Rivers West (14 page)

“But does he not claim to be acting for the people?” Mr. Choteau suggested.

I shrugged. “The ‘people' is an abstraction. It is one of those general terms that has no meaning in fact. For ‘the people' is in reality many peoples, with many interests, many possibilities. It is always interesting to me that none of these persons who claim to act for the people have ever consulted the people themselves.”

“And this Baron Torville?”

“An adventurer, pure and simple. One of those, no doubt, who still lives in the thinking of William the Conqueror or those Normans who invaded Sicily and set up a kingdom there. He is as out of date as the dinosaur, sir, but does not realize it.”

Choteau looked at me thoughtfully, and I think Tabitha was surprised as well. As a matter of fact, so was I.

“You seem well-informed, young man.”

“No, I am not. But history was much discussed at our table when I was a child, and the events of faroff nations seemed to us as if they were next door. He who started our family lived much in Asia and the interest in history and the people of history remained with us all.”

“You were fortunate. But these ideas? On revolution, and revolutionaries?”

“When a man works or travels he can also think. I have had much time to think, less time to talk.”

“And what do you believe is the end result of it all?”

“Some innocent people are killed, occasionally some of those who might have been sympathetic to the cause, much property is destroyed, often property that would have been very useful to the revolutionary government had it succeeded, and in the end a Napoleon appears who is tougher, stronger, and more determined than those who were thrown out.

“Of course, most revolutionists do not…really…want change. They simply want to sit in the driver's seat.”

I paused. “You wished to speak to me, Mr. Choteau. What can I do for you?”

“You are going west. It suddenly occurred to me that you might be better armed. I do not know what weapons you have, but I'm sure you have nothing as fine as what I have here.

“It happens that a young Austrian of great wealth came here to hunt buffalo. He wished also to kill a grizzly bear. He brought excellent weapons, much equipment…and then became ill.

“This was months ago. Now he has sent word to sell his weapons and equipment. Since you are going into such dangerous territory, I thought you might be interested.”

“I am definitely interested.”

He stepped to the door. “Jacques? Show Mr. Talon the Pauly rifles, will you, please?”

I followed Jacques.

When the door closed behind me, I wondered if Choteau was not equally eager to get me out of the room so that he might talk to Tabitha without being overheard. But in any event, I had no excuse to remain, and the guns did interest me.

Jacques was envious. “I should like to own them,” he said, “but I have not the money. It is very much, very, very much!”

“Tell me who made them.”

“Pauly was a Swiss, from Bern or near there, and he served in the Swiss army, then moved to France. At a demonstration before one of Napoleon's generals, Pauly fired twenty-two shots in two minutes.”

One rifle felt especially good in my hands, a slender, graceful weapon.

“That is a weapon Pauly made for the young gentleman. Made it with his own hands, and it is beautifully done.”

“Did Napoleon try it out?”

“And approved it. However, it was too expensive a gun for an army. See? You open the breech with this lever and put in your cartridge. It uses less powder and will not hang fire, and it can be loaded or unloaded at great speed.”

I was impressed.

“And here are two Collier pistols, with handturned cylinders.”

They were going to cost me more than I could afford, but how much is a man's life worth? I hesitated, then held the rifle in my hands while I considered, and was reluctant to put it down. It had a nice feel, moving easily to the shoulder. The sight was good. At last, I put it down.

Taking up the pistols, I studied them. The Collier had originally had a sort of mechanism to turn the cylinder as the gun was fired, but it had not proved satisfactory. Yet turning by hand was simple enough, and gave you several shots without reloading.

“How much?” I said at last, knowing they were too expensive.

“You will have to talk to Mr. Choteau. They are at his disposal, and from what I hear, he can put upon them what price he wishes.”

Reluctantly, I left the guns and walked back to the office. Tabitha was gone.

“Where is Tabitha?” I asked. “She must not go back to that boat!”

“You will see her tonight. She has only gone to my home. We are to have a small, informal reception for her this evening, and we would be pleased if you would attend.”

