The Shirt On His Back (23 page)

Cholera was the
first thing Gil Wallach thought of, too. 'You're sure?' he asked as he and
January walked down to the tents of the AFC through the darkness. And, when
January reassured him: 'It's not the smallpox, is it?'

'Absolutely
not.'

The little
trader wiped his face nervously. 'I tell you, Ben, I was down in the Nebraska
Territory when the smallpox went through the tribes there, and it's nothing you
want to see. Nothing. There wasn't enough living to bury the dead. And the
coyotes, and the birds ... I never want to see nuthin' like that again.'

'It's not the
smallpox,' repeated January. 'Or yellow fever - and I've never heard of yellow
fever up on high ground like this.'

'What can we
do?' The man sounded scared - as well he might, January reflected. They were
fifteen hundred miles from the United States, and surrounded by tribes who
outnumbered them and who might easily convince themselves to take advantage of
the white men in their time of weakness.

'First thing we
can do,' said January, 'is find out what we're talking about.'

As they
approached the AFC camp Robbie Prideaux hailed them from the group gathered in
front of Seaholly's, engaged in the old trapper contest of seeing who could put
out a candle with a rifle ball: 'C'mon, pilgrim, you can't say you seen the
elephant 'til you tried this!'

January waved
good-naturedly, but shook his head. The minute they'd entered the camp, he'd
dispatched Bo Frye to the Hudson's Bay compound, with instructions to bring
McLeod down to the AFC tents and to tell no one but McLeod the reason. The last
thing they needed, January was well aware, was panic and finger pointing. That
done, he'd lingered only long enough to fetch Gil Wallach and hand the two
German letters over to Hannibal. He knew, to within a few degrees of certainty,
that most of the other traders would be at Seaholly's.

This indeed
proved to be the case. While Wallach quietly gathered up Sharpless, Morales, Wynne
and a few of the other traders, January went to the crowd of trappers around
the candle, signed to Bridger and Stewart and - when he'd actually fired off a
shot that did put out the flame - Kit Carson: 'We need to talk.'

'You find that
feller's camp?' asked Bridger as the three gathered around January.

'Not exactly.
Titus in?'

'He's gone up to
McLeod's - looks like here he's comin' now.' A clatter of hooves and a jingling
of bridle bits as the horses emerged from the darkness; January could see in
the Controller's face that he knew. Titus signaled to Seaholly to leave the bar
to Pia and preceded them all into his big markee.

'What happened?'
he asked January. 'What exactly did you find? It true what Frye says, that the
Dutchman and his whole outfit are dead?'

'Except for
Clarke, yes. It didn't look like the cholera, and it didn't look like yellow
fever - I'm a surgeon, I know the signs - but they purged and puked themselves
out, and died in the night. They were still warm this morning.'

Silence. The
traders bunched in the small tent murmured among themselves, eyes glimmering in
the shadowy lantern-glow.

'My question
is,' went on January, 'if anyone else in the camp is down sick?' He looked at
the men, in their dark town- coats and beaver hats. Sooner or later, these men
saw every trapper, every Indian, every engage in the camp.

And heard every
breath of gossip.

Their
voices clucked a little like the river stones:
Jim Hutchenson? . . . Nah,
that's just a hangover. . . Fleuron was pukin' pretty bad t'other day . . .
Well, he's in with Irish Mary now, so I guess he's feelin 'better. . . What
about the savages?
...
I ain't heard no death songs
. . .

'You didn't just
leave 'em laying out there, did you?' asked the Missourian Pete Sharpless
uneasily, and Wallach retorted:

'What, bring 'em
back to spread the sickness here in the camp?'

'Shaw and the
Beauty are out there, burying them,' said January. 'They should be back—'

'And what about
you?' demanded Morales. 'I don't want to sound cold, Señor, but who's to say
you're not spreadin' that sickness to every man in this tent?'

Taken aback,
January said, 'I've got no reason to think I am—'

Though the tent
wasn't a large one, it was surprising how much space the traders - including
Gil Wallach - could put between themselves and January without actually backing
out the door.

'An'
they
had no reason
to think they'd picked it up, until they died.' The Mexican trader looked
around at the others. 'I'd vote, first off, that we quarantine Ben and Frye
until we know what this thing is.'

'Makes sense,'
agreed Wynne.

'Shaw and the
Beauty, too, when they get back to camp.'

Wallach opened
his mouth to protest, but closed it. Bridger asked, 'And how do we keep the
Indians from coming in quiet and killing
them
, the minute
they hear there might be a white man's sickness there? That smallpox outbreak
in Nebraska in '32 has some of 'em pretty spooked.'

'Don't tell
'em.'

'How they gonna
know?'

'They're gonna
know, boyo,' pointed out Seaholly, exasperated, 'because some Granny Poke-Nose
trapper'll see the quarantine camp, ask somebody why he can't go into it, come
to me and get himself fogbound and then proceed to go airing his yap to every
man in the camp, including the local representatives of the Ten Lost Tribes—'

'Not if you put
'em on that island in the river behind my place,' said Morales. 'It's half a
mile to the next camp downstream, and it stands high enough that even
cloudbursts don't cover it. I'll keep a watch, to see no man crosses over to
it. Those who ask, I'll tell that you have the heatstroke, or got your head
cracked, and must have rest.'

