“They strapped my hand to the railing at the judge’s bench, and brought in a tinner’s stove and set it beside the sheriff. Then he took up the red-hot branding iron and placed it against my thumb. Some people in the back of the room—they came and thanked me later for the entertainment—said they could hear the sizzle of meat frying and see the smoke plumes three or four feet in the air. And I never twitched a muscle. Men came up and shook my hand afterwards; they said it was the finest display of gall they’d seen in the history of Nashville court punishment.”
“Sure, John, sure, John,” said Shep, who was getting back some of his impudence. “There never was anybody like you for a thumb roasting—we all know that.”
The old man didn’t heed him but kept on with an account of how that was nothing, that two of his confederates who were nabbed later, at the time of his long prison term for conspiracy, were stripped, lashed all over with nettles, tied face up naked in a skiff and set adrift for the flies to finish the job. Speaking for myself, I’d heard enough, so I crept back out of sight and pulled my blanket up over my ears. But I wasn’t easy in my mind. Through the covering I could hear the droning of the madman’s voice, and occasionally the fire popping, and once, after I’d been asleep, I reckon, I sat up sharp with my heart in my mouth. But it was only a hoot owl or a bear—it’s curious how much alike they can sound, it takes a real old woods rat to tell them apart—and I lay back down, very quiet. John still sat by the fire, bending over and moaning with his head between his knees, and the others were sleeping nearby. I could have split his skull easy with the hatchet, but no, I thought I’d wait for the morning. They’d earned that reward in St. Louis, and I wanted to be there when they got it.
Chapter VII
We were up before dawn, mostly because it was too cold to sleep. The fire had gone out, and the horses were stamping around, noisy and restless. There had been a bear in the woods during the night, and nothing else I know of will give a horse the jimjams quite as fast, Bears will attack a horse, if they’re feeling ornery enough. Years afterward, I met a man who’d been all around, in India and Africa and run-down places like that, and he’d had a lot to do with lions and tigers, but he said he’d rather tackle them any day than run foul of a bear in a grouchy humor, which is their natural outlook.
Anyhow, the horses were ready to shove. You can’t fool them about things like that. If you think so, try and get one to step out on a rotten bridge. You could settle down on the bank and raise a family before he’d budge, they’ve got that much sense about danger.
Slater’s horse, which might have brought seventy-five cents for glue, now had a lame front leg, along with mange, colic, coughing fits, heaves, saddle sores, fistula, and a sway-back, so we had to go slow. Shep grumbled and took on, and John snapped at him once or twice. I was thinking we’d better get to St. Louis soon, else there’d be an explosion. Tempers were worn thin, and probably it was from their jackass notions of eating. They didn’t have anything but the piece of salt pork, and it had turned right green around the edges. If a body was really pining for a case of the bloody flux, I can’t think of any better way to get it than load up on pork, especially after it has passed its prime, and I’ve heard my father say the same. Off and on, I went over in the woods and nibbled on my sowbelly till it was gone, so I made out all right.
“We’ll spruce up in St. Louis, once we get the reward,” said John when we stopped to clear the trail. “I don’t mind acknowledging that I’ve contracted a case of the gripes. It’s odd, too, for that pork’s as tasty as any I’ve come across lately.”
“Yes, it’s delicious,” said Shep. “It tastes like a piece of boiled pickaninny, and not necessarily the best cut, neither. As commissary of the expedition, you make about the poorest out of anybody I ever met. More than that—”
He was meaning to blather on, not being able to stop once he’d struck something agreeable, but the old man suddenly straightened up in the saddle, with a wicked glitter in his eye.
Slater said soothingly, “I suggest we save our strength for the ride in. Things’ll look better in St. Louis.”
Shep gave a short, harsh laugh, that sounded as if he was about as amused as if somebody had sawed off his leg, and shouted, “Listen to Hard-Luck Joe the missionary. Why, he’s getting to be a regular psalm singer, and I shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t the influence of this little lady here.” He turned and gave Jennie a playful nudge in the bosom. “Ain’t that so?” he asked her. “Ain’t it true you’ve been casting calf’s eyes at our old friend Joe?”
