Chouteau nodded softly, and said nothing. That was one of the maddening things about the man. He funneled vast amounts of information through those hairy ears poking from his wavy black hair, yet offered none; not even his reaction to events. Marsh swallowed back his choler but nursed a grievance. Chouteau had not yet said one word to him about his successful trip up that dangerous river. Not one word thanking him for all his devotion and skills.
Chouteau whirled the red ambrosia around his wineglass and waited, quizzically.
“I must tell you candidly, the Skyes took the squaw’s part, and so vehemently I was forced to eject them as well,” Marsh said. “I will not have mutiny or rebellion on my ship.”
This time the whirling of the glass ceased altogether. “Tell us more,” Chouteau said softly.
Marsh did, stressing the insolence of the man, the sheer stubborn arrogance of this common slug off the docks of London. But Chouteau simply stared blandly, his odd smirk gone, and Marsh had the feeling he had displeased Chouteau.
“I will not have anyone interfering with my command of the ship!” he said firmly, “Any more than you would tolerate someone meddling with your operations.”
“Did Skye ask anything of you?”
Marsh shook his head, not wanting Chouteau to know that he had kept the squaw’s fare to St. Louis, the robes and pelts.
“We will get his story,” Chouteau said. “Is he coming?”
“I suppose so. Don’t put much credence in anything he says; the man is utterly unreliable.”
Chouteau arched an eyebrow, and that smirky smile emerged on his face once again. “And?” he said.
“I’m afraid I had some difficulties with Alexandre Bonfils as well,” Marsh said reluctantly. This interview was not proceeding as he had hoped.
“Ah! Tell us!” Suddenly Chouteau was all ears.
Marsh sighed. “It’s a complex story, my friend. And I must backtrack a bit. You see, Skye and the squaws arranged passage with two flatboat operators, a pair of scoundrels named Red Gill and Shorty Ballard. Do you know them?”
Chouteau’s gaze turned opaque, and Marsh could not fathom what was passing through the skull of that man.
“Well, one day we hit a gravel bar that hadn’t been there before, and far from help, too. The usual procedures didn’t lift us over, and along came that flatboat with Ballard at the tiller …”
He went on to describe how it had taken a shot across the bow to bring in the boat, saying nothing about Skye’s role in the process; the unloading of the cargo to a gravelly island just the other side of the bar, and the refloating of the boat.
“We were about to reload, having passed over the bar and repaired the paddle wheels and anchored in safe water, when at dawn, in fog, we were beset by a Sans Arc war party, which was filtering around the shore opposite the boat, obviously dangerous.
“Bonfils discovered them. They had collected around the camp of the flatboat people, and it turned out that Skye was negotiating with them. What they really wanted was a ride across the river; they were in hot pursuit of the Pawnees. Skye, without authority, offered them the use of the riverboat. But Bonfils was unaware of that. He rounded up a crewman or two and charged the cannon with grape and fired, scattering and wounding the Sans Arcs, killing Shorty Ballard, injuring Skye, and killing one of MacLees’s brats.”
Chouteau pursed his lips.
A silence stretched out, and Marsh listened to the ticktock of the grandfather clock.
“Of course the shots awakened me. When I found out about it, that Bonfils had done this without authorization, risking the company’s trade with the Sioux and killing a white man, I of course put him ashore at once.”
Chouteau’s liquid eyes seemed to flare and then the light in them faded. “Skye is alive?”
“I suppose.”
“Ballard is dead? And of the Sans Arcs what is known?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah, c’est mal. And where is our young relative?”
The words were meant to remind Marsh there were blood connections between the brigade leader and Chouteau, and Marsh didn’t like to be reminded of that.
“Coming down the river, obviously,” Marsh retorted crisply.
“Is that all, then?”
“No. It was obvious to me that Ballard and Gill were hauling cargo gotten in illegal trade, no doubt supplying spirits to the Opposition, so following many precedents done by this company and encouraged by the army, I seized their cargo, which is why we have more bales of pelts than were on the manifests supplied by the posts. A fine coup, if I may say so. You are more than a thousand dollars richer.”
