Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  “Well, hell! All right, tell him another keg of powder, but that’s it. Tell him.”

  “Well, sure, but do ye think it wise to offer the man powder without throwin’ in the extra lead he’ll need to cast bullets for it?” Big John asked mildly.

  Murphy’s eyes widened. “Lord A’mighty, Big John! What are you trying to do to me?”

  “Give him the lead, Murph. ’Tis a fair trade.”

  “For summer skins! Hell, he’s lucky I even allow ’em in the store.” Murphy looked away, then heaved a sigh. “All right,” he conceded. “I guess they’re worth that.” He turned to the Métis, his hands flashing as he offered an extra six-and-a-quarter-pound keg of gunpowder and fifteen pounds of lead for the furs. The Métis hesitated only a moment, then quickly nodded. His eyes were bright as he watched Murphy set a small wooden keg of gunpowder and three five-pound lead ingots on the counter next to the bricks of tea, cloth, and a couple of muskrat traps already there. Grabbing an armful of skins, he dumped them on the floor behind the counter to be sorted later.

  Gathering their supplies, the Métis headed for the door. The one who had done the trading paused next to Big John. “You good friend, McTavish,” he said in English so broken it was hard to follow. “Friend to bois brûle.”

  “Take ye furs to Hudson’s Bay next time,” Big John said sternly. “Or smuggle ’em down to Saint Peters, on the Mississippi. Hudson’s Bay people will horsewhip ye if they catch ye tradin’ British furs to the Americans in their own back yard.”

  The Métis grinned, revealing a row of blackened teeth. “No, McTavish. Hudson’s Bay no wants these furs. They summer skins.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Murphy said wonderingly. “You were behind this all along, weren’t you, McTavish?”

  Big John laughed as the Métis scuttled through the door. “No, Murphy, I wasn’t. I don’t know the man, and I wouldn’t have pulled such a stunt even if I had.”

  “He knew you.”

  “Well, and sure, but ye’ve got to remember there’s not too many Scotsmen livin’ this far south. ’Tis not a surprise that he would’ve known me for that reason alone.”

  “Just the same, you might’ve slickered me on that deal, but you won’t do it again.”

  “I’m not here to slicker, nor to be slickered. ’Tis credit I’m needin’, for the hunt.”

  “Credit! You set me up with that damn’ ’breed, and now you’re asking for credit, as if every damn’ buffalo hunter in the valley hasn’t already done the same.”

  “’Tis the way of the valley, Murph, and without it ye’d not have the fine robes ye get to resell to American Fur. Now, what are ye payin’ for robes this year?”

  “I’m paying in beaver, same as always,” Murphy groused. “Three and a half dollars American equals a pound of beaver.”

  “I know how the system works. I’m askin’ what ye’re payin’.”

  “Three quarters of a beaver for a silk robe, a quarter for common, a tenth for poor, unless they’re too bad. I won’t take a robe that’s nearly ripped through or poorly tanned.”

  “By the Lord, man, I’d as soon trade with Hudson’s Bay as sell that dear,” Big John thundered. “’Tis a full beaver I’ll be havin’ for my silkies, and not a penny less.”

  “That’s top dollar,” Murphy protested. “American Fur wouldn’t pay that, not if they had to come up here for it.”

  “Ye’re not much of a trader if ye cannot do better than a beaver for a good silk, rare as they be. One beaver, Murph, and half for common.”

  “Half! Hell, I won’t do it. Take your robes to Hudson’s Bay, McTavish. I’ve already been fleeced once today.”

  “Ye think I won’t, and take half the Métis with me?”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

  “Ye damned well better believe it is.”

  “Damn a tight-fisted Scotsman,” Murphy grated. “All right, one beaver’s credit for silks, providing they’re tanned top-notch, and half for common, but I’ll still pay no more than a tenth for a poor robe. Unless you’re wanting my arm or leg, too?”

  “Poor’s poor, I say, and not worth the space it takes in a cart. Ye’ll get none of those from us, and thank ye kindly, Murph, but no. I’m satisfied with me own arm and leg. I will be takin’ some powder and lead from ye, though, and caps for me rifle. Ye carry ’em, don’t ye?”

