The three scrutinized him from head to toe, their dark, seamed features impassive.
“And who might you be?” demanded the one in the blue cap.
“I’m the man who owns this dog,” Nate informed them. “Has he bothered you somehow?”
“You’re damn straight he has, American.”
“How?”
“Hell, take a breath,” snapped Blue Cap. “The bastard stinks like dead fish.” He spoke a sentence in French.
“I don’t understand,” Nate said.
“I asked if your dog is part skunk,” the voyageur translated, his companions all smirking.
Nate struggled to control his surging temper. Voyageurs, he reminded himself, were renowned for their arrogance; they tended to look down their noses at their American counterparts, always acting as if they were better trappers and, therefore, better men. Better meaning tougher. All trappers took pride in being hardy souls. Voyageurs just went overboard.
“Maybe we should skin this ugly beast,” the spokesman taunted.
“We can sell the meat to the Cheyennes,” suggested another. “They love to eat dogs.” Chortling softly, he bent over and reached for the mongrel’s neck.
Samson wasn’t about to let a stranger touch him. Bristling, he lunged, his great jaws snapping down on the Canadian’s wrist, his teeth piercing the buckskin and digging deep into the man’s flesh.
Shrieking in agony, the man threw himself backwards, tearing his arm loose and ripping his sleeve in the process. Large drops of blood dripped from the puncture marks. “Damn him!” he roared. “Look at what the son of a bitch did to me!”
The man in the blue cap, cursing a blue streak, drew a pistol and pointed it at Samson’s head. “I’ll teach this cur to mind its manners.”
Everything transpired so quickly that there was no time for Nate to think, no time for him to do other than that which he now did—step in close and swat the pistol barrel aside with the stock of his Hawken. The flintlock discharged, the ball smacking harmlessly into the ground. “That will be enough!” he declared.
But the voyageur in the blue cap had other ideas. Enraged at Nate’s interference, he suddenly sprang, swinging the pistol at Nate’s forehead. Nate ducked under the blow and retaliated by driving the Hawken into the pit of the voyageur’s stomach, doubling the man in half.
Strong arms abruptly clamped around Nate from behind, pinning him in place. “I’ve got him!” cried the other uninjured voyageur. “Bash his brains out, Pierre!”
Nate saw the one in the blue cap straighten and raise the flintlock overhead. Instinctively Nate lashed out, ramming his left foot into Pierre’s knee. Pierre screeched and crumpled. The man who held Nate, roaring like a madman, drove forward, slamming Nate into the hitching post, and it felt as if a mule had kicked Nate in the gut. His lungs emptied in a great whoosh and he saw stars before his eyes. Dimly, he was aware the voyageur had drawn him backwards and was tensing to slam him into the post once more.
He mustn’t let that happen! Twisting sharply, he succeeded in throwing the voyageur off balance. The man’s arms slackened for a moment, and in that span Nate exerted all of his strength and wrenched himself free. Whirling, he glimpsed the voyageur clawing at the hilt of a butcher knife. Nate’s fist stopped that, rocking the voyageur on his heels. A second blow dropped the unconscious Canadian in a heap.
Not until that moment did Nate hear the loud shouts on all sides and see men rushing from every direction. He backed next to Samson and held the Hawken level.
A few yards away was Shakespeare, covering the man Samson had bitten.
“What the devil is going on here?” asked an irate man with the bearing and dress of an aristocrat as he pushed his way through the crowd to the front. “Everyone knows the rules. No shooting is permitted in the fort. Nor will we tolerate fighting.”
Shakespeare stepped up to Nate. “Don’t lay an egg, Ceran. My friend Grizzly Killer didn’t start the trouble. “ He bobbed his head at the Canadians. “They did.”
“McNair?” said Ceran St. Vrain. “When did you get in?”
At that juncture William Bent hastened up from the other side and glared at the man named Pierre. “Shakespeare is telling the truth, Ceran. I happened to see what happened from the blacksmith shop.” He jabbed a finger at Pierre. “You, Chevalier, have gone too far this time. You persist in imposing on our hospitality when we’ve warned you to behave.”
