“Anything new here?”
“I’m afraid not. More of the same. More people using the Santa Fe Trail. Which means more customers. More Indians coming to trade than ever before. Which also means more customers.”
“I should think that would make you happy,” Nate remarked.
“A person can only earn so much money before the rest becomes so much clover,” St. Vrain said. “To be honest, I am tired of the long hours, the never-ending work. I relish the thought of spending more time with my family. It could be I am ready to put myself out to pasture.”
They came to a door at the rear. St. Vrain opened it and moved along a narrow hall, passing other doors, until he came to the last one on the right. It opened into a storeroom. Crates were piled high.
Ceran St. Vrain put his slender hands on his hips. “Now let’s see. Where exactly did I place them? Ah, yes. Now I remember.”
There was barely enough space for Nate to squeeze through to a far corner. He was puzzled when St. Vrain abruptly stopped and looked about in bewilderment. “Something the matter?”
“This is deuced peculiar. I distinctly recall placing them on that crate in the corner, yet now they’re gone.”
“Someone took them?” Nate had gone to a lot of trouble to surprise Winona, and it angered him to think the surprise had been spoiled.
“I don’t see how that could be,” St. Vrain said. “I gave explicit instructions they were not to be touched.” He spun. “Come. We will investigate. I apologize for the delay.”
“It’s all right,” Nate said. But it was not all right, and if anything had happened to them, he would be fit to turn into one of the bears he was named after.
As they came to the main room, the hall door opened and in hurried one of St. Vrain’s employees, a thin man with fewer hairs on his head than Nate had fingers.
“Ah. Allan. Just the person I am looking for.”
“Sir?”
“Remember the two items I ordered for Mr. King, here? The items I placed in the back room?”
“Certainly, sir,” Allan said.
“They are missing.”
“How can that be, sir?”
“That is what I would like to know. They have to be on the premises somewhere. Ask everyone. Find out who moved them. I will be on the southeast tower with Mr. King.”
The heat in the square was stifling. Nate squinted in the harsh glare and said, “The tower?”
“Another train of freight wagons was due several days ago. I have been keeping an eye out for them.”
They crossed toward the stairs. Jammed as the square was with people and animals, they had to pick their way. St. Vrain glanced over his shoulder to say something to Nate and inadvertently bumped into a burly mule skinner. “Pardon me,” he said, and went to go around.
The mule skinner, one of three busy rigging teams to wagons that would soon depart for Santa Fe, shoved St. Vrain and growled, “Watch where you’re going, you damn dandy.”
“See here—” St. Vrain began.
The mule skinner shoved him again, so hard that St. Vrain stumbled and nearly fell. The reek of alcohol explained, in part, the man’s belligerence.
Nate, stepping between them, said simply, “That’s enough.”
“Who the hell asked you to butt in?” the mule skinner jeered. His clothes, his very body, reeked worse than the alcohol, and when he showed his teeth in a snarl, they were yellow, not white. He was big, almost as big as Nate, with an unkempt beard in dire need of a washing and a jagged scar down his left cheek. “I should pound you into the ground, you son of a bitch.”
Nate casually handed his Hawken rifle to St. Vrain, casually turned, and casually hit the mule skinner a solid punch to the gut that doubled him over and turned the man’s face near-purple. “That’s enough out of you.”
“Watch out!” Ceran St. Vrain cried.
The other two mule skinners were rushing to help their friend. They were not as big, but they were whipcord and vinegar, and never hesitated. Together they hurled themselves at Nate, one attacking high, the other diving low.
Leaping into the air, Nate avoided the tackle even as his right fist lashed out and connected with a gristly chin. His feet came down hard on the one who had tried to tackle him, eliciting a yelp of pain. Skipping sideways, Nate set himself just as the big mule skinner who had shoved St. Vrain came at him with both knobby fists swinging.
Nate blocked, dodged, struck. He was not without experience at rough and tumble, which he proved by landing several swift flicks that set the big mule skinner back on his heels.
