The Shirt On His Back (7 page)

The
Indian girl laughed with delight - January had known from childhood that the
myth of the stoic, silent Indian was exactly that, a myth - and said, 'To speak
the truth, Winter Moon, I would have been happy with any of the three of you,
though of course I will be a very good wife to Sun Mouse and never look at
other men.' She winked at him. 'But I do have two sisters, should Tall Chief
ever change his mind.'

Given
the number of knives, awls and blankets, and the amount of trade-vermillion the
Sioux had walked off with last night, January didn't think this at all likely,
but he thanked her nevertheless. Even taking into account the cost of the
lambskin condoms stocked in a discreet box at the back of the Ivy and Wallach
tent - of which they had sold precisely one, to a trader named Sharpless from
Missouri who had never been at the rendezvous before - and adding in the price
Mick Seaholly charged for liquor, retail appeared to be more cost- effective in
this area than wholesale.

Hannibal
emerged from the lodge shortly after that, greeted January sleepily in passing
and went down to the river to bathe. When he returned, bringing a can of water
to heat for shaving, he listened to January's account of his conversation with
Shaw the previous evening and nodded. '
You speak like
an ancient and most quiet watchman.
It sounds as if the best we can do, given the circumstances, is turn ourselves
into spies: find the men in camp that no one knows and no one can vouch for.
Surely not so difficult—'

'It
will be if Boden's in league with men who'll vouch that he's someone else,'
pointed out January. 'If Hepplewhite, for instance, is working for the Hudson's
Bay Company, or the AFC—'

'Too
true.
Secreta tagatur
.'
The fiddler lifted the can of hot water from the fire - even in his worst days
in New Orleans, January had never known his friend to be less than fastidious.
'I suppose the first thing we ought to do is get on the good side of the
trappers who were at Forty Ivy last winter: Manitou Wildman, Clemantius Groot,
and Goshen Clarke.'

'Wildman's
supposed to have a camp in the hill about three miles up Horse Creek.' January
dug in his pockets for his own razor. 'Prideaux will know where to locate Groot
and Clarke.'

They
found Robespierre Prideaux making bullets preparatory to going hunting as soon
as his various friends either wakened in their blankets - their bodies strewed
in the vicinity of the fire like battle dead - or staggered back from
Seaholly's. 'In the mountains they are wise as wolves and savage as owls,' said
the mountaineer, shaking his head over them. 'But thunder my dogs, in camp they
are as sorry a parcel of tosspots as ever caused a mother to sink down into her
grave with grief.'

When
January brought up the subject - casually, he thought - of Clarke and Groot,
Prideaux's blue eyes narrowed sharply, and his voice sank to a conspiratorial
hush: 'What have you heard, pilgrim?'

January
suppressed the urge to hastily disavow having heard anything, looked around him
and whispered in turn, 'What have
you
heard?'

The
mountaineer showed signs of a cautious rejoinder, and for an instant January
thought the conversation would degenerate into mutually unintelligible hints,
but after long thought, Prideaux seemed to conclude that attending Hannibal's
wedding had made him part of the Ivy and Wallach family. 'Rumor is, hoss, that
Beauty Clarke was seen buyin' five shirts
–five
!
-
up at the HBC camp. An' Clem Groot - I heard this for truth - bought
ten
trap-springs from that Mex trader Morales down the other side of the Company.
An' that can only mean they're gettin' ready to pull foot.'

Dammit,
thought January. He recalled
Shaw's remark yesterday about not wanting to track his quarry through a million
square miles of mountains, with or without hostile Indians . . .

But
the mountaineer's conspiratorial tone urged him to frown, as if putting pieces
together, and counter with, 'Already?' It was a reasonable question: generally
the rendezvous would last through July. In summer furs weren't worth taking.

'Listen
to me, hoss,' Prideaux whispered, though it was quite clear the Last Trump
wouldn't have waked any of the sleepers around them. 'You throw in with me -
and swear to speak to no one else of this -' he glanced across at Hannibal, who
raised his left hand in avowal and crossed his heart with his right - 'an' when
they leave the camp, you an' me, we'll be right on their trail. You ain't
thinkin' of goin' for a trapper, are you, Sun Mouse?'

