Downriver

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Lame Deer could make no sense of it. White men wer mysterious to her, and there were undercurrents that sh knew she would never understand.

  She did not want to ride in the flatboat with only Red Gill and Alexandre Bonfils. The Skyes were a comfort to her. Victoria had become a friend and also a mentor, explaining th strange ways of white men. And Skye himself was a great chie among them, well known to her people and all the Peoples.

  “My man no work for American Fur.”

  Skye stared into the gloom. She could barely make out his face. “I hear that Chouteau—he’s the big chief—is going to hire your man. He’s got trading experience with your people.

  A faint light began to pervade their universe, a light so false that she dismissed it. Yet she knew dawn was not far off.

  Simon had said nothing to her about any of it. Maybe he didn’t know. But he could have sent word up the river with the men who brought messages.

  “If you get off the boat, then we will too, and we will walk to the place of the many lodges.”

  Skye peered at her. “I don’t think Bonfils would let you,” he said.

  “Let me go? Him?”

  Skye shook his head. The light had thickened, and she could see him clearly now, staring at her from those intent blue eyes. He coughed and turned his head away, clearly letting her know he didn’t wish to discuss what he knew. He was hiding things.

  She felt an unnameable fear crawl through her. Something strange and unknowable and evil was crushing her. She thought of this place Bellevue, and thought that she might escape there—if she could. And then walk to St. Louis.

  thirty

  Red Gill was in a sour mood. His annual trip upriver had been ruined and his partner killed. He would arrive in St. Louis penniless after a summer of hard and dangerous work—unless he could get his furs back. He scarcely knew who to blame, but Skye was one, Marsh was another, and now Bonfils.

  If Skye hadn’t knocked Shorty down and steered the flatboat toward the stricken Otter, the trouble wouldn’t have happened. Shorty was going to take his chances with that six-pounder, and he was right. All of Gill’s troubles were launched when Skye steered the flatboat toward the steamer.

  If Skye hadn’t intervened, Shorty would be alive … probably, anyway. Marsh wouldn’t have confiscated the bales of furs as smuggler’s contraband. Skye wouldn’t be lying in the cabin recovering from three wounds, Bonfils wouldn’t be on board, goading Gill onward like some madman.

  It was that goddam Skye’s fault. Probably, anyway. Gill didn’t want to think about what might have happened if Shorty had continued to plow past the stranded steamer under the mouth of that cannon. Well, he’d never know whether Marsh would have fired or not, after putting a ball across the bow. Just one ball from that cannon would have blown the flatboat to bits; one cannister of grape could have killed everyone aboard.

  But Red Gill refused to think about it. He would have taken his chances, just like Shorty. He’d been taking chances all his life, and this was just one more chance—until Skye wrecked everything.

  But a small voice in him kept whispering that Skye had done the only thing, and he had saved lives doing it. Gill hated to admit it, and pushed the thought out of mind.

  Damned Skye.

  Gill manned the tiller, not wanting Bonfils or the squaws to do it. And Skye was too weak, even though he was wandering around the deck now. They hadn’t overtaken the Otter, and Gill didn’t expect to, even though Bonfils insisted on floating day and night in pursuit, like some madman.

  And that brought up another matter that was irritating Gill: what the hell difference did it make if the flatboat arrived in St. Louis after Marsh did? Bonfils had been saying he had to reach Pierre Chouteau ahead of Marsh or Gill would never get his furs back, but the more Gill thought about it, the less sense it made.

  Gill intended to have it out with Chouteau: return them furs or get into big trouble with the government. Chouteau would understand. Gill was not above going to General Clark and telling the Indian superintendent the whole story, how Pratte, Chouteau and Company had employed Gill and Ballard to sneak ardent spirits to the trading posts, and were being paid off in buffalo robes and other furs, all off the books.

  Chouteau would make sure the furs were returned, and probably chew out that damned Marsh for seizing them. So why the hell was Bonfils in such a rush? Why was the Creole pacing the boat, urging Gill to find the fastest current, talking like a wildman of overtaking the steamer, looking for the Otter at every wood stop, lamenting every minute the flatboat stopped to cook a meal or hunt for game to put in the pot? What was the matter with the man?