Chouteau’s soft white hand went still again, and the wine stopped its mad whirl around the glass and settled into a placid red pool. “And you are going to report this smuggling and seizure to General Clark, we suppose?” he said at last.
“Of course! That pair were up to no good; and we have an extra thousand dollars of profit from it. And we have, to borrow your phrase, erased the Opposition.”
“My capitaine, please go to the levee at once and arrange that those bales, the confiscated ones, be separated from the rest and put in another part of the warehouse and guarded carefully.”
Marsh nodded curtly. The command was a rebuke.
“We think it would perhaps be best for us to discuss matters with Red Gill when he arrives. Say nothing to General Clark.”
“My navigator’s license requires me to report such matters promptly.”
Chouteau’s smirky smile appeared once again, and he nodded.
“Very well, monsieur. Go report to General Clark in the morning. We would not want you to lose so important a thing as your livelihood.”
Marsh started to stand, but Chouteau stayed him with a wave of his soft hand. “How far behind you are they?”
“I don’t know or care. I have done everything in my power to preserve the good name, profit, and influence of this company, and what a boatload of smugglers and malcontents do is not my business.”
Chouteau merely smiled, a response Marsh did not like. There still had not been the slightest commendation of his considerable efforts, or his good judgment, or his formidable skills.
“Is your report now complete, my capitaine?”
Marsh nodded.
“Alors, Hannah will show you out.”
Marsh retreated, seething.
thirty-four
Bonfils gone. The flatboat gone. The Cheyenne woman and her daughter on that renegade boat.
Skye squinted, hoping to see the distant vessel, but he saw nothing but a broad blue stream wending its way to the sea. It was very quiet at Sarpy’s Post.
Red Gill cursed softly, a string of oaths that seemed to vent his anger the way a valve hissed steam from a boiler. He wheeled around and headed for Sarpy’s house again.
“I’ll fix this,” he said.
Skye felt weary; he was far from healed, and an hour’s sojourn here had exhausted him. He wanted only to find refuge in his bunk. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. His mountain rifle, powderhorn, beartooth necklace, top hat, blankets and robes and spare clothing lay in that flatboat, along with all of Victoria’s spare gear and duds. He wore only a blue calico shirt, duckcloth trousers, and summer moccasins.
He hadn’t the faintest clue about the future. By rights, he should stay here and heal up, and then try to arrange some credit with the company. He still hoped to get to St. Louis but that prospect was looking bleak now, and the chance of winning that trading position was leaking away with every mile that Bonfils put between himself and his rival.
He turned to Victoria, who was standing beside him.
“Don’t know what to do,” he said.
She wasn’t even cussing. Instead, she was studying the river.
“Maybe Sarpy would hire me long enough to get well and earn an outfit.”
The thought discouraged him. An outfit would require a year of hard labor.
“You any ideas?
”
“Horses.”
“Don’t know how we’ll pay, but I’ll go talk to Sarpy after Gill’s done with him. They owe us a couple of pack animals, at least.”
She squinted at him. “You going back?”
“No. We’ve started something. Let’s finish it.”
“You think Bonfils, he gets to be the trader?”
“I think Bonfils thinks we’re going to quit and go west. He’s counting on it. And I’m not going to satisfy him.”
“You got some wounds ain’t healed up, but you ain’t quitting.”
“No, not quitting. Never quit. Just keep going. People who quit, they just betray themselves.”
She reached over to touch him, and he felt her hand press against his forearm.
They would go on, never quit, never surrender. Even in failure, it is a good thing to know you’ve tried with all your strength.
Which reminded him that he didn’t have the strength of a baby, and he needed to sit down before he toppled over. He eased to the earth, and she joined him, watching the river to St. Louis flow by.
In a while, Gill appeared, and with him a short, thin young man.
“Mister Skye, this is Pete Sarpy, the trader here. I told him what happened. In fact, I told the whole story. I told him about Bonfils, and Lame Deer, and the riverboat, and all the rest of it.”
