by Mari Collier
The man they were attacking was shorter, barrel-chested, and stocky. He was dressed in buckskin and moccasins. He proved nimble enough to avoid the table and pulled his own bowie knife. He crouched, his arms slightly extended, and his eyes turning hard.
For a moment the three men stopped, surprised by his swiftness. Then they separated to come at him from different sides.
MacDonald took one look, shrugged at the thought of missing the chance for a brew, and stepped behind one man. His knotted fist crashed into the man's head and the man crumbled to the floor.
The man at the bar was shouting while waving an old flintlock at them. “Get out, yu bastards, get out. Yu all cain't wreck my place.”
The blonde man in buckskins was leaning forward to swipe at his opponents. One attacker moved in with his longer arm reach. The shorter man whirled out of the way, turned and drove his knife into the man's side, raking the knife outward and turning to meet the next man. He straightened and stared. The next man was kicking and turning red-faced while a giant of a man had him around the arms and was squeezing the air from his chest. The other man was stretched out on the floor. The owner of the place now had his flintlock aimed at the giant. His bowie knife went sailing through the air, straight into the owner's shoulder.
The flintlock jumped upward and the ball pinged against the ceiling beams. Then the ball and bark chips fell to the floor. The roar from the musket, however, caused the giant to turn and drop the man he had been squeezing.
“He appears to be in on the scheme to rob ye.” Surprise mingled in the rumbling voice of the giant.
“Ja, sure, probably hired them. Du mitt them?”
“Oh, nay, I twas about to purchase a brew.”
The blonde man shook his head. “Damn fool, du could have been killed.” He walked over to the owner who was holding a dirty towel against his shoulder and trying to find another ball to ram into the flintlock.
The mountain man yanked the flintlock out of the man's hand and his knife from the man's shoulder. A scream ricocheted around the small room.
“I'll leave this outside. Du can vorry about your friends.” He jerked his head at the three in various states of consciousness.
To MacDonald he said, “If du ain't mitt these fellows, du best come mitt me.”
Something about the hard blue eyes, the competent warrior's stance, and the male self-assurance seemed to win the big man's respect. He nodded at the wounded owner and followed the man outside.
“Du know this country?”
“Nay, I have but arrived.”
The man snorted. “Thought as much dressed like that. Du look like some city boy looking for adventure. Ve ride for awhile, then ve can introduce each other.”
They pulled up under a grove of oak and ash trees near a large, rushing creek that was swollen from a summer rainfall. The blonde man rode a sturdy brown horse and led two mules packed with traps and camping paraphernalia. He dismounted and tied the reins to a tree trunk and MacDonald did the same.
For a moment they eyed each other and then a browned hand streaked out.
“I'm Herman Rolfe and danke, ah, thank du. One against three vas too many.” A smile lit his face and eyes.
MacDonald's brown eyes filled with amusement and he returned the smile as he shook hands. “I am called Zebediah L. MacDonald.” How he wished he could have used Llewellyn, Maca of Don, but that must stay as hidden as the Golden One.
“Vant to say vhere du are going or du do vant to stay quiet about that?”
“I am nay certain. I had thought about going to Texas. They say it tis a good place for a man.”
“Do du know how to cross Injun country?”
“I have a map I bought in St. Louis.”
For a moment the blue eye regarded him. “Du are going to get yourself killed, boy. Let's jaw a bit.” He sank down on his haunches and MacDonald followed suit.
Rolfe grabbed a twig from the ground and used it to draw a crude map. “Ve are about here. To get to Texas, du have to go through Missouri and Indian Territory or Arkansas. Then, depending on vhere du go, du go through parts of Texas that ain't settled yet. There's Kiowa, Osage, Platte, Choctaw, Cherokee, Comanche tribes, and Apache. All of them raid for horses or any other damn reason. Most of the Cherokee are more like us, but there's always a vild bunch. If they stop du, they'll vant something to let du pass or they'll take your scalp und your horse. They could do that anyway if du don't know how to avoid them. Then there are men who run from the law. Some are dangerous, some just vant to be left alone.”
