Cheyenne Winter (20 page)

“He ain’t been happy,” Brokenleg muttered. “Hyar now, come meet my wives.” Some vast wickedness built up in Brokenleg’s face. Guy looked startled.

“Got four. Haw! Work like beavers, too. This post’s plumb comfortable now.”

Guy grinned. “Ah, you wild men. You had me believing it there for a moment.”

“Haw!” Fitzhugh hooted and danced around, right on his gimpy leg. “Haw!”

In spite of himself, Maxim tagged along. He could watch. He didn’t have to participate. He didn’t have to approve. They all swept inside, into the familiar gloom of a post with few and tiny unglassed windows that were open to weather and flies and mosquitos in summer and shuttered in the winter.

“I ain’t asked you how come you come clear up hyar, Guy,” Fitzhugh was saying.

“Show me the post.”

“I guess it has to do with them spirits. Are we shut down?”

“Not yet. Let me see the trading room. I’ve studied every trading room I could coming up the river.”

“You’re comin’ with bad news. No reason to come half acrost a continent otherwise.”

“No, that’s not why. I came to find out who wanted to damage us and why. And to let you know what I found out. I can point the finger, though I lack details.”

Fitzhugh grunted.

“And to see our post. And my good, strong boy.”

Maxim listened, tagging along, hanging back, pretending to be invisible, like an angry ghost. But his father’s bright curious gaze caught him again and again as they toured the trading room, warehouse, barracks, and offices. Guy met Spoon and Constable for the first time and renewed his acquaintance with the rest of the employees. He was escorted into the stockaded yard — where the sole wagon sagged, ox yokes lay in a mound, and four horses stood in shade, their tails lashing at deerflies.

“You’ve had some difficulties,” Guy said softly. “I saw one of the Pittsburghs in ruins on the Yellowstone.”

“Chouteau’s doin’s.”

“We’ll tell our stories now. We have serious matters to talk about. Your office will be a suitable place  . . . Are you coming, Maxim?”

“No,” said Maxim.

“After I talk to Brokenleg I wish to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Maxim snapped. But there was a lot to say if he could steel himself to say it to his own father. And his father wouldn’t like to hear it.

Brokenleg listened quietly as Guy Straus described his visit to David Mitchell and his arduous trip into the wilderness. The senior partner had changed. The wiry blond hair and hawkish nose set in a square face remained but the trip had hardened and tanned him, stripped away the softness of St. Louis.

A new iron permeated his tone as well. Guy Straus was fighting for his financial life and everything he said was imbued with urgency and anger. The case had already rocked Washington City, and had reached the ear of President Tyler. Eastern reformers were howling. Senator Benton was howling back against those who wanted to yank the licenses of every robe-trading outfit.

“We stopped at every post. Not a factor among them, from Culbertson to Sarpy. Thought the company had caused it. I suppose it’s so. It was Raffin. Acting on his own. I  . . . hear he had some differences with you.”

Differences. How them damned easterners put it. Raffin’d been in Gray Wolf’s village and was eyeing Little Whirlwind for himself — but he lost her, Brokenleg thought. She never cared a hoot or a holler for him. “I reckon there’s that, only it don’t make sense what he’s doin’ now. If he’s doin’ it. It don’t make no sense to me at all.”

“I didn’t come all this way to worry about motives. If he did it we’ve got to prove it — or lose our license. You know what that means. Shut down. Sell off the trade goods at a loss — cheaper than hauling them down the river. Pay off our men.”

“We’ll maybe go beaver anyway, Guy. Raffin, Hervey, and them, they fixed us good. No oxen. One wagon. Lost more horses and mules than I can count. I’m building pirogues. We’ll put us a mackinaw together to git down the river with. But we’re being cut to pieces. Them Crows are being bribed and bought by Hervey; Raffin — if he’s the one — he’s keepin’ us from reaching the Cheyenne.”

Straus nodded. He studied the ledger again under the buttery light of the oil lamp. “We’ve lost a quarter of our trade goods and have three hundred seventeen robes.” He pushed the books away. “You’ve hardly touched the ardent spirits, thought,” he added. “Five and a half casks out of the six. Made into trade whiskey, worth what — three, four thousand robes?”

Maxim, who lingered at the door, scowled.

“Before we git our license lifted for bringin’ spirits up the river,” Brokenleg muttered. He found himself guffawing harshly. “Some joke,” he muttered. “Spirits all we got goin’, whiles down there they’re nailing us for it.”

