“Ai, yi, yi, yieee!!!” the others cheered.
“What would you have of us, Wak Tha Go?” Crazy Wolf asked. “You have abandoned your people because the Arikara want to make peace with the whites? Have you come to bring the word of peace from your people?”
“No,” Wak Tha Go answered resolutely. “I have come to the Blackfeet because only the Blackfeet will make war. The Arikara are no longer my people. They are more rabbits than people. I belong to the Piegan Blackfeet.”
“Show us that you are deserving,” Crazy Wolf said. “Become a leader of our warriors.”
“I will,” Wak Tha Go answered, and his response was greeted by more cheering.
The council was not yet over, but Wak Tha Go left. He knew that it was better to leave while they wanted him to stay, than it was to stay when they wanted him to go.
He would lead a war party of Blackfeet warriors, and he would count many coups and he would steal many things. But what he wanted to do more than anything else was to kill Artoor, the white man he had seen on the boat. Wak Tha Go had learned Artoor’s name from Tetonka, the Mandan who had traded with him.
St. Louis, Wednesday, July 21, 1824
He put in at LaClede’s Landing in St. Louis after two months on the river. Even from the river, he could see that the city had changed a lot since he was last here many years before. Missouri was a state in the Union of States now, and St. Louis had grown from a frontier town to a bustling, prosperous city of nearly ten thousand people. That was a lot of people—too many people for someone like Art who had grown accustomed to life in the wilderness and going for days or weeks without seeing another human soul.
A friendly hand ashore took the rope Art tossed to him, and made the boat secure.
“You’ll be wantin’ to sell them furs, I reckon,” the man said.
“You buying?” Art asked.
“No, Mr. Ashley does the buying. I just work for him.”
“That would be William Ashley?”
“Yes, sir. You know him, I expect.”
“I know of him. If he’s the one buying, I’m selling.”
“Very good, sir. If you’ll permit me, I’ll get the plews loaded and down to Ashley’s office.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Art said, surprised to find someone so helpful upon his arrival. He hoped for his sake that the man was honest as well.
Fifteen minutes later the pelts were loaded onto an oxcart and hauled down to Ashley’s office. Art sat with his fur bundles, his legs dangling over the back as the cart rolled up Market Street. Dog followed along behind the cart, seeming not to mind the people and the traffic everywhere. Of course, the people gave Dog a wide berth.
St. Louis was a vibrant city, alive with the pulse of commerce and enterprise: the scream of a steam-powered sawmill, the sound of steamboat whistles from the river, the hiss and boom of the boats’ engines, and the clatter of wagons rolling across cobblestone streets. To someone used to solitude so quiet that he could hear the flutter of a bird’s wings, the noise of civilization was almost unbearable.
The cart stopped in front of a two-story building. A neatly painted sign out front read: FURS BOUGHT AND SOLD, WILLIAM ASHLEY, PROP.
Even before Art dismounted, a dignified-looking man, wearing mustard-colored trousers and a blue jacket, came out of the building and began looking Art’s load over. The man’s whiskers were neatly trimmed, his hands clean, his eyes bright and direct.
“You’ve got some good-looking plews here,” he said.
“Would you be Ashley?” Art asked.
“Indeed that is who I am, sir, William Ashley, at your service.” He bowed slightly, politely, but not in servility.
“Then you’re the man Clyde told me to look up.”
“Clyde?”
“Clyde Barnes.”
“Ah, yes,” Ashley said, smiling. “I know of Mr. Barnes. How is he?”
“He’s dead. Killed by Indians on our way downriver.”
“I’m sincerely sorry to hear that. Blackfeet?”
“Arikara.”
“I see. Well, the Blackfeet have always been hostile to our fur-trading enterprise, but the problem with the Arikara is more recent.”
“Is it true that a couple of your men traded bad whiskey to the Arikara for pelts?”