MacDonald swallowed. He did nay have the Thalian Warrior training for being among primitives. Nay did he ken this land, but the Golden One was buried deep in the earth of Texas. He had spent months searching for a safe place and then more months enlarging a tunnel and cave to house his spaceship. All of the excavating was done at night away from the prying eyes of anyone that might ride through the area. He had seen no one. It seemed to be a vacant land, but this man was telling him there were inhabitants.
He had taken one of the Scouts and hidden it near a small city. There he had purchased clothing that did nay fit. Llewellyn changed his name and rented a room before he hired a woman to sew him trousers and shirts. She also knitted socks and a cobbler made the boots he was wearing. Only then did he buy a horse, saddle, and equipment that the store owner said he would need if traveling alone across the plains. Somehow he had to possess the land where the Golden One rested below the earth.
Rolfe looked at him. “Me, I'm a fur trapper. I'm heading back up towards Ft. Laramie. Once it's cold enough, I'll start laying my traps. Dat's vhy the two pack mules. My partner von't go again as he got married. I'll teach du how to trap and survive. Du get ten percent of der profits.”
“I'm grateful for the offer, but I have nay kenning of how much that tis or how long this twould take.”
“It depends on the market for furs. This year not so good, but I made enough to put avay about a thousand dollars. Dot's after ve split the take. Dot means du vould haf about one hundred dollars or more.”
“How long does this take?” He remembered how rapidly his funds had dwindled.
“About six months.”
“That twould be but sixteen dollars per month.”
The blue eyes hardened. “Ja, but that's a damn good vage, and I supply the equipment. Du might stay alive and learn how to survive. I teach du how. The only vons better than me are the Injuns. And I provide grub.”
He saw the frown on MacDonald's face. “Dot's food, boy. Don't du understand American?”
“It seems I dinna ken what ye said. Nay do I ken what wages are here.”
Rolfe sighed. “If ve make a good profit and du learn fast, I'll up it to fifteen percent. But du buy the coat and blanket du vill need. Once ve're out on the prairie, I can kill a buffalo. If there's time we'll tan it enough for making a varm tent.”
His words left MacDonald's mind reeling. This man was one who would not let MacDonald's mind into his. It was obvious if he were to get back to the spaceship, he needed money to survive and he needed to learn the ways of men in this land.
“That tis much fairer. I shall earn that fifteen percent.” He grinned and they both stood.
“Ve shake on it now.”
Neither man tried to show their strength in the grip of shaking. Rolfe because he knew the big man/boy was stronger. MacDonald did not because he did not need to prove what was obvious.
“I'll teach du Deutsche too. Dot's German in English.” He grinned. “Now ve ride to the next town vhere du can buy the things du need. I'll make sure that they don't cheat du.”
He hesitated a moment. “How about I call du Mac? It sounds better than boy if du vorking mitt me.”
“Aye, it does sound better. Someone is apt to laugh if ye call me boy and I'm towering over ye.”
Rolfe broke off a chew and plopped it into his mouth. “Und du buy your own tobacco”
Chapter 4: The Maca
The sound
of terror in the horses' whinnies and mules' braying brought the sleeping men to their feet. MacDonald and Rolfe had camped with another group of free traders heading into St. Louis. It had been a disastrous year for trapping. The danger of a larger group from the fur brigade stealing what few furs they had was real. They intended to sell their furs directly to the American Fur Company in St. Louis. They had found an abandoned squatter's cabin on the edge of western Kansas. It took minimal work to make the fence sturdy enough to hold their animals.
The fear of losing their horses and mules added swiftness to their movements. Men were grabbing their clothes and at their loaded rifles when Rolfe noticed a Kentuckian reaching for the door.
“Don't open that door. It could be anything from Injuns to bears. Vait till ve are ready.”
He bent to pull on his moccasins when the blast of cold morning air hit him.
“It's Mac,” someone yelled. “He's gone loco. It's a damn grizzly out there and he ain't got nothing but a bowie knife.”
Rolfe pushed the others out of his way to get to the door. There were no windows in this cabin. One look and Rolfe stopped.