Guy stared into the glassed flame. “Why is this Raffin in the Cheyenne village? You know him; I don’t.”

“Well, one thing he’s not doin’ is stirrin’ em up agin me, least not the headmen. Not with me married in, and my pa a medicine chief. Naw. He’s in thar to spoil, it, is all. Like he fixed it to steal our horses and robes after the trading. ’Rapaho bunch.”

“That’s not what a rival for a Cheyenne girl would do — is it?”

“No. It’s comp’ny work.”

“Every factor on the river told me the company had nothing to do with it. They were sincere, Brokenleg.”

Fitzhugh grunted. “Guess we got to ask Raffin.”

Guy laughed shortly. “They told me he’s ambitious — and he’s been thwarted by the company. No one quite trusts him, at least the factors don’t. He’s away a lot, running errands it seems.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He wants to get rich — at our expense. Get us into licensing trouble, destroy our livestock and wagons, pick up the pieces.”

“He’s taken orders too long. Someone’s telling him do this, do that, paying him.”

“You’ll have to find that out, Brokenleg. Our license depends on it. I can’t stay here. It’s all up to you.”

“You come a long way to find out. Chatillon, he’s some guide.”

“The only factor I haven’t talked to is Julius Hervey. I’m riding over there and do it.”

“No you ain’t. He’d as soon cut yer throat as look at ye.”

“I’m going.”

“You ain’t. You might be some senior man, but it don’t matter to him. All blood’s red and he likes to spill it. He’s meaner’n ever since I whacked my knife acrost his hands last winter. He’s a hater and he’d like nothin’ better than to git ahold of the top men in the Rocky Mountain Company and work a little surgery. You ain’t going.”

“Brokenleg — I’m going. And I want a translator. I plan to talk to the Crows there.”

Brokenleg glowered into silence. A senior partner would do whatever he felt like doing. “All right go,” he snarled.

Guy smiled wryly. “When a man yells, he’s sincere,” Guy said.

“Now I got to go and protect you,” Brokenleg grumbled.

“I’ll go alone, thank you.”

The meeting had degenerated. Brokenleg lifted himself out of his wooden chair, favoring his bum leg. “Let’s git outa hyar,” he muttered.

Guy stayed him. “Where’s Little Whirlwind? I wish to pay my respects. And meet — her sisters is it?”

“Her sisters. Sweet Smoke — she’s the youngest. Hide Skinning Woman — she’s the oldest. And Elk Tail. She’s the, ah, best looking. Sweet Smoke, she’s not much older’n Maxim.”

“And they’ve come to help. Are they on the rolls of the company?”

“Ah, naw. Dust Devil, she wanted some one to talk to. Gets herslef all lonely around hyar. She’s after me to buy some slaves — good Crow women she wants. Pay some trade goods, git some slaves she can boss around. Me, I’m again’ slavery.” Too late, he remembered that Guy owned five or six blacks back in St. Louis. “Anyway, we went down to her village to trade and git her some sisters to talk with. They’re handy — helpin’ around the post a heap and don’t cost the company none. They even git us greens and roots against the scurvy.”

That wasn’t the whole of it but maybe it’d do. He steered Straus back to his quarters and found the ladies there.

“Ah, Little Whirlwind!” exclaimed Guy.

She abandoned her moccasin-making and stood. “You come long way,” she said. “We see you ride in. These are my sisters.”

She introduced them while Brokenleg stared daggers at her.

“Lotsa wives, hey? Suhtai wives. Like a big chief.”

Guy looked nonplussed. “Wives?”

“Him. My father, he give us all to him.”

Guy Straus looked stricken. He peered at the beaming Cheyenne women and at Brokenleg, who felt his cheeks flush and hated it. He’d never blushed in his life. Not even as a little snot had he ever blushed. But now he felt blood in his face, itching his flesh.

“He married them all,” said Maxim wearily. “He is not a temperate man.”

“You shut up,” growled Brokenleg.

“You see?” Maxim smirked.

“Wives? You have four wives?”

“Like a chief. Like that trapper one, Jim Bridger. Blanket Chief. Fitzhugh’s a Blanket Chief.”

“I see.”

“He can do it. He makes us all happy.” Dust Devil beamed maliciously. She knew white men. She’d been to St. Louis and understood things. And she was enjoying every second of all this. “We take turns,” she said. “Me, I’m the sits-beside-him wife. I tell my sisters what to do.”

