White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2

by Karen Kay

  But Benjamin Lloyd might as well have remained silent. Katrina had already collected her purse and umbrella, marched to the room’s door and flung it open before she turned back toward him. Her lips parted for a moment, as though she might say something further, but with a definite shake of her head, she merely stated, “Good day, Benjamin.”

  With that said, she delayed no longer. Picking up the front of her dress, she swept through the door, her head held in a stiff, defiant angle.

  And there was no one, not a single person at this moment, who would have interfered with her without cost.

  At least no one in New York City.

  Pikuni Camp of Blackfeet

  Northwest Territory

  Spring 1833

  “She comes.”

  White Eagle, who had been paying more attention to stoking the fire than to his friend, suddenly glanced up. “Tahkaa?”

  “Who?” The fair-headed man stared at his Indian companion, the two men sitting comfortably within White Eagle’s lodge. The look in the older man’s eyes was rich with affection. “My niece comes,” the old trader responded after several moments. “My brother’s daughter, Shines Like Moonlight, is finally arriving home…and after all these years.” The older man sighed.

  “Naapiaakii waitaaat?”

  “Yes, she is coming here to visit, and please, White Eagle, mopbete, behave. Speak English. If you won’t use the language that I’ve taught you, what good was my effort?”

  “Aa, it does me well in trade, my friend,” White Eagle said, beaming a lopsided smile at the old trader. “That is enough. Your language is not as pretty as mine.”

  “Yes, well…that may be. But I can very well see that my language helps you in trade. You have much wealth here to prove that.” The older gentleman uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “No longer can these traders lie to you or take advantage of you. And this, because you now speak their tongue.” The trader chuckled. “Why, I guess you could just as easily curse these new Americans in English as well as in Blackfeet.”

  “Do you forget,” White Eagle voiced, “that the language of my people has no curse words?”

  “No, son, I don’t. But sometime I will have to teach you how and why the white man swears…or rather makes an exaggeration.”

  “An exaggeration, a curse? Or do you not mean a lie?”

  “No, my friend, not really. It’s called stretching the truth. An exaggeration is something the white man says more for the effect of saying it than for its truthfulness.”

  “Haiya, is that why the white man lies and tries to cheat us—for an effect?”

  “No, friend, it’s done more because—” The elder man glanced up at his young comrade. White Eagle grinned, the expression on his face widening into a broad smile. “You make a jest at me. There’s no need for me to explain this to you, is there?”

  White Eagle just smirked, his smile showing straight, white teeth.

  “You did that well, my friend. I forget sometimes how quick you are to understand. Still, I’m certain that your learning the English language has helped you to trade better.”

  “Yes, old friend, it has. That and recognizing that the Big Knives, the ones you call the Americans, have never been known to speak with a straight tongue. Realizing this has saved me from making many bad decisions.”

  The old trader nodded.

  “My people used to refuse to barter with these Americans. Always before did we travel to the north. Those men at the Hudson Bay Company we understood. But now these Big Knives, the Americans, come into our country, and try to tell us that they are here for our own good. And each time these men come, they bring whiskey, and you know that the weaker spirits in our tribe cannot resist the white-man’s-water.

  This whiskey drives many of our people crazy, and always something bad happens.”

  “Yes, White Eagle, what you say is so. It also makes it harder for free trappers, like myself, to trade. True, the free trapper is not dependent on ‘the company’ and the H.B.C., but since we free trappers carry little whiskey, we can hardly compete.”

  White Eagle nodded. “And now these Big Knives have built a new post on Kaiyi Isisakta or the Bear River and my people are anxious to barter again. It seems that my kinsmen forget the Big Knives’ tricks from the past. I fear my people will sell themselves to these liars for the simple price of a few pretty beads and crazy-water. It was better when we burned down their fort last year. But these naapia’pii, these white men, keep coming back no matter that we drive them from our land time and again.”

  “Aa, yes,” said the older man. “And they’ll keep returning, too. There are so many of them.”

  “So you tell me, old man, so you tell me, but I have yet to see very many of them.”

  “You will,” the older man responded, shrugging. “You will.” And with this said, the fair-headed trader leaned back against the willow backrest. “Do you remember my niece, friend?”

  “How could I not?”

  The white man chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose that you could forget her. She was only what, the last time you saw her? Five years of age? And you could not have been more than—”

  “Eight winters.”

  “Yes, eight winters. Now, I remember it. If I recall correctly, you seemed to have loved Shines Like Moonlight as much as I did.”

  The blond man suddenly sat forward. “I have much to thank you for, my friend, very much, indeed.”

  White Eagle said nothing, merely shrugged.

  “But I am going to ask even more of you.”

  This declaration had White Eagle glancing up.

  “Here,” the older man shoved a piece of paper toward the Indian. “Read this.”

  White Eagle glanced over the paper, his gaze scanning the contents of the white man’s words. That this fur trader had dared to teach a young boy how to read so many years ago had stood in good stead for the Indian, not only to help White Eagle and his family, but for the whole of his tribe, the Pikuni band of Blackfeet. White Eagle had soon come to learn that many times the words written on the papers of the white man were different from the pledges that the naapia’pii spoke, and this, more than anything, had helped his tribe in trade.

