Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (6 page)

 
          
 
"How is old
Cal
?"

 
          
 
"Notional. Like always."

 
          
 
Green tapped his blunt chin with a finger.
"I thought about him. Thought about old John Tyler, too. Both good men.
But I think I need you, Travis."

 
          
 
Hartman waited, watching the little muscles
around Green's mouth tighten.

 
          
 
Green took a swallow of ale. "I did well
in the
Santa
Fe
trade. Made enough to outfit a boat. I took a big chance and bought a pile of
trade goods. Invested everything I had."

 
          
 
"And just where are ye planning on doing
this trade, Dave?"

 
          
 
Green rocked his tilted mug on the dark wood
of the table top. "Mouth of the Big Horn. Remember Lisa's old
Fort
Raymond
? The same place. I want to corner the Crow
trade."

 
          
 
Hartman leaned forward. "Pilcher tried
that. Built
Fort
Benton
. Remember what happened to Immel and Jones?
Bug's Boys—the Blackfoot—done shut that country off to Americans."

 
          
 
"I think we can handle the
Blackfeet." Green grinned. "The Crow are mostly cut off since Lisa's
death. They'd have a stake in helping us keep shy of Blackfeet."

 
          
 
Hartman stared into the frothy head on his
ale. "I'll be plumb damned. Just how much did ye make off'n Santy
Fee?"

 
          
 
"Between you and me . . . about eighteen
thousand dollars. That's in silver, too. Not banknotes. If I play this right,
Travis, I can control the Crow trade." Green pointed his finger.
"Time's going to run out on the Blackfeet. Everyone on earth hates
them."

 
          
 
" 'Cept the British."

 
          
 
"Who in hell are the British? No, you
listen, old friend. The country's changing. I know the Crow. Good people. We
get them the guns, give them a fair price for their furs, and they'll help us
whip the Blackfeet. Name a tribe up the
Missouri
that would ally with the Blackfeet when
they—"

 
          
 
"Atsinas."

 
          
 
"—could take an opportunity to . . .
Atsinas? They're not that tight with Bug's Boys, are they? Myself, I just think
the Atsina ally with the Blackfeet because no one else likes them. The Arapaho
are related—and they don't even like them. Besides, I think a little influence
in the right place with the Arapaho could split 'em away."

 
          
 
Hartman twisted callused fingers into his
beard and tugged thoughtfully.

 
          
 
Green waved his hand. "Travis, twenty
years ago folks thought Tecumseh and his
Shawnee
couldn't be whipped. Twenty years from now,
people will look back on the Blackfeet the same way. As die Blackfeet are
whittled away, I can help my Crow move right into those prime beaver lands. And
that's just the beginning. We can expand our posts. Place one at the bend of
the
Yellowstone
where it runs out of the mountains. Another
up the Big Horn at the
Hot Springs
. And still another at the Three Forks. In thirty years I expect to
control all the trade in the upper
Yellowstone
/'

 
          
 
Hartman chuckled. "If you don't take all
Hob."

 
          
 
"Manuel Lisa taught me well. Reach for
those things most men think lie just beyond their grasp. Act while they're
still trying to make up their minds. Be there by the time they finally get
started."

 
          
 
"Don't have ter remind ye that Manuel
Lisa died young, do I?"

 
          
 
Green ran a hand over his hair. "I've
promised myself that I'm going to die sitting by a big roaring fire smack dab
in the middle of my post. And when that day finally comes, I'm going to be the
only trader on the upper rivers."

 
          
 
Hartman slapped the table. "By God, ye
just might at that. Is that why ye sent fer me?"

 
          
 
"I want you with me, Travis. I'm going to
need a strong right hand, a hunter and scout. You know the river as well as any
man alive. You lived with the Crow—married that girl. You can talk
Mandan
, Crow, and some Sioux, Ree, and Pawnee. You
can sign-talk as if you were a born Injun. They respect you, Travis. You got
yourself special medicine, grizzly medicine." Green stared soberly into
Travis's eyes. "I've staked everything I've got on this. I'm calling in my
debt."

 
          
 
Hartman sucked at his lips for a moment and
grunted. "Ye don't have ter call in no debt. I reckon I'll throw my stick
in with yers just ter see how it all plays out." He paused. "I'll be
stitched. Young Davey Green, a rich boosh-way. Got hisself a boat cram full of
trade goods, a title, and government permit all set ter—"

 
          
 
"That's the other thing,"

 
          
 
"What other thing?"

 
          
 
"The other reason I need you."

 
          
 
Hartman raised an eyebrow.

