His talent, intelligence, and ability led him into politics where he supported reforms in the ham-handed way the federal government administered the territory. In this pursuit, he was seated on a grand jury that investigated the role of certain government-appointed justices. Subsequently he helped pen a presentment to the Congress in Washington City, asking that judges be required to live among those whose lives they presided over, that taxpayers in the territory have a role in determining their taxation as well as which laws were passed, and demanding better determination of land title.
Such activism, of course, brought him to Manuel Lisa’s attention. Luttig’s understanding of business, ledgers, accounts, and his skills as a clerk made him perfect for the perilous 1812 expedition upriver.
Luttig stared up in surprise from his papers, illuminated as they were by candlelight. Cunningham was grinning. The three Indians were staring about, wide-eyed and whispering to themselves.
The men were dressed in an unfamiliar manner, their hair cut short and unkempt in comparison to the usual Indian predilection for fancy roaches, ornate coiffure, and highly oiled and primped styles. Nor had they painted their faces for the occasion and donned their best, but looked rugged, muscular, with breechcloths of soft leather and what looked like mountainsheep-hide cloaks hanging from their shoulders.
“Will! I thought you’d be long gone for the mountains,” Luttig cried as he rose to his feet and extended his hand.
“Reckon I’m just a right fast coon. Been there and back. I brung ye a passel of trade, too.” He gestured. “These be Snakes, John. Come ter trade. They got tanned buffalo calf hides the likes of which ye never seen. Six large packs. Tanned white. Soft. The sort that will raise eyebrows back home.”
Luttig stared. “Snakes? From the far mountains? How did they know to come here?”
“Happenstance, coon. Tylor and I got jumped by Arapaho. Got plumb serious. Had our bacon saved by ol’ Gray Bear, here, and his friends. Figger’d to repay the favor. Whar’s the booshway?”
“Upriver. Dealing with that ugly business with the Big Bellies.”
Cunningham’s expression pinched the slightest bit. “Got a problem. The Snakes, here, they got fine hides. But they want guns, John. We willing ter make that trade? Or do ye need the booshway’s okay on that?”
“Let me see the hides, and I’ll—”
“We got ’nuther problem. Worked out slicker’n grease on a doorknob, us sneaking in here. Most of the Sioux and ’Ricara is out picking berries, cherries, and plums. We’s able to wind our way around them. Come close ter gettin’ spotted a couple o’ times. Sneaked into the post after dark ’cause we don’t want none of these other coons to know we’s here. Snakes is prime prey in this country. And they’re rich. I mean it when I say them hides is prime. And John, if’n we trade for rifles, ye ’tarnal well know that half the Injuns in the country’s gonna be after the Snakes and me.”
“Will, what are you asking of me?”
“I want ter make this trade. Get ’er done. Come sunup, this child wants t’ be well shut of the river and making tracks back to the Snake camp. After that, we got a passel of riled ’Rapaho gonna want our hair. Catch my drift hyar?”
Luttig ran a hand through his hair. “These hides better be damned outstanding. You know what a rifle is worth in trade up here?”
“Reckon I do, coon. Now, help me get these packs in. Way I figger it, I’d trade these hides fer ten guns, shot, and powder.”
Luttig started, then laughed. “You’re out of your mind.”
Cunningham gave him a challenging grin. “C’mon, John. Help me with these packs, and then we’ll see.”
Luttig did. Helping the burly Snake men as they carted in heavy pack after heavy pack. He’d seen the like. As fine as the best English or Massachusetts tanneries. These weren’t coarse hides, but calves. Thin, light, and supple. All were finished in a remarkable, almost snowy white.
“Reckon they used that clay up White River,” Cunningham told him after signing back and forth with the leader, the one called Gray Bear.
Then came the bargaining, conducted over the guttering candle as it burned low.
In the end, Luttig cried, “Whose side are you on here?”
Cunningham grinned, replying, “Coon, ye want the Snake trade all wrapped up fer Manuel? Or d’ ye want ’em heading west to them British posts on the Columbia? They’s talk that Lord Selkirk’s building a post on Red River just north of the border, too.”