  White Eagle suddenly caught his breath as he read. He frowned, his only other reaction.

  “I want you to go and fetch her for me, friend. I cannot make the journey to Fort Union this time of year, not when the trade here at Fort McKenzie is going so well.”

  White Eagle didn’t acknowledge the words, didn’t move at all; he stared at his friend.

  The elder man, his glance steady, pushed his point. “She is your responsibility, after all.”

  White Eagle frowned, his brows drawn. “The man who wrote this says that he expects you, her uncle, to meet her at this Fort Union. This post is a good distance from us.”

  “Yes, I know, but I think you had best go to greet her, not me.”

  Again, White Eagle said nothing, although his displeasure became more pronounced.

  The old man said quietly, “She belongs to you.”

  White Eagle could barely contain his glower. “Why do you say this?”

  “You know why.”

  Jerking his head to the left, White Eagle countered, “Do you mean because I saved her life all those summers ago?” He shrugged. “I have rescued others since that time, and the fate of these other people did not fall to me.”

  “Yes, I know, but there was always something special between you and the child. Besides, her father asked you, as well as me, to watch over her.”

  “She was only five winters old and I was—”

  “Eight years. Yes, so you have told me. Still, there was… I can’t go and meet her, my friend. You know what your people will think of me if I suddenly leave this trade to travel a great distance to seek out a woman, even if she is my niece and I haven’t seen her for many years. I would be laughed out of this country.”

  “So, you wish me to make this long journey and incur
my people’s wrath in your place?”

  “Yes,” the old trader responded, “but it’s not as bad as you say. You know that you can do this thing without penalty to your reputation. You are neither trader nor white man here. It is not you who has been suddenly besieged by all these bands of Blackfeet, all wanting to trade. You’ll do fine, son. Bring her safely to me from Fort Union. I entrust you with her life.”

  White Eagle grunted. “I think that you use me, my friend. You came to our village only yesterday. Have you known since you arrived that you wished me to travel to meet your niece?”

  “Completely.”

  “And were you only awaiting the best moment before you would ask me to do this thing for you?”

  The old man winked at his friend. “You always were smart as a fox.”

  White Eagle grinned, at the same time shaking his head. “And it is this thing which has brought you to my lodge so early this morning?”

  “It is.”

  White Eagle didn’t say another word. At length, he passed his pipe to his friend, and only after the old gentleman had smoked and returned the pipe to its owner, did the Indian speak again, saying, “I will do as you ask, old friend, and bring the girl to you, but what do you want me to do about this man she is to marry?” White Eagle held up the letter. “It says here that you have demanded to meet this man she chooses to marry. Do you desire me to bring him to you, too?”

  The old trader paused. “Well, now, my friend, I suppose you must, although meeting him doesn’t matter so much to me. But I do want him to try to travel to this place. I hear he is an Englishman—of a titled class and nobility.”

  White Eagle grunted. “What is this nobility?”

  “Did I never teach you that?”

  White Eagle just stared at his friend.

  “Nobility is a state in society, I suppose you could say, wherein a select few people feel they are better than all others because of wealth or mayhap position, or some other rubbish. It’s a title that…” The old trader looked toward his friend. “Never you mind, son. If this marquess is the kind of man that I suspect him to be, he will find reason enough to turn back from the trail. That is why I have made the requirement that I am to meet this man. Only if he can survive the journey here without much complaint will I give my consent for my niece to marry him.”

  White Eagle hesitated. “You suspect this Englishman will not be able to make this trip?”

  “Won’t last more’n a day.”

  “But if you know this about the man already, why do you not just tell your niece that she must find another?”

  The old man glanced up, his gaze calculating, if not downright prudent. “I have my reasons, son. Listen to me now. You must never mention any of what we have talked of this day to my niece, nor to anyone else. Do not let her know in any way that I wish her to come here.”

  The Indian frowned.

  “It would be considered ill-mannered if I were to request a woman to make this trip. It was enough that I managed to get her to Fort Union.”

  White Eagle said nothing, although he continued to gaze at the old man as though his friend had suddenly lost the full measure of his senses.

  “How can I make you understand this? In the white world, women are treated as frail creatures and are…taken care of…pampered, if you will.”

  “Pampered?”

  “Fussed over.”

  “Your men fuss over a woman?”

  The old fur trader sighed. “Yes, they do. And oh, what a pleasure it is to do so.”

  White Eagle snorted. “Does the white man also wear a dress?” White Eagle brought his hands up in a motion…an expressive, though somewhat obscene gesture toward the older man. He continued, “You speak the words of man-who-is-a-woman, my friend, not those of a warrior. It is no wonder that the men of your nation are so weak-willed that they lie.”

  The older man shrugged. “I will not debate that point with you. But you would do well to remember that you are dealing with another culture when you go to this fort. It is true that many of the white man’s ways will seem strange to you, but that doesn’t make them bad, only different.”

