“And with a sucking sound, the scalp pops off,” I whispered.
After gently letting go, I offered to help her up. She refused me and lay there for a long while, her chest heaving as she tried catching her breath. With eyes squeezed tight, tears rolled into her dirty, blonde hair. I sat cross-legged next to her in calm silence with my brother’s knife sheathed and tucked into my belt.
“Jonathan was more Indian than me. He could scalp a man in one clean cut and leave him alive.”
Anna’s breathing slowed. Still with her eyes closed, she stopped crying.
“He favored catchin’ beaver with a net, beating ’em in the head rather than using a trap. He rode only Indian ponies and could throw a tomahawk fifteen paces blindfolded an’ split the two-inch branch of an oak tree. Not once did I know him to sleep in a bed. And never did I see him drunk.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I sat up straighter.
“If a man showed respect and candor, that man gained his respect in return. But, if someone crossed him there was hell to pay, usually with a pistol or knife bein’ pulled. Younger than me when we were taken, he had no recollection of being white an’ later had to relearn English. His Lakota mother and father were not my mother and father yet we were raised brothers.” I wiped away any remaining tears. “Jonathan’s death has come before mine, leavin’ a Blackfoot squaw widowed with a young half-breed son.”
Brushing sadness aside to taste bitter anger, I defiantly placed a hand on the knife at my belt. “I will always feel responsible.”
Rascal came and licked Anna’s face until she opened her eyes to stare into the waning, afternoon sky. What few clouds left from the morning’s rain glowed pink and orange. She rolled onto her side to face me, propping her head up with one hand.
“Thank you. I now know how frightening it must be to die by yours, or your brother’s, knife.” She paused to take a deep, calming breath. “Know this, Zebadiah, there is one person in the whole world that is no longer afraid of you.”
Still refusing my help, we both stood. She placed her arms around my waist and loosely held me, then leaned up and kissed my neck. She let go and patted my chest twice, smiled, and picked up the axe. “I hear Juber off in the distance but not too far and Papa’s got supper. I can always tell by that dog’s bark.” With the flick of a wrist, she swung the axe into the chopping stump and headed for the cabin door. Over her shoulder she said, “Mr. Creed, you have a mighty journey ahead, you’d best be ready.”
The afternoon seeped into evening. Dr. Keynes returned with two healthy rabbits and with three cuts each, pulled the skins off with ease. Saving the innards for gravy, Anna skewered the fresh meat onto a crude rotisserie and laid it over the fire. Soon the smell of sizzling fat filled the cabin, wiping away any trace of sage.
Before supper, the doctor had another coughing fit. Though not as severe as the morning, it seemed each retching of his body wrung a bit of life from him. Anna gave her father comfort by gently rubbing his neck and back. Her glance to me was one of determination and sadness.
The doctor’s supper prayer was simple. “Bless this bountiful earth and loved ones, and to cast no stone upon a sinner unless one is sinless.” I did not repeat their amen.
We ate in silence.
After supper, I inspected my worth. Jonathan’s knife and pistol were ready as was the doctor’s shooting bag, though I wished I had a Kentucky long rifle or Hawken. The buckskin felt good in my hands. Anna had stitched up the burnt shot hole in the smock, leaving little to show of any wound. I rotated my shoulder with ease then pulled off my shirt and let Anna dab on the dogwood concoction, this time in full view of her father. My skin burned a little less. She did not touch the other scars.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” I said as she put the medicine away. “Would you cut off my hair and beard?”
“Off?”
“Yes.”
“We have my razor in the trunk under the bed and scissors in the cupboard,” the doctor said. “Mr. Creed, are you looking to disguise yourself?”
“No, sir, tired of lookin’ like where I came from. An’ if you would, lend me these clothes of yours I’m wearing for a while longer? I would be obliged . . .”
They stared at me then each other.
“Is it your aim to become a sophisticate?” He gave me a slight smile. “A world weary one at that.”
“If I’m going to the city, I want to fit in. Without bein’ too much noticed for who I really am.”
Anna was ready to say something then stopped.
“Please, Anna,” the doctor said. “Speak your mind.”
