Flight of the Hawk: The River

by W. Michael Gear

  As he walked away, he could see Tylor’s fearful eyes on the still-falling feathers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  “Mr. William Cunningham is here to see you sir,” General Clark’s secretary announced from the Indian agent’s office door. The room was illuminated by hard summer light through the French windows.

  “Show him in,” Clark muttered as he piled the last of the requisition forms for his armed barges on the corner of the desk. The damn boats were an absolute necessity. They’d stop any British advance down the Mississippi.

  Clark squeezed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose hard with his thumb and forefinger. Taking a deep breath he looked up at the tall man who stood before him. Cunningham was dressed in hand-tailored fringed buckskins. The gray eyes were sharp and inquisitive as they glared out over the bushy full beard.

  “Good to see you, Will.” Clark used his hearty voice as he rose and vigorously shook the man’s hand.

  “Come as soon’s I got the word, Cap’n Clark,” Cunningham drawled.

  “Sit down, Will. Something to drink?” General or not, to Will Cunningham, he’d always be “Cap’n” Clark.

  “Shure, Cap’n, what e’er ye got.”

  Clark poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the Kentucky hunter.

  “Let’s drink this to Anna, Will. I only heard last week. I’m so sorry. She was a most wonderful woman.” Clark lifted his glass as he thought of Cunningham’s wife. Typhoid had taken her quickly and brutally.

  Cunningham’s thick beard wavered, indicating he was chewing his lip. A hollow tone filled his husky voice, and his eyes focused in the distance beyond the wall. “She died purty quick, Cap’n. T’warnt nuthin’ I coulda dun. She was right purt one day an’ gone the next. Don’t reckon I’m gonna be able to fill that cabin up with no one else. I jist . . .”

  The Kentucky hunter rubbed his calloused hands absently, his face lined, eyes seeing her as she must have been.

  Clark drained his brandy and set the glass on the desktop. “Sudden death is such a rude and unwelcome fact. When I heard, my heart went out to you. I know how you loved her, Will.” A pause. “I might have something here that will take your mind off Anna. If you’re willing, a trip upriver would be good for you, and I need a couple of messages delivered to Manuel Lisa and his expedition. It pays well. You’d be on the river again, and it would give you some time to yourself.”

  Will Cunningham crossed his long legs and stared at the carpet for several seconds before he looked up at Clark. “Reckon that sounds real good, Cap’n. I ain’t got nary a thing holdin’ me here now. What ya need me t’ do?”

  Clark settled himself in his chair. “A special courier just brought a letter from Andrew Jackson regarding a man in Lisa’s employ—a man who might be very dangerous. Perhaps a British spy. He’s a traitor, Will. Lord knows, Lisa isn’t even aware that we’re at war with Britain. I don’t worry too much. Manuel won’t be surprised by British interests. As if he could ever be surprised by a . . .” Clark broke off lost in thought.

  “Never mind. Anyway, this spring, Manuel hired this John Tylor. I sent some inquiries out and it seems that he was one of the Burr conspirators. The man escaped from his guard and has evidently fled to the west. Again, I don’t worry too much about Manuel. Half his crew is made up of cutthroats, and he knows it.”

  Cunningham grinned, having cut a few throats in his own time.

  “Damn mess, but that’s the way of engages, you know.” Clark gave him a ribald wink. “Two days ago, however, I received a letter from a woman who will remain nameless at her request. The lady sends a noteworthy sum of gold. To be used at my discretion, you see, to hire a man to go upriver, find Tylor, and warn him that yet another man of whom I know nothing—a Fenway McKeever—is going to kill him.” Clark scratched his thinning hair.

  “So you see, Will, I’m somewhat at a loss. The lady wishes to save Tylor’s life. Jackson demands we hang him immediately. I don’t have the slightest idea what all this could mean to Manuel. I’m not sure where these two characters—McKeever and Tylor—fit into Lisa’s plans. But he should be notified.”

  “Uh-huh,” Will Cunningham grunted. “An’ ye needs me to take this hyar information upriver to Lisa hopscotch and sort it all out.”