  “I got caps,” the trader said. From beneath the counter he withdrew a ledger, an inkwell, a couple of quill pens, and a small penknife to sharpen the quills. “Just take your time. I ain’t so handy with these things.”

  Big John didn’t need much. He was a thrifty man, and not one to throw away or lose what had taken hard work and risk to acquire. He bought powder and lead and an extra bullet mold for Alec’s fusil, some tobacco and salt and tea, and a dozen good, straight-grained hickory ramrods to replace those he’d break on the hunt. For trading, he got some awls and gunflints, a gross of red-handled butcher knives, fifteen fathoms of tobacco, and one hundred paper-backed trade mirrors. He took some beads and clay pipes and fire steels, of course, but shied away from larger items, such as kettles. He still had three good, used fusils from last year’s hunt. Although he didn’t trade much any more, he liked to have a few items on hand. He’d bought his way out of a tight spot with various plains tribes more than once in the past.

  “Is that it?” Murphy asked when Big John finally paused.

  “Not just yet.” He turned to Pike. “’Tis someone here as’ll be needin’ some supplies of his own. He’ll be huntin’ for me this year, so put what he gets on my tab.”

  Murphy nodded to Pike. “A beaver man, huh? Don’t see many of your kind up this way. Saint Louie, now, there’s a place fair crawling with ’em. Forts along the river, too. I spent two years at Fort Atkinson and saw plenty of mountain men there, I’ll tell you.”

  Big John moved away from the counter and put his shoulder against the wall, in imitation of Alec, who had watched the bartering in silence. Down the wall a ways, a Métis man, woman, and two small children were patiently waiting their turn, and from outside there came the squeal of an approaching cart, accompanied by the murmur of several voices. A smile flitted across Big John’s face. He knew Murphy would do a fair business this season, in spite of his squawking over the price of robes.

  It surprised Big John a little that American Fur hadn’t shown up this year, although he didn’t doubt the company would get its share of robes and as much pemmican as it wanted. It was said that old man Astor was the only trader around who could buy a robe once and sell it twice, and Big John figured that was true in spirit, if not practice. Astor lived in New York City now, and probably hadn’t handled a pelt or a buffalo robe in a good many years, save those he wrapped around his lady fair, but he knew how to hire the right men, the ruthless types who were as sharp in a courtroom as they were in the trading room. Sure enough, American Fur was the biggest thorn Hudson’s Bay had in its side since the old North West Company went under, and maybe that was why Big John would rather soak his moccasins in the Pembina to deal with Murphy than ride a few hundred yards to the north and trade with the Bay Company on the English side of the line. Murphy called himself an independent, but Big John would have bet his fall hunt that American Fur was backing him somewhere down the line, whether Murphy knew it or not.

  Pike’s purchases were minimal. He bought powder and lead and flints for his rifle, a couple of twists of tobacco and two pipes, an extra fire steel, and some salt. It wasn’t much, Big John reflected, although a man without a pack animal had to travel light.

  “Is that it?” Murphy asked.

  “No.” Pike glanced at McTavish, then forged ahead. “I want some whiskey, too. The good stuff, not trade alcohol.”

  “I’ve got some high wine. It’s a little better than rotgut, but not much.”

  “I said whiskey.”

  “This ain’t Saint Louie, man. I got a couple bottles of Virginia bourbon, but that’s dear to my hea
rt, and runs a full beaver a bottle.” Pike hesitated, running his tongue lightly over his bottom lip. Seeing that he was about to decline the expense, Big John called across the room: “Aye, and it’ll be dear to our hearts, too! A bottle for Mister Pike, Murphy, and another for me. We’ll be comin’ home in snow, most like, and will be appreciatin’ the likes of a stiff drink.”

  Murphy shrugged and scratched at the ledger with his quill. When he was finished, he looked up expectantly.

  “That’ll do,” Pike said stiffly.

  “McTavish?”

  Big John glanced at Alec, but the boy shook his head. “Aye, Murphy, that’s it. Tally the damages.”

  Scowling deeply, Murphy labored over the figures for some minutes, then said: “That’s thirty-six beaver for everything.”

  Big John sighed. “I know now what the shaggies must feel, havin’ their hides lifted, for ’tis a skinnin’ ye’ve given me, sure. Ye be a bloodthirsty man, Murphy, and I do not see how ye sleep at night.”