“Well, it seems wherever you go there you are as genuine as ever.” She looked straight into my eyes. “You can’t hide yourself, Zebadiah, no matter how hard you try.”
Dr. Keynes smiled at his daughter. I looked down at the clothes I wore and said nothing.
They both saw me off the next morning, with the doctor giving me three gold eagles worth ten dollars each. Anna gave me a bundle of biscuits and most of the cooked rabbit. She reached up to the medicine shelf and pulled down the dogwood salve. She slipped the jar into my bundle, patted me on the chest, and with a kiss on the cheek said, “For your scars, Zebadiah Creed.”
CHAPTER 11
St. Louis, September 1835
The shore and water before us seemed on fire. Oil torches flickered pale yellow light upon goods and cargo strewn up and down the six-mile landing. Shadowed by Blood Island across the shallow channel to the east, hundreds of boat lanterns swayed to the rhythm and flow of the black water’s current. Broadhorn barges, keelboats of all lengths, timber rafts from the North woods, and at least thirty side and stern wheel steamboats glittering white and gold lay moored three deep along the St. Louis riverfront.
Billy Frieze and I sat out on the forward veranda, upper deck of the steamboat Diana watching our approach. Drinking Kentucky whiskey, we wagered whether the captain and pilot were to run us aground as we rounded the southern end of Duncan Island or ram us straight into the river flotilla before us. By the speed of our approach, either would be disastrous.
“Mate, the captain’s been pushin’ steam since Columbia, either blowin’ the boilers or run into all them boats ’fore we step back onto blessed dry land,” Billy said loudly enough for the crewmen manning the pilothouse to hear. Knowing him all of two days and nights, I wondered why I had befriended such a drunk and obnoxious Brit.
I smelled cigar smoke. Fontenelle, the American Fur company’s representative, stepped forward from the shadows of an open cabin door to stand behind us. “Ah, St. Louis . . . A sight beholden to New Orleans and all of the beloved cities back east and in Europe. A will and testament to the great riches traded up and down the Mighty Mississippi; the Father of all Rivers.” He took a draw then blew smoke between us. “Do you agree, Mr. Creed?”
Without a glance back to him, I said, “Sir, my one-time visit was a day an’ a night berthed on a steamer. Can’t say much for the city. Though what I saw of the landing, I wasn’t impressed.” I took a drink of my whiskey. “And now with your captain’s rather hasty approach, I may see more of the landing than I care to.”
“Ah, ye of little faith.” Fontenelle blew smoke directly at my head. “Our captain is the best, paid very well. So gentlemen, I suggest you relax, sip your whiskey, and enjoy our landing. We shall be disembarking within the hour.” He turned and strolled aft and out of sight. I sensed he did not care for my answer.
Owned and operated by the Fur Company, Diana carried the last of the beaver packs from the rendezvous Jonathan and I had attended. The first half of the skins was moved downriver by the steamboat that swamped us. One of only nine passengers, I paid seven dollars to travel first class from Boonville to St. Louis. As far as everyone on board was concerned, I was the son-in-law of a business owner from Chicago. Trusting no one, I kept to myself. Only for dining did I join the passengers.
The second evening after leaving Boonville, at dinner, Fontenelle tol
d a story of how he fought off a renegade fur trapper up at Rendezvous and then fought twenty more. “Son-of-a-bitch thought he’d take his furs elsewhere, downriver,” he said to no one in particular. “Him and the others, we give a fair price for each pelt. ’Course being the only company up there . . .” Fontenelle smiled and took a drink of his wine, “a fair price is all they got, if you understand my meaning.” Then he exclaimed boldly, “Goddamn trapper is still shitting beaver pelts out his ass.”
Everyone at the table laughed except for me. I rose slowly from my chair and stood frozen until all were quiet. In silence, I bowed graciously to Fontenelle, not taking my eyes off him, then turned and bowed once more showing him my backside.
“Sir, do you not care for my sense of humor?” he asked.
