Evan Hunter - The Chisholms - A novel of the journey West

“That’s all right,” Hadley said.

“A wagon train was here ten days ago; they’ve departed now for Oregon. All but some with lingering fever. It is they who are in the factor’s apartment.”

“Thank you anyway,” Hadley said.

“You’ll be safe here inside the fort,” Orliac said. “Or indeed anywhere near it.”

“Are there soldiers then?” Hadley asked. “Soldiers? No, no,” Orliac said, shaking his head. “This is the American Fur Company, eh? We are here for trade, that’s all. No, no, this is not an army outpost.”

They had reached the main gate now. Outside, Bobbo still sat on the wagon seat, looking apprehensively at the Indians all around. Orliac saw the horses at once.

“You have met Indians?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hadley said.

“I would bring the horses inside,” Orliac said. “I do not think any of the Indians here would steal a horse belonging to a white man, eh? But these...” He shrugged elaborately. “The saddles, the bridles, the paint...” He shrugged again. “They are without question Indian horses. I would bring everything inside. The wagon, the mules, the horses especially. Yes,” he said, and nodded, and extended his hand to Bobbo. “How do you do, young man. I am Lucian Orliac.”

“Bobbo Chisholm.”

“Come, come inside. Where did you meet these Indians?” he asked Hadley. “Bobby, bring them in. Come.”

Bobbo put the rifle on the seat beside him, and then picked up the reins. He shouted to the mules, and the wagon moved forward through the gate, the horses behind it. Orliac stepped aside to let them past.

“You said where?” he asked Hadley.

“Thirty, forty miles before we crossed the Platte.”

“Ah? They were Pawnee?”

“I don’t know,” Hadley said.

“No matter, you are safe now,” Orliac said, and smiled. “Here the Indians are interested only in trade, eh? They bring us furs, we give them in return guns, powder and lead...”

Hadley looked at him.

“... blankets,” Orliac went on, “cloth, looking glasses, beads, tobacco — never whiskey. It is company policy never to trade whiskey to the Indians. Come. Ah, there’s Gracieuse,” he said. “My wife.”

The woman was an Indian. Buxom, barefooted, her face long and slender, eagle nose, prominent cheekbones decorated with bright red circles of paint. She struggled across the courtyard with a pile of buffalo robes in her arms. A spotted dog trailed her, sniffing at the backs of her legs. She kicked at the dog, almost stumbled, and then kicked at it again. The dog went yelping away across the courtyard.

“Her name in the Sioux language is Mahgahskahwee,” Orliac said, and laughed. “It means Swan Maiden. I call her Gracieuse.... Do you speak French?”

“No,” Hadley said.

“That means ‘graceful.’ It could be a second meaning, don’t you think? Gracieuse!” he called, and his wife dropped the robes against the wall and hurried to him. He spoke to her rapidly in what Hadley supposed was a mixture of Indian and French, and the woman rushed off again.

“I’ve asked her to prepare some tubs, eh?” Orliac said. “You will want to bathe, I am sure.”

“Thank you,” Hadley said.

“We’ll find food for you as well. You are not to be frightened by any of the Indians inside the fort. The women are either married to our people, or else are sisters or cousins of the wives. The men are also relatives of one sort or another. C’est comme une grande famille — fathers, cousins, uncles. There is nothing to worry about, truly.”

“Where do you want us to...?”

“Near the wall there. Where Gracieuse has put the robes. That will be all right?”

“Yes, fine.”

“I know it is not very private...”

“It’s fine,” Hadley said.

“If you wish, we can unload the wagon and find someplace to store your belongings. Then perhaps the women could sleep in the wagon. If that is what you prefer.”

“We’re used to sleeping on the ground,” Hadley said.

“There has been very little rain; maybe we will be lucky still, eh?” Orliac said, and smiled apologetically, and hunched his shoulders, and held out his hands, the palms showing. “She is heating the water. It will be in the kitchen that you will bathe. I shall ask the cook to go somewhere,” Orliac said, and took a watch from his pocket and looked at it. “Yes, there is time before he starts the meal.”

“Thank you,” Hadley said again.

“I have put you there near the offices and storerooms, where there is not much traffic at night. It is away from the corral, too.” He glanced across the courtyard to where Bobbo was taking the harness off the mules. Five or six Indians had gathered around the wagon and were studying the horses. “Ah, Bobby!” he called. “You found where to put them, good!” He turned again to Hadley. “How many were there? The Indians.”

“Four,” Hadley said.

“Pawnee?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you took three horses from them, eh? Good.”

“They killed my daughter,” Hadley said. Orliac looked into his face.

“I am so sorry,” he said, and took his hand at once.

A party of white men arrived the next day.

They were dusty and bearded, wearing blue army uniforms. They arrived in a convoy of two mule-drawn wagons and eight horses. Minerva watched them as they crossed the courtyard toward the stairs at the far end. They were carrying leather cases that seemed heavy from the way the men were bent under them. Probably valuable, too, otherwise they’d have left them in the wagons outside the main gate. They were on the gallery now. One of them knocked on Orliac’s door. Behind her Minerva heard the shuffle of feet. She turned.

The Indian was wearing a white buffalo robe.

He was tall and straight and his face was painted black. There were shells in his ears and strung around his neck.

“Un-p ’tee-plez,” he said to her.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Un-p’tee-plez,” he said, and thrust out his hand.

“Get away from me,” she said, and whirled toward the wall, and picked up the rifle leaning against it. “Get away!” she said sharply, and thrust the muzzle at him. Her finger was inside the trigger guard and wrapped around the trigger. The Indian scowled at her. Then he took his nose between thumb and forefinger, and blew snot into the dirt at her feet. Turning, he stalked regally across the courtyard again.

Minerva was trembling.

The men were government surveyors returning from South Pass, where they’d spent the summer. The leader of the expedition was a major named Abner Duggan, burly man with a browned, wrinkled face, white mustache under his bulbous nose. Must’ve been about Hadley’s age, Minerva figured, but looked a lot older. Drank too much wine. Was pouring for Hadley now, and leaning over, and talking straight into his face. Wasn’t drunk, but his tongue was loose enough to make him sound a trifle disrespectful. They were in the Orliac apartment, six of them sitting around a big wooden table. Orliac and his wife, Gracieuse, Hadley and Minerva, Duggan and his aide. The invitation had not included Bonnie Sue and Bobbo. This had seemed strange to Minerva, who was used to everybody in a family eating at the same time. The two of them were in the fort’s kitchen now, but she’d have preferred them here beside her. She’d almost turned down the invitation, in fact, but Hadley’d convinced her they could learn things from the two surveyors about the trail ahead.

“When did you plan to leave?” Duggan asked.

“As soon as my sons catch up,” Hadley said.

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. We left them outside St Louis near the end of May.”