by J. R. WRIGHT
In no time, it seemed, a fair sized pike went flying toward Sarah on the shore. She screamed and made a girlish attempt at catching it, but it ended on shore and managed to flop back into the lake. “Sorry!” she said.
Remaining undaunted, Luke tried again, and soon another pike come flying. This time Sarah was ready and managed to get her boot on it before it had a chance to get away. Then it seemed they came in rapid succession. And while laughing hysterically, she did manage to collect them all and toss them higher on shore, where there was little chance they would make it back to the water.
“Stop!” she yelled.
But Luke was having way too much fun to honor her wishes. And it wasn’t until she screamed and the mules began to bray that he refocused on the shore. What he saw then both startled and angered him. It was an Indian making off with the red filly. After running beside it for a while, the Indian managed to gather some of the mane hair and bounce upon her back. Luke recognized the Indian as being the last Santee, the one who had led him to Breanne’s body in the burnt out Indian village. The one whose life he had spared.
Now he cursed himself for having let him go in the first place. Surely he was one of those that had taken her, so why had he let him live? Maybe it was time he evened the score, he thought as he ran for Sir Henry, grabbing a rifle before mounting him bareback.
It took Luke near five miles before catching up and knocking the young buck from the back of the filly. Reining up, he circled back, only to find the wild-eyed Indian charging at him with a knife held high.
It was all Luke could do to steer the horse clear of his advance, to avoid him or the horse from getting stabbed. This skirmish went on for a considerable time as the renegade tried to recapture the filly.
Finally, it was the filly that had enough of this and gave the Indian a backward kick that sent him flying. She then wildly whirled and proceeded to stomp him to death. By the time Luke got ahold of her reins and calmed her, there was no doubt the renegade was dead. His broken and bloodied body was almost too disgusting to look at.
On the way back to camp, Luke noticed some coyotes off in the distance. With the scent of blood in the air, they would be the first to arrive at the fresh kill. By morning there would be nothing left of the Indian but poorly cleaned bones. Ants would then move in to finish the job. It was a just end for someone who had dealt Luke so much misery; the memories would continue to do so for decades to come.
He met Sarah half way back. She was riding one of the mules and had a rifle in her arms.
“Did you kill him?” she asked, once circled in beside him.
“Didn’t need to!” was all he had to say.
Sarah gave him a puzzled look, but knew in her heart by Luke’s stony expression, this would be another time she would never know what happened. Just like she never found out what or who killed Breanne. She and Pierre had their guesses, but even he was never told for sure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
When they reached the Missouri River four days later, Luke was unsure which direction to go. Fort Union was definitely on the Missouri, but which way from here? He pulled out his brass compass, but that was no help. There was a regular trail along the river, but that was no help either, as tracks went both ways.
“Ask that Indian?” Sarah finally suggested, feeling uneasy for having said it.
Hearing that, Luke looked about franticly. He hadn’t seen any Indian.
“Down by the river among them cattails. I think he’s fishing.”
Luke pulled the big bore and followed her finger to a braided, nearly white-haired old Indian, standing up to his knees in water at the river’s edge. Sure enough, he had a long cane pole and was jigging for fish.
Luke rode closer and yelled out, “Fort Union?”
The old Indian barely gave him a glance before pointing to the right. This brought a blank look to Luke’s face as he turned to Sarah.
“Pierre said they all lie.”
“He didn’t look like he was lying,” Sarah returned with a chuckle.
“Okay,” he said and reined the horse to the right.
Later in the day, they came to a fairly large Indian village set far back from the river. Beyond that was clearly the fort. It too was large. Much larger than Fort Pierre, Luke noted as they approached from a mile away. He didn’t see any big boats at the levee and this gave him concern. What if it was too late in the season to expect any more steamboats this year? He knew it was early August. He also knew winters came early this far north, and the climb upriver was long for a paddle wheeler. Perhaps months long? Now he wondered if he and Sarah would be required to winter here before gaining transportation down river to Independence in the spring.
The gates to the trading fort were wide open when they arrived. Dozens, if not more, milled about, performing various tasks in the spacious interior. Most were at least part Indian, but dressed as whites would, in cotton or wool shirts and trousers. A mountain of buffalo hides, stacked like flapjacks, bordered a back wall, and bundles of furs hung in open warehouses.
Luke nosed the red horse up to a hitching rail in front of a building where most of the action took place. The sign out front said “Trading House.” Sarah eased the filly in beside him. After a time more of looking about, Luke dismounted and tied the horse before stepping up to the open doorway.
“Can I help you?” A tall bearded man came toward him from a group of Indians in the semi darkness inside.
“I reckon I’m looking for a boat downriver.”
“How far downriver?” The big man (dressed like a St. Louis merchant) asked as he marched up to him.
Luke hesitated to say, then came out with, “St. Louis.”
“Then you would be looking for a steamboat. In a normal year there would be one or two of those here now,” the man said. He got a look at Sarah through the open door and primped his well groomed beard before continuing. “However, the mountain snow melt wasn’t enough for a summer run. You may be able to catch one of the last down at Fort Pierre, if you hurry.”