 
          
 
Green shrugged. "You see . . . well, it's
the permit.
Clark
won't issue me a trading permit. I'm still
working on it but it's Ashley, Pratte, Chouteau, and the others. You know the
politics, the wealth that can be made. I intend on having a share, seeing this
thing through. I may have to get my boat, cargo, and men
upriver—illegally."

 
          
 
"Now that, old hoss, is going ter take a
mite of doing." Green smiled grimly. "That's why I need you. I think
I know how we can do it. . . but I must have someone I can trust with me."

 
          
 
The bitter night air bit into Richard's bones
as he walked past darkened shops. Countless feet had packed the snow on the
walk into a treacherous ice. His breath puffed around him like a personal fog.

 
          
 
The invitation from Will Templeton had come
that afternoon; a reception, in his honor, was being held that evening. All of
his friends would be there, and he couldn't stand the thought of facing them.
Better to take to the streets and avoid such an inquisition.

 
          
 
Yes, much better this way, he assured himself.
He was leaving
Boston
on Monday. By the time he returned from distant
Saint Louis
, it would be late summer, and everyone
would have forgotten the reception—and the fact that the guest of honor hadn't
been there.

 
          
 
"Richard!" a voice cried from a
carriage clattering down
Union Street
. He turned to see the cab slow to a stop
and Will Templeton lean out, gesturing. "Come on! I've been searching high
and low for you. You didn't forget our party, did you?"

 
          
 
With a sinking sensation, Richard swallowed
his pride and climbed up to sit on the cold leather seat next to Templeton.
Templeton wore a dapper silk cloak, a heavy black wool coat, a muffler, and
black felt hat. His face had that elongated, half-starved look of English
nobility. The nose was long and straight, slightly rounded on the tip. Black
hair curled out from beneath the hat to accent the dancing gleam of charming
eyes.

 
          
 
"Everyone is waiting for you. Where have
you been?"

 
          
 
"Last-minute errands. You understand, I'm
sure." He smiled wanly. "I was just on my way—"

 
          
 
"Splendid!"

 
          
 
"—and dreadfully sorry to be late."

 
          
 
"Oh, Richard, it should be an exciting
evening. Professor Ames arrived at the last minute. We just couldn't let you
charge off to the wilderness without an appropriate send-off." Templeton
tipped his new beaver hat and knocked on the wall to signal the driver. The
carriage rocked and began rattling along the icy streets. They proceeded down
Hanover
to Tremont, then south on
Common Street
toward the Templeton home.

 
          
 
Dear Lord God, how am I going to stand this?
They all know. Richard shot a glance at his companion. Of all his friends,
Templeton consistently proved the most reliable— despite being the son of a
ship's captain who'd reportedly had mixed allegiances during the Revolution.

 
          
 
Will glanced at him. "There is something
I don't understand. Why is he sending you, Richard? I thought you and your
father didn't agree."

 
          
 
"Oh, but we do! We agree that we don't
like each other. But. . . well, you see, there's no one else he can trust on
this matter. I'm surprised he trusts me." As if he did—but the lie eased
Richard's soul.

 
          
 
"From the tone in your voice, Richard, I
dare say there's more to it."

 
          
 
Damn you, Will You always see through things,
don't you? Richard forced a smile. "He doesn't believe that my
philosophical tenets will allow me to deal with the real world. So, it's a sort
of, well, challenge between us."

 
          
 
Templeton exhaled, watching his frosty breath
swirl about the interior of the coach. "After having met your father, that
really doesn't surprise me. Tell me more of this challenge . . . and how your
superior mind will rise above it."

 
          
 
"I have to deliver a package to a
Santa Fe
trader and his illiterate associates—clear
out there in the wilderness."

 
          
 
"Smashing!" Templeton laughed.
"Just like the prophets of old. How splendid! I almost wish I could go
with you. Richard, it will be an adventure. Think, man, you will have the
ability to prove yourself superior to the elements and the ruffians. Why, it
wouldn't surprise me if you owned the West after having been there for three
weeks. Daniel Boone, Meriwether Lewis, and Richard Hamilton."

 
          
 
Hardly the analogy Richard would have chosen.
To be ranked with frontiersmen? Men little better than the savages they
consorted with? He laughed bitterly, watching the passing lights as the coach
bumped over the ruts and swayed on its leather suspenders.

 
          
 
"Perhaps." Richard gestured with his
pipe. "Instead of dealing with the world of perception, I will deal with
the world of observation. Keeping Kant's beliefs in mind, of course, I shall
investigate Rousseau's hypotheses of man in nature. I shall be able to observe
man in his true state. Unsullied by the corruptions of our civilization. Wild
Indians walk the streets in
Saint Louis
. Think of the comparisons that a trained mind can draw between the
savages and the vanguards of our civilization."