“Bon jour, mes amis!” Big John called. “Vous êtes prêtes d’aller à la chasse?”
“Oui, nous sommes prêtes, McTavish!” cried one.
“Quel bois brûle n’est pas toujours prêt, eh?” added another.
“Turcotte dit que t’as amené un etranger à la chasse!” shouted a man named Remi. “Sacre bleu! Il est monté presqu’aussi bien qu’un bois brûle!”
The others laughed and Big John glanced at Pike. “They be agreein’ with me, Mister Pike, that ye ride like a Métis. ’Tis a fine compliment they’re payin’ ye, ye understand?”
“Tell them that not even the Comanches ride as well as they do,” Pike instructed. “Tell them it was an honor to see such horsemanship.”
Big John nodded his approval, and, after translating Pike’s compliments, he watched the pleasure come into the eyes of the mixed-bloods. Remi stood in his stirrups, announcing in his choppy English: “You will be guests this night, Big John. In my lodge we will smoke the pipe, yes, and the feast, you and me and this American. My woman, yes, she good cooks. This you know. Now I go hunt. The finest meat I will hunt.”
“Oui!” shouted a man Big John recognized but couldn’t name. “We will hunt, then tonight we will celebrate with a dance!”
“Oui, a celebration,” said another, then whirled his pony to make a dash for the Pembina. Perhaps a dozen others followed him, the air loud with shouted promises and friendly ribbings.
“They’re after meat,” Big John explained to Pike. “For the celebration.”
“What are they celebrating?”
“Yeself, mostly, and the way ye ride, but also the compliment ye paid ’em. Not that they need much of an excuse to bring out the flute and the fiddle. ’Tis a poor hunter’s life we live here, but rich in our own ways, and ready to celebrate at the drop of a hat like true bois brûle.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Big John laughed. “I’m Métis in spirit, Mister Pike, if not in blood. I wouldn’t trade me life here for the finest mansion in Montreal.”
“A satisfied man’s a rare thing,” Pike said. “Tell me about the celebration.”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t be countin’ on much to fill ye belly. Remi’s a fine hunter, as he’d not hesitate to tell ye, but I’m thinkin’ ’tis old pemmican ye’ll be eatin’ tonight if ye stay. As for meself, I’ll be home in bed.” He flashed a grin. “The spirit’s Métis, Mister Pike, but the body is Scottish. It demands its rest.”
Pike nodded. “I reckon I’ll ride back with you.”
“Ye’ll be welcome, and just as well. There’ll be little ones who’ll need any meat the hunters bring in. Ye’ll offend no one if ye don’t stay.”
They rode in silence for the remainder of the way and the Métis who hadn’t crossed the river to hunt began veering off to the side to talk among themselves. Big John heard Paget’s name mentioned several times, and knew they were discussing the upcoming elections.
As they neared the village the Métis suddenly put their ponies into a run, racing for the lodges with neither preamble nor farewell. Watching them, listening to their fading shouts, Big John was reminded of children caught up in the unbridled happiness of being who they were, where they were. The spirit was contagious and he glanced at Pike and laughed, but the American’s visage was grim as he eyed the bustling village, and he barely acknowledged Big John’s gesture. Once again, Big John wondered what had brought this iron-barked little mountain man so far from his usual haunts.
They entered the village at a walk, riding past rough-housing children and skulking, half-wild dogs that growled menacingly as they passed. Among these more northern Métis, Big John McTavish was nothing more than a retired trader in a distant land, a person they seldom saw except when they ventured south for a hunt.
The women ignored them and went about their chores, chatting in French and michif—that language made up of equal parts bastardized French, English, Gaelic, Chippewa, Cree, Assiniboine, and their own indigenous creations. The men lounged in whatever shade they could find, talking, gambling, swapping, telling tales that may or may not have been true. Many of them waved or called a greeting, for even a retired trader could be known and respected. But none of them rose or came forward to shake his hand. That village courtesy had already been extended by the horsemen who had ridden out to greet him and Pike along the Pembina Trail.
