by J. R. WRIGHT
“Now Franz was at a loss as to what to do next, and he looked scared. I could see it in his eyes.” Pierre paused again, and when he began again his voice was tense and forced.
“Well, before I knew what happened, Franz lunged back on his horse. And when I looked, his mouth was open wide, like he was trying to yell, but nothing came out. Just some air and a spewing of blood came. One of those crazy animals milling about had sliced his throat.”
“Oh my goodness…!” Breanne stood quickly and covered her mouth as if she were about to lose her breakfast.
With that, Pierre’s eyes glassed over and he coughed to get his voice back. “Well, I fired both of them flints I was holding – anyhow, it blew that devil chief dead off his horse and into the next life.”
“I’m so sorry, Pierre,” Breanne said.
“It was a long time ago,” Pierre made an attempt at passing it off and went back to his work.
“If it’s not too much trouble, could you tell me the rest of the story?” Breanne said anxiously.
“Well, there ain’t much more to tell. Franz somehow managed to hang on to his horse till we were clear of the area by several miles. I looked back then, and they hadn’t bothered to follow, but Franz was already dead by then. He’d locked his hands so tight onto the pommel of his saddle that by the time I decided it was safe to stop and bury him, I had to pry his fingers loose.”
With that, Pierre picked up the remainder of the hindquarter and returned it to the ice room. Breanne watched him go, and then went out back to begin washing the sheets she had gathered from the upstairs rooms that morning. Hans would be up soon, and she certainly didn’t want him catching her loafing on the job.
CHAPTER FOUR
A month later nothing much had changed at the Blue Bear. Winter continued, although it was certain spring wasn't terribly far off if one paid any attention to nature. The small branches of the poplars were getting little nubs that would soon be buds. And, because it was still quite cold in the basement, Luke and Breanne continued to bed together, although sexlessly. Hans remained content in his near daily trysts with the newest Cajun whore. And Pierre told his stories. It seemed he had a near endless supply from all the years he had spent in the wild country.
It was early, and once her morning chores were completed, Breanne located Luke and Pierre at the corral. They had slaughtered a beef and were busy at skinning it. Nimbly, their practiced hands and sharp knives made quick work of the job. And soon the entire hide, with severed head, lay in a heap on the ground below the hoisted animal.
Pierre was rapid in pulling the head free. His knife made a swift cut from the lower jaw clear up to the chin. He then reached in, pulled the tongue out through the opening, and severed it at the base.
“Them squaws would do about anything for a tongue,” Pierre laughed, holding the slimy thing up for all to see.
Breanne stood stiffly, repulsed. She wanted to run away at first sight of the bloody muscle, but that was nixed by an even greater desire to be near Luke, as she had been every moment she could this past month.
“Whenever I’d killed an elk, or a buffalo, I’d always save the tongue for trading for woman favors.”
With that, Luke looked to Breanne with concern, figuring he knew what was coming.
“Best go do your laundry,” he said.
“There’s time for that later.” A hurt look came over her young face. “I’d rather help out here, if I can.”
“You can fetch the tub from the kitchen,” Pierre said. “We’ll be needing it for the innards. And when you get back you can empty the casings. We’ll be needing them for the sausage. Now move along, girl.”
Breanne dashed off to get the tub and was back in a flash and awaiting the guts to fall so Pierre could show her what needed doing. Luke, it appeared, had been overruled. She would stay to hear the rest of the story, no matter how nasty it may be.
“Like I said, them squaws would do about anything for a tongue. They’d come running when I come to a village where they knew me. They’d get to feeling my shirt for it right off. I’d have to push ‘em aside till they was all about. That way I got the pick of the entire lot.”
“Course, some of them tongues never got et. Most of them cast off squaws never got much in the way of humping, ‘cept on occasion some trader come to camp. Some never did, if they were ugly. So they used them tongues. Leastwise, they did once or twice before it got hung over the fire. Course, unless it was winter and they got kept fresh packed in snow.”