Of course, Luke wanted nothing to do with Fort Pierre, especially since he planned to take two of the late Silas Jones’ horses on down river with him. Surely someone there would spot them right off. They just weren’t like the average shaggy mustang as found in these parts.
“There’s no other way?”
“A keel or mackinaw boat would get you there in no time. Just ride the current all the way.”
Now he had Luke’s attention. “How do I get aboard one of those?”
“One foot after another,” the man said, then laughed. “The name is Larson.” He extended a hand. “And yours?”
Again, Luke had to think fast. After all, he was a wanted man. And if that news had reached Fort Pierre, as Jones had said, they may recognize the name Luke McKinney here as well.
“Hill,” he said to his own surprise. Then he remembered where the name had come from. In his mother’s deathbed letter, she had mentioned her father’s name as being Thomas Hill. “Tom Hill.” He took the hand.
“Albert Larson. I’m the management here. I work for John Aster’s American Fur Company.”
American Fur again. Now Luke was nearly panicked.
“How much of what you have out there will you be taking with you?” Larson asked.
“Most all of it. Why?”
“Well, if you’re taking those fine horses, along with the mules, a mackinaw won’t do. Too small!”
“And if I take just the horses?”
“Still won’t do. You’ll need a keelboat. But two people can’t handle a keelboat. It takes at least four down river, and eight up,” Larson said. “I have a mackinaw I can sell you for five hundred dollars.”
“Listen,” Luke said, angry now. “I don’t know anything about these boats you’re talking about. I was just looking for a ride down river. Now you’re saying if I want to go this year, I’ll need to buy one of those mackinaw boats.”
“That’s correct, Mister Hill. We b
uild them here and sell mostly to those going up the Yellowstone to Fort McKenzie. The water is too shallow in the Yellowstone for any other kind of boat. That is, if you’re transporting an amount of cargo.”
“I had my heart set on taking those horses with me,” Luke said. “Can I see the boat?”
“Follow me,” Larson said and headed outside.
Luke trailed behind him to a nearby building where several half breed Indians were busy at building things from wood, mostly boats. There were three sizes of mackinaw boats. The largest was about forty feet long and six feet wide, was pointed at both ends, with a rudder to guide it at the back.
At first glance Luke liked the boat. However, he saw no way horses could be hauled in it, as he hoped. Even with the sides raised up, which was his original thought, he realized now the space was just too confining widthwise. Not to mention the top heaviness problem the loaded horses would present.
“How far is it to St. Louis?”
“Near two thousand miles as the river flows,” Larson said, smoothing his well-trimmed beard again. “Averaging fifty miles per day, this boat will get you there in forty days. Of course, that’s traveling roughly twelve hour days.”
Independence was even closer by a few hundred miles. So a week could be shaved off that, Luke calculated. It would take a month, more or less.
“I saw you have beaver pelts on those pack mules. Were you thinking of trading those here, or waiting till you get to St. Louis?”
“Always a better price in St. Louis, I’m told.” He remembered from one of Pierre’s stories.
“To be honest with you, Mister Hill, the demand for beaver has lessened some since last year. Many of the fancier hats in Europe are now being made of silk. I doubt you’ll get much more in St. Louis. Maybe a dollar or so.”
“And how much are you offering?”
“Four dollars for number one prime,” Larson said, smoothing his beard again in anticipation. “How many do you have?”
“Two hundred, give or take, all prime,” Luke said, rubbing his own shaggy growth of sandy beard. He hadn’t shaved since Breanne came up missing and didn’t plan to anytime soon. His thinking was it would help in hiding his true identity once back to civilization. “But I won’t be taking four dollars a pelt.”
“How much then?” Larson asked, glaring with concern.
“At least five, considering I’ll be spending most of it on the boat and other supplies.”
“In that case, Mister Hill, let’s take a look at those furs,” he said and marched from the open faced building into the yard.
Sarah was still sitting the filly when they returned. She busied herself at watching Indians entering and leaving the fort. They came with small bundles of furs and left with items from the store. They came out with such things as colorful blankets, traps, knives, clay pipes, mirrors, and many other things hidden away in leather pouches they all seemed to carry.
“Ma’am,” Larson nodded to Sarah as he came up.
Sarah smoothed her braided hair and continued to look about without responding.
“We don’t get many white folks here,” Larson said casually. “Our trading is mostly done with the local Indians. Some beaver, but mostly buffalo hides.”
“Do you have oats on hand, Mister Larson?” Luke asked to change the subject. No way did he want to be asked any more questions, especially where they came from. The Red River was where he had left Silas Jones hanging in a tree.
“No, but we buy ear corn from the Mandan. We have it available in the trade house in two bushel bags. The Assiniboine in the area buy a lot of it for winter eating. They make pemmican from it, along with wild berries and dried buffalo meat.”
“Can you feed a horse corn?”