  They had been drifting downriver for days, through a hot summer, enduring flies and mosquitos, seeing no one except for the occasional Opposition post, shabby little affairs, along the way.

  But now they were approaching Bellevue, or Sarpy’s Post as the company was calling it. It wasn’t much of a trading center, but it served as an entrepôt, storing furs coming in from the Platte River, and tradegoods destined for the upper Platte and upper Missouri.

  The closer they got, the wilder Bonfils became.

  “How soon?” he demanded.

  “Soon as the river takes us.”

  “Can’t you hurry? Put up a sail?”

  “What’s at Sarpy’s Post?”

  “Otter. We’ll pass them there.”

  “Otter’s down in Missoura now, near to Independence.”

  “No, it can’t! Ah, my friend Gill, when we arrive at Bellevue, there are some small matters to take care of; very important for you and for me, oui?”

  Gill glared. He was tired of all this.

  Bonfils drew himself up, and whispered intensely. “Under no circumstances must the Cheyenne squaw be allowed off this boat.”

  “And who’s to stop her? I sure won’t.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  “Damn right I don’t understand.”

  Bonfils smiled. “Monsieur Gill, there are things beyond your knowledge that affect you. Just trust me.”

  “Bonfils, that woman goes where she wants to go, because I ain’t stopping her.”

  Bonfils. smiled, nodded, and retreated. “Very well, but there is another matter. I want you to eject Skye and his squaw. Put them off.”

  That flabbergasted Gill. “Why?”

  “As a favor to me, one that will benefit you, as you will see.”

  Gill didn’t mind that idea so much. He had no use for Skye or that sharp-tongued little Crow woman he called his wife. Still, Bonfils was obviously a man full of schemes, and Gill wanted some answers.

  “I want to know why, because if I don’t like it, I ain’t going to do it.”

  Bonfils sighed. “Ah, friend, when Skye arrives in St. Louis and meets Pierre Chouteau, I fear he will say things unflattering to me, and reduce my influence. It is because of my influence with my relatives that I can make sure you’ll get your furs back, and your name will be cleared, and Capitaine Marsh, he will suffer for his rash conduct in seizing your cargo, oui? Trust me, my friend.”

  Gill didn’t believe a word of it. “And what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

  “Very simple. Tell him he must get off your boat.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to keep MacLees’s woman aboard at all costs, but dump Skye.”

  “Ah, you have a discerning mind, monsieur.”

  “And for this I get my cargo back.”

  Bonfils smiled broadly, something velvety and soft in his brown eyes.

  “I’ll think on it. But I’ll tell you one thing, Bonfils. That steamboat’s a week ahead of us by now, and you won’t see it again unless you’ve got wings. That buffalo crossing wrecked your little plan.”

  Gill fumed. He didn’t trust the sonofabitch. He didn’t need Bonfils. He needed one quiet word with Chouteau. And he didn’t doubt that Pierre Chouteau would give him whatever he wanted. If the company lost its trading license for smuggling spirits into Indian Co
untry, that would be the end of an empire. Gill had his own lever. So Bonfils could go to hell.

  No sooner had Bonfils headed forward than Skye appeared at the cabin door. He looked weak and pale, but he was standing now, and the pain was gone from his eyes.

  “I heard that, mate,” he said.

  Gill didn’t reply.

  “You want the story?”

  Gill nodded, ready to discount everything the mountaineer said. He’d be just as bad as Bonfils.

  “Well, there’s a position open …” Skye said, his voice so low it scarcely carried to Gill’s ears. Skye laid it out in simple terms: he and Bonfils were being considered for the trading position at Fort Cass, and maybe Simon MacLees too, though Skye said he had no direct knowledge of it.

  As for MacLees, Bonfils believed that the arrival of his mountain wife in St. Louis would embarrass the former Opposition trader and ensure that Bonfils got the position, which was why he was obsessed with getting her there.

  Gill cussed softly, a long, gentle stream of epithets that substituted for rage or amazement or sometimes wild humor. But he wasn’t laughing now.

  “How come you know this?”