“Word does get around, doesn’t it?” Ashley said. “Yes, unfortunately it is true. The men were working for me. But the idea of trading whiskey for plews was their own. I don’t do business that way, never have, and never will. Believe me, Mr. McDill and Mr. Caviness were severely reprimanded.”
“Reprimanded? What does that mean?”
“It means I gave them a good scolding.”
“People have gotten killed over that, and more people are likely to get killed, and all you did was give them a scolding?”
“I have no authority to do anything more to them,” Ashley said. “I’m not the law.”
“I reckon not.”
“What’s your name, sir?” Ashley asked.
“Art,” the young trapper said simply.
“Art? Art what?”
“Just Art.”
“Well, I reckon if Art is enough for you, it’s enough for me,” Ashley said.
Since leaving home at an early age, Art had made a point of never using his last name. This way, he figured, he would never do anything that would bring dishonor to his family back in Ohio. He needn’t have worried about such a thing, for so far in his young life, he had been the epitome of honorable conduct. It was the way of the man that the onetime runaway boy had become.
“That your animal?” Mr. Ashley asked, pointing to Dog, who stood at alert between the cart and Art.
“Not mine, but we have traveled a piece together.”
“Tell you what, Art. Give me a day to get your plews counted and graded. Come on back tomorrow morning and I’ll have your money.”
“All right,” Art agreed. He started to leave, then caught himself and turned back. “Do you suppose I could have twenty dollars now?” he asked.
Ashley chuckled knowingly. He had dealt with mountain men for a long time. “Want to take advantage of the big city, do you? Yes, of course you can. You can have much more than that, if you need it.”
“Twenty is enough.”
“Come on inside.”
Art followed Ashley into his storehouse. As the door opened, a little bell attached to the top of the door rang. Surprised, Art looked up at it.
Ashley chuckled. “If I’m in the back, that little bell lets me know when someone comes in,” he explained.
The back of the store that Ashley mentioned was his counting and grading room. A counter separated the front of the store from the back, and through a door that led into the back, Art could see several long tables around which men were working.
Ashley went around behind the counter, took twenty dollars from a strongbox, then opened a ledger book and wrote Art’s name in it. Beside Art’s name he wrote, “Twenty dollars on advance.” He turned the book around and handed the quill pen to Art. “Make your mark here,” he said.
“I can read and write,” Art said.
“A mountain man who can read and write? I’m impressed.”
“Mr. Ashley, do you know a man by the name of Seamus O’Connor?”
“Seamus O’Connor? It doesn’t ring a bell with me.”
“He owned a place called the Irish Tavern. I used to have friends who spent time there: a man named Tony, another named James O’Leary.”
“Ah, yes, I remember them. O’Leary was a big strapping fellow. And the other—Tony, you say? They worked for Ed Gordon down at the wagon-freight yard.”
“Yes!” Art said, smiling broadly. “That’s them. Do you know where I can find them?”
Ashley shook his head sadly. “They’re dead, son. Both of them.”
“What? How?”
“They were unloading a riverboat when the boiler exploded. Killed Gordon and six of his men, including your two friends Ton
y and James.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry to have to be the one to tell you.”
“That’s all right,” Art said. “Those things happen.” He held up the silver coins. “Thanks for the advance.”
With Dog alongside, Art left the store and walked on up Market Street, looking for the Irish Tavern. It was no more. In its place was something called the Joseph LaBarge Tavern. Art was standing in front of it, looking it over, when he heard a woman’s voice call out from just inside the building.
“No, please, don’t! It was an accident!”
“You bitch! I’ll teach you to be clumsy around me!” a harsh voice said. The voice was followed by a smacking sound and as Art looked up, he saw a young woman propelled backward through the open front door. She fell on the porch, and a large, gross-looking man stomped out of the saloon behind her.
“Please,” the young woman begged. “I didn’t mean to spill the beer on you.” She tried to get up, but as she did so, the big ugly man hit her again, knocking her back down onto the porch. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and tried to escape him that way, but he followed after her and kicked her. She cried out in pain.
