Cheyenne Winter

by Wheeler, Richard S.

  Hervey’s spirit knew nothing of love and didn’t understand it. Hervey’s spirit was possessive. Hervey wanted to own men even more than he wanted to own anything else. Men and women. There were only two ways to possess another mortal: with love, or with the threat of death and pain. As Guy listened to Hervey’s spirit that night, Guy knew what he had to do to resist. He had to die. It alone would defeat Julius Hervey.

  Guy waited as the light thickened in the pinholes around the door, knowing that Julius Hervey would soon come to torture him. He was not mistaken. He heard the clank of metal and the door swung open suddenly, revealing Julius Hervey in aching light. Guy blinked at the whiteness.

  “The great capitalist,” said Hervey.

  Guy smiled.

  Hervey waved a glass carafe filled with clear, sweet water, and chortled. “Come out and have a drink,” he said. “Breakfast. You’ll want breakfast.”

  Guy didn’t move.

  “Your rescuers didn’t show up, Straus. Ol’ Fitzhugh, I was rather hoping he’d poke around. Or the boy. I like the boy. I ain’t seen hide nor hair. I thought mebbe you’d all be here together by now.”

  Guy smiled and slouched into the log wall. He could scarcely keep from staring at the carafe of cool water.

  “You ready to deal? Any time you want to deal, we’ll deal, Mister Moneybags.”

  Guy smiled.

  “Mebbe you aren’t hungry?”

  “Oh, I’m that,” said Guy. “But last night, Mr. Hervey, I realized the end had come for me and I’ve made my peace with God. Perhaps you should make peace with God.”

  For once, puzzlement replaced the smirk on the man’s heavy face. Hervey peered into the gloom of the dungeon as if looking for something — like a cache of food and water smuggled in by an engage. He found nothing. Guy saw that several Creoles stood out in the yard watching all this, and listening.

  “You coming out or do I drag you out?”

  “I’m quite comfortable, thank you, Mr. Hervey.”

  “You ain’t ready to come to medicine.”

  “I’ve made my peace with God,” Guy said, knowing his spirit had but his body hadn’t. The promise of water and food set off wild spasms through his body.

  “Well, croak then,” said Hervey. The smirk had returned. He swung the door shut and latched it. Guy repressed the need to scream at him, to say yes, yes to anything, only give him water. Instead, he slumped back into the wall, closed his eyes, and began reciting the fragments of psalms he remembered. He found other fragments returning to him as if freed from the bottom of some sea, rising to his awareness but encased in barnacles. He spoke them out loud, feeling giddy with need.

  Guy knew he’d won the first round, triumphed not so much over Hervey as over his own body. But he didn’t know how long that would last before his body betrayed his will.

  He dozed for the first time, and awoke surprised that he had dozed. The thread of light along the threshold glowed bright, and he guessed it was midday. His throat felt parched, and he could hardly muster the saliva to wet his lips. But as long as he stayed quiet he seemed to dominate the roaring lion of his own body. No one came. He’d passed a full twenty-four hours there and had plunged into the second day. He tried to doze again but that blessed estate eluded him. Several times he heard men just outside, often whispering in French. The engages did not like this; but none of them dared to thwart Julius Hervey.

  The day wore on and Guy’s spirits grew ragged. Was he simply committing suicide? Why resist Hervey? What did Guy live for, hope for, dream of? Guy couldn’t even answer those painful questions. He was doing what he was doing because — he had to. He knew he was severely dehydrated now. His heart raced for no reason. His body cried for water. The hunger he could endure but not this.

  Hervey showed up late in the afternoon. The door swung open again and the rushing light blinded Guy. The muscular factor with bulging eyes — Guy had never noticed the bulging brown eyes before — wasn’t smirking this time. He peered at Guy. “You gonna eat?”

  Guy smiled.

  “If you don’t I’ll pour this down your gullet.” He held a black kettle full of hot buffalo stew.

  The fragrance intoxicated Guy. “Why?” he asked.

  The question surprised Hervey. “Eat!” he yelled. “I will have water. No food.”

  “Eat or I’ll stuff it in!”

  “Do as you will.”