  “I’ve told you what I know. And what Bonfils said. I don’t know the truth of it.”

  Gill believed the English sonofabitch, leaned over the transom, and spat. It was clear now. Alexandre Bonfils wasn’t interested in doing Gill a favor; all he wanted was to get to St. Louis fast, with the Cheyenne woman he could use like some chess piece to embarrass a rival.

  Gill spat again. He had Bonfils pegged now; should have seen it long ago. The Creole was a smooth, flattering bastard who made everything he did sound like a favor, even while he was using everyone in sight. Next thing Bonfils would do is tell Gill that shooting Shorty was a favor, too, because Gill would end up with all the furs, instead of half.

  Gill had a redhead’s temper, but now he held it in check. He wanted to think. If it came to trouble, he could knock that Creole right over the gunnels and let him swim. Gill wondered why he believed Skye, and realized there was something in the man that commanded respect, and that was the difference between Skye and Bonfils.

  The country was changing now; more trees, some hardwoods, lower hills. The river had accumulated the waters of a dozen more streams and had grown majestic. Above the confluence of the Platte, they passed various Opposition posts and the ruins of several others. Fur outfits had fought over this country from the beginning. He even saw some stacked cordwood, offered by local woodhawks to steamboats for a price. The river was changing.

  He knew he would make Sarpy’s Post at Bellevue by sundown or soon after, and there he intended to stop. He was no longer in a rush. What difference did it make if Marsh got there first? Pierre Chouteau was no fool. He hadn’t built the most powerful fur empire in the world by being gullible or reckless. The hell with Bonfils.

  As if in response to the thought, Bonfils appeared aft.

  “Is this it? Is this Bellevue?”

  “Couple hours, maybe three.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Gill spat, making a white dimple in the muddy brown river. “Guess we’ll take our time,” he said. “I want to visit with old Peter Sarpy, eh?”

  “But we must hurry!”

  “Not we; you. I’m going to stop for a good visit.”

  Bonfils smiled, even laughed, but Gill didn’t miss the fleeting calculation in those liquid brown eyes.

  thirty-one

  Benton Marsh was so pleased with himself that he neglected his daily tongue-lashing. Normally, he selected one or another boatman who had shirked his duties, and rebuked the man in sardonic, withering language intended for as many ears as possible. The boat ran better because the crewmen never knew who would be next.

  He had driven the Otter up a treacherous, shifting river to the farthest reaches of the unknown continent and returned bearing a fortune in furs and hides, along with the usual riffraff out of the mountains, plus precious information, worth plenty to the right parties.

  Now he was negotiating the lower Missouri, still cautious even though the volume of water was greater, because of the many snags lurking just below the innocent surface, ready to tear out the hull of his boat and shatter men’s dreams. Soon he would be in St. Louis, and then he would ride a hack triumphantly up the slope to Pierre Chouteau’s ornate home, and whisper things into Chouteau’s funneling ear, strictly in private. Benton Marsh knew himself to be an invaluable asset to the entrepreneur.

  There, in a private warren of Chouteau’s home, he would whisper the news. Such as that he had saved the company a great embarrassment. And that he had confiscated nineteen bales of buffalo hides from smugglers and scoundrels. And that he had concluded on good evidence that Skye was an ignoramus, an East End London hooligan, unsuited for so demanding and diplomatic a profession as trading; and alas, the company’s favorite nephew, Bonfils, was impetuous and reckless.

  With relish, he would tell Chouteau about Bonfils’s rash and unauthorized use of the cannon, its fatal results, and its deleterious effect on trade with the Sioux. So much for that wretch! He would add that in his estimation, MacLees was the only man fit for the trading position. He wasn’t sure whether he would say anything to Chouteau about the Cheyenne squaw, or that Marsh had rescued the young man from a scandal. He would decide about that when the time came.

  Marsh could well envision Chouteau’s response; always subdued but appreciative, the gravity of the man evident in his intent gaze, and his odd humor blooming in the small, almost smirky smile that would soon build in his dark face. There would be a bonus, of course. Maybe even a partnership share in the firm, at last. Chouteau knew whom to count on.