I turned back. “As a businessman with little knowledge of the fur trade, I don’t reckon I can say what’s fair an’ what’s not in a sale. Nor do I find secondhand tales humorous.” I paused for his reaction. When there was none, I continued. “I do know that for any business, no one profits from stolen goods. An’ if rumors are true, sir, the profits lost on eight hundred odd furs are quite a sum for the trapper as well as trader.” I turned away and from over my shoulder said, “A loss for everyone except for the thief and his fence.” Before he spoke another word, I was up the stairs to my cabin.
Later, a knock came at my cabin door. A man of maybe thirty in mustache and top hat tried pushing his way into the room, only to find a knife at his chest.
“Mate, if you cut me I swear I will bleed like a bloody stuck pig,” he whispered in a Brit’s accent and, with a finger, gently pushed the tip of the knife away. Trusting he was either unarmed or at least not showing a weapon, I eased down to the bunk, laying my knife beside me. The cabin was tiny but it had a single chair and desk. I nodded for him to have a seat. We stared at each other for a short while without a word spoken. As he had come to me, I was not starting the conversation. He pulled a pint from his jacket and offered me a drink.
“Fontenelle’s pissed. You blew out his lantern in front a’ them prigs hanging on every word. An’ you broke his spell.”
I took a drink and let him talk, holding the bottle in my left hand while my right hand still lay on the knife. If the man were to lunge at me, he would soon be dead.
“Been on this steamer since Glasgow, shithole if you’re asking. Besides that, I’ve heard the tale, as you call it, twice now. This time changed from ten to twenty trappers an’ him alone fighting them off. Now I’m wonderin’, which version of the tale is true.” He paused and glanced down. “Might good whiskey, eh, mate.”
I took another, longer drink and handed him back the nearly empty bottle. He drank the last of the whiskey down. “What line of business did you say you were in?”
“I didn’t,” I said, still staring at him.
“I hear you’re from Chicago?”
“From who?”
“Fontenelle.”
I lowered my gaze. My lying was never very convincing, especially with clean-shaven cheeks.
“So, you an’ him are more than dinner acquaintances, then?”
“Oh, no, sir. Your name come up during a card game I attended last night. Is where I won this fine whiskey you been drinking. Oh, no, mate, Fontenelle asked the question, to no one in particular, as to why a man from Chicago in the textile business has no cloth to sell.”
I gripped the knife, turning my knuckles white.
The young man glanced down, then leaned in and smiled. “What I said was, ain’t nobody’s business but his own.”
“An’ why is a Brit so quick to defend somebody he don’t even know?”
He laughed and pulled another bottle from his coat. “By what I’ve heard an’ now seen by your answer to Fontenelle, let’s say, we might have sights on the same reputedly stolen furs.”
“And how do you reckon I have anything to do with god-damn furs, mister . . . What did you say your name was?” I did my best not to show him my shock; though later I thought that my reaction of defensiveness was what he intended to rise in me.
“Oh how un-gentleman like of me.” He stuck out his right hand. “Billy sir, Billy Frieze. I hail from Manchester, England, the hat-making capital of all Europe!”
I did not shake his hand. “You come all this way to find stolen furs, Mr. Frieze? Would they be your stolen furs?”
“No, sir, your stolen furs.”
As if I knew what he was to say before saying it, my knife was at his throat. This time he did not push the blade away. He leaned into the tip just enough to dimple his skin. “Truth is, mate, suspicions are already in the minds of those who may or may not have answers to your questions. Kill me now and your future is a dire one. We keep this conversation going and me breathing, you may come to the truth without another ball shot into you.” He smiled and winked. “Mate, I may be the only friend you got on the whole Mississippi. Certainly the only one you’ll have when you go a stumbling ’round St. Louis . . . or New Orleans, looking for those two killers.”
“Quit talkin’!” I shouted.
Billy licked his lips and backed away from the knife. He raised the bottle of whiskey and offered me a drink.
I felt my chest might explode. The wound in my shoulder had not quite healed, causing my hand to shake. My mind reeled as to what the truth might be, coming from a half-drunk Brit.
“What do you know of my plight?” I willed the knife steady.
“I know about the hole in your shoulder. And I know about your brother.”
“How?” I pressed the tip of the blade back into his neck.