Luttig rubbed his face, aware that the Shoshoni men were watching him with keen black eyes. What the hell would Manuel do? But in his heart, he knew. Lisa would be willing to cut his profits in the front end, knowing damn well that he could make it up down the road.
“Deal,” Luttig muttered, extending his hand.
After finalizing the trade, Luttig stood in the cool night, hearing the sounds of the river, frogs, crickets, and the hum of night insects. A wealth of stars frosted the velvet black above as Will Cunningham, the three Snake men, and their horses walked slowly out of Lisa’s burgeoning new trading post and headed west into the uplands.
They left with ten rifles, twenty pounds of powder, lead, and the necessary molds. Each warrior carried his rifle across his horse’s withers. The rest of the guns rode wrapped in an oilcloth and tied atop one of the scrubby-looking packhorses.
“Will, God help you if any of the local Indians around here figure out that you’ve got those rifles. They’d turn this country upside down to get their hands on them.”
CHAPTER 13
Dawson McTavish, twenty-three, sat hunched with his arse on a fallen cottonwood log, his hands busy with a needle and thread as he sought to repair a seam where his shirtsleeve was coming loose at the shoulder. He squinted in the firelight, carefully running his needle through the heavy stroud.
“Scary being on the west bank of the Missouri. Think we’ll find the Tetons before the Arikara find us?” Joseph Aird asked thoughtfully as he shifted the pot on the fire in an attempt to get it boiling for tea. His nineteen-year-old face had a worried look as he crouched before the crackling flames. His shirt was decorated with the beaded flower patterns common to the north woods.
Their camp was located in the floodplain of a small creek that flowed east to the Missouri. The location was screened by thick cottonwoods, brush, and scrubby oak trees. The fire could only be seen from close at hand. The picket line, with its horses, was tied off so as to be out of sight of anyone on the terraces to the north or south.
The fact that they were crossing through Arikara territory made their plight perilous. On the one hand, the Rees were currently at peace with the Teton Sioux. On the other—with only four in McTavish’s party, plus the two packhorses loaded with gifts for the Teton Sioux chiefs, not to mention their personal rifles and supplies—who would notice if they were mysteriously murdered and their belongings turned up scattered among a handful of Arikara lodges?
Besides, the Rees could guilelessly claim that there was a war being fought, and a few missing British traders in American territory were just part of the arithmetic.
Overhead, heart-shaped cottonwood leaves rattled with the night breeze blowing down from the west. Looking up, Dawson could see the fire’s yellow tinge reflected there.
An owl hooted from somewhere upstream, which immediately brought Matato and Wasichu to full attention. Both of the Santee Dakota had tensed, hands going to their medicine bundles where they hung from thongs at their necks. Most Sioux thought owls were messengers of misfortune. Silly damned superstition that it was.
“What do you think for tomorrow?” Dawson asked, hoping to distract Matato. The tall Sioux warrior stood right at six feet. He was related to Totowin, Robert Dickson’s Whapeton Dakota wife. Given his kinship to her, not to mention his cousins among the Teton, Matato—along with his younger counterpart, Wasichu, or “White man”—were the perfect key to unlock access to the western Sioux.
“We need to be up at dawn. Traveling slow.”
Matato glanced back at the darkness, fingers still on the medicine bundle. “This time of year? People are out. It is the moon when the berries come ripe. Back this far from the river, with as few buffalo as we’ve seen, it is not likely that we will run into hunting parties. But we could still be found. We need to stay to the low places.”
“No telling what the Tetons are gonna be like,” Joseph muttered, as he wiped at his nose with a finger and tossed a small bundle of tea into the water as it began to boil.
Joseph was Dawson’s best friend, boon companion, and worshipful subordinate. They’d grown up together, traveling with their fathers from fur post to fur post. In Dawson’s eyes, Joseph was the little brother he’d never had. They’d been inseparable for years now.
Dawson made his last stitch, pulled the thread tight, and tied the knot. Then he bit the thread off. “There. Ought to hold until I can trade for a better one among the Teton.”
Again the owl hooted, closer this time, causing everyone to jump.