Sarpy extended a smooth hand, which Skye shook. “I’ve heard of you,“he said. Upriver, Skye’s a name to be reckoned with.”
“And so are your family,” Skye replied.
“You going to talk to old Pierre, eh? He keeps to himself pretty much. Gill here, he knows Pierre better than I do.”
Something passed between Gill and Sarpy that Skye couldn’t fathom.
Sarpy looked at Skye and Victoria. “Your outfit went down the river, eh?”
Skye nodded.
“Go in there and pick up a new one.”
“With what?”
“On my say-so. I will forward the bill to Pierre Chouteau. Gill’s getting an outfit too. Then you’ll take that sailboat down there.”
Skye saw a small craft tied to the levee. A sail was wrapped around the boom. He doubted the homemade boat reached twenty feet stem to stern.
“We use it to get across the river, pick people up,” Sarpy said.
“You won’t need it?”
“Sure we’ll need it, but we’ll get it back.”
Skye felt a stir. He knew sails and he knew wind, and he saw that the little craft below could maneuver easily in the broad river.
“I can sail it,” Skye said, even though he had never set foot in so small a sailing craft.
“Royal Navy,” Sarpy said.
Gill was grinning. Skye knew intuitively that all this was Gill’s doing, and he wondered what hold the boatman had over Sarpy. There were mysteries about Gill. Maybe someday Skye would get the story.
Skye and Victoria hiked down the slope to the little boat, discovering a hand-crafted vessel made of hand-sawn planks caulked with oakum. The flat bottom would be unstable in a wind, but he could see nothing else wrong with it except that it had no cabin, no shelter against the elements. There was nothing within; no oars, no anchor or rope. Just some flat benches. A tiller operated the rudder at the rear.
“Does it have a keel?” he asked Sarpy.
“Small one, about a foot.”
“It’ll do,” Skye said.
Wearily he hiked up the steep slope, wondering whether his leg would give out, but he made the hill and paused to catch his breath at the store. Victoria was already within, piling blankets and gear on the counter.
Gill came in, grinning. “Guess I got some pull, eh?” he said.
“I don’t know how you arranged it. This is the only boat they have here.”
“Like I say, old Red Gill’s got a way to get around in the world. You’d better remember it. You ever sailed a small boat?”
“No, but I know I can.”
“They flip over easy, just a freshet will do it. This has a squared bottom, and it don’t lay over like a round-bottomed hull.”
“We’ll manage.”
Skye headed for the rack of rifles, and plucked up each one, hefting it, finding them unbearably heavy. He knew when he was stronger they would feel lighter. But for the moment, his still and sore arm was crying out whenever he lifted a weapon.
He tried several, some of them old longrifles from the eastern states, knowing they would be clumsy in the mountains. They were all flintlocks, and he wanted a percussion lock. But the only percussion weapons were brand new.
He found a Hawken .53-caliber mountain rifle, heavy, half-stocked short-barreled, built to endure the abuse of the wilderness. He knew that he had a quality weapon in his hands. The rifled barrel looked clean to the eye, and the oversized lock looked like it would survive all manner of battering. He checked the nipple within the wire mesh protective basket, looked at the hickory ramrod, cocked and lowered the hammer gently, testing the trigger mechanism.
It would do.
His arm hurt like the devil.
He found a used powderhorn, a pick with which to clean out the nipple, and a box of fulminate of mercury caps, good quality ones of brass rather than copper. He picked up a bullet mold, and some small pigs of lead, but also a pound of precast balls. A one-pound can of DuPont would do for the time being, and he added some patches.
Victoria’s heap on the counter grew at an amazing pace. She had added flint and firesteel, a butchering knife, a tin cookpot, a skillet, some tin messware, a ball of soap, an awl, thread, a hank of hemp rope, thong leather, and a dozen other items.
“Victoria, we can’t pay all that back. Not with this too.” He hefted the rifle.
