Wilderness: Savage Rendezvous/Blood Fury (A Wilderness Western Book 2) Page 5

  Apparently sensing his thoughts, Winona told him that a small lodge would serve their needs for the immediate future, at least until such time as they had their first child.

  Curious, Nate asked her how soon she wanted to start their family.

  Smiling, Winona pointed at him and said in English, “When you want.”

  How soon should they? Nate reflected. First he must decide where they were going to live, which brought to mind Zeke’s cabin far to the south. He broached the subject, making the proper signs competently and fluidly.

  Winona’s brow furrowed and she stared at the ground.

  What if she refused to travel such a distance? Nate watched her expectantly. If she did, if she wanted to stay closer to her tribe, he’d need to ask Shakespeare’s advice on how to proceed.

  After a minute Winona glanced at him and responded. She admitted to being scared at the notion of traveling away from the land she knew so well and being separated from her many friends and relatives. But she respected his judgment. If he truly believed they would be happy at the cabin, she would try her best to adapt. There was a condition, however. She would be very grateful if he would agree to journeying to visit the Shoshone tribe at least once a year. Twice a year would please her even more.

  Relieved and not a little grateful at her agreement, Nate made signs assuring her that she would indeed be happy at the cabin. He offered to give her a year or so to make up her mind. If they stayed there that length of time and she wasn’t content, they would then decide where else they might like to live.

  Winona readily assented and let him know she was fortunate to have a husband who possessed such wisdom.

  As usual, Nate felt uncomfortable being the recipient of her affectionate compliments. He smiled self-consciously and praised her for being an understanding wife.

  For several minutes they rode along in contented silence.

  “Teach more words,” Winona prompted in English.

  Nate nodded, then proceeded to point out various objects they passed and repeated the names for them while Winona did her best to reproduce the designations. He marveled at how readily she picked up the language and wished he would learn her tongue even half as fast.

  Engrossed in the lesson, they lost all track of time.

  The land around them rose gradually. They followed the natural contours of the lowlands between the mountains, surrounded by abundant wildlife, breathing crisp, invigorating mountain air. They were thousands of feet above sea level and climbing steadily higher.

  When Shakespeare came over a rise and reined up, his young companions were enjoying a chuckle over the word “chipmunk,” which Winona found delightfully amusing.

  “Why did you stop?” Nate inquired. He gazed at the valley stretching for miles to the north and discovered the reason for himself.

  They had arrived at the rendezvous site.

  “Take a gander,” Shakespeare said. “This is what the average trapper lives for. Eleven months of the year a mountaineer fights nature, Indians, and beasts just so he can collect enough pelts to make decent money, then he comes here and spends most of his earnings in three or four weeks.” He paused. “The rendezvous is the biggest get-together of white men west of the Mississippi. It sort of reminds me of St. Louis back in the old days.”

  Nate had visited St. Louis not two months ago, and he wouldn’t go so far as to compare the bustling city to the sight he now beheld, but for a man who had seen no other large gathering of humanity for many weeks, whose last contact with a group of any size had been a modest band of Shoshones, the sprawling, swirling mass of living souls spread before his wondering gaze prompted a ripple of excitement to tingle his spine. “I didn’t know there would be so many.”

  “Frankly, neither did I,” Shakespeare said. “The affair keeps growing bigger and bigger every year.”

  The south shore of Bear Lake had been transformed into the setting for a wild assembly the likes of which not more than five hundred white men had ever laid amazed eyes on. Nearest the lake were the habitations of the trappers, consisting of tents and crude, makeshift shelters, principally lean-tos and shacks that looked as if they would topple over if someone sneezed too hard in their immediate vicinity. Since the trappers knew they would only be in the area for several weeks, they hadn’t bothered erecting permanent dwellings. Most of them simply slept out under the canopy of stars.

  Also near the lake were the booths set up by the operators of the supply caravan, forty in all, for trading purposes. Around them were clustered scores of eager buyers, except for the booths belonging to the fur buyers. Lined up in front of those were anxious trappers with their bundles of furs, each hoping to command the highest price possible for his goods.

  There were also Indians present, thousands of them. To the west were three hundred lodges of Shoshones. North of them another two hundred lodges belonging to the Bannocks, who were close friends to the Shoshones. Slightly northwest of both were ninety lodges belonging to the Nez Percés.

  Shakespeare pointed out the location of the different tribes as they rode toward Bear Lake. Between them and the water stood even more lodges, eighty or so.

  “Which tribe is this?” Nate inquired, nodding at the nearest encampment.

  “The Flatheads. Next to the Shoshones, they’re about the most friendly tribe around. They always treat whites fairly, and they’ve never taken a white scalp as far as I know.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that you married a Flathead woman long ago?” Nate asked.

  “Yep. Pretty near twenty years ago.” Shakespeare bowed his head and sighed. “Sometimes it feels like only yesterday. She was as beautiful as the dawn and the best damn wife a man ever had. If the rotten Blackfeet hadn’t killed her, I’d probably still be with her.”

  Nate stared at the Indians in the Flathead camp. “Should we go around them?”