“No one tells me what to do!” Pierre said, wincing as he cradled his knee with both hands.
“There you are wrong,” Bent said calmly. “We will have your leg looked at, and then you and your friends will be escorted from the fort. Should you try to return, the lookout will be under my personal orders to shoot you on sight.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
From out of the throng came Bent’s employees, rugged Frenchmen and others armed with rifles, pistols, clubs, and knives. Fully a dozen strong, they stood on either side of William Bent, and all it took was one look at them for every man there, and particularly Pierre Chevalier, to realize they would gladly tear into anyone who in any manner threatened their employer.
“You were saying?” Bent said.
Pierre, his face beet-red, put both palms on the ground and pushed upright. He tottered unsteadily for a bit, then shoved his pistol under his belt. “I’m not fool enough to stick my head into an open beaver trap,” he said.
“You will gather your belongings and vacate the premises within the hour,” Bent directed.
“If you insist,” Pierre said bitterly. He glanced at Nate, hatred seeping from every pore. “This isn’t over, Grizzly Killer. Not by a long shot. You will see my friends and me again soon. Very soon.”
“Chevalier, why don’t you do us all a favor and go jump in Lake Winnipeg?” Shakespeare asked.
The general laughter only further fouled Pierre’s mood. “Have your fun, McNair. We’ll be paying you a visit too. You had no call butting into this affair.”
The crowd parted as the three Canadians were escorted into a nearby building, four fort employees carrying the one who was unconscious. With the excitement over, the rest of the gathering gradually dispersed.
William Bent and Ceran St. Vrain lingered.
“I wouldn’t take Chevalier’s words lightly, my friend,” Bent told McNair. “He’s not one to forgive a slight. He wears his hatred like most men wear clothes, and he can be as devious as a fox when he wants to be.”
“I know all about him,” Shakespeare said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be on our guard once we leave here.”
“Which will be sooner than you expect if you are involved in any more disturbances,” Ceran commented. “You always did have a knack for being in the thick of things.”
“And you always did wear your britches too tight,” the mountain man replied.
St. Vrain wasn’t amused. “If you will excuse me,” he said formally, and made for the building where the voyageurs were being tended to.
William Bent sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that, Shakespeare. I know the two of you never have gotten along very well, but he is my partner. I must put up with his stuffy attitude every damn day. Now I’ll have to listen to him gripe about you for the next week or two.”
“Is that all? I’ll have to insult him again before we go.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Bent said, turning. He inhaled deeply, then walked in a tight circle around Samson, examining the dog carefully. “Let me guess. He tangled with a skunk and lost. And you had the gall to inflict him on us?”
This last was addressed at Nate. “We couldn’t very well leave him out on the prairie to fend for himself.”
“Why not?” Bent asked half seriously.
From between Winona and Blue Water Woman, both of whom had been standing quietly close at hand, stepped Zach. He ran up to Samson and affectionately threw his slender arms around the huge canine.
“Don’t you worry, boy. I won’t let anyone harm a hair on your head,” he declared.
“There’s your answer,” Nate told Bent.
A warm smile curled the trader’s mouth and he nodded knowingly. “I see your dilemma. Very well. The dog can stay, but you’ll have to keep him in your room so as not to provoke another fight.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now come along and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” Bent said.
The guest rooms, while small, were comfortably furnished. Most, they were informed, were currently empty, but that would soon change as the Bents were expecting a large caravan from Missouri any day now. During the spring and summer months an unending stream of wagons passed through en route to Santa Fe.
Bent stayed and chatted while they unsaddled. He lent a hand in stripping their supplies off the pack animals, then graciously extended an invitation for them to join him and his wife for supper that evening.
Nate had only to see the spark of joy in Winona’s eyes to accept. He walked outside with Bent and thanked him for the offer.