Art stepped up onto the porch behind the man.
“I’ll learn you to spill beer on me, you worthless whore. I’ll kick your ass clear into Illinois,” the man growled at the young woman, who was still cowering on the wooden planks of the porch.
“Sir?” Art said from just behind the man.
“What do you . . .” the man started to ask, but he was unable to finish his question because as soon as he turned toward Art, the young mountain man brought the butt of his rifle up in a smashing blow to the man’s face. The blow knocked out two of the man’s teeth, broke his nose, and sent a stream of blood gushing down across his mouth and into his beard. If he hadn’t been ugly before, he certainly was now. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he dropped heavily to the porch.
The young woman, now on her knees, looked on in shock and fear as Art reached his hand for her.
“Ma’am, may I help you up?” he asked.
The woman made no effort to take his hand.
“Don’t be afraid. No one’s going to hurt you anymore,” Art said. His hand was still extended toward her.
Hesitantly, the woman took his hand, and Art pulled her to her feet.
“I—I didn’t mean to spill the beer,” she said. “But he grabbed me as I walked by. I was startled. I couldn’t help it. I tried to explain and apologize, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Ma’am, you don’t owe an explanation or an apology to anyone,” Art said reassuringly. “Least of all to a pig like him. Why don’t you come back inside and sit down until you feel better.”
“Thank you,” the young woman said.
Art led her back toward the front door of the saloon, which was still open, and now crowded with many patrons who, drawn by the commotion out front, had come to the door to see what was going on. They made way for Art, the woman, and Dog.
“Hey!” the man behind the bar called. “You can’t bring your dog in here.”
“He’s not my dog, and I’m not bringing him anywhere, he’s just with me.”
“Get him out of here.”
“You get him out,” Art said.
“You two, get him out,” the man behind the bar said, pointing to a couple of the patrons. The two men started toward Dog, but he bared his wolflike fangs at them and growled. They stopped in their tracks.
“Get him yourself, LaBarge,” one of them said.
LaBarge came out from behind the bar, looked at Dog, then shrugged. “He can stay if he don’t cause no trouble,” he said.
The others laughed.
Art walked all the way to the rear of the saloon, then chose a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him a good view of the entire room. Dog trotted along with him, then curled up alongside. Art was sitting next to an iron stove. The stove was cold and empty now, but still smelled of smoke and charcoal from its winter use. Once again, the proprietor, LaBarge, came out from behind the bar.
“Carla, I expect you’d better get back to work now,” LaBarge said.
“Yes, Mr. LaBarge.”
“Give her a chance to catch her breath,” Art said.
“You paying her wages, mister?” LaBarge asked.
“No.”
“I am. So she’ll do what I say. Get back to work, Carla. And be more careful ’bout spilling beer on the customers.”
“Yes, sir,” Carla said. Looking at Art, she smiled. “What can I get you?”
“A beer.”
“It’s on the house,” LaBarge said.
“Thanks.”
“I reckon you done what you thought was right, hittin’ Shardeen like that. But it’s goin’ to get you kilt. Shardeen ain’t a man you want to mess with.”
A moment later Carla brought Art his beer and, smiling shyly, set it in front of him. From the folds of her dress, she removed a couple of boiled eggs, wet from the brine in which they were stored. “These here two hen’s eggs is from me,” she said.
“Thank you, Carla,” Art said, smiling up at her.
Carla walked away, and had just returned to the bar when the front door burst open and the man Art had encountered, the one LaBarge had called Shardeen, rushed inside. He was carrying two charged pistols, one in either hand.
“Where is that son of a bitch!” he yelled angrily. His nose was flattened almost beyond recognition, his eyes were black and shiny, and his beard was matted with blood.
When Shardeen entered, everyone else in the saloon scattered, moving so quickly that chairs tumbled over and tables were pushed out of the way. Art’s rifle was leaning against the wall behind him. It was loaded, but not primed, so even if he could get to it, it wouldn’t do him any good at this moment.