  Hervey squatted, dipped an iron spoon into the warm stew, and lifted it to Guy’s lips. Guy somehow kept them shut, defying his own howling body even more than he was defying Hervey. The factor held the spoon there and then dashed the stew into Guy’s face. Guy sputtered.

  “I’ll pry your jaws apart.”

  “You seem most eager to feed me.”

  Hervey didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted another spoonful to Guy’s lips and met the same obdurate resistance. Guy waited for Hervey to fulfill his threat and pry Guy’s jaw open, but it didn’t happen.

  “I’ll leave this here. You’ll come around,” he said.

  Guy shook his head. “I wish to die in peace. You may leave now.”

  “Why?”

  Guy suddenly felt he had become the master and Hervey the servant, though he couldn’t say why or point to anything that had happened. “It defeats you,” Guy replied softly. “You have no power over a man who welcomes death.”

  Hervey laughed. “You’re trapped in this hellhole. You can walk out any time you want — ”

  “Oh, no. I can’t do that. Walk out.”

  Hervey peered into Guy’s eyes, and Guy saw the blue flame of madness dancing in Hervey’s face. “I own you. I have you here. No one can rescue you here. We are a thousand miles from anywhere. I have you like a canary in a cage. I can feed or starve you. Not all the capital in St. Louis can rescue you.”

  “Ah, Hervey. I don’t need rescuing. I’ve made my peace — ”

  “Shut up!” Hervey stood and booted Guy. The boot caught Guy’s hipbone sending waves of pain down his leg and up into his belly. “Shut up!”

  “You may bring me water,” said Guy. “I’ll accept water.”

  “You’ll eat the stew!”

  Guy shrugged.

  Hervey lifted the pot and dashed its contents over Guy. The fragrance maddened Guy. He felt the liquids drip down his waistcoat, soaking his shirt with slime.

  “You may bring me water,” Guy said. He would permit himself water, but not a bit of nourishment.

  Hervey stalked out into the blinding light, leaving the door open. Guy gazed into a sunlit and glorious world. Then Hervey returned and slapped the kettle to the gummy clay. The water in it shimmered.

  Guy smiled as Hervey slammed the door and locked it again. Guy knew he had won.

  * * *

  Even before the day waned Brokenleg knew that Fort Cass had swallowed Guy Straus. He also knew there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Julius Hervey did what he chose, protected by a high stockade and an army of Creoles. Hervey would do whatever he felt like doing, including murder if it suited him. In the past murder had often suited him.

  There was the possibility, of course, that Guy Straus was simply negotiating something or other over there, a respected guest and powerful rival. But Brokenleg knew better than that. He knew Hervey. And he knew Guy was in trouble. Brokenleg reviewed his options and found them bleak. He had no way to break into Fort Cass and rescue Guy.

  He found Maxim sulking in the barracks, as usual. “Your pa’s been caught. I told him not to go but he wasn’t listening.”

  Maxim peered back with an owly look on his face. “I don’t care,” he muttered.

  “I think you do. He’s your pa. Even if you don’t approve o’ him he’s your flesh and blood.”

  “I told you I don’t care.”

  “Hervey, he could be hurtin’ your pa.”

  “That’s what happens in the fur business.”

  “Forcin’ your pa to sell out, close us up.”

  “Then I’m on Hervey
’s side.”

  Brokenleg couldn’t believe his ears. “After what Hervey done to us?”

  Maxim nodded defiantly. “Leave me alone.”

  Brokenleg did. He hunted up Chatillon, who was out on the streambank. “Straus is stuck at Cass. Hervey’s got him. Probably got him sittin’ there until he says he’ll quit the Yellowstone. That’s what ol’ Hervey wants. He’s jist been waitin’ for something like this. You got any notions how to git Guy out?”

  “Surely they won’t harm a man like Guy Straus. Pierre Chouteau — he tolerates a lot, but not that. Mon Dieu! Guy Straus lends him money when American Fur needs it!”

  “You know Hervey. He’d shoot God if it suited him.”

  “We could rive over and talk, oui?”

  “We could. But I ain’t.”

  “It could be fatal.”