  White Eagle raised an eyebrow.

  “Son, you must understand, if I even imply that I wish my niece to travel farther than the fort to reach me, it will not happen. She, as well as every man at the fort, would consider that I have bestowed upon her the greatest of insults. How can I explain this? No well-brought-up lady would ever make this trip.”

  “Is your niece well brought up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you believe that she will come here willingly? Do you wish me to capture her?”

  “Saa, my son, no.” The old trader grimaced. “I believe she will come here of her own accord, that is, if she is anything like her father and mother.” The old man smiled, and seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. “I promised them, her father and mother, I would do right by her, and by Jove, I will keep that vow. Her father was the one who wanted the girl sent back East at such a young age, not me; made me promise to do so if anything ever happened to him. Personally, I’ve always believed it was a mistake, sending the child into a city where she had no friends or family. Why, I’d almost wager all my profits with you that the chit’s as spoiled now as…” The old trader suddenly stopped, looking up. “Now, never you mind, son, never you mind.

  Just ensure that you tell M’Kenzie there at the fort that I only require the Englishman, her fiancé, to travel here to see me. Do not mention her at all. And then wait. I believe my niece will not be able to resist coming with you.”

  White Eagle nodded. “I will do as you ask.” Then, glancing down, he went on to say, “I did not know that you had made this vow to her father. I had always thought that it was you who decided to send Shines Like Moonlight away. But do not worry, I will do as you say, and we will see if she decides to come. If she does not, I will bring her to you anyway. It will be harder that way, but I will do it.”

  The older gentleman nodded, and White Eagle, with a symbolic gesture, tapped his pipe upon the stone next to the lodge’s hearth. Such was the Blackfoot way of signifying the end of a visit.

  The white trader then stood, and although he made ready to leave, the grizzled old man stared at White Eagle for a moment longer, his look momentarily as cunning as that of a mountain lion.

  And White Eagle, seeing it, grimaced. Perhaps this journey to this place was not to be as easy as it would appear.

  Chapter Two

  Fort Union

  The Junction of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers

  The Northwest Territory

  June 24, 1833

  Early evening

  Fort Union stood towering above the Missouri River on a bank high enough to keep the spring floods from becoming a serious threat, yet close enough to the water so that the steamboat, the Assiniboin, had no trouble docking within a few feet from the fort’s main structure.

  Many a distinguished guest arrived at the Fort this day. Besides Kenneth McKenzie, Fort Union’s proprietor and “Lord” of the Missouri, there were the German Prince of Wied, Maximilian, and his secretary, Mr. Drydopple; also Karl Bodner, the Swiss artist, who was traveling with the prince; the New York socialite, Katrina Wellington and her maid; the Marquess of Leicester, his two friends, plus all of the marquess’s dogs—and there were many of those hounds.

  Never had Fort Union seen such royalty.

  Never had the steamboat carried such uproarious gaiety. Cannon fire from the shore in greeting was returned from the decks of the steamboat. Natives stood on the grassy shore, some adding to the commotion by firing their rifles, some of the Indians contributing to the noise by raising their voices in lyrical trill.

  Katrina Wellington, as well as her maid, stood at the railing of the Assiniboin’s upper deck. Gazing out upon the shore, and all the festivity to be witnessed there, Katrina’s expression was anything but enthusiastic. And it was true that, mayhap, Katrina was the only
creature aboard the steamship whose countenance, this day, bore a frown. But she did not have a care for what others thought about her, nor did anyone else seem to notice her, not with all the merriment surrounding the steamship’s arrival.

  A fierce wind pushed at Katrina’s bonnet, and it should have been a welcome relief from the heat, but the breeze only seemed to annoy her, not refresh her. She set her lips together and raised her chin against it.

  So this was the far, northwestern frontier; this, the land where her father and uncle had struggled to amass their fortunes in the fur trade; this, the territory which, although well loved by the two male members of Katrina’s family, had forever taken away a treasure more valuable than all the riches of the world: Katrina’s father and mother.

  Or so she had been told by a string of governesses and nannies, servants and solicitors.

  Katrina had often wondered what had possessed her father and uncle to become traders and leave civilization behind?

  But most of all, she wondered why her father had ever made that fatal decision to bring his new wife out to this place.

  How her mother must have hated it, a young bride, forced to leave behind the only world she had ever known. And for what?

  Hardship, death?

  Had her mother, so many years ago, looked out upon this land and felt much the same as Katrina did now? Had her mother felt terrified? A young woman, alone?

  Inhaling deeply, Katrina closed her eyes and tried to envision just how it might have been for her mother. She waited, images playing through her mind.

  It was useless. There was too much distraction from all the activity aboard the steamship. She couldn’t concentrate.

  Breathing in the smoky and grassy scents of the prairie, and the foreign smells of mud and river water, Katrina was drawn once again into the present. She wrinkled her nose, let out her breath, and opened her eyes.

  Above her a wispy cloud raced across the sky.

  She sighed and shook her head. How much different this land was from her own home in New York City. How much different, too, her life would have been had her parents never strayed from that grand city.