“Midnight,” I told Jambe-de-Bois, “no later. I shall be back, and in the morning I will go for the guns. Then we will go up the river, for we have things to do.”
“I like none of it.”
“Rest easy … and if you see a Englishman about, one named McQuarrie, tell him to stand by.”
“Aye,” Jambe-de-Bois said gloomily. “If I see him, and if I see you. Protect yourself. I’ll not say protect yourself in the clinches for there are no clinches with Macklem. He’ll destroy you at long range. Destroy you.”
“You worry too much.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Rest easy, I say. I shall be back at midnight.”
The street was dark and empty when I stepped from the door, pausing a moment on the porch to look right and left. There was a faint smell of rain in the air.
I had only a short distance to go and decided to walk by the river. Stepping through my gate, I closed it behind me and started walking. I had not walked far when I thought I heard a faint, despairing cry.
Instantly I stopped, listening. Again I heard it. Listening, I waited. No sound.
I continued walking, disturbed by that cry. Should I try to help? I was dressed for company.
I paused, then was about to continue when I heard the cry again.“Please! Help me!”
The call seemed to come from the water off the stern of the keelboat nearest to me. Leaping over the bow, I ran along the walk toward the stern. The faint cry came again. I bent to look over into the water.
At that instant there was a rush of feet behind me. I tried to straighten and turn, but a glancing blow from a club hit me on the head, my hat went flying, and, dazed, I tried to get my hands up.
There were at least six of them, and they all had clubs. Only their numbers saved me, as all of them crowded for blows. I staggered and fell against the bulwark with blows battering my head. Badly hurt, I tried to fight back. But the pressure of their bodies forced me back, and with one wild, despairing grab I clutched the collar of the man nearest me and went over backward into the water.
Down, down I went, the other man struggling wildly, first to strike at me, then only to break himself free. Somehow I’d caught a deep breath before I went under, and I clung to him, taking him with me. I surfaced, saw the flash of a gun, and something rapped my skull. Down I went, losing my grip on the man, but clinging to his collar.
Desperately, I struggled, and when I came to the surface I was some distance downstream, trying to swim and cling to something at the same time.
My skull bursting with pain, I surfaced. Something huge and black loomed over me, and then I knew nothing more.
The motion was easy. Sunlight lay across my bunk, across the Indian blanket on which my hands lay. I could see my hands and the slow movement of light that was one with the gentle motion.
For a long time, I just lay and watched the light move toward my hands, touch them, then slowly move away. The rhythm was hypnotic. I watched it, dully conscious of my comfort, aware of nothing.
Something bumped near me and my eyes moved. They moved of their own volition, for there was no will. Now they were looking at the source of the light.
A round hole in the wall … a porthole. I heard another dull thump, then a voice. “Still alive?”
“He’s alive.” It was a girl’s voice. “Still unconscious, I reckon. His pulse seems stronger, though.”
“We shouldn’t have taken him from St. Louis, Pa. He might have had kinfolk nearby.”
“Doubt it. Though he was dressed rich. Some folks surely tried to kill him.”
The talk came through the open port, but it meant nothing to me. I simply lay still, and my eyes had returned to the light on my hands.
Then I smelled something. It was a good smell, a rich smell, a smell of cooking.
Cooking … food. Food?
My eyes blinked, my muscles stirred, and I hitched myself up in the bunk. I could hear movements. Slowly, awareness came to me. I was in a clean, well-blanketed bunk, on some kind of boat. Not a very big boat, for the deck was right above my head and the bottom was right below me.
What boat was this, and where was I? Who was I? I considered that for a minute and then said aloud, “Jean Daniel Talon.”
A voice exclaimed, and the curtain over the door drew back.
A girl stood there, a very small girl with a very tiny figure, dark hair and eyes—very serious eyes now—and parted lips. She was pretty, very pretty.
She wore a fringed buckskin skirt and a calico blouse. She had moccasins on her feet. “You’re awake!”
“Either that, or you’re a dream,” I said.
She blushed. “You’re awake,” she said dryly. “Now you’re hungry, no?”
“Now I am hungry, yes,” I said. “But first, tell me where I am, what boat this is, and who you are.”
“You’re on the Missouri River. This is my father’s keelboat, and I am my father’s daughter.”
“How did I get here? What happened?”
“You were hit on the head several times. Two cuts, many abrasions and scratches. You were shot … a furrow through your scalp. You can part your hair in the middle now, if you like.”
“How did you save me?”
“We were coming upriver, not stopping in St. Louis. We heard some yells, some scuffling, and a shot, and then we saw a bunch of men on the end of a boat, and not long after that we saw you in the water. I reached over and grabbed you by the collar.
“Pa kept going and I held on. When we hit a straight stretch of river, Pa lashed the rudder, and he come for’rd and helped me pull you in.”
“That was last night?”
“That was five days ago, come suppertime.”
“Five days!”
Tabitha would be gone. The steamboat would be long gone. My friends would think me dead.
“You saved my life, and for that I thank you, and I thank your father.”
She canted her head on one side and looked at me. “You are hungry now? You must be hungry.”
“I am ravenous. I could eat you.”