The three were filthy and they stunk, but they were not stupid. They separated to come at Nate from different directions. One was bleeding from the mouth and another had his arm pressed to his side.
“Whoever you are, mister,” said the mule skinner who had started it all, “we’re about to whittle you down to size.” His hand came from behind his back holding a doubled-edged knife with an antler handle.
“You don’t want to do that,” Nate said.
“Sure I do.”
The mule skinner feinted at Nate’s groin, then thrust at his throat. Nate, expecting the man to fight as dirty as he looked, twisted aside. The blade missed, but not by much. As quick as a thought, Nate grabbed the man’s outstretched arm, gripping it by the wrist and the elbow, and brought his knee up. There was a distinct crack and the man howled like a stricken wolf and staggered back, the knife falling from fingers gone limp.
“Damn your hide!” one of the others roared as he and the third man closed in.
Nate unleashed an uppercut that started at his knee and ended somewhere above the clouds. It lifted the second mule skinner off the ground and stretched him out like a board.
That left the last, who suddenly lost interest. Holding his hands up, palms out, he said, “Enough, mister. We know when we’re licked.”
Nate had half a mind to knock him down anyway. But by then half a dozen of St. Vrain’s staff had rushed to the aid of their employer. The mule skinners were seized, none too gently, and escorted—one might say dragged—into the blacksmith shop.
“I am sorry about this,” St. Vrain said, handing the Hawken back. “The rowdier element usually has enough sense not to cause trouble. They know I won’t tolerate it.”
“What will you do with them?” Nate asked. Not that he gave a good damn. He would as soon drop them headfirst from the ramparts.
“The one who pulled a knife on you will be banned from the fort for life,” St. Vrain said. “The other two will be fined. If they refuse to pay, they too will be banned.” He made for the blacksmith’s.
The majority of freight outfits bound to and from Santa Fe laid over at Bent’s Fort to load or unload and take on provisions. Mule skinners banned from the post were of no use to their employers. Consequently, the concerns that hired them often let them go.
The delay chafed at Nate’s nerves. He was anxious to learn the fate of the presents he had ordered from a firm in Pennsylvania that specialized in fine china. As he stood there debating whether to go into the blacksmith shop, a hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
“Mr. King?”
Nate turned. It was Allan Decker, the head clerk. “Tell me you found them,” Nate hopefully prodded.
“Yes and no.” Decker’s crestfallen expression hinted the news would not be to Nate’s liking. “I have a general idea where the washbasin and the pitcher are.”
“A general idea?” Nate repeated.
“Yes, sir.” Decker fidgeted and would not meet Nate’s gaze. “I’m afraid a new employee made the mistake of selling them.”
Nate rarely lost his temper. He came close now. “He what?”
Adam’s apple bobbing, Decker said, “A new clerk. He overheard a young woman mention to her husband how she would like a pitcher and he remembered seeing the fancy one in the back room. He had no idea it was yours, Mr. King. No idea it was being held for you. No one told him.”
“So he sold
it to her.”
“The pitcher and the washbasin both, yes. About eight days ago. I’m awfully sorry. Mr. St. Vrain will be extremely upset.”
“He’s not the only one.” Nate let out a sigh. So much for surprising Winona. “By now the pitcher and the basin must be halfway to Santa Fe.”
“No, sir,” Decker said.
Hope flared anew. Nate impulsively gripped the clerk by the shoulders. “The young couple are still here at the post?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But neither were they bound for Santa Fe.”
Nate thought he understood. “They were on their way east instead of west? To St. Louis, maybe?”
“No, sir. They told the new man that they were on their way south.”
Puzzlement furrowed Nate’s brow. “But there’s nothing to the south but grass, buffalo, and hostiles.”
“You know that and I know that, Mr. King. But the young couple apparently got it into their heads that they were going to start up a farm.”
“Dear God.” Nate had heard some harebrained notions in his time, but this one bordered on insane. “Did the clerk happen to catch the handles of these two simpletons?”
