The Yellowstone (7 page)

Mac asked if he could sit in. Sure. He pushed into a seat next to the blond banker. Center of the action, Mac judged. Kid with a choirboy face like that, people didn’t look twice. But he was off to a good start, heading to be a gambler. Odd, he didn’t look more than sixteen.

Mac had been through this with Skinhead before.

Mac placed one bet and won. Good omen.

Skinhead came back. At first he was miffed to see someone taking the space next to the kid, but he gave a slight, faraway smile when he saw it was Mac. The kid offered Mac the deck.

Mac cut, leaving halves for the kid. The feel of the deck didn’t mean much to Mac. Skinhead could tell you how many cards he was going to cut and hit it right on, or lift part of a deck and see how many cards were in it. “Reward of a wasted youth,” he liked to say.

The cards were picked, the bets were down, and the kid started turning cards over. The schoolmaster lost and looked desperate. Must have lost plenty. And he was mesmerized by the play—trouble. The farmer was barely alert enough to make his bets. The kid seemed to have plenty of marks.

Mac won both his small bets, and the kid started a fresh deal. Skinhead put out a buck instead of two bits. He picked the nine of diamonds to win, and the nine of spades to lose. Mac got his feet flat on the floor and his chair a tad back from the table. He didn’t know how Skinhead was going to do it. The fat man relished the rough stuff.

Simplest thing in the world. When the kid palmed a card, Skinhead clubbed the wrist ferociously and the card dropped face down.

Skinhead was sitting there calmly, grinning an immense grin. It was hard to realize he had reached across the table and back that fast. Now he stretched across with his Green river knife and used the blade to turn over the dropped card. The nine of spades.

The kid went for something.

Mac clamped both the kid’s wrists hard. Skinhead was all shining head and shining teeth. He stepped onto the table and grabbed the kid’s hair. Was Skinhead going to scalp him?

Suddenly Mac whipped backwards, grabbed by the throat. The farmer, perfectly sober.

Damn—he had a pistol in Skinhead’s face!

A heavy cane whacked the farmer’s gun arm, and the gun fell on the table.

Another whack—the farmer crumpled to the floor, cold-cocked.

Mac rubbed his throat and looked around. A fancy stranger holding the cane. Backing him up, Robert Campbell with a little pepperpot pistol. Behind him, the bartender Jake with a side-by-side.

“Afternoon, Gant,” said the stranger.

“A-a-a-agh!” An awful, clotted, tortured-animal sound.

Mac whirled and saw blood pouring down the side of the kid’s face and neck. Skinhead threw a big, bleeding wedge of ear onto the table. “He’ll wear my mark, by God,” said Skinhead. Then the fat man smiled sunnily at the stranger. “Afternoon, Cap.”

Mac was staring at the choirboy. He’d have a two-pointed ear for life.

Skinhead scooped up the money the kid had on the table, all of it. He left the pot, and sang to the schoolmaster, “Take that home to your wife.” With a jerk of the head in his friends’ direction, the fat man headed out.

In the street Skinhead said cheerily, “Good timing, Cap, Mr. Campbell. How’d you find us?”

In a plummy accent the stranger answered, “Who couldn’t guess where to find George Gant when he gets back to town?”

The fat man laughed too eagerly.

“Sir William,” said Robert Campbell properly, “Robert Maclean. Mr. Maclean, Sir William Drummond Stewart.” They shook hands.

“Thanks, Sir William,” said Mac. “In the nick of time.”

Skinhead waved that off.

“That farmer had us fooled with his drunk act,” Mac said at Skinhead.

“Had you fooled,” said the fat man.

“Mr. Maclean,” interjected Campbell, “would you join us in a drink? I spoke to your uncle about your prospects, and to Sir William about you, and he may have a proposition.”

“You, too, Gant,” added Sir William.

Mac hoped the proposition didn’t involve Skinhead. The fat man was getting a little too crazy.

Chapter 9

Plum moon

Mac thought the lord looked like a gargantuan grasshopper. He was perched on the edge of the billiard table in his green waistcoat and tobacco trousers, his long body all jutting elbows and knees.

Four ivory balls, two white and two red, were arrayed on the green felt. The lord’s eye was on one of the two white balls, his hand humped to support the cue stick. He stroked smoothly, the ball glided across the green and clicked against the other white ball, into one of the red balls, and then into the other. Meanwhile the white object ball had glided into a corner pocket.

“A three!” exclaimed Hugh Maclean. Mac’s uncle seemed a trifle amused at his own enthusiasm.

“And fifty,” said Robert Campbell. “Well done.”

The lord held out his hand to Skinhead, who shook it too vigorously, his shiny forehead furrowing. “One more game, Cap,” rasped Skinhead.

“Sir William,” murmured Campbell.

Skinhead and Sir William were old pals from their years in the mountains together, and occasionally broke into reminiscence. Skinhead’s familiar way of addressing the baronet evidently disturbed Campbell.