“An evening of games and drink.”
“Where?”
“Boonville, night or two ’fore we boarded this here steamboat.”
I slowly lay my brother’s knife back on the bunk and looked down at the doctor’s clothes I wore. Billy breathed a sigh. It appeared my charade was over. “Did you meet two men? One tall an’ damn near bald, the other one’s short.”
“I did not. I sat with an old man, a doctor he said he was. An’ you ask me, not much of one. Did more bloody preaching then doctoring. Not much of a preacher either, did more drinking then preaching.”
I could not respond and sat with my right hand still touching the handle of the knife, the other clasping the open flap of my coat to stifle the shakes. Certainly, Dr. Keynes had not meant to give me up. But for the drink, would he tell my tale to a stranger knowing the cost of a life?
“I know of the two men the doctor spoke of . . . as you speak of them now.”
“You know them?”
Billy smiled and glanced away. “I said, I know of them.”
We sat awhile in silence drinking the last of the second bottle, Billy drinking most.
“You say you sat with Dr. Keynes no more than a week ago yet you traveled downstream on this very steamer from Glasgow. She didn’t dock in Boonville ’til after the doctor spent time there.” I raised the knife again. “Which is it, mister?”
His eyes glassed up as he swigged the last drink. “Could it be I spent a week ’er two in Boonville rather than Glasgow?” He slurred. “These bloody steamboats all appear the same, you know.” Pausing, his eyes cleared. “You are that man . . .”
“Sir?”
“At Rendezvous, you are the trapper Fontenelle mocked.”
I did not answer and lowered the knife to my side one last time. He soon departed, stumbling down the hallway toward his cabin. He left me wondering what to make of our conversation, and feeling utterly alone. I certainly did not trust my new acquaintance.
It was then I decided to befriend him, with the hope that his companionship would be the means to a very bitter end.
From the pilothouse one deck above us, a bell rang and the rumbling from deep within the bowels of the steamer began to lessen. As we slowed, a wave sent out from our bow rippled through the riffraff before us. Another bell tolled and with a whoosh of released steam, the boilers shut down. Except for the constant splash
made by the lagging paddle wheel, Diana glided across the black water in silence. The captain gave the order for a hard turn to starboard. Within seconds, the pilot slipped Diana into a space between two steamboats that appeared along the shoreline, her shallow hull crunching against the riverbed. From the levee, a drayman announced our arrival and to prepare for offloading. Several wagons, their drivers, and slaves waited on Front Street for us to finish landing. As soon as we stopped, out went the gangplanks and the crew immediately began to walk packs of furs onto shore. The drayman ceased his call.
I exited the dining room out to the main deck and worked my way down the gangplank. A small travel case given to me by Dr. Keynes held my belongings. Wearing only his loaned clothes and my brother’s knife hidden under a coat, I felt unprotected, naked without buckskins and a pistol.
Billy followed the last of the packs carried off the steamer, met me on the levee and we walked up to Front Street. There was no hotel in the city but he knew a couple of establishments where a man might find a drink and a bed. One of the slaves glanced up at us from the back of a loaded wagon then looked to the ground. His foreman hit the side rail twice with the butt of a whip and the wagon lurched forward. The slave walked behind on bare feet with no chains binding him. Billy stopped and watched them disappear around a corner. Grimacing, he said under his breath, “Bloody Yanks . . .” and stood staring up the crowded street. An instant later, he slapped me on the back and set off at a quick pace. “Come on then, mate, two pints er a callin’ us to Frenchy’s and I know who’s a payin’!”
I walked slowly after him, trying to remember where I heard the name Frenchy. Then it came to me. That night on the river, as Baumgartner pulled Jonathan’s tomahawk out of Jeffery’s skull and handed it to Rudy, there was something said about Frenchy and St. Louis. I caught up and we strolled on into the heart of the city.
By darkness, all the buildings looked the same. Though the streets ran mostly straight and crossed each other at equal distances, I became thoroughly lost. Billy seemed to know precisely where we were and where he was taking us. I struggled to keep up with him through crowds of city folk who seemed to wander about aimlessly.
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