“That he did, sir. The couple who have your pitcher and washbasin go by the names of Shipley and Cynthia Beecher.”
Two
The young couple on horseback had been riding for days. Both horses were sorrels. Both were more used to pulling plows than having saddles cinched to their backs.
The man was of less than average height. He had milky blue eyes and no chin to speak of. He was rail thin except for his shoulders. Farm work had molded them into bundles of muscles. He wore homespun and boots and a hat with a floppy brim that did little to keep the sun from his eyes. Strapped to his waist was a knife, but it was behind his left hip, where it would be difficult to reach quickly if the need arose. Slung across his back by a cord was a rifle. He rode slouched forward, his arms constantly flapping.
The woman was well under average height. Everything about her was small: small nose, small mouth, small ears, small fingers. She looked delicate, even fragile, but the manner in which she held herself hinted she was tougher than was apparent. Her eyes, too, were blue, but hers were piercing and bright. She wore a dress she had made herself, as she had made the man’s shirt and pants. Where his hair was sandy, hers was as yellow as the fiery orb that dominated the sky.
Strangely, it was the woman who led their packhorse. Strange, too, was the fact she rode with much more assurance than the man, and with a lot less flopping about.
Beside the woman’s horse, not the man’s, loped a dog. The dog, too, was small, more mongrel than anything else. A dusky brown, the dog had a high forehead and a long muzzle. When, from time to time, the dog glanced up at the woman, unmistakable affection lit its dark eyes. No such affection was apparent when it glanced at the man.
The new day was only an hour old, yet already it was unbearably hot. The woman kept looking behind her, and finally, after the tenth or eleventh time, called out, “Rein up, Ship.”
The man did so. He gazed quizzically at her as she came to a stop next to him. “What is it, Cyn?” He always called her that. Not Cynthia, but Cyn. Just as she always called him Ship instead of Shipley, but at his request since he liked Ship better.
“I am sure we are being followed.”
“You claimed the same thing yesterday, and the day before.” Shipley Beecher frowned and stared in the direction they had come. “I still don’t see anyone.”
“There is someone back there, I tell you,” Cynthia said. “Whoever it is has been following us for some time, but they never show themselves.”
“To what end?” Ship responded. “If they were whites out to waylay us, surely they would have done so by now. If it were hostiles, surely they would have attacked before this.” He smiled tolerantly and tolerantly shook his head. “No, I am afraid that female nature of yours is letting this get to you.”
“Quit that,” Cynthia said sharply.
“Quit what?”
“That talk about my female nature. You do it all the time, as if my being female makes me flighty and weak. I am neither and you well know it.”
Ship leaned forward. “Are you going to start again? I swear, I can’t say a thing to you some days without you taking exception.”
“If you don’t want me to take exception, don’t say silly things about females,” Cynthia said resentfully.
“But you are female, and you can’t help being as females are,” Ship said. “You fret over trifles and make mountains out of anthills.”
Cynthia’s blue eyes flashed. “I hate it when you do that. I just hate it.”
“And I refuse to get into another argument over something so silly.” Ship rose in the stirrups and stared for over a minute along their back trail, then sank back down. “Still no one. Not a speck.”
“Someone is stalking us. I feel it in my bones.”
“Ah,” Ship said. “Your bones. Well, then, there can’t be any mistake, can there? I mean, your bones never lie.”
“Sarcasm ill becomes you.”
“You want me to be serious? Fine, I’ll be serious. How can you pester me with trifles when I have so much on my mind? My brothers are out here somewhere, and I intend to find them if it takes until winter.”
The resentment on Cynthia’s face softened. “It’s been so long, Ship. They would have sent a letter.”
“Don’t talk like that. They are alive. They found a likely spot for our farms and have been too busy to get word to us.”
Cynthia opened her small mouth but closed it again. She looked off across the sea of grass; then at the dog, which wagged its tail; then at her husband. “That must be it, Ship.”