  “Whatever for?” The frontiersman glanced up, grinning.

  “Is it considered polite to ride through an Indian camp without permission?”

  “Why this concern all of a sudden?”

  “You’re the one who is always telling me to be careful not to violate an Indian code of conduct or I’ll antagonize them.”

  “True,” Shakespeare admitted, and chuckled. “You’re learning, Nate. And yes, it’s all right for us to ride on through. If we came on their camp way out in the middle of nowhere, then we’d do things differently. We’d approach them slowly, let them see us coming, and smile the whole time to show them we were friendly. But this is the rendezvous. Tribes travel hundreds of miles to trade with the whites. And as I told you before, this is considered sort of neutral territory. Anyone can come and go as he pleases.”

  Nate noticed several Flathead warriors gazing in their direction and positioned his mare alongside Winona’s horse. He idly placed his right hand on the rifle slanted across his thighs. “I have a question for you.”

  The frontiersman laughed.

  “What struck you as funny?”

  “Nothing. What’s your question?”

  “You mentioned the earnings the trappers make. How much can the average trapper bring in?”

  “Varies quite a bit. Depends on how many furs they have to sell and the quality of the pelts. On average, though, I’d say between one and two thousand dollars.”

  Nate’s eyebrows arched. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money. A typical carpenter, by comparison, made only five or six hundred dollars in an entire year.

  “Most of those men will have little of it left by the time the rendezvous is over,” Shakespeare said.

  “How can they spend so much money in three or four weeks?” Nate responded skeptically.

  “Because they’re fleeced by the fine gentlemen from St. Louis,” Shakespeare stated, his tone tinged with bitter scorn.

  “Explain.”

  “Do you happen to know how much whiskey costs in St. Louis?”

  “About thirty cents a gallon, I believe.”

  “
Here it costs three dollars a pint. And the whiskey they sell is so watered down it takes ten gallons just to make a man feel good.”

  “What?” Nate declared in disbelief.

  “That’s not all. How much does coffee cost in St. Louis?”

  “Ten cents a pound.”

  “Here it’s two dollars a pound.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “It gets worse. Gunpowder, which costs about seven cents a pound back in St. Louis, goes for over two dollars a pound here. The same with lead, which only cost six cents a pound back East.”

  “Why, a man could go broke in no time.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Sugar goes for two dollars a pint. Blankets can cost from fifteen to twenty dollars apiece. Cotton shirts are five dollars each. And tobacco is two dollars a pound.”

  Nate stared at the wagons and shook his head. “That amounts to robbery. Why do the trappers tolerate it? They should refuse to buy goods at such inflated prices.”

  “Where else would they go to buy the things they need?”

  Nate pondered for a moment and realized the obvious. “There is nowhere else they can go.”

  “Exactly. They must buy from the agents of the St. Louis suppliers at the rendezvous or do without for another year, unless they aim to make the long trip back to St. Louis. In that case they’d lose months of time they could have spent trapping.”

  “Something should be done to change it.”

  “Nothing can be done,” Shakespeare said. “And you haven’t heard the half of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Not only are the trappers at the mercy of the sellers when they buy goods, but they’re also at the mercy of the buyers when they sell their furs.”

  “Do they get a fair price?”

  “The top price paid for pelts is four to five dollars a pound.”

  “Sounds like a lot,” Nate commented.

  “Not when you consider the same pelts are resold in St. Louis for up to eight dollars a pound.”

  “No one told me about this aspect of the trapping trade.”

  Shakespeare shrugged. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it. A trapper has to make as best he can. The R.M.F. and the other fur companies have total control.”

  “The R.M.F.?”

  “Sorry. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company. They’re the main outfit in this part of the Rockies. They hire men to trap for them, set the date for the rendezvous, and bring the pack train and the wagons out from St. Louis.”

  “You mentioned other fur companies.”

  “Yep. The Hudson’s Bay Company operates to the north, mainly in Canada. But they’ve been working farther south more and more. Then there’s the American Fur Company.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Nate interjected. So had everyone who could read. The newspapers carried regular stories on the American Fur Company and the man who had founded the firm, John Jacob Astor. Astor had moved to America from Germany when he was twenty years old. He entered the fur trade in 1787, and was successful enough to launch his own company in 1808. He eventually became a millionaire, and in recent years had been described as the richest man in the country.

  “They used to do most of their trapping around the Great Lakes, and I imagine you know about the big plans Astor had for his Columbia River enterprise. Anyway, the American Fur Company trappers are moving into this territory and taking a lot of business away from the R.M.F.”

  “Is there bad blood between them?”

  “They don’t shoot at each other, if that’s what you mean. But there is sort of a friendly rivalry.”

  “If you were trapping for a living, which company would you hire on with?”

  “None of them.”

  “Then how would you make any money?”

  “Nate, all the fur companies are hungry for pelts. Their agents are more than happy to buy furs from anyone. Even though a company might have up to two hundred men out trapping streams at any one time, they’ll take pelts from Indians and any free-trapper who has some to sell.”

  “I seem to recall hearing about free-trappers.”

