The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  Shoving with all her might, she managed to push him to his hindquarter and had a moment’s satisfaction as she scrambled to her feet.

  “How dare you undress me in public?”

  “In public?” He stood, rising tall before her.

  Mud coated his leggings from his waist to his strange hide slippers. She tugged to close her dress, but as he had released her corset she could no longer fasten the middle buttons.

  “Oh, my goodness. See what you’ve done?”

  “You couldn’t breathe. That thing was cutting off your air.”

  “Of course. How else could a lady fit into her dresses?”

  He rubbed his forehead as if he suddenly had a headache. “Sew ’em so they fit.”

  “These do fit.” She scrambled in her trunk and drew out a scarf, wrapping it about the opening at her waist.

  “I look perfectly ridiculous, thanks to you.”

  She wobbled as she closed the box.

  “Them trapping’s ridiculous all on their own. You didn’t need no help from me.”

  “How dare you?” Eleanor spun to face him and slipped in the mire at her feet.

  His hand gripped her elbow. The heat of his touch traveled up her arm and down her spine as he leaned close.

  “You’d be amazed at what I’ve dared.”

  Frightened that this contact brought such unexpected emotions, she shook him off.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  His hand slid away but he remained close. “Only reason you ain’t wearing a mud hat right now is because I caught you.”

  Her face heated as guilt flashed through her. He’d done what he could to help, extreme though his ministrations were. In his rough way, he had restored her to full health only to have her spit at him like a wet kitten.

  “Is it fair to say you are unfamiliar with the company of women?”

  “The way you mean it, I guess so.”

  She didn’t understand his comment.

  “I thank you for your assistance.”

  He pushed back his hat and stared. At last he spoke. “Welcome.”

  “Perhaps we should try once more. I will allow you to dispose of the property of the others as you see fit and sort my belongings as well. But I must have my drawing equipment.”

  He nodded. “Deal.”

  “And you must agree not to cut away my clothing. It is simply not done.”

  “You weren’t breathing right.”

  “I shall loosen my corset strings. Agreed?”

  “I’d do it again.”

  She studied his nose. Perhaps instead of determination, the equine slant meant stubbornness. What of those full lips? They were too beautiful for a man, as were his thick black eye-lashes. With his hat pushed back she noted the mahogany shine of his hair. Her fingers itched for her watercolor brushes.

  “You have lovely hair.”

  He blinked at her. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Certainly. How do we proceed?”

  “You walk on over to the fort and get a room.”

  “That sounds like an acceptable arrangement. Will you be staying at the fort?”

  “I sleep outdoors.”

  “If you need a lodging, I can provide for you.”

  A flush spread up his neck and she recognized too late that she had inadvertently insulted him again.

  “Let’s get this straight. I provide for you, not t’other way ’round.”

  “Of course.”

  He shook his head. She waited for him to extend his arm but he only stared at her as if expecting her to faint again.

  “Will you escort me?”

  “I will if you want all your gear took.”

  She leaned forward. “You mean we should not leave it unattended?”

  “You’re a real quick study.”

  Uncertainty curled within her, but she would not let it show. The vile men still lurked about the dock and she could not seem to leave the protection of her surly guide. She summoned up her flagging courage and nodded.

  “Ahh. Well then, I shall endeavor to obtain lodgings for myself. It should be none too difficult.” She lifted her purse and he grabbed her wrist. She felt the restrained strength of his grip clear down to her toes as her arm hung suspended in the air. She could not move. His iron hold caused not the slightest discomfort, like a well-trained pointer gripping his prey without piercing the skin. Her father called that having a “soft mouth.”

  She glanced up. This man had a soft mouth in the literal sense and she found herself staring boldly up at him again. Wherever were her manners?

  “Don’t jangle those coins. Good God, didn’t your folks teach you nothing?”

  “Anything.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t they teach me anything?”

  “That’s what I just asked you.”

  She sighed. “I have to pay for the room.”

  “No, you don’t. I do. Folks take one look at you and charge double.”

  He released her wrist. Her skin tingled where his warmth still lingered. She rubbed the spot to regain her equilibrium.

  “Then shall I pay you?”

  “Later. And stick that purse someplace safe.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, beneath your skirts or inside that armor plating you wear.”

  “That is not armor. This particular corset is whalebone.”

  He looked horrified. “Whale?”

  “The very best,” she assured him.

  “Tarnation. Why would you strap bones around your middle?”

  She smiled at his lack of refinement. “To give a woman the proper shape.”

  Now he smiled. “I’ve seen you without it and there ain’t nothing wrong with your shape.”

  “Mr. Price!”

  Her guide grasped her elbow. “Enough talk. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 3

  Eleanor faced her first go at independence with clacking teeth. Now that she actually stood on her own two feet, she found her knees wobbled as she approached the gates of the Fort Union. A few moments ago her guide had sent her on ahead with only a young porter as escort. The dirty fellow trudged along behind her, inspiring not the slightest confidence.