“Bit spooky, huh?” Joseph asked as he used a fold of cloth to keep from burning his hand on the hot handle as he moved the teapot back from the fire to sit and steep.
“Didn’t seem so scary back in camp at the Falls of St. Anthony. Sounded like a right high adventure. ‘Be my agents,’ Robert says. ‘I need you to travel west, across the Missouri. Rally the Dakota to the Crown.’ ”
“Didn’t think that black-hearted Lisa would be upriver. You heard the talk before we left. All that palaver that Missouri Fur Company was broke. British trade boycotted. Nobody figured the damn Americans could put together a trading party.”
“Well, that greasy old Manuel Lisa did. And now, here we are. Slipping around out here in fear of our lives instead of arriving like lords of the dance at the Sioux camps.”
Matato said, “You worry too much, British.”
“Just hope we find the right Sioux camp,” Dawson added. “Wouldn’t do to be seen sneaking in and find out later that your kin were all away hunting buffalo someplace else.”
Matato chuckled at that. “Robert Dickson is family. Makes you family, too. Dickson asked me to keep you out of trouble. This I will do. Once we find Crooked Hand’s village, all will be well. But we must find him first. If Lisa has been here, he will have sent presents to Chief Black Buffalo. He is a respected leader. Many will listen to him. If we can reach Crooked Hand, he can make our path smooth, perhaps even talk Black Buffalo and his band into joining us.”
Matato could not have been a better choice to accompany the mission. He’d been with Robert Dickson for years. Had traveled to Montreal and Quebec. Understood how important it was for the South West Fur Company to keep the Americans at bay. Especially with the North West Company and Hudson’s Bay Company tearing each other apart up in the north. Drive the Americans out of the Upper Missouri, and that entire fur trade would be the South West Company’s to profit from.
The only obstacle was Manuel Lisa.
Dawson was considering that as he watched the steam rise from the pot of tea. Once their stash of leaves was gone, with the war on, he wondered when he’d get another good cup. Have to make do with local substitutes, he suspected.
It wasn’t an owl this time, but a voice. “Hallo the camp!”
Dawson lost himself in the scramble to pull up his rifle—a once-fine Philip Bond of London gun of sixty caliber. Over the years it had taken a beating, but still shot straight.
“Who comes?” Dawson called.
“Fenway McKeever! I’m a friend, laddie.”
“What kind of friend?”
“The kind that’s damn happy t’ have found ye. I bin’ oot looking for some of Robert Dickson’s agents. Bless me fer being me poor mother’s son, but I think I found ye.”
“Come in, but you’d better be alone.”
“Aye, laddie. I’m alone, and sore for the sight of yer likes.” From behind the brush, a solitary figure emerged, stepping forward with his hands up.
The man who eased into the firelight was big, thickly muscled through the shoulders, his face and hands freckled, sun-reddened, and his green eyes hard and knowing. He was dressed in muddy and torn rags that barely qualified as clothes. Worn boots, separated at the sole, shod his feet. Thick red hair had been gathered into a ponytail that hung down his back.
“What happened to you?” Joseph Aird asked.
“Manuel Lisa happened to me, laddie.” The big man lowered his hands. “Him and a mon named John Tylor. But that’s a story for another time. I heard ye mention Robert, that’d be Dickson, eh? Yer working for South West Fur Company. Sent by Dickson to ally the tribes to the British cause. Deny the Americans their hold on the Upper Missouri?”
“And if we are?” Dawson asked, his rifle still at the ready.
Where he sat slightly to the side, Matato had slipped his knife from his belt, holding it low beside his leg as he gathered his feet beneath him, ready to spring. Wasichu, having read his fellow Sioux’s subtle signs, had shifted to the left. The young man’s hand had found his war club.
“I serve John Jacob Astor, who owns South West Fur Company in association with William McGillivray. Ye ever heard o’ him?”
“Of course. I was born in the trade. I’m third cousin to Robert McTavish, of the NorthWest Company. Through my mother, my other cousin is Robert Dickson,” Dawson claimed.
“Ach, an ’tis good I found ye. I got here by way of the North West Company meself, and the XY Company before that. Me job was to spy on Manuel Lisa, and if possible, wreck his expedition. I was betrayed. Which, sorry to say, leads me to this state of squalor.”