There were carts everywhere among the smoky-brown lodges, moving slowly but noisily beneath loads of firewood and teepee poles, spare axles, extra spokes, and wooden cassettes filled with personal belongings. Those carts not in use were lined up in a rough circle around the camp. Shortly before nightfall the livestock would be driven inside and the rest of the carts wheeled into the gaps. It was a convenience here, a handy way to bunch the horses and oxen for the night, but when they left the relative safety of the valley for the Sioux lands it would become a necessity, a rolling stockade behind which they could take shelter in case of attack.
Spotting a group of men sitting beneath a sprawling oak, Big John drew up. “There’s Paget, the man I came to see, Mister Pike. Ye’re welcome to sit in on the parley if ye’d like.”
“No, I reckon I’ll mosey around some,” Pike replied. “Maybe I’ll see someone I know.” He reined toward a group of nearby lodges, his right hand sliding back to cover the lock of his rifle.
Big John’s shoulders sagged in understanding. “Ah, then ’tis blood that brought ye among us, eh?” He watched a while longer, then reined away.
As Big John neared the knot of men gathered beneath the oak, Paget suddenly stood up and shouted: “Bon jour, Big John! Welcome to thee fall rendezvous.”
“Ha, Paget, ye English improves! Bon jour, mon ami.”
“Alwees, Big John, alwees.”
“Bon jour, McTavish!” the others called, punctuating their greetings with nods and smiles.
“Have ye spoke with René Turcotte yet?” Big John asked, drawing rein.
“Oui, thees morning he comes to see thee priest for thee blessing, non? He say you might come to see me.”
“Aye, if ye’ve the time.”
“But of course, Big John. Come, we go to my lodge.”
Paget stepped clear of the circle of men and made his way toward a small, ten-hide lodge as brown as river mud. Big John dismounted to walk beside him. “The rendezvous grows, Paget.”
“Every yeer a leetle more. Soon eet will be too big.”
“There’s some as would say it’s already too big.”
Paget grinned but declined to be pulled into the debate. He already knew how McTavish felt about big hunts that scared the buffalo farther onto the plains.
Making themselves comfortable beside a struggling fire, Paget added kindling, then nudged a small, fire-blackened tea kettle closer to the flames. Lifting a buckskin gage d’amour from around his neck, he withdrew a short clay pipe from its loops, then flipped the quilled cover back to pull out a pinch of tobacco.
“We will smoke thee pipe first, eh,” he said, carefully packing the bowl. When he was satisfied, he handed the pouch to Big John, then leaned forward to light his smoke with a twig from the fire.
Paget was a Métis, which meant he was short and wiry and tough as bull-hide, quick to laugh and just as quick to anger. He was an excellent horseman, a fair shot, a trapper and hunter, and occasionally a trader among the full-bloods, most notably the Crees among whom he had relatives. He was a sometime smuggler of furs, as well, although most of them weren’t any more. Hudson’s Bay had held a monopoly on British pelts for more than one hundred and fifty years, but it was the Americans now, as it had once been the Nor’Westers, who offered the best prices.
Paget’s woman came out of their lodge with her eyes cast toward the ground. She set a pair of dented tin mugs beside her husband’s knee, then, using her apron as a pot holder, she pulled the kettle from the flames to fill both mugs. She handed the first to Big John, the second to Paget, then returned to her lodge without having spoken a wor
d.
“Two caravans, eh?” Paget said absently, fussing with the contents of his pipe.
“Mine and yours, Paget.”
“Non, not mine, Big John. And not yours, too. No man owns thee bois brûles.”
“Ye’ll be leadin’ this year, I’m thinkin’,” Big John argued mildly.
“That ees for thee tribe to decide. I will lead only eef they ask.”
They’d ask, Big John knew. He thought Paget knew it, too.
“Turcotte, he say you find le bison on thee Mouse Rivière, no?”
“Aye, so says the American,” Big John said. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with the stem of his pipe. “Tell me, Paget, if ye do lead, what route do ye think ye’d be takin’?”
“Ees not up to me,” Paget replied. “I am not thee capitaine.”
“Aye, but I said if.”