She made a face. “I am not edible. Nor would my father like it. I am his crew.”
“You? You’re too small!”
“I amnot!” She stuck out her chest. It was a very nice chest. “I am strong! I am formidable!”
“And I am hungry. We decided that.”
“And I am sorry! At once!”
I put my head back on the pillow and looked up at the underpinning of the deck. It was good work, done with nails, of course. I prefer pegs and fitted joints. Nails, well, they are a convenience, but for fine work …
There were heavy steps on the deck, and a man came down the ladder and stopped at the bottom, his hands still on the ladder, staring at me.
“Huh! You do not look so bad awake,” he said. “What are you?”
I rolled onto my elbow. “A hungry man wanting a meal. I am also a man who was banged on the head. It still aches.”
He chuckled. “You have some stitches. My daughter, she sews well, huh?”
“She stitched up my head?”
“What would you have us do? Leave flesh and hair hanging over your ears? But no … it was not so bad. But some stitches were needed. They will come out some day. Do not worry.”
“How far are we from St. Louis?”
He shrugged. “Far is a question always? How far? On foot? By keelboat? By horse? And how much of a hurry is it?”
“I left some people there, and I want to pick up some guns.”
“You are in no shape to ride. Even if you had a horse.”
“I have horses in St. Louis.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you have a castle on the moon. Both of them are far away, and I am not going back to St. Louis.”
“You are not one of Choteau’s people?”
“I? I am my own people. We have this boat, Yvette and I. It is our boat. We have some traps. We catch a few fish. We pick berries along the river, and we know where they grow. Sometimes we shoo
t a buffalo or an antelope or deer. We sell our furs. We are nobody’s people.”
“Yvette. It is a pretty name.”
“It is. It was her mother’s name, God rest her soul. But do not you throw sheep’s eyes at my daughter. She is my crew. Without her, I am nothing. Without her, I am an old man with an empty boat.”
“You are far from old.”
“Now I am young. The day she leaves me, that little one, I am old. I shall be old upon the minute.” He walked in and sat down opposite me. He was nearly as broad as he was tall, with wide, thick shoulders and no fat. He had square, powerful hands.
“You tell me now, while she is busy. What was it about?”
“They were trying to kill me. Not to rob me, to fall me.”
He brushed that away. “Certainly. I could see.”
“There is a steamboat on the river, a steamboat that looks like a great black serpent.”
“I have seen it.”
“It is owned by a girl, a very lovely girl named Tabitha Majoribanks. She has come west looking for her brother, Charles. She has for captain a man named Macklem. It was his men who attacked me.”
“She does not like you, this woman?”
“It is not the woman. It is Macklem, and a man named Torville. They are very dangerous men. Macklem gathers other men somewhere up the Missouri, and he has been talking to Indians. He wishes to take the Louisiana Territory … all of it.”
He took out his pipe and began to tamp tobacco into the bowl. He paused. “He would take it, huh? He has something to do, that one.”
“Nevertheless, he will try.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “You are in love with this woman?”
“No!” I spoke quickly, perhaps too quickly, for he looked amused. “I would help her find her brother, but also it is to defeat this man that I am here.”
“Macklem?”
“Macklem, yes, and Torville, too.” I spread my hands. “I work with timber, you see? I am a man who likes order.”
“You have met this Torville?”
“No.”
“Then I have the advantage. I know him.” He put the pipe in his mouth and touched a match to it. “I also know young Charles. A good boy … a very good boy.”
CHAPTER 18
We talked the day away and into the dark hours. Yvette fed us, then made coffee, and made coffee again. LeBrun, who was her father, was an easy man. He was quick to see, to understand.
He had met Torville on his first journey into the Mississippi Valley—and did not like him. He had also met Charles Majoribanks on the scientific expedition. They had made room for him. After all, he was a fine botanist, and that such an aide could be had for nothing was unbelievable.
Charles had made friends. “The Indians liked him.” LeBrun explained. “He was often among them, learning from them, for they know much about plants.”
“Where is he now?”
“Who knows? He disappeared. He went up the river and vanished.” He paused, lighting his pipe again. “We go to find him.”
Slowly, I eased to my feet and attempted to stand up. Yvette watched anxiously; her father simply watched. He knew what I was feeling, knew that a man has things to be done that cannot be done lying on his back in bed.
Shakily, I got to my feet, my head spinning. I tried a step, staggered, caught myself as Yvette started quickly forward, and then slowly sat down again.
“You need rest!” she protested.
“You’ve been looking for Charles,” I said. “Why?”
Yvette flushed a little, then put her chin up. “We like him.”
“It is reason enough,” I said. “And nothing else?”
“What more is necessary?” LeBrun asked. “He came to us one time, and we ate together, we talked, and he was a good companion. He talked of flowers and trees and things of which I had not dreamed, of how the value of the soil may be judged by the plants that grow upon it.”
“He liked my cooking, too,” Yvette said.
“I’ve no doubt that was not all he liked. Even a botanist can have eyes for more than plants.”
She blushed. “He was a nice man, a gentleman.”
“You have no horse?” I asked LeBrun.