Joseph shot Dawson a questioning glance.
Dawson said, “I never heard any of this.”
“So Robert Dickson’s yer cousin, eh, laddie? D’ye think he told you ever’thing he’s aboot? Perhaps give ye an inside to his plans for his Indian troops what he be marching east to fight the Americans? I reckon not. Ye, see, it’s the things ye don’t know that can get ye killed.”
“And you’d know these things?” Joseph asked uneasily.
“Aye.” The big Scotsman grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “And, laddie, ye’d best order yer Indian, here, t’ let that knife drop. If’n he’d make a wrong move, I’d have to take it away from him and shove it sideways up his arse. Same with the young laddie yonder and his war club.”
Dawson made the desist gesture with his hand. Something about Fenway McKeever indicated that, unarmed and ragged as he might appear, the threat wasn’t empty.
“If you’re an agent sent by Astor, why’d you want to wreck Lisa’s expedition? Astor’s an American, too.”
“Aye, one with a financial interest in fur companies like yers, laddie. Ye think he could care who wins this war? When it’s all over, he wants the American Fur Company in control. Right now, the Missouri Fur Company stands firm in his way. Has blocked him every time. What better excuse than a war to be rid of it? It’s aboot owning the trade. Governments can go play with the devil.”
Dawson hesitated. Something about the man sent a shiver up his back. Still, he was a Scot. His words about the North West Company and the XY Company before it rang with truth. The fight between them had been as vicious as that between the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Nor’westers that was currently being fought out in Canada’s plains, forests, and prairies.
“Ye kin shoot me . . . or let me have a cup of that marvelous smelling tea, laddie. Make yer choice.” The green eyes had narrowed.
Dawson, still nervous, wondering if he was making a mistake, tossed the man a cup. “Do come and join us.”
As the big Scot sat, Matato was slowly shaking his head. The feeling Dawson had was like a giant cobra had just coiled itself in their midst.
CHAPTER 14
“Kuchu’na,” Singing Lark said.
“Kootsoo nah.” Tylor tried to pronounce the syllables.
“Kuch,” Singing Lark corrected, emphasizing the ch. “Kuchu’na.”
Tylor repeated the word as he looked
out at the grazing kuchu’na. The word meant buffalo. The herd consisted of cows, calves, and a couple of young bulls. Fifty-six of them in total. They dotted the gentle grassy slope to the west, upwind. Not more than a quarter of a mile away.
He fingered his rifle, wondering if it was worth trying to sneak close, shoot one. The camp could use the meat.
From where he and Singing Lark sat on the grassy rise, he could worm his way down, ease along the shallow bottom, and come up just under the slope where the bison grazed. Crawling up the drainage, he could rise, take a knee, and have enough clearance above the grass. Close enough for a solid fifty-yard heart shot.
They were a couple of miles east of the Shoshoni camp, having ridden out on a scout. Singing Lark had invited him, asking him to leave the hawk in Aspen Branch’s care. Five Strikes and Turns His Back had objected to his leaving camp with the girl, but Aspen Branch’s snapped rebuke had silenced them. Then the old woman had waved Tylor and Singing Lark out of camp. Odd that the old woman would blithely entrust an attractive young girl into the care of an unknown and completely foreign man. No wonder the others had disapproved.
On the other hand, maybe the old woman, with her Spirit possession, was able to see into Tylor’s soul, read his character. Knew that his particular chivalry wouldn’t allow any impropriety with the bright and charming Singing Lark.
That, or it was a test, and Kestrel Wing and Five Strikes had circled around, were waiting to see if he’d try anything inappropriate.
No, that was silly and way too elaborate and convoluted for the people he’d been living with for the last week.
Seemed like every time Tylor turned around, Singing Lark was making use of the moment to question him, tease him, watch him. As if fascinated. That her preoccupation with him annoyed all the others except Aspen Branch was obvious. Tylor did his best to treat the girl with respect. Went out of his way to answer her questions, laughed at her jests at his expense.
Flight of the Hawk: The Plains Page 6