Paget grinned and shook his head. “Big John, you are so… what? Hurried, eh? Impatient. But ees all right. We are friends. So, you see them on thee Mouse when? Four day ago? Five day? Heading toward les maisons des chiens? Five day, that ees long time for le bison to travel. So me? I theenk Lac du Diable, then maybe we go west from there. Oui. Maybe that, eef I am thee capitaine, but thee others must agree by vote.”
Big John nodded, satisfied with the answer. If Paget led, he would take his hunters southwest to Devil’s Lake before turning straight west toward the buffalo ranges. It was a good thing to know.
“’Tis the route we’d be wantin’ to take ourselves, providin’ we beat ye to the Ridge Trail,” Big John said casually.
“Oui, thees I already know. But I do not theenk you will beat us this year. René says all thee hunters are not een. Ees true?”
“Aye, another day, I’m thinkin’. Maybe two.”
“A last group comes today from thee White Horse Plain. Tonight then we weell hold thee election. Then we leave. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe thee next day.”
Big John nodded, puffing furiously on his pipe. Charlo had been wrong about when the Pembina buffalo men would be ready to pull out. It meant they would beat the Tongue River hunters to the Ridge Trail by a day, at least, giving them access to an already well-established route that would be quicker and easier to follow. If the Tongue River caravan followed the same route, they would find the deadwood gone, the game run off.
“We’ll be north of ye then, most like, but not far. Can we count on ye, Paget, in case of the Sioux?”
“But of course, Big John, and us on thee. We are brothers, non?”
“Oui,” Big John agreed. “Frères.”
“Eff I am elected, Big John, I weell send riders north. You weell do thee same to thee south then, yes?”
“Aye, no more than a day or two horseback between us.” Both groups would send out scouts to look for buffalo as they penetrated deeper into the high plains, and to keep a wary eye peeled for the Sioux, who were familiar with the habits of the Métis and would likely be waiting for them, looking for a chance to cause some mischief. It would be to the benefit of both parties to stay close enough to one another that their scouts, riding long loops to the north and south, would occasionally cross paths. That way, they would be close enough to help if the need arose, yet far enough away not to interfere with each other’s hunt.
Big John said: “Have ye heard of the American’s misfortune with the Chippewas, Paget?”
“Oui, I have heard. Ees bad, that, no?”
“My own thinkin’, aye,” he said, then added cautiously: “It could mean war. If not this year, then the next, or the followin’. ’Tis a thing they’re not likely to forget.”
After a moment’s reflection, Paget said: “I do not theenk that weell happen. We are friends, us and thee Chippewas. I have traded weeth them many times.”
“Aye, I’ve traded with ’em a time or two meself, Paget, and some afore ye was born, no doubt. I do not need to be told of the Chippewas, plains or woods.”
Paget shrugged. “Then ees as you say, eh.”
“Aye.” Big John sighed in defeat. Paget was like the others, the younger ones who did not remember the early, bloody years; he refused to see what should have been clear to them all, and Big John was damned if he knew how to make them.
Paget lifted his tin mug and sipped noisily, then jerked it away. “Ah, sacre démon,” he swore. “Ees too hot yet, that stupeed woman.” He set the cup aside with obvious disgust. “You weell eat, eh, Big John?”
“Have ye some to spare?”
“Some cabbri, and rubaboo.”
Big John winced. Rubaboo was a soup made of pemmican and flour. He knew it would sit heavily on his stomach for the rest of the day. But he needed to stay a while to ask after Paget’s family, his summer adventures, his plans for the coming winter. Courtesy demanded as much, and, besides, it would be good to just sit and talk for a spell, to learn what was new along the Assiniboine River where Paget lived. And the half-blood would tell him everything, Big John knew. Aye, he was Métis, and a born gossip.
* * * * *
Alec was waiting at Murphy’s with a cart when Big John guided his roan up the slippery path from the Pembina and rode around to the front of the trading post. He stepped down and hitched the dripping horse to a rail, then loosened the cinch. The cart sat nearby with its shafts resting on the ground. Alec had unhitched the ox without removing its harness, then unsaddled and hobbled the spotted Indian pony he rode before turning both animals loose to graze. He was sitting in the shade of the front wall when Big John approached, smoking his pipe and whittling on a piece of cottonwood. Looking up with a cocky grin, he said: “I did not think you would come, Big John. I thought this year I would have to get credit on my own.”