'That sit with
you, January?' Titus turned to him.

In the faces of
the men around him, January could see that he had little choice. 'Fair enough.
But send me word of whatever you find out. I trained in the biggest hospital in
Paris—'

'They let
niggers be doctors in France?' Sharpless was genuinely startled.

'There's no law
against a black man being a doctor in the United States, you ass,' snapped
McLeod. 'Lord God—'

'We'll send you
word,' Bridger promised. 'Kit,' he added to Carson, 'why'n't you and me ride
out tonight and meet Shaw and Clarke - Dry Grass, you said? There's just a few
too many Blackfeet wandering around the hills, and the thought of them catchin'
the plague from scalpin' the burial party somehow isn't enough to console me
for their loss.'

January said
quietly, 'Thank you.'

After that it
was only a question of making their way in secret among the cottonwoods and
wading out - breast deep in the fast-flowing black water - to the island, which
January guessed would be easier still to attain in a day or two, barring
another storm on the mountains. Wallach went to fetch January's 'plunder' from
Morning Star's lodge; Titus donated a small tent for shelter, and Seaholly even
contributed a few bottles of whiskey that January wouldn't have touched on a
bet. Frye protested - he had assumed when he left the camp a few days before
that he was going to find himself a partner in a miraculous secret beaver
valley - but was told to shut up. 'Less you say, the better,' McLeod informed
him grimly. 'In fact, come to that, if Ben has to be free to give advice on
matters medical, that means that you, Frye, are the one who got a crack on the
head—'

'God damn it,
Mac!'

'—and is being
looked after here by January,' approved Stewart. 'I like it. It's got -' he
made a gesture reminiscent of young Mr Miller framing a scene to sketch -
'symmetry.'

'It's got horse
hockey,' retorted Frye, uncomforted.

The shelter was
set up on the backside of the island's ridge, where a fire would not be seen
from the camp, and Titus supervised the driving of a ring of stakes about
twenty feet in all directions from the shelter. 'Any man comes across, I'll
send a man with him, to make sure he doesn't get closer to you than ten feet,'
promised the Controller. 'It's nothing personal, I hope you understand, Ben . .
.'

'I understand.'
And I understand you're pretty
pleased to rob Gil Wallach of two clerks without having to hire them yourself.
. .

'We'll see
you're provided for. Hell,' the big man added, 'I'll even send one of my clerks
up to Wallach's to help out, him bein' short-handed . . .'

January kept his
thoughts to himself as Morales and Sharpless - both newcomers to the trade -
exclaimed at the generosity of this gesture and Bridger and Carson exchanged
trenchant glances.

By this time the
lemon-rind moon stood high overhead. Here on the rear of the island, the noise
from Seaholly's - fifty yards upstream and about that distance back from the
water's edge - was softened by the intervening cottonwoods, and the smell of
the camp's waste dumps mitigated by the river breeze. January debated whether
to point out that establishing the shelter on this side of the island not only
hid their fire from the curious in camp, but also exposed it to whatever tribes
might be wandering around on the east side of the river, but decided to keep
quiet about this. This campsite would give Morning Star and Hannibal a much
better chance of coming and going unseen.

Only a few of
the
ad hoc
Committee of Public
Health still lingered when Wallach returned to the island shortly after
midnight, carrying January's blankets, clothes and shaving gear and followed by
Hannibal and Pia with a pot of Veinte- y-Cinco's stew. 'Don't cross the
stakes,' said January - for the benefit of Titus and the ever-inquisitive
Morales - and added in Latin, 'I need to have someone who can come and go in
the camp.'

In the same
language, the fiddler replied, 'That's not all you need,' and taking a camp
kettle, picked his way over the moonlit rocks to fetch water. He took his time
about it, only returning when the defenders of the camp's health had all sworn
each other to secrecy again and started back toward the AFC camp. Wallach,
January noticed, kept Pia under his wing and firmly away from Titus, who
ignored the child as if she were a pane of glass.

'You let me know
if there's anything I can get you,' called Morales over his shoulder. 'I have a
couple books up at the tent, if you're inclined that way: an almanac and
Robinson Crusoe.'

The offer being
put off until the morrow, the trader quickened his steps to catch up with the
others and disappeared into the trees.

'And left the
world to darkness and to me
.' Hannibal
stepped out of the shadows and through the staked circle. January gestured him
into the shelter - he didn't quite trust Edwin Titus's motives - and followed
him inside.

'Where's Shaw?'

January shook
his head. 'He stayed behind with the Beauty and Morning Star, to bury the
Dutchman.' Quickly, he outlined what they'd found in Dry Grass Coulee. 'It
never occurred to me they'd quarantine us. It should have.' He slapped at a
mosquito. 'New Orleans is such a pest hole, I've gotten used to thinking that
everyone's in the same danger of whatever disease is around.'

'You think Titus
is behind this somehow?'

'I think he's
glad Gil's out two clerks. Beyond that?' He shook his head. 'Whatever this is,
it's bad. It strikes hard and swiftly—'

'Rather like the
Blackfeet,' said Hannibal grimly. He held up the two folded letters. 'I've got
them translated,' he added. 'And what they say isn't good.'