  “That’s about it in a nutshell. Figure out who this Tylor is, if he’s a threat, and who he’s working for. Lisa can make up his own mind to either hang him, kick him out, or send him downriver under guard for the reward. I don’t know what else to tell you about it, other than it will pay you about two hundred in gold to warn Tylor about McKeever.”

  Clark grinned his amusement as Will Cunningham’s jaw dropped. “That’s right, it’s worth that much to Mr. Tylor’s, uh, patroness, to keep him alive. You are the best man for the job, Will.”

  The hunter stretched out his legs and finished off the rest of the brandy. The man’s hard gaze had narrowed. Clark reached over the desk and poured his glass full again.

  “I’m yor man, Cap’n.” Cunningham looked curiously at Clark.

  The general steepled his fingers and leaned back. “I’ll give you letters, of course. Inform Lisa that war has been declared, and we are taking steps to build the militia for the defense of Saint Louis. We can give him no help if he gets in trouble. You know as much about the political situation as anybody, I’d guess.”

  Cunningham nodded. “Reckon so.”

  “Tell him that McKeever is an unknown. As is this Joshua Gregg that McKeever works for. By now Lisa will have spotted McKeever if he’s a troublemaker. Warn Tylor that McKeever’s going to kill him. Hell, he’s probably already dead! Beyond that, Will, you’re a sharp man. When you get there, see what’s happening.”

  “They left in May,” Cunningham pointed out.

  Clark took a deep breath and nodded. “I know. A lot can happen on the river in that time. Hell, for all we know, Tylor has been dead for months now.”

  Cunningham drained his glass. “Yep, jist might be. I’ll giv’er hell, though, Cap’n. I’ll see if I kin skin my way upriver in time. It’ll be a ring-tailed trip fer shure.”

  “As to Tylor, Will, if he’s still alive, I’ll trust you to use your own judgment.”

  The Kentucky hunter stood and stretched lithely. He grinned down at Clark and nodded. “Reckon I’ll take a string o’ hosses and fog my way. Reckon by changin’ off every four hours, I kin make purty good time upriver.”

  Clark nodded. He, of all people, knew what Cunningham faced. The question came unbidden: Was this man’s life worth any two hundred dollars? What were the chances Tylor was still alive? Why did the mysterious woman in the east wish to save the life of a traitor?

  “Good luck, Will.” Clark smiled ironically. “God speed, and watch out for your scalp. No telling what sort of mess you’ll be riding into.”

  The hunter raised a finger to his brow and saluted. On cat feet, he practically ghosted out the door.

  Clark shook his head and pulled a piece of paper from his drawer. After careful consideration he began scrawling a message to the woman far away in the east.

  Charles Gratiot scratched his rounded belly as he fought his way through the words in John Jacob Astor’s letter. Astor hadn’t sent any mysterious Scotsman to Saint Louis. Gratiot frowned and sighed. Bissonette had disappeared the same night the stranger had. Had he run off with the stranger—or had there been foul play? Gratiot had observed the Scotsman’s amusement over Bissonette’s distrust. Bissonette might have been loyal down to his bones, but he wasn’t sharp enough to play a deep game.

  Bending over the letter, Gratiot worked his way through the rest of the missive. It contained no other news outside of a request for information concerning the Astorian party—and of them Gratiot had heard nothing.

  Growling to himself, Gratiot poured a cup of tea. Sipping the hot liquid, he paced the floor and winced at his arthritis. The damned pain in his joints was getting worse all the time. />
  The discrepant story told by the Scotsman worried him. Who was the man? He’d seemed to know a great deal about Astor’s business. What were the chances that he was a British spy? Too many of the old Nor’westers had been hired by Astor for Gratiot’s comfort as it was. If the fellow were a spy working for Robert Dickson and his band of traders, he could put a very serious crimp in the plans for building the string of posts up the Missouri and on to the Pacific. Gratiot anticipated that it would be he who would run those posts. He’d been on the river a long time, and there didn’t seem much chance of his getting any younger.

  He must have those posts built.

  The man Tylor came immediately to mind. Perhaps if he could get word to Tylor? There had been rumors of John Tylor. He’d heard during his inquiries that someone named Tylor was suspected of complotment in the Burr excitement.