Hannibal
shook his head. 'I'd never be back in time to open with the Opera in New
Orleans,' he said. 'But you go on ahead, Benjamin—'

'Once
they're in the high country,' continued Prideaux, 'we'll show ourselves to 'em,
an' they'll have to cut us in. Think of it! You seen them skins they was
sellin' day 'fore yesterday to John McLeod at the HBC! Waugh! Beaver as big as
bears, an' with fur as thick as bears! Beaver like ain't been seen in this
country for ten years, since it's got so trapped over!'

January
snapped his fingers like a man enlightened. 'They've got a secret valley!'

'Hell,
yes!' cried Prideaux, utterly forgetting the need for secrecy. None of his
companions stirred.

Inwardly,
January sighed. Through all of yesterday's gossipy conversations across the
counter of the store, the rumor of a Secret Beaver Valley had come and gone: an
elusive Cloud Cuckooland where every stream swarmed with beaver, as all streams
in this country had - the oldest trappers agreed - before the Company and the
HBC and the now-defunct Rocky Mountain Company had sent in brigades in an
attempt to run one another out of business by scooping all the furs for
themselves.

'Stands
to reason they'll be sneakin' out of camp any night now.' Prideaux sank his
voice to a whisper again and glanced around as if he expected black-cloaked
conspirators to be crouched behind every prairie-dog hill. 'We gotta watch 'em,
hoss. The Dutchman's sly as they come, an' that Cree wife of his knows this
valley like I know the back of my hand. But when we catch 'em, we'll tell 'em
there's plenty for the two of us an' them, too - steal my horse if I ever seen
two men trap seven packs in one season, like they did! We'll be rich!'

'Wonderful,'
sighed January as he and Hannibal made off across the meadow in the direction
Prideaux pointed out to them ('But not a word we guessed, now!'). 'Secret valley
or not, with half the camp breathing down their necks they're
not
going to appreciate company—'

So
indeed it proved. After nearly tripping over Jed Blankenship - who had chosen
to clean his rifle sitting on a slight rise of the ground that overlooked the
Dutchman's camp - January and Hannibal were greeted by Clemantius Groot's wife
Fingers Woman, with the news that no, she had no idea where her husband and his
partner were . . . The Dutchman's three camp-setters all shook their heads. Nor
any idea when they'd be back. As they left the little cluster of shelters
around Fingers Woman's tipi, January could not but notice, some three-quarters
of a mile away, among the thin timber on the hills that rose beyond Horse
Creek, another couple of watchers, loafing on the creek bank with spyglasses .
. .

'What
about Wildman?' Hannibal shaded his eyes to scan the rough country west along
the creek. Clouds had begun to build above the mountains to the north; the wind
that rippled the prairie grass smelled of thunder. The Dutchman's camp, set in
the meadow nearly a mile from the river, was one of the furthest removed from
the main rendezvous, and standing in the midst of that endless openness,
January was conscious of just how defenseless he was. South and north, the valley
floor was dotted with the white clusters of tipis that marked the Indian
villages: Shoshone, Sioux, Cree, Snake, Flathead . . .

And
Omaha.

'Let's
find out first,' he said, 'if Iron Heart and his men completely understand my
intentions toward that girl yesterday. I don't have my rifle with me, and I'd
rather not discover suddenly that I should.'

'He
may be at Seaholly's. Manitou, I mean, not Iron Heart.'

'And
if he's not,' said January, 'since, as far as I know, Wildman doesn't have a
secret beaver valley, he probably will be later.'

Mick
Seaholly's tent - the farthest north of the AFC encampment - was a fair-sized
markee, with a trestle bar built across the long side that stood open to the
path and an assortment of tree trunks on the ground before it for the
accommodation of customers who wanted to have a seat while drinking. Two
ash-filled pits announced the further amenities of campfires after dark, and
across the trestle, January could see where rough tables had been constructed
by nailing together slats from dismantled packing-crates, to accommodate games
of monte, poker, and vingt-et-un, which Americans referred to as blackjack. At
any time of the day or night the makeshift saloon was a center of activity: in
front of it, on the other side of the trail, a well-trampled half-acre or so of
the meadow served as a site for shooting contests and wrestling matches, while
behind it, six rough shelters - barely more than sheets of canvas tacked over
ridge poles - served the Taos girls as cribs.