MacDonald was almost to the grizzly, his long legs cutting the distance in that peculiar rolling bear-like gait. He had on nothing but his under clothes and moccasins. The grizzly had its back to him as it tore at the fence rails, pulling one board loose and then another to get at the stock. It stood a bit shorter than MacDonald's six foot nine inches. He leaped the remaining distance to land on the grizzly's back.
MacDonald grasped under the open mouth and ran the knife across the middle of the right side of the throat towards the back of the neck. The grizzly roared and tried to claw at his right side, then at the left. MacDonald had released his grasp, but the claws still raked at his arm. Blood gushed from the grizzly's jugular vein. The wind and turning grizzly spewed blood in all directions. As his feet hit the ground, MacDonald reached upward and thrust the knife into the grizzly's left eye. He tried to retreat keeping behind the grizzly, but the beast stood, roared, turned, and charged.
“Get down du damn fool.” Rolfe was shouting.
The men watched as MacDonald managed the impossible. He had gotten to the side of the charging animal and was back up on the beast's back. He had transferred the bowie knife to his left hand and was ripping at the jugular vein on that side. This time the blood oozed out and the bear dropped to his four feet, shaking his head as to clear his sight and charge at his antagonist.
MacDonald stepped back dragging the cold air into his lungs and creating clouds of iced vapor as he expelled the air. He could not explain to these men that for one moment he was back in the Sky Maist Mountains that bisected his continent of Don and that he, the Maca, was proving his worth by killing the wild elbenor with a knife. That he should have been wearing only a thong was irrelevant. The grizzly was close enough in size and the bowie knife sufficient in killing efficiency.
The grizzly shook its head and more blood spewed. Then the bear turned to peer at the livestock with its remaining eye, turned again toward the men at the cabin, and reared before toppling to the ground.
MacDonald threw his head back and his yell rolled out into the prairie sky. “I am Mac,” and he hesitated just a moment, “Donald.” I am Maca screamed in his mind. He bowed to the beast on the ground and walked back towards the cabin and the wide-eyed men staring at him in awed disbelief.
“Du crazy, Mac. Vhy didn't du let me shoot him?”
“Because, Friend Rolfe, I needed to do that. Now the frustrations of this year's hunt are somewhat alleviated.” MacDonald smiled at him and his brown eyes filled with amusement.
Rolfe shook his head. “Vell, at least ve can sell the fur. Too damn bad du ruined der face.”
“Why sell it? We can keep it, or ye can. Mayhap it twill keep us warm one of these nights.” He realized the cold was biting into him and he stepped inside the cabin.
The others hurried out to check the animals and to keep them contained. Rolfe started skinning the bear. There was still plenty of salt left to start the curing, and the bear meat could be eaten that night.
Chapter 5: An Era Closes
MacDonald and Rolfe walked out of the American Fur Company, their backs straight and their shoulders swaying. MacDonald walked with his rolling gait and Rolfe was not much different with his legs bowed from the time spent in the saddle. Not until they were outside and mounted did they speak. When Rolfe did speak, it was in German.
“I still have to go home and tell Mrs. Rolfe what happened to the prices. You wait a couple hours and then come by. Don't do anything stupid, Friend Mac, and drink up what little you do have.”
MacDonald looked at him. “It twas a good two years.” It was their normal conversation pattern. Rolfe spoke German, MacDonald his own brand of English.
“No, there was one good year, one halfway decent year, and this year we barely made a profit. We've got to plan for next year. I have an idea, but don't want to bray it all over the streets. Now that I think about it, you have enough to rent a place. Come by in the morning and we'll make our plans.”