  If this were the same Tylor? He might have an interest in keeping his identity unknown. If he did, then he might be amenable to handling this Scotsman in return for silence on the part of Gratiot.

  The old man smiled. Yes, that might just work. Further, if Tylor was quick enough to have worked for Burr, he might be able to play a deep enough game with the Scotsman; for Gratiot was sure that his redheaded visitor was the same man his spies reported had signed on for Lisa’s voyage at Bellefontaine.

  Gratiot found his coat and walking stick and set out across town. It was indeed fortuitous that he paid to have news brought to him by the children in Saint Louis. He knew almost everything that happened in the city.

  He caught the man as he was saddling up one of the horses.

  “M’seur!” Gratiot called.

  The tall man turned and looked him up and down. “What kin I do for ye, Gratiot?”

  “Will Cunningham, eh?” Gratiot nodded. “I have heard you are to go upriver. You would make some extra money? Deliver a message for me, non?”

  Cunningham’s gray eyes lit at that. “I reckon I might. What needs to go to who?”

  “There eez a man who works for Lisa—an engage by the name of Tylor.” Did Cunningham start? “Eet eez for heem I have a message.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Cunningham granted with a puckering of his thick beard that might have indicated pursed lips.

  “You will tell Tylor to beware of zee Scotsman who came from Bellefontaine? A man by the name of McKeever. You will give to Tylor a letter?”

  “How much’ll ye pay, Gratiot?”

  “I make eet thirty dollars.” Gratiot winced at the price.

  “Got yerseff a man, Gratiot. Whar’s the letter?”

  “At my house. You come by and pick eet up in an hour, non? I ’ave zee money then too.”

  “Deal,” Cunningham agreed, his eyes glittering.

  Cunningham was punctual. He was at Gratiot’s door as the old man finished penning the letter. It was only as he handed the missive to Cunningham that he wondered whether Tylor could read French.

  “Cunningham,” Gratiot warned, “there eez one more thing. Thees letter, no one must know you carry it to Tylor, eh? Eet is for that I pay you so well.”

  The hunter gave him a savvy grin. “I already figger’d that out, Gratiot. Reckon ye kin count on me.” He nodded as he took the paper, stuffed it into a lead tube, and squeezed the top shut. Gratiot could barely see the other papers in the tube. Cunningham was playing postal carrier for Lisa—another bit of information that might come in useful someday.

  “Reckon I’m on my way. I’ll let you know how it all come off when I git back, Gratiot. If’n yer of a notion to send post like this again, jist keep me in mind.” The hunter raised a finger in salute and mounted easily.

  “You ride careful, Cunningham. Much could ride with you that not even I know of.” Gratiot, a good Catholic, crossed himself. “Take care, mon ami.”

  “Reckon I will,” Cunningham called over his shoulder as he lined out his string of horses.

  Gratiot watched the man until he disappeared between the houses. Then with a sigh, he turned and entered to pen yet another letter to Astor in far-off New York.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  The river seemed endless. The next day they made ten miles against strong winds and a high river. Then on Saturday, the 13th, with a strong following wind, they made a good day’s journey of thirty-three miles. Even so, Lisa scowled at the lagging little boat. The smaller vessel couldn’t make the time sailing Polly could. They waited almost an hour at noon and then again at six that evening until the little boat finally caught up.

  On Sunday, the story was the same. Polly would sail ahead to the point that the little boat—floundering behind under her smaller sail—would be lost from sight.

  In desperation, Lisa tied off on a small island where they waited for several hours as the little boat beat its way upriver.

  Tylor was leaned against the cargo box, sitting in the shade. “Had an interesting conversation with Fenway McKeever,” Tylor muttered as Lisa walked by.

  The trader stopped and looked downriver. He was canny. He took Tylor’s cue that it was a privileged conversation.

  “And?”

  “He’s working for somebody. Wouldn’t say who. Quizzed me hard about loyalty and honor. Whoever’s hired him, I don’t think it’s the British or the Americans.” Tylor kept his voice low, his mouth hidden as he pulled on his pipe. “I thought you might want to know.”