  All about her, men came and went and she did, indeed, appear to be the only white woman within miles. Never in her life had she felt more out of place. Even standing in her mud-caked attire, she was badly overdressed. She followed the porter to the office where he left her to stand in the mud like a street urchin. Finally he emerged and then guided her across the courtyard.

  Here, she came upon her first Indian. There was Mr. Price, of course, but he did not dress the part, nor did he share the features of this dark-skinned savage. The man before her wore only a loincloth and his bronze skin gleamed over sinew and muscles in the late July heat.

  She had seen Indians along the shore from the safety of the steamer, of course, but now one walked past her and stared boldly. Her fingers itched to grab her brushes but self-preservation intervened and she instead grabbed the gaping collar of her ruined dress in an effort to draw it completely closed.

  “What tribe are these Indians?” she asked the porter.

  “All tribes. They come here to trade.”

  “Don’t they fight?”

  “On occasion. Mostly they wait until they are clear of the walls or they aren’t welcomed back.”

  “Could you arrange for an Indian to sit for me? I am a painter.”

  There, she had said it as if it were true. If only she were. She could be, if given half a chance.

  The porter did not question her, but nodded.

  “That’s no trouble, miss.”

  He left her at the door with no key. She discovered the facilities did include a sturdy bolt within, at least. Alone inside the primitive room, she waited as her belongings arrived, carried by men who merely dropped their loads and departed. She took a moment to repair her hair and remove the mud from her skin before attempting to change her clot
hing. She struggled to near exhaustion with her corset achieving less than satisfactory results. Twisting like a contortionist, she managed to fasten a row of hook and eyes at her side. Since she had lost her maid in New Orleans, she could no longer manage the dresses that closed in the back.

  Reassembled at last, she recovered her painting equipment.

  Unfettered by social responsibilities for the first time in memory, she anxiously began her life as an artist. A boy brought the first model.

  As the day was bright and mild, she set her easel in the yard before her room, thus casting her subject and her work in full light.

  The child said the Indian’s name was Wind Dancer and he expected only a penny for his time. The man spoke some English and was a member of a tribe called Sioux.

  He stood dressed in a buckskin shirt, leggings, a loincloth and beaded leather slippers. The area between his loins and the tops of his leggings was quite naked, revealing a well-muscled hip. This was the nearest she’d yet come to a nude study and excitement at the prospect made her hand tremble. Her graphite pencil flew across the page.

  In a few minutes she completed several preliminary sketches. As was her habit, she dropped these pages from the easel, letting them lie about her feet on the compacted earth. She posed him for several more quick renditions. He stood very still, impressing her with his strength and control.

  Her one concern was the man’s habit of staring directly at her. His stern expression and piercing gaze rattled her quite more than she cared to admit. She had read James Fenimore Cooper, but rather thought these Indians were not of the same mold.

  Three of the sketches lay at her feet as she brushed her hand over her current work, smudging the line to create a shadow. At last a gentle breeze touched her neck, cooling her.

  “I’m finished now, Mr. Wind Dancer. If you know any other Indians who are willing to sit quietly for a time, I would appreciate you referring them.”

  The breeze lifted one drawing from the pile. The page seemed to dance across the distance separating them and stopped just upon the man’s right foot.

  He stooped gracefully, gathered the errant drawing and studied her work.

  “I’m especially interested in Chiefs in full regalia. Head-dresses, feathers, your finest clothing. You understand?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She stood, leaving the last drawing on her easel, and then retrieved a penny from her reticule. “Here you are.”

  He lifted the drawing. “I take.”

  It wasn’t very good, just a quick sketch to warm up. In fact she did not like the result. “I’d prefer not. That one, well, it’s lacking.”

  “I take.”

  He seemed determined.

  “Very well, then. Thank you.” She extended the coin but he held up his palm in refusal.

  Wind Dancer turned to go, pausing at Troy’s approach. Her guide strode toward them scowling darkly.

  The man lifted his hand and Price did the same. What followed was a series of odd gestured exchanges that seemed like conversation between the two men. Finally the Indian left, his new drawing rolled and thrust in his belt.

  “You know that man is a war council leader for Charging Buffalo?” asked her guide.

  “I did not.” Nor did she know what a war council was or who Charging Buffalo might be, but she rather thought she’d exposed enough ignorance to him already. An adage sprang to mind. Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.

  Troy moved to the easel and studied her work. She resisted the urge to throw a handkerchief over the drawing. Instead she hovered with clenched hands knowing that his opinion should not matter, but waited eagerly for it all the same.

  When he turned his gaze to her, he seemed astonished. He looked back at her painting and then to her again. Disbelief changed to an expression she thought might be respect. That gave her pause, having never been looked at by a man in that way. With indulgence—surely. Amusement? Often. But respect—no, this was something new.

  “Looks just like him.”

  She basked in his approval. “Thank you.”

  “Know what this is?” He pointed to her rendition of the circle of painted leather decorated with long strands of animal hair held in the man’s left hand.