Fitzhugh blushed.

“The red is becoming, Brokenleg. I’d be red, too,” said Guy. “This changes my opinion of you. I never dreamed I’d have a partner with four Cheyenne princesses for wives.”

“It’s some better’n slaves!”

“Oh, I don’t know. With slaves things are — simple.”

“It wasn’t my idea!”

Sweet Smoke giggled. She’d been picking up English fast. Danged if she didn’t look pert when she giggled. Hide Skinning Woman stood, stocky and dignified and expressionless. Elk Tail rose from the floor, her face showing curiosity.

“It is Elk Tail’s turn tonight,” said Dust Devil. “But Brokenleg doesn’t deserve her. She’s Suhtai. She should have been given to a great warrior — not a stiff leg.”

Guy sighed. “This affects the company, Brokenleg. We can’t afford to transport all these lovely ladies back to St. Louis each year — ”

“I ain’t bringing no one. I quit. Take your company. I’m out. I ain’t no partner. You find someone else. I’m takin’ me away from hyar.”

But Guy wasn’t deterred. “St. Louis is a long way, you know. A man and four beautiful Cheyenne girls. We’ll see, we’ll see. You might bring them to the licensing hearings.”

“It’s not funny, father.” Maxim stared dourly at them all.

Guy Straus turned, his gaze boring into his son. “Take me to a private place, Maxim. We’re going to talk.” He turned to the rest. “We have family matters to discuss; excuse us.”

Brokenleg watched them retreat, bile building in him. Let that little snot complain, he thought. Let him talk high and mighty about licenses and spirits and wives and getting yanked off the packet by mean ol’ Brokenleg. If Guy didn’t like it none, he could run this hyar post by himself.

Guy steered his sullen son down to the river and along a trace there, no doubt an ancient Indian trail. He didn’t press the boy. He’d learned the value of walking, of silent presence, of communion without words. The summer heat had vanished and the day was idyllic. They scared up some magpies but nothing else traduced the sunny peace.

He guessed what was seething inside of Maxim’s head; it wasn’t hard to fathom. Actually, he was proud of the boy’s moral and spiritual sense: it resided in himself as well as his father and grandfathers, and he considered it a mark of his people. Maxim had discovered his soul and there was nothing wrong with that, even if the lad overreacted and made life miserable for every mortal about him. Seventeen was a hard age even for someone without Maxim’s sensitivities.

Guy discovered a place where meadow swept out to the water’s edge forming a sort of grassy point, and steered the boy there.

“It’s good to see you again, son. You’re strong and healthy, and I rejoice.”

Maxim said nothing although his gaze darted furiously from one thing to another.

“You’d like to express your disapproval, I imagine. Of the company. Of my partner. Of me, no doubt.”

Maxim stared bleakly at Guy. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Of course you don’t. But you ought to. Do you want to go home? Go back with me?”

“Not with you.”

“You do not like to see the Straus family in this business and you blame me for it.”

The boy remained mute but he was listening.

“It is a hard business and I’ve had many regrets. Many more regrets than just our troubles with licensing and spirits. There is something in me that was not in my father.”

Maxim started to say something and checked himself. Guy knew it would have been accusatory, maybe even brutal. Maxim looked miserable, holding in all those accusations seething inside of him.

“I’d prefer to do the robe business without resorting to ardent spirits.”

“Then why don’t you?” Maxim shouted. Then, more quietly, “It’s too late.”

“There’d be no business. No robes. No profits. None of the tribesmen would show up — few, anyway.”

“So you sold out!”

Guy paused, forming his thoughts. “I confess I hadn’t thought about it much. Not until that bad news came. Not until our trading license was threatened. It was simply a part of the business. And universal. Every post peddled spirits. Every trader used spirits as a gift and a lure. And you know something? General Clark knew it and tolerated it. His unspoken attitude was, just don’t get caught. That had been mine too — until this summer.”

“We’re breaking the law.”

Guy had no answer to that.

“You’re — ” The lad swallowed back his accusations.

“You’d like me to get out of this. You think it’s too late. You think you’re dishonored; we’re all dishonored. You think I’ve betrayed our people.”

“That’s not all.”

“You think we’re harming the Indians.”

“We are!”

Guy mulled a response to that. No question about the fur trade was more vexing. “Suppose we didn’t offer spirits, but the other things they want: blankets, trade rifles, powder, axes, knives, kettles  . . . Would they come to our post?”