MacDonald decided to save his pittance from this year. He was up to thirty percent after three years of working with Rolfe, but it looked like 1845 was the last of the good times for fur trappers. The men in the camps the last two years had been different, rougher, and meaner. Rolfe claimed they were far less educated than the earliest trappers and most of them were Frenchmen out of Canada. They were a dissipated lot and drank their furs away before they even made it to St. Louis or left the Rendezvous. The Indians were prone to drinking and trading their women. The tribal women and men appeared slovenly compared to the first year MacDonald had seen them. Rolfe was different from the other trappers. He had a wife and an established home here in St. Louis. MacDonald still puzzled over the rapidity in which the female of the Earth species bore their young. Rolfe had married Miss Clara Reiker in 1842 and their daughter, Maria Gretchen, was born that same year. Maria died before her second birthday, Olga had been born last year, and now another was expected or already born. Rolfe had even been prudent with his funds, either leaving them with his wife or securing letters of credit.
Banks were risky. They were given to collapsing and their script became worthless. MacDonald had either carried gold coins in a belt around his waist or left his funds in the care of Mrs. Rolfe. He was afraid to speculate in land in Missouri or anywhere else. Right now he planned to visit a bathhouse, find an eating establishment, and then spend the night outside of town hidden away for a needed rest. The hotels would be bedbug infested or filled with people ready to take what funds someone dressed as a trapper might be carrying. Sharing a bed with a snoring, farting, probably unwashed stranger did not appeal to his Thalian sensibilities.
The sun was well over the eastern horizon when MacDonald knocked on the Rolfe's door. Rolfe opened the door with a wide grin.
“Welcome, Friend Mac. Frau Rolfe is in bed with our son, and the midwife is still with her. As soon as they wake, I'll introduce you to Martin Luther Rolfe. Maybe he will be a pastor or a rich merchant.”
“I rejoice with ye.” MacDonald used the formal words of Thalia.
“Twould ye rather I come back tomorrow?”
“No, with another mouth to feed, I need to make our plans. I think with all that has happened this will work.” He continued speaking as he closed the door and led MacDonald into the small kitchen. “We will become traders out of here and Santa Fe with a route clear into Texas.”
“But Texas might go to Spain. Last night at the restaurant, I heard men discussing that it would be a protectorate under Britain.”
“The South won't let that happen. They want Texas for a slave state. Once it becomes a state, we won't have to pay the country of Texas anything for trading there. There are German communities in the state and they would welcome us.
“Are you ready for a cup of coffee, Mac? There's some damn good coffee cake a neighbor brought over. Then we can look at figu
res. We'll need one, maybe two wagons. If we have two, we'll need to hire one or two men.”
“Aye, to the coffee and the treat. I dinna ken about selling merchandise till I see yere costs and what we twill be selling. It sounds risky. Mayhap we should do more trapping or join the army. If the Union takes in Texas, there may be war with Mexico. They twill nay like it.”
“The army doesn't pay enough to live on, Mac, but they need supplies. That's where an established firm would make more money.”
“Are there nay traders there?”
“Ja, but they can't fight off marauders like we can. Some might know the country, but it's always an iffy business. If we get lucky, we can become rich. Then I'll move Mrs. Rolfe and the family to Santa Fe or Texas. That way we'll see each other more often.”
“What kind of merchandise do we sell? Do ye ken about keeping accounts?”
“We sell doodads for the ladies, blankets, fabric, some whiskey, some guns and ammo, some beads for the tribes we run into, and maybe some metal pots and pans. First we go see what other traders are buying. That will tell us how we need to plan. Don't want food goods. Too heavy and might spoil. Ships take that in faster anyway.”
“Don't they take the same goods ye are planning on?”
“Yes, but they don't make it to the little towns and smaller settlements. Even if the goods get that far, they cost double, triple, or more. A trader coming in from the north would be welcomed.”
Chapter 6: Hard Times
Millard Hurley fought to unhitch the mules from the last wagon and get them hobbled. His shoulders were strained and hurting from the effort and one of the damn mules had stepped on his foot. It had been a fight with the mule teams everyday. His employers were not shy about telling him they were replacing him in the next civilized town.
Millard was in his middle forties with a sun lined face and graying hair, his exact age uncertain. Who bothered with such things anyway? He wouldn't have been hired out of Lawrence, Kansas except the other man had the bad luck to keel over dead. Millard was convinced the mules must have brought on a fit of apoplexy.