“I think Mr. Maclean may want to try his hand,” said Sir William and extended the cue by its butt. Hugh declined, and Sir William offered it to Mac. Mac took it—he was afraid not to. Skinhead would beat him.

“A game to learn by?” Mac asked Skinhead.

“At a wager of two bits, young Mr. Maclean,” Stewart piped up. “You pay for your lessons.” The lord gave a dry hiccough of a laugh and a frosty smile. He lit a cigar.

Mac couldn’t believe the lord was in a billiard hall, and swilling Matt Murphy’s ale. Murphy’s was a stalwart local product. As a lad, Mac didn’t dare go into such dens of iniquity. Only the river rabble did that.

Skinhead gestured for Mac to go first and showed him how to make a bridge. Mac supposed that making a fool of yourself was part of the price of doing business.

Mac wished they’d get down to whatever business it was—he was wild with waiting.

Skinhead demonstrated the basic shots—the object was to sink the other white ball, and to make your original ball glance off one or both of the red balls. Mac hoped only to sink a white ball, and he couldn’t do that. One ear and half his mind were on the conversation behind him between the Scots lord and the American businessmen. The weather, business conditions, the availability of money—maddeningly mundane.

From Jake’s Tavern the party had collected Hugh Maclean and adjourned to this nearby billiard parlor, where Skinhead fit in well and the baronet poorly—nobility among the lowlife. Rough sorts of men plied the other tables, and a pall of rank smoke hung in the air. Every sort of uncouth accent and profane language offended the ear.

Sir William cast his eyes about boldly, and seemed inclined to smile at it all. Perhaps he thought it deliciously low. Then he simply shed his brown coat and went to work, cheek to jowl with his inferiors. After thinking it, Mac reprimanded himself for a word such as
inferiors
.

And here, watching this finicky game called four-ball carom and drinking ale, Uncle Hugh whispered to Mac that he should heed the baronet’s offer. Which had led to this interminable waiting.

At the billiard table Mac was jumpy. He never knew which direction the struck ball was going to go, and he didn’t care. Billiards seemed to him an odd game, cool, too much in the head, played in hushed tones with a lot of softly admiring “Jolly well done”s and such. Skinhead was a hand, and Campbell could make some clever shots, but no one could keep up with the lord.

The baronet was tall, skinny, aloof, perhaps indifferent. Mac caught a glimpse of comradely spirit in Stewarts greeting of Skinhead perhaps, but frostiness otherwise. Mac was informed that traveling the West was a great passion with Sir William, that he had spent six or eight years in the mountains and was a full-fledged
hivervant
, a winterer. But Mac couldn’t imagine anything was a passion with this fellow.

Mac was also informed that Sir William and Campbell were great friends, bosom companions of mountain days. But Mac couldn’t picture either of them in the mountains, all dusty, often thirsty, sometimes starving, sleeping on the ground, sometimes with Indian companions on the trail and in the blankets. And they didn’t demonstrate mountain familiarity. Robert Campbell the baronet called simply Campbell, once “my dear Campbell.” Skinhead was “Gant,” and everyone else was “Mister.” And the group cut its tune to match the baronet’s. Mac felt like a wooden doll.

The first game over, Skinhead insisted that Mac put another two bits on the table. Acquiescing, Mac heard Campbell say behind him, “I’d say we have your man in young Mr. Maclean.”

Stewart’s Scots accent added, “And Gant here.” Skinhead nodded vigorously. Whatever was in the offing, he was up for it.

“Do you know what it is Sir William has in mind, Mr. Maclean?”

“Not at all.” Mac turned his back to Skinhead’s shot.

The baronet smiled, perhaps amused, and took over. “Campbell told me you want to set yourself up as a trader.”

“That’s so, sir.”

“A good Scot, then.” Sir William’s estates were in Scotland. “Do you know Scots traders are now opening up the China trade?”

“No, sir.” He glanced at Uncle Hugh, uncertain.

“The wealth of Cathay, Mr. Maclean, the wealth of Cathay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why the Indian trade, man? It’s half dead. You’d be better off trading for this stuff.” He held up a glistening white ivory sphere. “Campbell,” he declared, “it took one elephant tusk to make a set of these for four-ball carom. They’re killing thousands of elephants a year. When I was in Africa, I saw men grow rich in a single season. Truly rich.”

Campbell nodded.

“Why an Indian trader, Mr. Maclean? Your uncle here would be the first to tell you it’s not sensible.”

“I love the West, sir. I love the life.” He was desperate to launch into his case—the closing of Fort Mackenzie, his closeness to the Cheyenne people, but he judged it best to wait.

Stewart regarded Mac a moment. “I, too, love the life, Mr. Maclean. But because of my accursed titles and estates, I can’t give myself to it any longer. Will you help me, sir? And you, Gant?”

“What do you want, Cap?” Skinhead turned away from his shot and paid attention.