  “A free-trapper is a man who doesn’t have a contract with any of the fur companies. He traps when he pleases, then sells his furs to whichever company he thinks will pay him the best price.”

  “Is a free-trapper paid the same rate as the company men?”

  “Usually. Sometimes a little less. On occasion, if the furs are all prime, the company will pay a little bit extra.”

  “Then that’s the way I’d like to live,” Nate declared. “As a free-trapper.”

  “It’s no work for weaklings,” Shakespeare remarked.

  They were almost upon the Flathead village. Many of the warriors, women, and children stopped whatever they were doing to stare. Several members of the tribe shouted friendly greetings to the frontiersman, who responded good-naturedly.

  Nate noticed that Winona held her chin high and rode gazing straight ahead.

  A few dozen yards to the north were three men on horseback. They were engaged in earnest conversation with a Flathead warrior. One of the trio abruptly looked up and straightened, a wily grin creasing his thin visage.

  Nate instinctively disliked the strangers. An indefinable air of latent menace seemed to radiate from them, particularly the thin rider, a man of weasel-like proportions and demeanor. All three wore smoked-skin moccasins, leggings, and fringed shirts. The weasel wore a blue cap adorned with a foxtail. Each one had a rifle.

  “All your guns are loaded, I trust?” Shakespeare unexpectedly inquired.

  “Certainly. Why?”

  The frontiersman nodded at the trio. “You may need them in a minute.”

  Chapter Six

  The weasel addressed his two comrades, and together they rode not more than fifteen feet and reined up, waiting.

  “I knew it,” Shakespeare said, and scowled.

  “What?” Nate asked.

  “They’re going to give us some trouble.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Just the one wearing the blue cap. His name is Laclede. He’s a Frenchman. Never turn your back on him.”

  “Why do you expect trouble?”

  “Two years ago at the rendezvous I came across Laclede whipping a Nez Percé woman. Seems he bought her, then wasn’t satisfied with the purchase.”

  “What happened?”

  “I beat him with his own whip.”

  Nate glanced at the frontiersman. “Didn’t you once tell me not to butt into the personal affairs of others?”

  “The Good Lord gave us common sense so we can tell the difference between things like private matters and unjustified brutal behavior. He was whipping the poor woman out in the open. Her face and back were all bloody. She pleaded for him to stop and he wouldn’t. I took all I could stand, then tore the whip from him. The bastard tried to knife me in the back when I turned away. Made me a bit angry, so I gave him a taste of his own treatment.”

  Nate studied the three men. “How can they cause trouble? Isn’t the rendezvous supposed to be neutral territory, as you put it, where no fights take place?”

  “I never claimed fights don’t occur. The neutral part applies to the whites and the Indians. Almost any tribe can come here to trade without fear of being attacked. There are exceptions, of course, like the Blackfeet. But fights take place every single day. Some of them result in killing,” Shakespeare detailed. “So stay alert at all times and remember the advice I’ve given you.”

  They drew nearer to the trio. Laclede said something to his friends that elicited bawdy laughter.

  An intuitive feeling that something would indeed happen gripped Nate, and his visage hardened. He’d traveled to the rendezvous to enjoy himself, learn about the trapping trade, and mingle with the men of the mountains, not to spend his time brawling. Back in New York City he’d rarely been compelled to defend himself. His size alone deterred potential assailants. At six feet, two inches tall he possessed a naturally powerful p
hysique that had been tempered by the elements and the arduous events of the past couple of months. His face had been bronzed by the sun and his long hair resembled a dark mane.

  “Well, what have we here?” the weasel declared loudly in a distinct accent. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is this the great Carcajou?”

  Shakespeare halted six feet from the three men. “Still haven’t learned to curb that tongue of yours, have you, Laclede?” he said harshly. His right hand rested on his rifle.

  Laclede smiled and extended both his arms in an exaggerated gesture of pure innocence. “I meant no disrespect, mon ami.”

  “I’m not your friend and I never will be.”

  “Vraiment! And how do you know? No one can predict the future, eh?”

  “There are some things a man can predict with certainty. For instance. I know I’ll never eat buffalo droppings. In the same way I know I’ll never think of you as a friend.”

  “Are you perhaps comparing me to buffalo droppings?”

  A patently fake smile curled the frontiersman’s lips. “Would I do such a thing?”

  For a fleeting instant transparent hostility flickered across Laclede’s countenance. He recovered quickly, though, and his smile returned. “No, of course you wouldn’t.” His gaze drifted to Nate and Winona. “And who might your companions be?”

  “Nathaniel King, the man the Indians call Grizzly Killer, and his wife.”

  “So, you are the Grizzly Killer?” Laclede said, regarding Nate intently.

  “I am.”

  “There was talk around the camp last night that you killed one of the mighty beasts not far from here.”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Tell me. How does one so young become so skilled at killing grizzlies?”

  “Practice,” Nate said, and noticed Shakespeare grin.

  “I have slain a few of them myself,” Laclede said. “They die hard.”

  Nate didn’t bother to respond. He strongly disliked the man and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. One of the other men, he realized, was staring at Winona with a scarcely concealed lecherous expression.