  Soon Marsh would be seeing his lovely stepdaughter, Sarah, and would relish her happiness as the nuptial day approached. He had bought her a new pianoforte, and she was mastering it and singing, too. Her voice was a little less than sublime, but no matter. She could hold a tune as long as she didn’t get into the upper ranges.

  He watched the riverbanks roll by. They were tree-lined now, and the forests closed down upon the great stream, with rarely a patch of grass in sight. For two days he had been traveling through settled country. Now fueling was easy. He had only to pull up at one or another woodhawk’s lot and load the heavy hardwood logs aboard, pay the man or leave a chit that was as good as cash anywhere. Sometimes the woodhawk’s wife had fresh potatoes or carrots or greens, and these he bought too for the mess. His passengers had grown weary of buffalo and elk and antelope.

  The Otter churned past rude hamlets, which always erupted whenever the boat passed by; dogs, children, adults, all of them waving, shouting, barking. Sometimes horses shied, and once in a while his passage sent a herd of cattle thundering away from the frightful apparition on the river. The passage of a steamboat was no small thing.

  Now, fifty miles out of St. Louis, Missouri seemed totally civilized. Farms dotted the slopes. Towns of red brick and whitewashed cottages clustered along the banks. River traffic increased: ferries, sailboats, rowboats, fishing ketches, flatboats, and keelboats, all hauling goods and people up and down or across the broad river. Civilization at last.

  He marveled that only a few weeks earlier he had reached a point near British possessions far to the north, after passing through an impenetrable wilderness that would remain that way for a century. Only a few days before, red-skinned savages had congregated about the boat, dumbstruck by its power, superstitious and frightened when he rang a bell, shot steam up the escapement, blew a whistle, or ordered the great paddle wheels to thrash water. White men understood such things; red men never would.

  He would arrive in St. Louis at dusk, maybe at twilight, but with just enough daylight to reach a safe anchorage. Word of the Otter’s arrival would have reached the pier ahead of him, carried by horsemen, and by the time the packet eased to shore, a hundred lamps would light the way, dimpling the black waters with pricks of light. And a crowd would be gaping at the boat that t
raveled clear to the unmapped land of savages, some unimaginable distance away, and safely back.

  Maybe even Chouteau.

  Yes, he hoped Pierre would show up to celebrate Marsh’s triumphant journey. It would be fitting.

  Just as he hoped, he raised St. Louis just as blackness was lowering, and his pilot edged the riverboat through the inky waters until it gently bumped pilings in the levee. The rumble of the paddles suddenly ceased. At that moment, his pilot blew the whistle, and the engineers shot a great bang of steam through the escapement, and he could see the throng recoil, and then shout and cheer. Hats sailed, bull’s-eye lanterns swung crazily, ladies in black lace sitting in ebony carriages watched demurely from behind their accordion-folded fans, well apart from the hoi polloi. Maybe one of those shining vehicles contained his wife or even Sarah Lansing. He would welcome the hugs, the exclamations, the sweet perfumes, the promise of bliss, the domestic hearth, the sweetness of one’s own home.

  He watched his crew run the grimy gangway to the levee, watched others tether the boat fore and aft with great looped hawsers, making it secure. He was in no rush. In fact, he was observing the crew: this was a test. The better men worked faithfully until dismissed. The worse ones were looking for ways to bolt for the nearest dive, or head for their wives, or paint the town. He had the answer to that, though. The pay envelopes would not be distributed until he was good and ready.

  He saw a carriage drawn by a pair of dappled drays clop down the cobbled grade to the levee, and sensed that this time the chief officer of Pratte, Chouteau and Company would soon appear in his cabin instead of waiting for his arrival up the hill. The coachman drove straight to the gangway as the crowd parted, and indeed the man who emerged, stocky, dark, square-set, and splendidly if a bit casually dressed, set foot on the glistening cobbles, and then upon the gangway. He looked up at the master, and waved languidly.

  Marsh beckoned him up and set out a bottle of cognac and some glasses on the small walnut table within. He lit the hanging oil lamp with his striker, and awaited the emperor, who swept in grandly.