Just then the intestines hit the ground, and Breanne anxiously stepped forward. This story had made her uncomfortable, and she wanted to be busy at doing something, instead of just standing there, pretending she wasn’t listening.
“Here girl, let me help with that,” Pierre said, and stepped in with his knife and started cutting the gut into four foot lengths. “Now you turn these inside out, wash ‘em up clean and salt ‘em good. That way they’ll keep till we make the sausage tomorrow. You can use a broom handle for turning them inside out. That works real well if you tie a knot in one end first.”
“Okay,” Breanne said and ran for the boom she kept in the kitchen.
“Well anyways,” Pierre continued with the story, “I got lucky up on the Missouri once. I was camped close to a Mandan village, and they’d just spent a hard winter with little food. I spotted a passel of left-behind buffalo when I was out looking for beaver signs along the river. They were up a ravine. I set up a stand and shot five out of the bunch that was there. I took the liver and hump from one for myself, and all five of the tongues. I hid them tongues in a niche I’d cut in bank-ice up a nearby creek. Later I brought ‘em out one at a time for trading. Them Mandan was so glad to get that meat they never bothered to complain about them tongues being missing.
“‘Course, them Mandan is a gentle breed, no how. They had mixed some with whites in the past. Some of ‘em have blue eyes. They house in big mud huts that look like big beaver lodges. I guess that’s where they got it from. They keep all they own in them, even the horses during winter. Sometimes two or three families will take up one lodge. They’re good farmers too. Raise some vegetables and a lot of corn. Most of the corn was traded to old McKenzie over at Fort Union. He had a still. Course, the whiskey wasn’t fit for a white man to drink. Injuns took to it though. They traded one beaver to the dipper – ‘bout a half pint. Steep price to pay for watered down pig slop, with a little red pepper added for fire.”
“I taught many of them Mandan to trap white man’s way. With their help, I collected over five hundred beavers that season. Near kilt two good mules toting them out. I could a’ sold ‘em at Fort Union to McKenzie for three dollars a pelt. But instead, I built three bull boats out of green buffalo hides and floated ‘em the rest a’ the way here. I’ve been here ever since.” Pierre then stopped as if his life had come to an end at that point.
Luke could tell by the stories that Pierre missed the wild country and the old life he’d had there. Too bad he was so old. If not, perhaps the two of them could go someday.
“How much did you get for the pelts here then?” Luke asked.
“Double,” Pierre said. “Doubled my money, and had a good ride down river to boot. ‘Cept for one spot: some red devils tried to ambush me. But I was going too fast in the swift current. Arrows couldn’t reach me once I’d passed ‘em by.”
‘Three thousand dollars,’ thought Luke, doing the math. ‘My god, I had no idea such money could be made…!’
“Maybe I ought to take up trapping,” he tossed out, and waited for a response from Pierre. None came, however, except from Breanne, who perked up at the suggestion and locked eyes with his.
Luke arose extra early the following morning in order to help Pierre butcher a hog. Now it was hanging on the rail out back cooling out. At the moment, they busied themselves at trimming off lesser parts of the beef they had butchered yesterday and grinding it for the sausage they would make later in the day. The hearts, livers, and t
ongues from both butcherings were presently in a pot boiling, and when tender, would be ground as well and included in the mix for a little added flavor.
“You knew my mother.” Luke asked out of the blue, “What was she like?”
“Abigail, sure,” Pierre said. “She was a fine lady. We used to visit right here in this kitchen near every day. You spent every night sleeping under that counter right over there, when you weren’t wandering about out in the dining room making a nuisance of yourself. Sometimes Hans would take you behind the bar and make you sit on a keg. All the upstairs ladies got a big kick out of that.”
“Was she a whore?”
“She did what she had to do. Your daddy was kilt. She needed to provide.”
“You knew my father too?”
“No. That all happened before Abigail come here, but she talked about him a lot. He was a big man. Worked at the mill across the river.”