Seaholly,
looking as usual like a debauched seraph, greeted them with a friendly query
about what their poison might be and - much to January's surprise - admitted
his willingness to provide Hannibal with what was called fizz pop: vinegar and
sugar mixed with water to which a small quantity of soda was added, to provide
'kick'. 'You're not the only man in the mountains who's taken the pledge,' the
barkeep said, regarding Hannibal with his strange blue eyes. 'And you are
welcome to as much of that revolting potion as you can drink, if you'll grace
my establishment with your fiddle of an evening. Yourself, sir?' he added,
turning to January, exactly as if there were drinking establishments anywhere
in the length and breadth of the United States that would permit a black man to
stand at the same counter as white ones.

'A
champagne cocktail,' said January gravely, and Seaholly gave him a devil's grin
and the usual glass of watered-down forty-rod that everyone else got for the
cost of a beaver pelt. There were traders who had better liquor - Charro
Morales, just down the path from the AFC, supposedly had the finest in the
camp, if anyone wanted to pay three plews a shot for it - but nobody had
cheaper.

'
Tu
patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi Silvestram tenui Musam
meditaris avena
,'
declared Hannibal, raising his glass. 'You have a deal, sir. Perhaps you might
assist us with a quest?'

Seaholly
allowed that Wildman, Groot, and Clarke had all been in his establishment
earlier in the day and were likely to return: 'Though if you - or Mr Wallach -
have specific business to transact with Manitou I'd suggest a different venue.
He comes here for a single purpose, when he comes, and pursues it
single-mindedly, and I do not refer -' he glanced down the bar at the whores
Veinte-y-Cinco and La Princessa - 'to the pleasures of congenial company. On
the occasions when Wildman comes in to make a night of it, it's best to catch
him early.'

A
shooting contest was forming up on the other side of the path, and while
Hannibal improved his acquaintance with the two ladies at the end of the bar,
January crossed to observe. 'Steal my mule, hoss, you can't just stand there!'
protested Robbie Prideaux, and he offered January the loan of his own piece, a
very handsome Lancaster. January had not been a bad shot before - given that no
black man in the United States was permitted to own firearms - and had
practiced every evening on the trail, and he felt that he didn't acquit himself
badly. He felt, moreover, that he deserved extra points for not shooting Jed Blankenship,
when that gentleman trumpeted, 'Not bad shootin' for a nigger! Where'd you
learn which end of the gun the bullet comes outta, boy?'

'My
daddy was Daniel Boone,' January replied blandly. 'You never heard how he was
kidnapped by the Barbary Pirates, and rescued an African princess, before he
got away by killing ten of the Sultan's guards and building himself a raft of
their dead bodies? The only reason my shooting isn't better,' he added modestly
- because in fact he'd been outshot by all the trappers and most of the engages
at a hundred yards and considered himself lucky to have seen the playing-card
target at two hundred and fifty - 'is that I was twelve years old before she
sent me to America to learn from him, and he was old then, and his sight was
failing. But I'm here to learn.'

A
number of the trappers had to cover their mouths to hide huge grins, but Jed -
a fair-haired Missourian with an ingratiating manner when he was sober -
looked like he believed every word.

'The
man's an excrescence,' muttered Sir William Stewart, when Blankenship made off
across the path with his slender winnings - from bets on the other contestants
as well as on himself - to
do them gals a
FAVOR!,
as he
loudly put it. 'I can think of few civilized societies in which he'd be able to
prosper as he does here. But I can only assume that the Laws of Nature will
eventually deal with him as he deserves: as, indeed, they deal with every man
in this land.' The Scotsman studied January's face for a moment, a slight frown
pulling at his dark brows, while January - in company with two or three of the
trappers - examined the new Manton rifle Stewart had been trying out.