  “Ambrose, you come a far piece with him, set around a lot o’ fires at night. Did Straus, did he mention — did he say he had any business with Hervey? Like shuttin’ down this post and sellin’ out?”

  “Non, none that he told me about.”

  “People git to talkin’ on the trail. He say anything about Hervey?”

  Chatillon shook his head.

  “Well, I’m not goin’ over there. Hervey, he’s jist waitin’ for me to ride over and walk right into it. Then ol’ Hervey’d have the pair of us. If he wants me he’ll send for me. Or he’ll ride hyar.”

  The next day dragged by like a lame man. Brokenleg careened around, looking for ways to cause trouble. He stomped over to the chantier, the shipyard, where the Creoles were cutting the second pirogue with two round adzes. The first of the big dugout canoes gleamed white in the sun. A giant cottonwood had been whittled into a sharp-prowed little boat, and hollowed out except for two bulkheads. The dry center area between the bulkheads would store cargo; the men paddling the pirogue would sit fore and aft.

  “Hurry it up,” he growled, and stomped off to badger his four wives. He couldn’t find a one. Off in the woods berrying. He’d got a whole damned Cheyenne village to care for. He didn’t need four wives. Grudgingly he admitted they made themselves useful, bringing comfort, better food, and ease to the post. But right now he was tired of responsibilities, and four wives were three too many. Maybe four too many. He had an itch to stuff the whole post into Maxim’s hands and ride off for the high trails and the whispering pines — alone. He and Jamie Dance had done all right out in the high country; they could do it again even if beaver plews weren’t worth nothing.

  But a rider approached, and the rider was Julius Hervey sitting comfortably on a scrawny saddler. Brokenleg wished he had his Hawken. He’d have shot Hervey right out of his saddle. Put a fifty-three caliber ball right between his eyes and wipe that smirk off his ugly mug. But he didn’t. So he stood his ground before the gates of his post and waited, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was no match for Julius Hervey, not with his bum leg, but he made up for it some by hotting up every time he took sight of the factor of Fort Cass.

  Hervey stopped a little over a good knife-throw away, a cautious gesture if not a respectful one. “I got Straus,” he announced. The smirk plastered his big square face.

  That was no news to Fitzhugh. He nodded. He studied Hervey’s calico shirt, deciding to aim his knife at the man’s heart. He could do it faster than Hervey could pull that big pistol out of its saddle sheath.

  “You’re closin’ down, Stiffleg. We come to a little agreement, old Straus and me.”

  That was no news either. “No I’m not.”

  Hervey smiled that mad blue-flame smile of his. “It doesn’t matter what you do. It’s Straus’s company.”

  “Bring him here,” Brokenleg said.

  “He won’t like that. Trouble from you.”

  “I’m a partner.”

  “A sixth. He’s got control. He and I came to a little agreement. Rocky Mountain, it’s merging with American Fur. I’m takin’ your stuff. All the shelf goods, all the robes, and the post. Any of your engages that want to switch, too. But not you. You’re gettin’ out.”

  Brokenleg didn’t believe a word of it. “Forget it, Hervey. I’m stayin’ put. He can tell me in person. Until he does I’m trading robes and running the business and watchin’ out for you. You got my mules, you got a wagon. You got my oxen kilt. But you got more ta lose, Hervey. Jist remember it.”

  “He won’t like that — you fighting him.”

  “That’s your problem, Hervey. How’s your hands?”

  Hervey held one up. The gashes that Brokenleg had carved in them had healed pink. “How’s your throat, Stiffleg?”

  “It ain’t forgot your fingers.”

  Hervey laughed. “You got until tomorrow. You clear out. You and all them sluts you got. And walk. I got the horses. Leave the shelf goods. Leave the robes, too. Old Guy, he was glad to gimme them robes. Where’s his boy? He wants his boy.”

  “Like hell he does, Hervey.”

  “I’ll go,” said Maxim. Brokenleg whirled. Maxim stood beside him. And arrayed beyond were most of his engages and Dust Devil. He’d been so absorbed with Hervey he hadn’t seen them. They all looked solemn. Especially Spoon and Constable who understood English better than the Creoles.