“I shall.”

“You like the guns?”

“Beautiful!” I said. “But beyond my possibilities, I think. They are perhaps the finest I've seen.”

“Yes,” Choteau leaned back in his chair, “they are excellent weapons. As a matter of fact, the price was left to my judgment, for to the owner money has no meaning. He is more concerned that the weapons be properly used.”

To that I had nothing to say, so I turned the conversation. “Will Colonel Macklem be present tonight?”

“Of course. Do you object?”

“Certainly not. It is your home. He will be your guest. Whatever differences we may have, they will not be settled in your home.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “Now, as to your plans?”

Plans? I had no plans except to keep Tabitha out of trouble; to interfere with whatever revolution Torville had in mind; and then to get back to building boats.

I told him as much. Choteau chuckled. “I'd say you had your work cut out for you, Mr. Talon. Have you ever been in a fight of this kind, Mr. Talon? Torville will have some of the Indians with him, you know.”

“I've nothing against Indians. Grew up with them.”

Choteau got up. “It is growing late, Mr. Talon. Come in tomorrow when Jacques can get out ammunition for you.”

“I don't believe I can afford those guns, Mr. Choteau.”

“Mr. Talon, the guns are yours.”

Chapter 17

A
T MARY O'BRIEN'S I changed into my dark suit. Jambe-de-Bois stared at my preparations with obvious disapproval. “It's no good thing you do. Stay clear of the man and give him no idea of how you move or where.”

“I've got to warn her. Somehow I've got to make her get rid of him.”

“Huh! You tried that, lad, and it came to nothing. The man is a charmer and a devil. He'll have her won over now, and you'll be shut out colder than ever. I say—don't go.”

There was sense in what he was saying. Even as I arranged my cravat, I knew he was right, up to a point, but I was determined to see Tabitha, and little else mattered.

There was a belligerence in me, too, a need for crossing swords with him that drew me on. Wary as I was, I was also filled with a kind of savage eagerness when near the man. Never before had I so wanted to fight someone; never had I deliberately courted trouble. But there was something about him I wanted to smash. And he probably knew it and felt the same.

“Midnight,” I told Jambe-de-Bois, “no later. I shall be back, and in the morning I will go for the guns. Then we will go up the river, for we have things to do.”

“I like none of it.”

“Rest easy…and if you see an Englishman about, one named McQuarrie, tell him to stand by.”

“Aye,” Jambe-de-Bois said gloomily. “If I see him, and if I see you. Protect yourself. I'll not say protect yourself in the clinches for there are no clinches with Macklem. He'll destroy you at long range. Destroy you.”

“You worry too much.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Rest easy, I say. I shall be back at midnight.”

The street was dark and empty when I stepped from the door, pausing a moment on the porch to look right and left. There was a faint smell of rain in the air.

I had only a short distance to go and decided to walk by the river. Stepping through my gate, I closed it behind me and started walking. I had not walked far when I thought I heard a faint, despairing cry.

Instantly I stopped, listening. Again I heard it. Listening, I waited.

No sound.

I continued walking, disturbed by that cry. Should I try to help? I was dressed for company.

I paused, then was about to continue when I heard the cry again.

“Please! Help me!”

The call seemed to come from the water off the stern of the keelboat nearest to me. Leaping over the bow, I ran along the walk toward the stern. The faint cry came again. I bent to look over into the water.

At that instant there was a rush of feet behind me. I tried to straighten and turn, but a glancing blow from a club hit me on the head, my hat went flying, and, dazed, I tried to get my hands up.

There were at least six of them, and they all had clubs. Only their numbers saved me, as all of them crowded for blows. I staggered and fell against the bulwark with blows battering my head. Badly hurt, I tried to fight back. But the pressure of their bodies forced me back, and with one wild, despairing grab I clutched the collar of the man nearest me and went over backward into the water.