Just then, Hans marched angrily into the kitchen. He never spoke, just looked around and left. It was mid-morning. Hans hadn’t been up this early since Luke had taken over the chore of going to the levee in morning, when supplies were needed. Perhaps he was checking up on Breanne. By the way, where was Breanne? She was usually done with her upstairs chores by now, and showed up here for some breakfast. The last Luke had seen of her was when they left the basement this morning before sunrise. Luke immediately dropped what he was doing and went in search of her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Breanne had been in the basement for over an hour, and the pains had begun. She lay on her cot wondering whether she would live or die, or if she really wanted to live any longer.
Life hadn’t dealt her a good hand thus far in her short time living it. She never knew her mother, who died birthing her, and her drunken father called it quits by hanging himself from the rafters. She had discovered him there when she arrived home from her job as a fish gutter on the wharf. A job at which she saw no pay – her father had seen to that.
Immediately she gathered her few possessions and boarded a sternwheeler for St. Louis. The captain of the boat was a little too anxious to bring her aboard without advance payment. She had offered to work in exchange for her passage, but that was declined. Someone will pick it up on the other end, was all she was told, before being led to a small dark cabin where she remained until arriving in St. Louis.
She lay on her cot now, badly beaten and ashamed. Hans had beaten her before, but then she had given in before it got so bad. This time she hadn’t, and was beaten much more severely for her determined resistance to his advances. Hans made his play for her early that morning, shortly after she came up from the basement and began sweeping out the saloon. In his drunken rage, it soon became evident that the Cajun whore had run away during the night. He was clearly upset and hell bent on taking his frustrations out on Breanne, as if it was her fault. She tried to make a break for the kitchen, but he managed catch her. He then dragged her by the hair into his room, where he made short work in ripping away her cloths.
Determined not to be raped by this beastly man again, she kicked him in the groin, a move that sent him to the floor writhing in pain. But before she could cover herself and unlatch the door for an escape, he was up again, and with one mighty blow he sent her reeling into a wall, where she slumped limply to the floor.
There Hans kicked her until he passed out from drunken exhaustion and fell across the bed.
Breanne lay on the floor for near an hour trying desperately to gather the will to move. Finally, she was able to secure a blanket that had ended up on the floor during the struggle and covered herself with it. But it was some time later before she acquired enough strength to crawl down the empty hallway and descend down to the basement, where she collapsed on the cot. Since then, she had not moved, except to feel under her mattress for a knife she had taken from the kitchen to fend off just such an attack if it should happen down here. She gripped it tightly, at first from fear of a second attempt from Hans, but now as a resistance to the intense pain.
Several times she coughed up blood, only to find her mouth would not open to let it pass. She had to swallow it to keep from drowning. A rigor of sorts soon consumed her body, making it impossible to cover herself against a sudden chill.
She knew Luke would come for her. It seemed an eternity before she heard the upper door creak open, and the noise from the saloon came tumbling down. Then it closed, and the sounds were dampened. The footsteps on the stairway were heavy and slow as they descended to the basement. Who could it be? She gripped the knife even tighter. She wished she had lighted a lantern, but knew that would have been near impossible in her condition.
Someone fumbled with the lantern at the base of the stairs. Soon it was aglow and the wick turned up. She could now see it was Luke. His golden hair radiated in the otherwise dark space.
When the light came around to glow about the room, and she heard his voice, she was doubly assured it was him and sighed silently with relief.
“Breanne, is that you?” He came closer. “Are you ill? Why are you in bed?”
She wanted to answer but didn’t know if she could. Her mouth wouldn’t move, and her voice wasn’t there for her now.
“What happened to you?” He brought the light closer.
So close she could feel the heat from it on her face. She tried to turn away, but couldn’t. She must be an ugly sight, she thought, and began to sob. She realized now light only came to one teary eye – the other was swollen painfully shut.
He drew back the blanket and moved the light over her naked, heavily bruised body.
“What happened?” He desperately tried to gather his wits.