Hanging onto the coattails, I could see Slater’s back stiffen up, and I was amazed, and a little scared, when he said in a low tone, “Take your filthy hands off that girl.”
“Well, now,” said Shep, riding his horse up to glare down at us out of his little mean yellow eyes, “was you looking for a test of strength with me? Was that it, Joe?”
Slater sat steadily for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze. “I’m no fighter,” he said at last. “Have it your own way.”
“That’s enough,” said John. “Break it off and let’s be moving. Time to cat-fuss when we’ve collected the reward. Slaughter each other and welcome—I’d admire to hold your coats.”
Getting on toward noon we came to a sizable stream that ran into the Mississippi, which I heard them call the Maremack, or sounds to that effect, and it had a rude log bridge over a narrow part, with a toll gate. An angular man wearing a straw hat and a pair of corduroy jeans with one gallus busted got up off a bench, a foot or so at a time, and said, “Howdy.” His face was neither friendly nor unfriendly; he just waited. Leaning against his bench was a rickety old squirrel gun.
“Your bridge?” asked John.
“I wouldn’t hardly say that,” said the man, “but it’s on my deeded land, I sawed the lumber, whittled the pegs, put it up, could take it down if so minded, but hope to hold it till the rightful owner proves his claim.”
“What’s the toll?”
“Regular charge is fifteen cents a head, children and horses free, but I’ll admit the entire group for half a dollar, and nobody stung either way. Or I’ll take produce if you’ve got it.”
“Seems high,” said John. “ ‘The rivers, yea, the seas and the fishes thereof, are possessions unto God the most high.’ ”
“I’d be the last to deny it,” said the man, “and it may be you can get Him to put you across in a boat. Otherwise, you’ll have to swim for it, which ain’t unenjoyable, if you’ve got the time. Best place is down about a quarter of a mile, clear of my land.”
At this offhand and disregardful address, I expected to see John rise up in his sanctimony and let loose some thunders, but he said, “Can you make change?”
Not answering, the man jingled some coins in his pocket, after which John drew out a long, baggy leather pouch and removed a folded-up bill. What he’d done with the eight silver dollars I had no idea. The gatekeeper eyed the bit of paper with great interest; then he picked up a loose-leafed book from under his bench and sat down to study. “I reckon you won’t mind,” he said in a minute, “if I just thumb through Bicknell’s Bank Note Detector. You couldn’t hardly imagine a handier little pamphlet, and put out every week for only two dollars a year. It’s only because I know you’re honest that I want to help you, and”—running his finger down a list—“why, yes, sir, bless my soul, here’s the number right here—now what do you think of that? Counterfeit! Not worth the paper it’s printed on. If it hadn’t been for you and I checking this out, I’d been left sucking hind tit; wouldn’t you say so?”
“Open the gate,” said John in an easy voice.
Shifting the gun very leisurely up over his knees, the man said, “I’m near about wore out, getting up and down. Why don’t you open it yourself?”
It was as good as a play. For the first time since I’d struck these scoundrels, I could sit back without caring what happened. As much as I hoped John and Shep might come to grief, the gatekeeper’s smart-alecky m
anner was almost as raspy. Maybe I’d seen too much blood lately; whatever it was, I didn’t altogether mind how it came out.
“Are you refusing to open the gate?” asked John, still very quiet, like some old prophet about to deliver a judgment, as I’d seen them do on some pictures we had at home. The man was chewing on a cud of tobacco, and now he leaned over and spat, then wiped his chin deliberately with the back of his hand.
“I could see you were smart when you first rid up.”
John sat like a statue, I held my breath. After what seemed a long time, he thrust his hand into his pocket, the gatekeeper swung the rifle up sharply, and John threw down one of the silver dollars. It lit on its edge and rolled up against the man’s foot. He leaned over, picked it up, and bit it.
“Hand up the bank note,” said John. “I’ll want to turn it in to the authorities.”