  “McKeever was next in line to Baptiste Latoulipe.” Lisa returned, voice soft. “He said he didn’t see a thing.”

  Tylor almost started. “You don’t think . . .”

  “I don’t know what to think. There is no hard evidence. Still, he was working the cordelle when the line was cut to the smaller boat. But for a miracle, it should have crashed into Polly and sunk them both. Where there is near disaster, he always seems to be close, yes?”

  “If I hear more, I’ll tell you,” John whispered as some of the engages, LaBonte, Desseve, and Peltier, got too close.

  Lisa barely nodded before he moved off.

  While the wind held in their favor, the men who worked the Polly enjoyed leisure. Not only did they get a free ride—only having to row and occasionally pole—but every afternoon, regular as clockwork, they would get a three- or four-hour wait while the little boat caught up.

  The afternoon of July 15th, a small boat was sighted riding the thread of the current down toward the expedition. Celebratory shots were fired by both sides as Lisa recognized Hypolite Leber Papin and his crew of five men.

  Papin—Lisa’s trader among the Arikara, or Rees as they were called by the men—was taking the winter’s trade down to Saint Louis in a small mackinaw. He pulled alongside amidst shouts and hollers from old friends. Lisa pulled the man aboard Polly himself and hugged the exuberant Papin while he pounded him on the back.

  “Tell how you are, Hypolite!” Lisa shouted.

  “I am fine,” the stocky little man answered with a shrug. “We have had no serious trouble with the Rees. There has been some problem with the Gros Ventre upriver though. The one known as Le Bourgne has stolen some horses and plews. There is word the British are stirring him up against the Americans.”

  “This we will deal with. How many packs of beaver do you have?” Lisa asked, looking at the scanty bundles in the mackinaw.

  “What you see, Bourgeois.” Papin’s voice didn’t express enthusiasm. “The trading has not been good. I think that too many lies are being spread. The effect is that the Rees are wary, wondering if they should trade or wait. They wait to see if what the British say is true. They want to see how the talk of war affects the prices that will be paid. The British say no goods will come out of Saint Louis for a long time. The Rees are no fools. They know what war will do to the trade.”

  Lisa stood, his head bent while he fingered his chin, worried expression betraying frantic thought. If this year produced no better profit, they were all ruined.

  “You were headed for Saint Louis?” Lisa asked. At Papin’s nod h
e continued. “It would not be good for Chouteau and some of the others to see such a small return for their investment at this time. Would you return upriver until we can send you down with more fur?”

  He fixed his dark eyes on Papin, hoping his desperation wasn’t plain to see.

  Papin shrugged, then, after a theatrical pause, spread his arms and made a most Gaullic production of his answer: “What is another six months or so away from that wretched woman I call a wife? Were I home in Saint Louis, she would want me to fix the roof, mend the fence, plant more corn, clear more trees, build another room, dig another well, cut the weeds, plaster the walls, and work.

  “Would I get to go and drink with my friends and companions at the waterfront? Non! Would I be able to sleep in the shade on hot summer afternoons? Non! Would I be able to laugh with the ladies in front of the La Barras Hotel? Non!

  “Bourgeois, I am yours for the rest of the summer.” Papin, one arm thrown wide, took as deep a bow as his belly would allow. “Besides, you know the women of the Rees? What they will do for a man in return for a bit of cloth? And, Bourgeios, you have rum and whiskey on board. I can drink for free where the whiskey in Saint Louis is expensive. The weather is cooler on the river than in Saint Louis. Oui, I am more than yours. Sacre, you have saved me from Saint Louis and the evil times there.” Papin concluded with another grin and a bow.

  Lisa shook his head in mock relief. “Very well, Papin. But I think there is not an ounce of truth in that fat body of yours. I shall even give you a bonus if you spend too much time on the river.”

  Starting the next day Charles Sanguinet and Bijou set more signal fires, hoping they could draw in the Sioux. At the same time, the hunters rode wide, scouting for much too illusive Sioux villages. Though they returned each night with their horses packing fresh meat, they had no word of the whereabouts of the Sioux.