  “Fair is fair, and I sleep just fine, thank you. When will you be back?”

  “November, most like. Late or early, I couldn’t say.”

  “Bring me silks, Big John. And pemmican. I’ll take all the pemmican you can supply this year, and match Hudson’s Bay’s price for it.”

  “I hear ye, Murph, but we’ll be bringin’ in what the prairie provides, and nary a horn more.” He pushed away from the wall. “Set what I’ve ordered on the counter there, and I’ll fetch the cart.”

  He went outside with Alec on his heels, then stood beside the roan while the lad went to bring in the ox. A smile came unexpectedly to his face. Stroking the stallion’s neck, he said under his breath: “Ye be a fool, John McTavish, feelin’ like a spring buck to be off ridin’ yon prairies like some wild kid. I would have thought ye’d have outgrown such foolishness.”

  Aye, a fool for sure, he thought, and an old one now, when he used to be just a young one. Whistling, he went to help Alec with the ox.

  Chapter Five

  It was past dusk by the time Pike and McTavish returned to the Tongue River encampment, the hide lodges already aglow with the soft light of the evening fires. Only a handful of people were visible, most of them women, taking care of some last-minute chore. A few men idled around the teepees, but there were no children in sight at all. The hustle of the day was behind them now, the visiting, fiddling, and dancing yet to come.

  “We’ve grown,” McTavish said, nodding toward several new lodges that had sprouted in their absence.

  One of the lodges was just going up. Pike watched curiously as a Métis woman eased her lifting pole into place, then began to work the thinly scraped buffalo hide covering over its skeleton of peeled cedar poles. He estimated there were at least thirty other teepees scattered around the plain, representing anywhere from forty to sixty warriors.

  Easing his horse alongside the lumbering ox, McTavish turned the beast toward the cabin. Alec had long since deserted them, quirting his pony impatiently ahead soon after leaving Pembina Post.

  Isabella appeared at the cabin door as McTavish guided the ox into the yard, her chunky silhouette slimmed down by the glow of lamplight behind her.

  “Here they be,” McTavish announced without dismounting. “Ye and the lass see to the sortin’, will ye?”

  Isabella nodded and came out to take hold of the light chain that dangled from the steer’s nose ring. With her shoulder against the ox’s neck, she guided it toward the door.

  Turning to Pike, Big John said: “I’d best go greet them that came in today. Ye’re welcome to join me, if ye’d like.”

  “I reckon not,” Pike replied. He felt saturated by the day’s events, worn out by the constant noise and chatter of an agitated village readying itself for a big move. “I think I’ll put the bay up, then turn in.”

  “As ye wish,” McTavish said, reining away.

  Isabella stopped the ox with the rear of the cart even with the front door. Walking around back, she wrestled the tailgate off and set it out of the way. Then she hefted a forty-pound leather sack filled with lead ingots over her shoulder, cradled a bundle of ramrods under her other arm, along with a pinewood box of trade mirrors, and carried everything inside without once looking at Pike.

  Pike smiled without malice at the Indian woman’s snubbing. He knew it was just her way, the same as so many other tribes he had dealt with over the years. He was just turning away when an unfamiliar sound caused him to look back. He hauled up abruptly, unprepared for the sight of the young woman standing in the door, staring boldly up at him. She was of average height, her complexion dark without being swarthy—closer, Pike thought, to a creamy shade of chocolate than copper. Her figure was full and firm, obvious even beneath the heavy folds of a wool dress, and her face was nearly flawless. Only a hint of sadness deep within the wells of her eyes marred perfection.

  Is this the daughter, Celine? Pike wondered, then decided it must be.

  Although she stared at him with a quiet intensity, when he nodded a greeting, she quickly dropped her gaze and went around to the rear of the cart. Impulsively he swung down and looped his reins through the cart’s tall, dished wheel. The girl was pulling on one of the robes they’d used to cushion the load, trying to pull it closer. Pike grabbed a handful of the robe, but he didn’t try to move it.

  “It’s too heavy,” he whispered, close enough to see the hair along her face stir beneath his breath.