  “I assume it is some kind of musical instrument related to a drum.”

  “Well, you assume wrong. That there is the man’s medicine shield.”

  “A shield—of leather? That wouldn’t even stop a stone.”

  “The Sioux set great store by their shield and the medicine bundle in the center. They believe that bundle and symbols on their shield protect them from their enemies.”

  “That’s not medicine, it’s some primitive superstition.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Ever wear a cross for protection?”

  She stiffened. “That is completely different.”

  “Wouldn’t stop a stone.” He smiled at her then, pointed at her painting. “See this here is hair?”

  Fascinating, the knowledge he held. She leaned in to study her own drawing.

  “Buffalo?”

  His smile was wicked. “I’d say more likely Crow.”

  “Crows? The accoutrements were definitely not feathers.”

  “Not the bird, the tribe. That’s hair from their enemies, killed in battle, a most powerful medicine.”

  He stood waiting, his expression placid until understanding dawned. Her knees went first. He clutched her elbow and guided her to the chair. Her rump hit hard as she fought down a wave of nausea. She recalled the disks of leather, no bigger than a silver dollar, and the long black hair that hung from each. She had assumed it was buffalo and thought the decor very charming in a rustic way.

  “Scalps?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “So, I’d say you best be more careful about who you paint.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’ll be more careful.”

  “You hungry?”

  Eleanor realized that she had not eaten since this morning on the steamer. She glanced at the sky, surprised to find that she’d spent the entire afternoon sketching. Her work always made her lose all track of time. The queasiness dissolved as the walls of her stomach rumpled together demanding sustenance.

  “Famished,” she admitted.

  He took her to a crude little lodge in the center of the fort that seemed to be some kind of storage room on one side and tavern on the other. Stacks of furs and kegs of beer filled tables and lined the walls. The reek of stale beer mingled with tobacco as she searched the haze. Opposite the goods, several long tables stood on a dirt floor. It was for the tables that her guide steered.

  “We certainly aren’t going to eat here,” she said, catching her breath at the stench of unwashed bodies.

  “Why not?”

  “Why it’s dirty and smells abominable. I wouldn’t dare eat here for fear of being poisoned. Please take me somewhere else.”

  “Glad to, Princess. Nearest place is just downriver in St. Louis.”

  She folded her arms across her bosom in a posture her mother absolutely loathed, saying it showed the world her stubborn nature.

  “This is the only eatery in Fort Union?” Her voice challenged, suspecting a trick.

  “Only grub here comes out of the kitchen behind this room.”

  “What about the steamer?”

  “Unloaded and on its way back to St. Louis without you.”

  She took in the sweeping realization that she was stuck in this miserable little fort and swayed on her feet.

  He grasped her elbow, guiding her to a bench, and plunked her down on the seat with enough force to make her teeth rattle.

  Then he left her, returning with a plate of beans adorned with a grizzled piece of bacon fat and a chipped tin cup filled with black coffee. For utensils he brought only a wooden spoon.

  An odd sense of unreality crashed through her mind. How could men possibly live in such primitive conditions?

  “Change your mi
nd, Princess?”

  He sounded so sure of her surrender. The glint in his eye confirmed her supposition.

  She sat up straight at the challenge in his voice and accepted the utensil. She lifted a spoonful, opened her lips, closed her eyes and swallowed, certain she would be sick. The beans tasted of molasses and she found the smoky flavor odd, but not unpleasant. Still, what might so many beans do to her digestion? She reached for the coffee.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asked hopefully.

  His grin never wavered. “Fresh out.”

  She sighed and lifted the scalding brew. She recognized the meal as the test it was. More disturbing than the food was the company. As they ate, the room slowly filled with men. They hovered by the doors and on the benches along the walls watching. Their intent, predatory gazes lifted the small hairs on her neck.

  She glanced from the observers back to her guide.

  “They won’t bother you none.” His quiet voice exuded a confidence she found contagious.

  She met his steady gaze and knew that despite his attempts to frighten her, he would allow no real harm. That realization gave her peace that lasted only until they left the tavern or whatever one called such a place.

  He guided her by the elbow in a loose grip that allowed the illusion of freedom while maintaining control.

  “I have to buy supplies tomorrow.”

  “Certainly, how much money do you need?”

  “Did you bring mules?”

  “Why, no. Only my horse and saddle.”

  He scratched beneath his hat. “Mules is dear. You got a rifle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mules is fifteen dollars each. I got one, but you need two. Pack saddles will run another five. For the rest, ten dollars ought to cover it. That’s forty-five dollars all told.” He sat back and smiled as she took in the figure as if expecting the sum would send her back to New York.

  She delivered three twenty-dollar gold pieces to his hand.

  “If you need more, please ask. I have plenty.”

  He stared down at coins glinting in the last remaining rays of sun. She did not understand the dark expression that blackened his features.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They look new.”

  She smiled. “Gold always looks new. That is part of its allure.”