Down, down I went, the other man struggling wildly, first to strike at me, then only to break himself free. Somehow I'd caught a deep breath before I went under, and I clung to him, taking him with me. I surfaced, saw the flash of a gun, and something rapped my skull. Down I went, losing my grip on the man, but clinging to his collar.

Desperately, I struggled, and when I came to the surface I was some distance downstream, trying to swim and cling to something at the same time.

My skull bursting with pain, I surfaced. Something huge and black loomed over me, and then I knew nothing more.

T
HE MOTION WAS easy. Sunlight lay across my bunk, across the Indian blanket on which my hands lay. I could see my hands and the slow movement of light that was one with the gentle motion.

For a long time, I just lay and watched the light move toward my hands, touch them, then slowly move away. The rhythm was hypnotic. I watched it, dully conscious of my comfort, aware of nothing.

Something bumped near me and my eyes moved. They moved of their own volition, for there was no will. Now they were looking at the source of the light.

A round hole in the wall…a porthole. I heard another dull thump, then a voice. “Still alive?”

“He's alive.” It was a girl's voice. “Still unconscious, I reckon. His pulse seems stronger, though.”

“We shouldn't have taken him from St. Louis, Pa. He might have had kinfolk nearby.”

“Doubt it. Though he was dressed rich. Some folks surely tried to kill him.”

The talk came through the open port, but it meant nothing to me. I simply lay still, and my eyes had returned to the light on my hands.

Then I smelled something. It was a good smell, a rich smell, a smell of cooking.

Cooking…food.

Food?

My eyes blinked, my muscles stirred, and I hitched myself up in the bunk. I could hear movements. Slowly, awareness came to me. I was in a clean, well-blanketed bunk, on some kind of boat. Not a very big boat, for the deck was right above my head and the bottom was right below me.

What boat was this, and where was I? Who was I? I considered that for a minute and then said aloud, “Jean Daniel Talon.”

A voice exclaimed, and the curtain over the door drew back.

A girl stood there, a very small girl with a very tiny figure, dark hair and eyes—very serious eyes now—and parted lips. She was pretty, very pretty.

She wore a fringed buckskin skirt and a calico blouse. She had moccasins on her feet.

“You're awake!”

“Either that, or you're a dream,” I said.

She blushed. “You're awake,” she said dryly. “Now you're hungry, no?”

“Now I am hungry, yes,” I said. “But first, tell me where I am, what boat this is, and who you are.”

“You're on the Missouri River. This is my father's keelboat, and I am my father's daughter.”

“How did I get here? What happened?”

“You were hit on the head several times. Two cuts, many abrasions and scratches. You were shot…a furrow through your scalp. You can part your hair in the middle now, if you like.”

“How did you save me?”

“We were coming upriver, not stopping in St. Louis. We heard some yells, some scuffling, and a shot, and then we saw a bunch of men on the end of a boat, and not long after that we saw you in the water. I reached over and grabbed you by the collar.

“Pa kept going and I held on. When we hit a straight stretch of river, Pa lashed the rudder, and he come for'rd and helped me pull you in.”

“That was last night?”

“That was five days ago, come suppertime.”

“Five days!”

Tabitha would be gone. The steamboat would be long gone. My friends would think me dead.

“You saved my life, and for that I thank you, and I thank your father.”

She canted her head on one side and looked at me. “You are hungry now? You must be hungry.”

“I am ravenous. I could eat you.”

She made a face. “I am not edible. Nor would my father like it. I am his crew.”

“You? You're too small!”

“I am
not!
” She stuck out her chest. It was a very nice chest. “I am strong! I am formidable!”

“And I am hungry. We decided that.”

“And I am sorry! At once!”

I put my head back on the pillow and looked up at the underpinning of the deck. It was good work, done with nails, of course. I prefer pegs and fitted joints. Nails, well, they are a convenience, but for fine work…

There were heavy steps on the deck, and a man came down the ladder and stopped at the bottom, his hands still on the ladder, staring at me.