  Celine let go of the robe but didn’t move away. Nor did she look up or speak. For a minute Pike didn’t know what to do. Then the girl leaned forward to grab several cloth sacks from the rear of the cart and immediately started for the cabin. Pike reached out to touch her shoulder but she twisted away, running a few steps to get out of his reach. Before he could call to her, Isabella appeared at the door. She stepped aside to let Celine pass, then swung back to block the cabin’s entrance with a fist planted firmly on each hip—a stocky gate of determination, firmly latched by the glare in her obsidian eyes. Then, with a loud huff, she came down to pick up another armful of goods. Returning to the cabin, she hooked her elbow behind the door and slammed it shut behind her.

  Pike stood unmoving, staring at the closed door. Then he laughed under his breath and led the bay to the corral beside the open-faced shed. He pulled his saddle off and turned the pony into the enclosure to roll while he forked hay over the railing for the handful of stock McTavish kept penned there. Afterward, he lugged his rig to the windmill and dumped it under the motionless blades.

  This was where he’d slept last night, staring up in fascination at the huge blades, the thinly-scraped rawhide skin made translucent by the light of a nearly full moon. Suddenly curious, he made his way around the octagon-shaped building to the door. It creaked loudly as he pushed it open, releasing a stale odor of dust and abandonment. He stepped inside, but there wasn’t much to see. The single, cavernous room was empty, its grain-dusted floor trackless save for the scurrying trails of mice. The mill itself was in the center of the building—a squared funnel, a pair of iron rollers, a deep bin to catch the flour. A shaft came down through the ceiling into a tangle of cogs and gears. Only the shaft, funnel, and bin were made of wood. Everything else was of iron, no doubt freighted into the valley at a tremendous cost. A couple of mouse-chewed leather sacks lay folded on the floor beside the bin.

  A ladder to the second floor was fastened to the rear wall. Pike climbed it slowly, using the back of his arm to brush away spider webs. He felt like an intruder when he paused with just his head above the level of the second floor.

  This room, too, was all but empty. He went on up to have a closer look around. A thick oak shaft ran from a side wall to the center of the room, where it met the vertical shaft from below in another snarl of cogs, gears, rusting pins, and greased joints. A small gear wheel, a joiner, had been lowered away from the two larger wheels to disengage the whole works. A second set of cogged wheels was connected to a chain that ran through the floor, obviously de
signed to be pulled by hand. That, he decided, was what must turn the upper section of the mill so that the blades could be positioned properly to the wind.

  Pike whistled softly, impressed. The whole set-up was ingenious, especially considering that most of it had to have been constructed locally, designed right here on the Tongue, held together with hand-carved pegs and rawhide.

  There were two windows up here. Pike went to the nearest one first. The back of the windmill’s blades were just outside, no more than four feet away. Beyond them he could see the lodges of the half-breed camp, like cone-shaped lanterns. A large fire had been built near its center, and families were already assembling around it. Farther east he could just make out a yellow dome of firelight shimmering above the camp of the Pembina hunters.

  Moving to the second window, Pike found himself looking down at the barn and the open-faced shed next to the corral, where Alec was unhitching the ox. On to the west, beyond the swampy forest cradled within the fork of the Tongue and Pembina Rivers, he saw a dark, sinuous scar crawling slowly along the St. Joseph trail. Carts, he realized, flanked by horsemen.

  Two of them.

  Pike’s gaze narrowed, and he stepped closer to the window. He recalled his conversation with the old Métis back at the Pembina camp. The gnarled hunter hadn’t been able to speak English, and Pike couldn’t understand more than a word or two of the choppy patois of French, Chippewa, and Assiniboine the half-breed seemed comfortable with, but they had been able to converse well enough in the language of the plains.

  Henri Duprée? Yes, this one he knew, the old man had answered in sign. From the White Horse Plain west of Fort Douglas. But he was gone. He would not come back. Bad, that one was, his heart black. Too much Cree blood, this Henri Duprée. He had gone away three winters ago after killing a woman in the north country. It had been during the Moon of Freezing Rivers and there was no game. Henri had been starving, but then he killed the woman and did not go hungry any longer. This is what was said. He did not know. He wasn’t there. He had wintered on Red Deer Lake that season and did not return until the spring hunt. Henri went south to Fort Snelling, the American fort. But he would not come back. No. They would hang him if he came back.