“My pleasure. It will make my dear wife happy. She so enjoys the company of other women.” Bent stopped, glanced at the doorway, and lowered his voice. “I couldn’t help but notice that both Winona and Blue Water Woman were carrying rifles earlier. It’s most unusual to see women armed like that. Are they good shots?”
“The best. Shakespeare and I taught them ourselves. We figured it would come in handy if we’re ever attacked by hostiles again. Four guns speak louder than two.”
“Quite true. Wait until my wife hears.” He took several strides, then cast a somber look of warning over his shoulder. “You might need four guns, my young friend, if Pierre and his bunch ever come looking for revenge.”
Chapter Five
The large caravan from the States reached Bent’s Fort the next morning a few hours after sunrise, and everyone turned out to see the heavily laden wagons arrive; trappers, mountain men, voyageurs, employees, and even the entire population of the Cheyenne village by the river.
Zach, perched on Nate’s broad shoulders to get a better view over the heads of men in front of them, wiggled in glee and chattered constantly about the size of the wagons and the people he saw. This was a new experience to him and he enjoyed it with typical boyish zeal.
All the women at the fort, including Charlotte the cook, were splendidly dressed in their prettiest attire. Anyone unfamiliar with Indians ways would never suspect that the Indian wives of the free trappers, who stood so demurely by the sides of their spouses, were actually showing off. Gaily adorned in their finest buckskin dresses as they were, the wives were doing the exact same thing their wealthy white counterparts in high society did when they donned expensive gowns to attend formal balls and other social functions, proving once again that the two cultures might be outwardly different, but that in their hearts the two peoples were very much the same, a fact few realized to the detriment of both.
There were a hundred and ten wagons in the wagon train and close to two hundred men, traders and muleteers combined. All were well armed. Caravans had to be strongly protected against hostiles, most notably the wily Comanches and the fierce Apaches.
At the head of the column rode two men, the wagon boss and one other. William Becknell was the man in charge, a veteran of the Santa Fe trade who was widely hailed as “the Father of the Santa Fe Trail” because of a shortcut he’d discovered some years back.
When trade between the States and Santa Fe commenced, the caravans left Independence, Missouri, and struck off westward along the Arkansas River until they reached the approximate spot where Bent’s Fort would later be built. From there they traveled southward along the edge of the mountains, through Raton Pass, and then eventually westward again until they hit Santa Fe. This Mountain Route, as it became generally known, was long and arduous.
Becknell had sought a shorter route. One year, instead of following the traditional trail, he made a bold and daring decision to leave the established route two-thirds of the way to the cutoff to Raton Pass and strike directly southwestward across the blistering Cimarron Desert. He almost didn’t make it. His party ran out of water, so to survive they cut the ears of their mules and drank fresh blood to quench their thirst.
This new route, the Cimarron Cutoff as it was called, shaved a hundred miles off the Mountain Route and became equally as popular with the traders. But there were many who refused to take it. They were unwilling to contend with the brain-baking heat, the roiling clouds of alkali dust that choked men and animals alike, and the deceptive mirages that led caravans off course. Then too, the Comanches were more apt to strike wagon trains taking the desert route than the mountain route.
So for years now both trails had been in regular use. The U.S. government helped out by paying two tribes, the Osage and Kansas Indians, who inhabited the central Plains, to leave the caravans alone, and by sometimes sending military escorts who would stay with the caravans until they reached Mexican territory.
This particular wagon train lacked a dragoon escort, Nate noted as he surveyed the line from one end to the other. He looked again at the man who rode beside Becknell, a dashing Mexican with a wide-brimmed white hat, a waist-length dark blue jacket that hugged his lean form, and matching blue pants that flared out at the bottom. Around the man’s middle was a bright red sash, partially covering his white shirt. Tucked under that sash were two polished flintlocks.
“I’ve never seen his like before, Pa,” Zach mentioned. “Is he from Santa Fe, you reckon?”
“He might be,” Nate allowed.
“Gosh, he sure is a dandy.”
“No more so than your mother,” Nate recklessly joked, and received an elbow in the ribs for his wit.