“Horses love corn, but it’s best to feed it to them on the cob. Otherwise they may stave up on it. Too rich for them by itself,” Larson said. “Should I gather by that you are planning to somehow take those horses downriver?”
“I am,” Luke said. “I don’t reckon they’d bring what they’re worth if I should decide to sell them here.”
“I reckon not,” Larson said, eyeing the horses again. He didn’t ask how Luke planned to do it. “The beaver pelts are fine, Mister Hill. I believe we can make a deal.”
Sarah looked around to see who this Mister Hill may be, but saw only Indians moving in and out of the store.
“Would you be interested in the mules?” Luke asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
By midmorning the following day, the mackinaw was in the Missouri, loaded and ready to shove off. The plan initially was for Luke to steer the boat in the river, allowing the current to propel it, while Sarah rode the filly, the stallion in tow, on the heavily traveled trail beside it.
This worked great when the river was wide and shallow, and the speed of travel was only a fast walk for the horses. However, there were narrow areas where the current was swift and the horses needed to gallop for long distances in order to catch up. This was exhausting for the horses, as well as Sarah.
In mid-afternoon, after a considerably long stretch of rapid water, Luke found it necessary to pull over and wait. It was near a half hour later before they arrived, and Sarah didn’t seem any too pleased. Luke was on the shore and took control of the horses while Sarah stomped off behind some bushes to relieve herself.
When she returned, Luke already had the saddle off the filly. “Will you bring a half dozen ears of corn from the boat?”
Not knowing what he had in mind, she did as he asked. The horses chomped away, eating cob and all, and when all was devoured, they sniffed the ground for more. This was the reaction Luke was hoping for. Now he knew he had them and removed the bridles.
“Let’s get in the boat,” he told Sarah.
Once there, Luke tossed two more ears of corn to the shore, making sure the horses saw where they came from.
“Now they know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“Know where their next meal will come from. I’m hoping they will follow now.”
And they did. From then on, they never lost track of the boat, no matter how fast the current carried them. Of course, the filly was faster now that she no longer had Sarah on her back.
From then on, it was Sarah’s job to occasionally toss ears of corn to the shore in areas where the river was slow.
“This is great,” Sarah said later on from the bed she made in the boat as they drifted along.
“Best not get too comfortable,” he said from the tiller. “You never know what may be around the next bend.”
“You just had to say that, didn’t you?” She got up then and placed all eight of the rifles within easy reach of both of them.
Later that afternoon, they came upon a Mandan village. Luke recognized it from the giant dome-shaped earth lodges Pierre had often talked about off in the distance. Several of their people were down at the river. Some of them signaled peace as they passed. That is, until the red horses came charging through the gathering. This sent many of them scampering into the water as they passed. Much laughter was heard later though, so all was well.
Three days later, cottonwood trees started popping up along the shoreline, and Luke got the eerie feeling they were getting close to Fort Pierre. No way did he want to pass by there in broad daylight, especially with the red horses tagging along. Anyone seeing them together would be a dead giveaway to his identity.
That evening they pulled to shore and made camp. Luke fried up some bacon, and Sarah used the fat to make several batches of biscuits. She liked them handy for snacks on the boat at times when Luke seemed to forget to pull over precisely at mealtimes.
“Fort Pierre can’t be far,” he said. “I’d just as soon go past there in darkness.”
Luke had never told her about what happened at and near Fort Pierre, but Pierre had. She knew of the preacher being killed there and of the near hanging of Silas Jones and that tongueless man not far away. But they were both dead now and certainly
no threat to the two of them any longer.
“What is the importance of that?”
“There are plenty there that would recognize those horses. I just don’t want them getting a good look at me in the process. I’m a wanted man in St. Louis, as you must know. I’m sure Pierre must have told you. Well, soon that information will get to Independence, and they’ll know I’m back in the area. There, or St. Louis, where I never plan to go again.”
Since Luke seemed to be in the mood for sharing, Sarah asked, “What killed that Indian at the lake?”
Luke threw a finger at the filly grazing nearby.
“The mare did it?”
“Yep, kicked and stomped him to death.”
“Why?” she asked, eyeing the horse as if it was disgusting.
“I don’t know why, but it’s just as well. If she wouldn’t have, I planned to.”
“Why?”
“Because he was one of the Indians that took Breanne. She is dead because of him. So I figured he ought to be likewise dead.”
“Sorry,” Sarah said softly. “I guess it is best I don’t know everything.”
They stayed here until well after dark and then, by the light of a partial moon, entered the river again. Less than four hours later, they reached Fort Pierre and ever so slowly passed it. When daylight came they pulled in to shore again. It became evident the horses had not followed in the night, and Luke was disheartened.
“I should have known,” he said, angry at himself. “That fort was both those horses’ home once. I should have figured they would drop in for a visit with the other horses there and decide to stay. I’m sure they got regular rations of grain there before. A horse never forgets where he got fed, even if it was only once.” Luke remembered it was Jake Brumond, at the livery in St. Louis, who had told him that many years ago. Luke was just a boy at the time. Now Jake was dead, thanks to Jeb Dunlap.