“Ye did, did ye?” Alec stood and Big John ruffled his hair, ignoring the look of annoyance that crossed the youth’s face.
They waited together while Pike reined in at the rail and dismounted. To the east, Big John could see what was left of Alexander Henry’s old trading post, built near the turn of the century. It had been a North West Company post then, and had still been standing when Big John first came to the valley.
After the Company abandoned it, others tore it apart for the timber. Over the past thirty or forty years there had been quite a few trading posts built along the Red River. Most of them were gone now, with only the base logs—those too rotten to carry off—remaining as artifacts of a bygone era.
Coming into the shade, Pike pushed his old, sway-brimmed hat off the back of his head, letting it hang between his shoulders by a drawstring. His forehead was as white as a catfish’s belly above the line of his hatband, the hair flat and straight and parted in the middle. Big John noticed that it was considerably less gray and tangled than that which was normally exposed to the wind and sun.
“Pembina Post,” Big John explained, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “’Tis here we’ll be gettin’ what powder and lead and such we’ll need for the hunt… assumin’ the man treats us fair. I’ll no stand for a skinnin’, not with a Hudson’s Bay post only a short ride north, across the border in Rupert’s Land.”
They went inside to the counter. Big John leaned against it as if it were a bar in a Montreal tavern, while the trader, Murphy, haggled with a trio of Métis over a pile of rough-looking summer furs.
It was hot inside the low-ceilinged room, and, even with the shuttered windows thrown open to admit the breeze, the air was satiated with the odors of pelts and tallow, wood smoke and tobacco. Big John idly contemplated the shelves bolted to the rear wall, filled to overflowing with blankets and hats and beads, cups and kettles and tea bricks, and pigs of lead and kegs of gunpowder, fire steels and boxes of rifle flints, and bolts of calico and trade wool, corduroy, and broadcloth—half a hundred items to catch the eye of a hunter and his woman.
A rack of long guns was filled mostly with fusils, although there were a couple of better-quality trade rifles among them, and one decent-looking used Kentucky rifle with a little decorative brass. A pair of mismatched pistols lay on the shelf be
neath the gun rack. Except for one of the pistols, everything sported a flintlock ignition. It seemed only Big John really trusted the newer percussion systems.
In appearance, Pembina Post wasn’t all that different from the hundreds of other small trading outfits operating along the frontier—a large room divided lengthwise by a heavy plank counter, with all the trade goods on the back wall, out of reach of filching hands. A curtained door led to a storeroom; another led to the personal quarters Murphy shared with a Chippewa woman named Alice. The post was strangely uncrowded, though, considering the size of the encampment across the river. Big John would have expected the customer side of the room to have been packed with Métis, waiting their turn to pick up some last-minute item they’d forgotten to bring along from Fort Douglas, or to buy something only the Americans carried.
The three mixed-bloods stood in stony silence while Murphy flipped through their catch of skins, clucking his tongue at the poor quality of the pelts. His opinion was obvious, but then, he was a trader; Big John knew he would quibble with all but the finest furs. Murphy had glanced up as Big John, Pike, and Alec entered the store, but had only nodded indifferently before turning back to the bartering at hand. Now he slapped the last pelt back on the pile and made a quick sign with his hands.
“Sacre bleu!” the Métis exploded. “Vous nous trompez!”
“Speak English, dammit,” Murphy growled. “You know I don’t savvy that parley-voo lingo.” He looked at Big John. “What’s he sayin’, Big John?”
“He says ye be cheatin’ him, Murph. He says if ye do not come up with a better deal than what ye’re offerin’ in sign there, he’ll be takin’ his butcher knife and carvin’ ye a new mouth… under ye chin. He figures maybe it’ll track a little straighter than the one ye’re usin’ now.”
“He thinks so, huh?” Murphy glanced at the furious Métis, then back at Big John. “You reckon he means it?”
“Aye,” Big John replied gravely. “I’d say he does, and he’s got friends that look willin’ to help, too.”
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