Since the fort couldn’t possibly hold so many wagons, the traders parked outside, dividing up into four groups and forming four protective circles. Afterward, they let their stock of mules, oxen, and horses loose to graze inside each ring, a standard precaution in case of an attack by hostiles.
Nate kept an eye on William Becknell during the activities. Bent had told him that Becknell invariably took the Cimarron Cutoff nowadays, but in this instance the wagon train was carrying a load of medical supplies, ammunition, and other provisions for the post, which necessitated taking the old Mountain Route.
Not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Nate waited until he saw Becknell and the Mexican dandy walking toward the iron gate. Then he excused himself, leaving Winona and Zach with Shakespeare, and moved to intercept the pair. Both halted at his approach.
“Mr. Becknell?” Nate said, offering his hand. “I’m Nate King, and I’m sorry to impose on you but I was wondering if my party can join your caravan to Santa Fe?”
The legendary wagon master scrutinized Nate from his beaver hat to his moccasins. “A mountain man is always welcome, sir. You’re all fine shots and a few more guns might come in handy should the Comanches pay us a visit.” Becknell admired the Hawken. “How many are in your party, Mr. King?”
Nate told him.
“Shakespeare McNair is with you?” Becknell said, sounding delighted. “Why, I haven’t seen that old buzzard in seven or eight years. I should have known he’d be alive and kicking.”
“You know him too?”
“Who doesn’t? That man has a knack for getting around.”
“Don’t I know it,” Nate said. “One of these days I expect I’ll hear he’s been to China and back.”
Both Becknell and the Mexican laughed. The trader indicated his companion and said, “Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce a very good friend of mine, Francisco Gaona. His family is very prominent in New Mexico. He came north with me after my last trip to see some of the States for himself.”
“My pleasure,” Nate said, shaking hands. The Mexican’s hand was firm, hinting at latent strength.
“Mine also,” Señor Francisco said, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he examined Nate’s outfit. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of eating supper with us tonight? You are the first … ” he pause
d “ … mountain man I have met, and I would like to learn more about those who live as you do.”
“My family would be glad to join you,” Nate responded. He agreed to meet them at six o’clock, and promised Becknell he would bring McNair along.
The rest of the day was spent in mingling at the fort and with members of the caravan. Zach asked a million questions, wanting to know where the mammoth wagons were made and how much weight they could carry and why the front wheels were smaller than the rear wheels and why some wagons were pulled by mules while others were pulled by oxen, and on and on and on.
Nate answered as best he could, explaining that the wagons were made in Conestoga and Pittsburgh and other places, that each could carry up to ten tons of trade goods, that the front wheels were smaller so the wagons could make tight turns without difficulty, and that whether a man used mules or oxen was a matter of personal choice.
Shakespeare didn’t help matters by snickering at some of the questions and suggesting some more for Zach to ask, such as why were mules so stubborn and were boy oxen stronger than girl oxen? McNair had no idea how close he came to being shot in the foot.
At the appointed hour Nate, his family, and the McNairs met Becknell, Gaona, and others from the caravan for a hot meal at the fort. They were joined by William Bent and Ceran St. Vrain. Charlotte outdid herself, treating them to succulent buffalo meat, biscuits, potatoes, beans, countless cups of rich coffee, and more.
It was after the meal, as they all sat around the long table chatting and, in the case of many of the men, smoking on their pipes, that an incident took place Nate never forgot for as long as he lived.
He was listening to Becknell talk about the unbelievable profits to be made in the Santa Fe trade. He heard how a recent caravan had transported $35,000 worth of goods there and returned to Missouri with $190,000 in gold, silver, and prime furs. It set him to thinking about how hard he had to work just to make ends meet, and how he was lucky if he made two thousand dollars in any given year.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he failed to notice the three men who crept in through a side door, until he heard the click of a gun hammer being pulled back and he gazed around in surprise to see the three voyageurs he had tangled with the day before not three yards away with their rifles trained on the group at the table.
Wilderness: Northwest Passage/Apache Blood (A Wilderness Double Western #6) Page 20