Shipley Beecher did not appear to notice her lack of conviction. “Of course it is. We’ll come across them any day now.”
The dog suddenly turned to the west and growled.
“What’s the matter with Byron?”
“He must smell or hear something,” Cynthia said. The dog was more hers than his. She had found it when it was but a puppy, lost and alone and skin and bones, wandering the streets of South Bend. She had brought it back to their farm and named it after her favorite poet. “Maybe it’s whoever is following us.”
“In which case they would be to the north, not the west,” Ship noted. “No, that silly mutt of yours probably caught the scent of a rabbit or deer.”
“He wouldn’t growl without reason.”
“There you go again. He’s a dog, Cyn. He doesn’t need a reason.”
“Let’s ride,” Cynthia said. “Let’s just ride.”
That is what they did, until the sun was overhead and they and their mounts were caked with sweat. Cynthia, not Shipley, spotted the unusual sight up ahead, an oasis of vegetation covering more than an acre, and called out, “What’s that?”
Ship stirred and straightened. “Trees, by God! It’s a stand of trees! There must be water! It’s the first we’ve come across since leaving the Platte. None too soon, either. Our water skins are about dry.”
“How did those trees get there?” Cynthia wondered. It was her understanding that they did not sprout out of thin air.
“Who knows? Who cares?” Ship laughed. “Water, by God! I might have to dig for it but it’s there.”
No digging was required. A spring lay serene in the shade of overspreading boughs.
“I told you!” Ship declared, and started to swing down.
That was when the undergrowth on the other side parted and out stepped a man leading a horse. “How do you do, folks? Yes, indeed, how do you do?”
Shipley froze in surprise. Cynthia instantly leveled her rifle and said, “Stay, Byron! Stay!” The dog bared its teeth and crouched.
Old, greasy buckskins clung to the man’s rangy form. The black hair that spilled from under his hat gave the impression of being coated with bear fat. His right eye was brown and kept twitching. Where his left eye should have been was a buckskin patch
, tied fast. He had a bony face and a long nose and a slit of a mouth. He was armed with pistols and a rifle, but he held the rifle out from his side, barrel up. “I don’t mean no harm, folks. I truly do not.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, now, little lady, it’s like this. I was fixing to wet my throat when I heard you folks coming and hid in case you were redskins.”
“You haven’t been following us, have you?” Cynthia asked suspiciously.
“How could I be doing that, little lady, when I am heading south, the same as you, and I reached this spring first, which means I was in front of you?”
“You could have passed us,” Cynthia said.
“What is this, little lady?” the man said. “Can’t a coon be neighborly?”
Ship finally spoke. “Cyn, quit pointing that rifle at him.” Dismounting, he walked over, offered his hand, and introduced them.
“They call me One-Eye. One-Eye Jackson.” The man in the greasy buckskins tapped the patch. “Never guess why.”
Grinning, Ship said, “You must forgive my wife. You know how high-strung women can be.”
“That I do,” One-Eye said. He smiled at Cynthia, but she did not repay the courtesy. Shrugging, he turned to Shipley. “If you don’t mind my asking, what in blazes are you two doing out here? Don’t you know this is Injun country? Hostiles are everywhere.”
“We haven’t seen sign of any,” Ship said.
“You never do, sonny, until it’s too late.” One-Eye gazed about the stand. “Injuns come to this spring all the time. I figured to slip in, fill my water skin, and slip out again. You’d be wise to do the same.”
Cynthia had stayed where she was. “If you’re so afraid of Indians,” she now said, “what are you doing here?”
“Eh?” One-Eye’s one eye blinked. “Tarnation. You’re sure not a trusting she-cat are you?”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“If you must know,” One-Eye said, “I’m after buffalo. Maybe you’ve heard of them. Big hairy critters with horns.”
Cynthia’s tone acquired an icy tinge. “I am well aware of what buffalo are. I am also aware of what polecats are. Which is why I consider it peculiar that you are out here in Injun country, as you so quaintly call it, hunting buffalo all by your lonesome.”
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