“That’s a damn pretty gun,” she said.
“We’ll see if it shoots true.”
She eyed him. “You can hardly lift it.”
That was true. All of this hefting of heavy metal objects had started his arm howling and his rib wound aching so badly he was having trouble breathing again.
“You get down to the boat, dammit,” she said.
He didn’t. He stubbornly helped gather the outfit, even as Gill got his together, along with plenty of parched corn, sugar, coffee, tea, cornmeal, and other foodstuffs.
“They’re not going to let us walk out of here with this,” he said to Gill.
The boatman grinned. “I got ways,” he said.
“You got powers beyond mortal knowledge,” Skye retorted.
It proved to be true.
When the clerk tallied up the goods, Skye’s outfit came to over two hundred dollars, and Gill’s came to a hundred fifty, including food for the three of them. But the clerk offered n quarrel. Gill began grinning.
“See what powers I have, Skye?”
“It’s Mister Skye, mate.”
“Then it’s Mister Gill, if that’s how it is.”
They laughed. Skye’s ribs howled.
The clerk helped them tote the heavy loads down to the levee and even helped stow the goods in the little sailboat, under the neutral stare of a few Omaha women.
When the stuff had been settled in the hull, the clerk stepped to shore, and stood by.
Gill undid the ties, while Skye unrolled the sail and ran it up the mast and tied it off. A summery beeze ballooned the linseed-oiled linen, and it tugged the little boat outward.
From above, Sarpy waved.
Gill replied with a casual dip of the arm.
And Skye marveled at the hold Red Gill had over Pratte, Chouteau and Company.
thirty-five
Alexandre Bonfils had exactly the cargo he wanted, and had put his rival behind him. For as long as he could peer backward, toward Sarpy’s Post, he had seen no one on the levee. The Skyes were within, dickering for some goods, and Gill was off visiting with Sarpy.
To be sure, the Cheyenne squaw glared at him darkly, and he knew she was angry about all this. She paced the flatboat, knowing she was a prisoner. But he would
deal with her after he put a few river miles between him and the fur post. Just then, he wanted to keep the flatboat in the fastest current and make his escape so successful that Skye would never catch up.
Poor old Skye! Bonfils laughed. He had Skye’s outfit aboard, effectively stopping hot pursuit by horseback or canoe or any other means. He also had Gill’s possessions, a kitchen outfit and some sacks of meal and old clothing. Gill could not move until he replenished everything needed for river travel.
But best of all, Bonfils had the squaw and the brat, and once he arrived in St. Louis, he would play that card for all it was worth. And that was going to be pure fun. He could hardly wait to see the shock and embarrassment on the faces of the bride’s family; the astonishment with which MacLees would discover his mountain squaw and brat.
Oh, the secrets would tumble out, and St. Louis would chuckle up its sleeve and gossip about it for months. And old Uncle Pierre would come to laugh secretly at MacLees, and enjoy the whole spectacle. The Creoles would make much merriment out of it, but the miserable Protestant English-speaking population would cluck, cluck, cluck and whisper the scandal from ear to ear.
It was usually easy to find the channel and he had no trouble steering the flatboat to that fast-flowing heart of the Missouri. It was only on the long sweeping bends that he found he had to steer the flatboat into the swift current and keep it from being swept toward shore.
The squaw’s relentless gaze disconcerted him. She never looked elsewhere; always at him, as if assessing his very soul. Not that she would know what a soul was. Savages wouldn’t fathom such a thing. And yet that unblinking examination of him was a little unnerving. She had drawn her brat to her, and was absently comforting the child with her hand as she studied Bonfils. Would the woman never even blink?
At last the squaw studied the shore, and Bonfils wished to know what thoughts passed through her head. He would have to be careful not to let her escape. She was the prize. St Louis was a vast distance away, and she would have hes chances every time they cooked a meal or otherwise approached a riverbank. Islands! He would make sure they anchored only at islands so she couldn’t just pick up the brat and hurry away in the night. Ah, there was always a way!
Downriver Page 20