“No hard feelings,” said the gatekeeper when he slouched over with the troublesome bill and fifty cents change. But John made a signal to Shep and us, and we wheeled our horses around. Before we stepped on the bridge, he said to the man, “You should go far—you’ve got chance on your side. You want to tell your children and grandchildren about the lucky day you had in the spring of ’49.”
For my part, I doubted if that gatekeeper would go much farther than he’d gone, his tongue was too loose. But I’ll say this for him—he had grit. After we’d clattered over his poor excuse of a bridge, he called out, perfectly cocksure, “Keep an eye peeled for a shifty-looking party of queersmen. The constables have been searching hereabouts, and would favor your help.”
Now that the danger was past, Shep yanked his horse’s head angrily and said, “Let’s shut that clodhopper’s mouth. I’ve heard about all I can stand. We can pull up around the next bend and I’ll sneak back through the woods and draw a bead on him from the rear.”
Which was, I expect, just about his notion of a fair fight. John merely clucked at his horse, and we jogged on.
We rode into St. Louis in the middle of the afternoon. Now that a showdown was near, I commenced to get nervous. What with the douse in the river, no sleep and skimpy food, not to mention murder and kidnapping, I wasn’t in what you would call hearty condition. I felt sickly, and was sweating. I was so low down and poorly I might even have swallowed one of Aunt Kitty’s conjure draughts, which were aimed for just this kind of thing, or so she claimed. But I had tried one on Sam, after he’d eaten an umbrella handle, and he only rolled over on his back with his feet stuck up in the air, not much better, and maybe a little worse, than before he was treated.
When a few scattered log huts hove into view, with warehouses and docks strung far out up the river beyond, John stopped and gave us a lecture. “Leave me do all the talking,” he said, aiming his remarks mostly at Shep, who, with his horse, was looking impatient. “There won’t be any trouble—nobody knows us around here. Only don’t say anything you don’t have to. Least said, soonest mended has always been my motto throughout my career, and barring ten or fifteen years in jail, I wouldn’t change a particle of it.”
Then he rode up to me and said, “You let on there’s anything amiss—just one peep—and I’ll turn you inside out and start you off afresh. And stop the snuffling; we’re doing you a favor if you only knew it. You can skip out again once we’re clear of the town, and maybe this time steal a horse and ride off in style. You’d better hang up for twenty-four hours, though, else it wouldn’t be ethical to collect the reward, and I want everything aboveboard. I may set up for merchant later on in this town; I like the looks of it.”
From where I sat behind Slater, I couldn’t see anything to rave about. After the outlying log huts, with enough pigs to populate the universe, we passed through what I’ve since heard was the old French quarter, being a very cramped up section of narrow, crooked streets, or lanes, and queer, high-balconied houses with ladders reaching up from the ground to the top rooms, and everything tilted at crazy angles, as if the dirt underneath had settled here and there, leaving the buildings now leaning backwards, more often forward, with their heads together, like old ladies gossiping.
Clattering into St. Louis through these dizzy passages, like the crooked man walking his crooked mile in the rhyme, we attracted little enough notice for all our rough appearance. Suddenly it came to me that, if my story held water, I ought to know the location of Chouteau’s trading post. I had a panicky flutter, guessing somehow that the same thought was puzzling John at that instant, and sure enough, here he came reining up and riding back.
“Joe, go on ahead with Runaway”—he’d been calling me Runaway all day now, getting worked up for the collection—“he’ll point us in, and without any monkey business, neither, if he wants to have breakfast tomorrow.”
But I was a second and half ahead of him. “I’d sure enough like to,” I said, “because I know which side my bread’s buttered on now, but I’m mixed up and addled coming in from this direction. Going out, I stowed away on the carriage ferry and went down on the Illinois side through the American Bottoms.”
My face wasn’t more than a foot from that murdering old lunatic’s, and I could see in his smoky black eyes that he only half believed me.
“Then what were you doing on the Missouri side below St. Genevieve?”
“A farmer running trot lines put me over in a skiff for rowing and baiting hooks all morning.”
“Sounds likely.”