Seeing Art in the back of the saloon, Shardeen let out a loud bellow and shot at him. There was a flash of fire and a puff of smoke. The bullet crashed into the smokestack of the stove, sending out a puff of soot. With a shout of frustrated anger over his miss, Shardeen raised his other pistol and fired it as well. This one slammed into the wall behind Art. Art had not moved a muscle since the big man had entered the tavern.
Dog jumped up and growled at Shardeen.
“No, Dog,” Art said quietly. “I’d better handle this myself.”
With both pistols empty, Shardeen pulled his knife and, with an angry roar, rushed across the room toward Art. Now Art moved. He pulled his own knife and waited for him. At the last moment, Art danced to one side, rather like a bullfighter avoiding a charge, and like a bullfighter, thrust toward Shardeen. His knife went in smoothly, just under Shardeen’s rib cage. With a grunt, Shardeen stopped, then staggered and fell. Art twisted his knife so that, as Shardeen went down, the brute’s own weight caused the blade to open him up, spilling blood and steaming intestines. Art pulled the knife out. Shardeen fell face down on the floor, flopped a couple of times like a fish out of water, and then was still.
“Is he dead?” Carla asked. She had fled, in terror, to the back corner of the room, but peeked out.
“I reckon he is,” Art said, pouring beer on his hand to rinse away the blood.
“Get him out of here,” LaBarge said.
“Hold it!” a voice called from the front. The order came from a member of the St. Louis Constabulary, the militia group that Mayor Lane depended upon to maintain order in the city. “You people just leave him right where he is until I find out what happened here.”
“Shardeen got hisself kilt, that’s what happened,” LaBarge said. “And if truth be told, there ain’t nobody in St. Louis likely to shed a tear over the sonofabitch.”
“I agree that if anybody in this town needed killin’ it was Shardeen,” the constable said. “But just bein’ downright mean don’t give someone the right to kill him. Who did it?”
“I did,” Art said.
“And who might you be?”
“Art.”
&
nbsp; “Art? Art what?”
“Art’s enough.”
“No it ain’t enough, mister. Not when murder’s concerned.”
“Oh hell, John,” LaBarge said to the constable. “Art didn’t murder Shardeen. He killed him in self-defense. Ever’one in here will testify to that.”
“That’s right, Constable,” one of the customers said. “Shardeen come in here a-blazin’ away at this young fella.”
“Who are you?”
“The name is Matthews. Joe Matthews.”
“You’re saying Shardeen shot first?”
“He didn’t shoot first,” Matthews started, but he was interrupted by the constable.
“Well if Shardeen didn’t shoot first, how can it be self-defense?”
“You didn’t let me finish. He didn’t shoot first. He was the only one who shot.”
“That’s right,” LaBarge said. “And if you’ll take a look over there, you’ll see where them two bullets went. One into the wall and the other one into my stovepipe. Which, incidentally, I’m going to have to replace before next winter, so if ol’ Shardeen has any money in his pocket, by rights it should come to me.”
“How’d you kill him if you didn’t shoot him?”
“With a knife,” Art replied.
“After Shardeen come at him with a knife,” Matthews added quickly.
“All right, maybe you’d better come with me,” the constable said. As the constable started toward Art, LaBarge put his hand out to stop him.
“Now, hold on there, John. I done told you it was self-defense, and there ain’t a man present but won’t back me up. You got no call to be takin’ him in.”
“Hear, hear!” some of the others shouted.
“I got Mayor Lane to worry about,” the constable said. “I’ve got to answer to him.”
“All you got to do is tell him that you investigated it and found it to be self-defense, pure and simple,” LaBarge said. “Besides which, the mayor is so tied up with this here General Lafayette fella comin’ to town, that he don’t want to be bothered with somethin’ like this, and you damn well know it.”
The constable stroked his jaw for a moment as he considered LaBarge’s words. Everyone in the saloon stared at him, waiting for his answer. Finally, he nodded in resignation.
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