“Buffalo, Gant. Mr. Maclean. And antelope, bighorn sheep, panthers, grizzlies, and a few elk. Plus flora. I want to take the West back to Murthly. With your hardihood and Scots shrewdness, you could do it for me. And, of course, Gant’s wilderness wisdom.”

“Sir William has spent some money on this enterprise with little effect,” put in Campbell.

“Scoundrels,” muttered Sir William. “But you have character, young Mr. Maclean. You and Gant both. Gant is perhaps a little chaotic.”

Skinhead looked to be getting miffed.

“We’ve shipped Sir William quite a few animals in the last several years,” said Campbell, “but he needs more—problems with injury and death in transit, survival in a new climate, and so on.

“The two of you could take a crew back to, say, Laramie, yet this autumn, and collect animals.” It was late September already. “I think you’re the men.”

“Agreed,” said Sir William to Campbell.

Mac felt himself flush.

Campbell held up a finger. “I know you have something else in mind. But this is a step toward it. If you consent, you could end up with some working capital. And good will here in St. Louis.”

“And in Scotland,” said Sir William.

Hugh was looking at Mac with a twinkle.

“Campbell,” said Sir William, looking at his pocket watch, “we do have a dinner engagement.”

“What do you say, young Mr. Maclean?” prompted Campbell.

Restraining himself, Mac answered, “Sounds worth exploring.”

“Then shall we explore it further in the morning?” concluded the banker.

Mac was heated up, but Uncle Hugh wasn’t. He insisted quietly on getting home, having some soup from the pot that was always on his woodstove, and getting his pipe lit afterwards. Mac noticed that a book sat on the dinner table—
The Wealth of Nations
, by Adam Smith. So six thousand miles from Scotland and the university he didn’t get to attend, Uncle Hugh was still reading philosophy. He was a man of unvarying habits—a frugal meal, a smoke, reading, contemplation. No passions, no whiskey, as far as Mac knew no sex. Not even coffee—the church women claimed coffee was an aphrodisiac. Hugh’s only heat was in his pipe.

How unlike Skinhead, Mac thought. How unlike me. And Uncle Hugh, will you please get on with whatever you have to say?

Hugh set some sheets on the table and beckoned Mac to sit beside him. “You see, Mr. Campbell and I have backed a trader in a small way, a man named Primeau. I suspect Campbell does it mostly to annoy the Company, but we earn a few dollars. The figures in this column are wholesale in St. Louis, in this column retail in the mountains.”

Mac looked them over. “Mountain prices are about right.”

“We’re interested in backing other good men. Like you.” Uncle Hugh looked at Mac sidelong. “We think it’s the time to exploit the Emigrant Road. We think the Indian trade is, well, quiescent. But you’re bound to go to that Yellowstone country, aren’t you?”

Mac nodded.

Uncle Hugh smiled with satisfaction. “Campbell and I had a good talk about it this afternoon. He knows the Yellowstone country as well as any man—trapped there, and ran Fort William there. A wise man might make a go of it. Campbell even admitted that, long term, it might be the sounder proposition. He respects your judgment on that. But now, and probably for some years, the money is on the Emigrant Road.

“Under the circumstances, I can’t advance the big piece of money, lad. Nor will Campbell.”

Hugh let it sit a moment. “That’s where Sir William comes in. They are friends, and Mr. Campbell would like to do Sir William a service.” Hugh put another piece of paper on top. “These are the animals Sir William wants, at these prices. Look them over at your leisure tonight. But Campbell believes you can net in excess of a thousand dollars in this venture. And Gant gets a bonus of five hundred.”

Mac wanted to shove the figures away, but he made himself look at them. “If you will help Sir William, you may be able to get a stake out of it. Say you go to Laramie and earn a thousand net from Sir William. Campbell believes you can make a handsome profit with healthy horseflesh on the Emigrant Road next spring—the emigrants destroy their horses on the crossing. He’d be willing to put up a thousand dollars for horses, share and share alike.

“Now, lad, suppose I went in a thousand…”

They talked until nearly midnight, shuffling figures, gauging profits. Mac went to bed feeling unsure.

Maybe it was the horses that made him unsure—horse trading bore sad memories for Mac and Hugh. In ’37 Mac’s mother died of smallpox, and his father got Hugh to buy him out of the store, which was then poor. With that small bit of capital and Mac, Alexander Maclean hit the road trading horses.

But he was deep into the bottle then, a lifelong failing, and a drunk could ruin any venture. In a year the horse business was gone, and their stake gone. In another six months Alexander was dead, drowned in the Mississippi. Mac ended up with nothing but his knowledge of horses and a taste for adventure.

Mac sat on the bed in his room, mulling. It was the room he’d grown up in, above the store. Now it had a four-poster bed. But it was his room—it even smelled like his room. Stretching out in the clean sheets, drifting off, Mac felt dreams of childhood coming back to him.