“What need have I for a horse? When I hunt, I do so afoot or from the boat. You would be surprised how often we find our game while it is swimming—or drinking.”
“I must have a horse. I must go first to St. Louis to my friends and to get my outfit. I shall need a horse.”
“Well,” LeBrun rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “There’s some Indians over east of here a mite. They’re good folks, mostly, and we set well with them. Might make us a trade.”
“Trade? What have I to trade?”
“You got your clothes,” he said, “and you’ve got a mighty fine pistol. And a knife like I never seen.”
“I can trade the clothes, but not the pistol, and especially not the knife. It has been in my family for two hundred years.”
It was pleasant here, but I was suddenly very tired. I lay back on the bunk and looked up at the deck overhead. Too bad they had to use nails. Those were good timbers, well cut and trimmed, they could have …
When I awakened, it was dark and still. I lay very quiet, suddenly alert and listening. There was no sound but a faint creaking of timbers.
It was too silent.
No breathing came from the opposite bed, now hidden behind a curtain. Very gently, I eased back the blankets and put my feet on the floor, feeling for my moccasins. One hand reached for the pistol, drawing it near. Stepping into my pants, I drew them up, drawing my belt tight, listening all the while.
Still no sound but the faint lap of water. There was a vague sense of movement … was the keelboat moving? I moved to the steps that led to the deck, if such it could be called.
A keelboat of the smaller size, which this was, was usually about forty feet along and eight or nine feet wide, with both bow and stern pointed. The deckhouse occupied more than half the length, with a steering pulpit aft and seats forward for oarsmen. One square sail was mounted on a mast above the forward part of the deckhouse.
Along each side was a cleated walk used by polers in working the boat upstream. Obviously, with only Yvette and himself aboard, LeBrun must depend on the sail for going upstream, the current when going down.
Stepping out on the narrow, cleated walk, I crouched to keep my head below the level of the deckhouse. For a moment, I held perfectly still, listening.
The water rippled, the sensation of movement was more pronounced. We were adrift.
I looked aft toward the steering pulpit where LeBrun should be. No figure loomed against the night.
Very cautiously, I worked my way aft, crouching when I reached the after end of the deckhouse. The small deck in the stern was empty.
Keeping low behind the bulwarks, I reached the rudder. The proper steering position was from the pulpit, but I’d no intention of skylining myself up there, so I raised a hand to the handle and gently centered it.
Where were LeBrun and Yvette? And who had set the boat adrift?
There was no doubt in my mind that it had been deliberately set adrift, but why I could not guess.
Indians? I doubted it.
Had Macklem and his crowd caught up with me? Where were LeBrun and Yvette?
Keeping my left hand on the rudder, I managed to keep the boat away from the banks. From my crouching position, or even standing and merging my body with the rudderpost, I could not see the river ahead.
I prayed that the river was free from obstructions. There had to be a reason for setting the boat adrift. Had LeBrun and Yvette gone ashore for some reason?
The more questions I asked myself the less I knew the answers.
I crawled into the pulpit, where I could at least see the river ahead and get a better grip on the rudder.
For a moment I gripped it, expecting a bullet at any instant. None came.
I guided the boat closer to the bank, watchi
ng for a place where I might run it in close and tie up. At all costs, I must get back to St. Louis.
The river took a slight bend. I headed in close to the bank, grounded the bow, then leaped ashore with the line. I took a quick turn around a sturdy tree, then another turn and a half-hitch, then still another.
The boat secured, I went off into the woods.
I reached a path. For a moment I stopped and listened, then I stepped into the path and walked away from the river, moving carefully in the moonlight. When I had walked no more than two hundred yards, I heard a faint sound.
I dropped to one knee near a bush.
At the same moment I knew that I was not alone. Not more than six feet away, I could faintly see the outline of a head and the whiteness of a face. A man was crouched and waiting.
Whoever he was, he had not heard me come, nor had he any idea of my presence. Suddenly a voice said, “Newt? You hear something a moment ago?”
“Ssh!”
“Newt, I—”
“Ssh, damn it! They’re coming.”
The second man, whoever he was, must be not more than six feet away.
Then, I saw the second man. He was right in front of me, facing away.
Rising up only slightly, I took a careful step forward. The night was cool, still. I could see him more clearly now. I put my hand on the cold barrel of my pistol, chilling it.
Then I heard the murmur of other voices, talking very low. Yvette and LeBrun! My fingers cold from the gun barrel, I reached out suddenly and touched the bare neck of the man before me.
He leaped like a startled rabbit. “A-a-agh!” he gave out with a choking scream and smashed backward with his gun butt. It missed, but the man ran into the brush.
Newt came out of hiding and onto the path. I had dropped down again, and Newt could see nothing.
He swore viciously under his breath and turned square around to start back. “Looking for something, Newt?” I asked very softly.
He had nerve, I’ll give him credit. I was up again. He leaped right at me. I’d no desire to shoot, not knowing where LeBrun and Yvette might be hiding, so I stiff-armed him in the face with the butt of my palm, then clubbed my pistol barrel over his skull. He dropped in his tracks.
Rivers West (1975) Page 12