I felt good again. I was so free I almost spoke up and dared him to make something out of it, for we were right smack in front of a noisy bar where the street was full of traders and rivermen and a handful of Indians. I had only to set up a cry for these bloodthirsty hellions of ours to be in a peck of trouble. But I knew what I had to do, so I kept mum.
Presently John made a sign to stop, and he got down to have a confab with an aproned man with a very reddish-purple face in front of a barbershop. I saw this fellow gesturing and explaining away as excited and impatient and angry-looking as the Frenchmen in Louisville always were. Then John got back on his horse and we pushed on out of the French quarter and into a section, going uphill from the river, of new board houses and warehouses, all raw and ugly in the afternoon sun, and such a lot of hammering and banging going on, and dogs barking, and dirty-faced children yelling, that you’d have thought it might raise the dead, only they wouldn’t have stayed up long, not after they’d had a look around.
The barber’s directions must have been sound, because we made a few turns, and at the end of a long street arrived at a very broad store building with two galleries and warehouses to either side and behind, the whole advertised by a split-log sign that had a white-birch rim all around, saying, “Pierre Chouteau, Jr., Fur Trading and General Merchandise.” An air of bustle and energy lay over this place, with clerks pushing through the doors carrying armfuls of supplies, others running from warehouse to warehouse, wagons loading at side doors, and a dozen or so horses tied to hitching posts out front. A darky boy of about my age, dressed in an outlandish costume of black silk hat and scarlet jacket, was serving as hostler, watering the horses from a wooden trough, then tying them up, and from the number of coins I saw spun his way, along with gibes and a playful cuff or two, I judged he must have been making as much money as old Chouteau himself, and was likely a partner in the business.
When we dismounted, I found that my legs were trembling. I made as if to run, but John caught me with a low hiss, “No, you don’t, you tricky scamp. Get on in there and be quick about it!” I hung back, whimpering, then let him shove and yank me along, with the others—Shep, Slater and Jennie—coming up behind.
A good many men, bearded and tobacco-chewing, were ganged around in the big room downstairs, jawing and spitting on the floor, and hitting one another on the back, and I saw piles of skins, shiny and blue and brown, tied up carelessly with string, lying on both counters and floor. It was the big season, with the winter’s trapping over, and bottles were going it here and there in celebration.
John
caught a clerk by the sleeve and asked where we could find Pierre Chouteau, but got only a hurried pointing of a pencil up at a little office balcony in the rear. So we made our way on through the crowd and climbed a low set of stairs, and there was our man, talking to an ugly old trader wearing a patchy coonskin cap with one ear flap hanging down, as brisk and courteous and full of manners as an ambassador at court.
“I’m an old scut and as crooked as the devil’s claw,” the trader was saying, as if this was something anybody might be proud of. “If they think they can glom onto what’s taken me ten years to thieve from the Indians, outright and open, then I’m a suck-egg mule, and you can tell them I said so.”
“Indeed I will, I understand perfectly, Mr. MacFarlane,” replied Chouteau with a polite shake of his head. “You’ve been most wrongly used.”
“A suck-egg mule—in them selfsame words; they ain’t spoken lightly.”
“I’m sure they aren’t, Mr. MacFarlane. Good day to you, sir.”
He was taller than most Frenchmen, slender, with dark, flashing eyes, very carefully dressed, and with an easy manner, as if he had long ago decided not to be bothered by trifles, which I have noticed is the way with most people of importance. When Mr. MacFarlane had backed off, still protesting his desire, under certain conditions, to be a suck-egg mule, whatever that unfortunate animal might be, Mr. Chouteau turned toward John and said, “Did you gentlemen wish to see me?”
“When you learn our errand, I think you’ll say so,” said John, and I couldn’t help comparing his rude speech and appearance with the graceful style of the proprietor.
“In that case, perhaps you’d better state your business.”
I had been partly hidden behind John and Shep, but now John reached back and jerked me forward, saying as he did so, “Here he is, the ungrateful imp. We collared him below St. Genevieve, and if I was you, I’d count up to see what’s missing.”
The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) Page 7
