meldrum, this man was clearly educated; not the usual sort who had worked his way up through the ranks on muscle.

“I heard your name afore—from a ol’ friend of mine works downriver at Fort Union,” Titus explained as they were introduced.

“Who was that?”

“Levi Gamble. Maybeso you know ’im.”

“He was a good man, a steadfast employee in his day.”

“In h-his day?” Titus echoed. “He ain’t working at the fort no more?”

“Last word I had, Gamble took to drinking, hard too,” Kipp disclosed. “Seems he lost his wife when she was burned terribly, a lodge fire as I recall. She lingered awhile, pitifully—then died in his arms.”

“Damn,” Scratch muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking quickly to glance at his woman.

“I was told Levi never got over her painful death. Immediately took to drink. On this last stay of mine at Fort Union, I heard he’d died of consumption … although I think he succumbed to a powerful combination of too much alcohol and his just plain giving up after the death of his wife.”

“This news about Levi come recent?”

“Yes. Seems I’m newly come here from Fort Union myself,” Kipp explained with a generous smile. His well-wrinkled face crinkled warmly. “It’s been no more than two weeks since the last supply steamboat came upriver and dropped me off with the year’s goods.”

“In less’n a year—this place awready had three booshways,” Scratch commented.

“It’s a fact of the business,” Kipp explained with a shrug of his shoulders. “I myself have been shuttled around from post to post since I came upriver.”

“Where you born and raised back east?”

“Born in Canada,” Kipp disclosed. “Eighty-eight. That makes me fifty-six years old now.”

Scratch folded fingers down as he calculated. “So you’re six years older’n me. An’ that’s some, Mr. Kipp. Out here I don’t run across many fellas what can say they’re older’n me.”

“Spent a lot of time among the Mandans when I first ascended the Missouri. Learned their language, could even write it too, while I was in the employ of the Columbia Fur Company.”

“Can’t say I ever heard of ’em.”

Kipp grinned. “They’re no more, Mr. Bass. Long, long time ago, they merged with American Fur—which made John Jacob Astor all the bigger.”

“You stayed on, I take it.”

The factor nodded. “They liked the cut of my timbers, so the bosses gave me the job of building Fort Floyd.”

“Ain’t heard of that’un neither. Where’s it stand?”

Kipp poured more coffee into Waits-by-the-Water’s cup as he answered, “You’ve been there: mouth of the Yellowstone. Never was known as Fort Floyd for long. It’s been called Fort Union almost from the first day.”

“Then I have been there,” Scratch confessed. “Years back, when the Deschamps family was near done in.”
^*

“A most awful blood feud between those families,” Kipp clucked, then settled back atop a crate with his glass of port. “After building that post, the company partners thought well enough of James Kipp to put me in charge of raising Fort Clark back among my Mandan friends.”

“When was that?”

“Thirty-one,” Kipp answered. “A profitable year for the company.”

“Aye—them was shinin’ times. Each year beaver just kept getting better’n better too,” Bass said with a wistful smile. “You s’pose beaver’s bound to rise, Mr. Kipp?”

The trader wagged his head. “The sun has set on the beaver trade, my good man. But I must say that—in those years when beaver was king—I met some interesting people while downriver at Fort Clark,” Kipp explained.
“One of the most remarkable was an American artist named Catlin, George Catlin. He was at the post, painting the Mandans left and right. The following winter, thirty-three and thirty-four, a German prince—Maximilian—came upriver on a sportsman’s holiday. He brought with him a wonderful artist who became a fast friend of mine. Karl Bodmer was his name.”

“I met a artist fella my own self once, years back at a ronnyvoo it was,” Titus chimed in. “Named Alfred Miller. You met him?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Miller come west with a Scotchman—a rich fella named William Drummond Stewart. That Scotchman even brung ol’ Jim Bridger a suit of armor one summer!”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Stewart,” Kipp disclosed.

“You was at Fort Clark till you come here?”

The trader shook his head. “Once my employers had their Mandan post running smoothly, I was dispatched into Blackfoot country, where I built Fort Piegan at the mouth of the Marias.”

“Damn, if you ain’t the fort-buildingest fella I ever met,” Bass enthused. “Time was, there wasn’t a post in this north country … and now the Injuns can durn well pick where they wanna go, north or south, to trade off their robes. Beaver ain’t wuth a tinker’s damn no more. Just robes. Life’s changed, Mr. Kipp. Life’s changed a hull bunch up here in the north country.”

“I detect a strong note of resignation, Mr. Bass. If not a deep regret.”

With a slight nod, Titus sighed, “Some long winter nights, I sit with my woman and young’uns by the lodge fire, thinking back on how things use to was. But the beaver are near gone most places I go, and they damn well ain’t wuth the time to scrape ’em no more anyhow. ’Sides, no fur companies like your’n ever gonna hire trappers no more—you just trade all your furs off the Injuns.”

“That, yes—but we also barter with a few of the last trappers—men like yourself who are still working the mountain streams.” Kipp scratched at his bare jowl
thoughtfully, then said, “It won’t ever be the same again, my friend. God knows things won’t ever be the same again.”

“Missionaries been trampin’ through my mountains,” Scratch grumbled, feeling very possessive and protective of his shrinking world. “Bringing their white women. For now they’re just passing through on their way to Oregon country … but one of these days, I know in my gut they’re gonna stop and settle down right here in the mountains. Gonna ruin what life we got left.”

“The Jesuits have dispatched one of their own, a Father De Smet, to make contact with the northwestern tribes,” Kipp announced. “I met him at Fort Union two years ago when he came through.”

“What’s a Jesuit?”

“Of course, I couldn’t expect you to know that it’s a Catholic order of priests—”

Scratch howled with alarm, “The Papists are sending their missionaries out here too!”

“De Smet told me he attended the last rendezvous ever held, on his way to the Flathead in the summer of forty. Later that fall, he came downriver to Fort Clark, where I made his acquaintance.”

Titus wagged his head. “Even when things are changing all around me,” he declared, “I wanna believe things don’t have to change for me. Not for me and these Crow I’m running with.”

“What do you think of Mr. Meldrum here?” Kipp asked, indicating the post trader seated down the table.

“He seems to be a likeable kind.” And Bass winked at Meldrum. “Any man what speaks Crow good as he does and marries hisself into the tribe can’t be a bad sort, now can he?”

“Some of his wife’s people watched Robert black-smithing,” Kipp declared. “So the Crow call him Round Iron.”

“That’s another reason for me to like Meldrum,” Bass admitted. “Back in Saint Louie I sweated over an anvil and bellows for a few years afore I come out to the mountains.”

“You were apprenticed in your youth?” Meldrum asked.

“Nawww—was awready growed—a good trade for a man to learn,” Titus recalled with a sigh. “Meldrum ain’t the first trader your company’s sent to Crow country to get married so all the tribe’s furs come to him.”

Kipp’s eyes flashed to Meldrum for a moment before he asked, “You’re referring to the mulatto Beckwith?”

“He’s a humbug if ever there was one!” Meldrum growled menacingly.

“That’s probably the nicest thing Robert could say about the mulatto,” Kipp replied. “While Beckwith might have been on the company payroll, he never was a company man.”