Breanne slurred a noise from between her clenched teeth, but no distinguishable words came out. She tried to gesture, but this only loosened her grasp on the knife, and it fell to the floor.
Luke sat the lantern on an empty whiskey keg next to her cot and knelt beside her. “Can you walk?” he asked.
She moaned and slightly moved her head to one side, which led him to believe she couldn’t. He then gently slid his hands under her and hoisted her into his arms. The pain was enormous, but Breanne didn’t let on. She felt safe now and let her head rest in the hollow of his neck. Soon the two of them were passing through the kitchen.
“Judas Priest..!” Pierre said when he saw Breanne. “What happened here?”
“I don’t know. I found her like this.”
“Best take her to Nellie’s. She can have my room,” Pierre said. “I’m hardly ever there anyway. I’ll go for Doc Scott.”
It had been drizzling rain that morning when Luke and Pierre were butchering the hog. Now that had turned to big lazy flakes of snow that collected on Breanne’s face. Luke picked up the pace and was near running when he arrived at Nellie’s on Second Street, just a block and a half out the back of the Blue Bear. Once there, Luke gently kicked at the door with the toe of his boot until Nellie herself came to answer it a moment later.
“Luke...,” she said cheerfully, as if happy to see him, until she saw the condition of Breanne in his arms. The rather plump woman fingered graying hair from her face, then hastily stepped aside and drew the door open wide. “Oh my! Poor girl. What happened?”
“Pierre said I could put her in his room. He’s coming with Doctor Scott.”
“Nonsense,” Nellie said and headed for the staircase. “The lady needs a proper room. Is she a friend of yours, Luke?”
“Sort of,” he said and followed her up the steps.
“Well, is she, or isn’t she?” Nellie paused at the top of the stairs.
“Well, yeah. I’ve known her for a while.”
“Men…!” Nellie shook her head, then moved on to a nearby room and opened the door. “Just put her on the bed. I’ll go fetch a gown.”
At a glance, Luke noticed the room was quite fancy with wallpaper and all, unlike the plain room Pierre rented downstairs near the back. And this one had a copper tub set nicely near the fireplace, which had a lazy fi
re burning in it.
He put Breanne gently on the bed and covered her more completely with the blanket he had brought her in. All the while she glared up at him solemnly with her only open eye. “Doctor’s on his way,” he whispered to console her, as if it were a secret. Seeing her the way she was made him feel miserable inside. When she was able to tell him who had done this, he swore he would get even. ‘What kind of animal would do something like this to a harmless snip of a girl like Breanne?’ he fretted.
“You need to go.” Nellie burst back into the room. “She’ll need to be washed up and dressed proper before I’ll let that damn horse doctor in here. He’s just a bit too nosey, if you ask me. You see him coming, you tell him to wait.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Nellie had been like a second mom to him when his mother lived there for a while, before moving to the Blue Bear, near a decade ago. Nellie’s was a house of prostitution back then, although he knew little of such things at the time. After his mother died, Nellie came to the Blue Bear with intentions of taking Luke home with her. She and Hans had some angry words, he remembered. But nothing ever came of it. Nellie, however, stayed in touch, paying visits to the kitchen at the Blue Bear often, when it was certain Hans wasn’t about.
“Nellie said you should wait,” Luke said, as Scott came through the door, letting in a flurry of snow. Phineas Scott was a smallish, balding man who had been educated in the East as a veterinarian, but had practiced human medicine in St. Louis for over two decades now. He also was the only doctor at this end of town. Most of the others kept offices in the wealthier areas to the north.
Pierre was not with him, which led Luke to believe he had gone back to the Blue Bear. It would be noon soon, and he would be plenty busy in the kitchen for an hour or two. Generally he and Breanne helped out during this time, but neither of them would be there today. Luke had no plans of leaving Breanne until he was assured she would mend. Pierre would just need to roust out Lucille and Olive, two older whores who weren’t much in demand and often helped out in a pinch. He knew Hans would be plenty angry when he saw those two in the kitchen, and him and Breanne nowhere to be found.