  Maxim held a poke. “You’ll stay,” rasped Brokenleg.

  “You’ll have to make me — the way you always do.”

  “He’ll come,” said Hervey, smirking.

  Maxim dashed away, reaching Hervey in a moment. Brokenleg let him go. Spoiled little parasite, he thought.

  Hervey chortled. “He don’t like you none, Stiffleg.”

  “He don’t like the business.”

  “I don’t like you,” echoed Maxim.

  Brokenleg ignored him. It wasn’t news anyway. “Hervey. I’m not shutting down. You come around here again and someone gets hurt.”

  “Straus.”

  Maxim glanced sharply at Hervey. “What did my father agree to?” he asked.

  “Come along and find out.”

  “I asked you what my father agreed to.” An imperious tone crept into Maxim’s voice.

  “He agreed to a drink of water.” Hervey thought that was pretty funny but it eluded Brokenleg.

  Maxim wasn’t mollified. “I asked you an honest question and I want an honest answer.”

  “That’s a good question, Hervey. What did he agree to?”

  “Whatever I tell him, Stiffleg.”

  Brokenleg tried to make sense of it. Had the senior partner of the Rocky Mountain Company agreed to anything? And why? Guy Straus was a tough bird, equal to any occasion. Not one to sell out or betray a partner — unless he was in worse trouble than Fitzhugh had imagined.

  “You tell him I’m hyar to stay. I’m trading. I’m shipping robes next spring. You’re not his messenger, Hervey. If he wants to bust up the company he can come hyar and tell me.”

  “You lose,” Hervey said. He turned the saddler and prodded Maxim ahead of him, not giving the boy a chance to reconsider. The boy turned back, something terrible on his face. For a fleeting moment he looked about to weep. He lifted a hand — an imploring hand. But Hervey maneuvered his horse between Maxim and the post, harrying him along as if he was a calf.

  “Good bye, Brokenleg!” Maxim shouted. It wasn’t unkind. And the tone seemed regretful.

  Brokenleg watched them go, something fiery building in him. If Straus sold him out, if Straus quit, if Straus couldn’t resist Hervey’s mad cunning — then by God, that was it. No Rocky Mountain Company. A vision of mountain brooks and lazy days flashed through him.

  Fuming, he watched the most unpredictable man in the northern country ride off with another hostage.

  Eighteen

  * * *

  The sudden light blinded Guy but he could see that it wasn’t Hervey standing in the bright doorway; it was Maxim. Hervey stood behind him.

  “Here’s your pa, boy.” Hervey shoved and Maxim careened into the darkness, staggered to the far wall, and tumbled to the clay.<
br />
  “Maxim!” exclaimed Guy.

  Maxim collected himself and sat up. “You wanted me,” he muttered.

  “No, Maxim — I don’t want you at all. Not here.”

  Maxim stared accusingly at Hervey, awareness building in him. “You invited me,” he whispered.

  Hervey loomed in the doorway enjoying himself. “Welcome to Fort Cass. Big and little Straus. You ready to talk?”

  Guy shook his head.

  “Pilgrims,” Hervey said. “City boys. Long way from home.”

  “This won’t escape attention authorities in St. Louis,” Guy said.

  “Where’s that? I never heard of St. Louis. Here is here.”

  “An agreement made under duress is not recognized anywhere, Monsieur Hervey.”

  The bourgeois laughed again. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Out there, Monsieur Hervey” — Guy pointed into the yard of the post — ”are forty men. Eighty eyes and ears. Including your chief trader, Isodore Sandoval. Men talk. Here at Fort Union and at every post down the river.”

  “I’ll give you a few minutes to think it over.”

  Maxim stood shakily. “I’m leaving here,” he mumbled. He picked up his poke and headed for the doorway which was blocked by Hervey. The man’s square-toed boot caught Maxim in the groin, driving him back into the far wall. Maxim gasped, shrieked, and sobbed.

  Guy sprang up, dizzy with hunger. Weakness hit him. Then Hervey’s fist hit him, a sledgehammer knocking him into the clay again. Amazing pain lanced outward from his shoulder. He groaned.