White Eagle's Touch (3 page)

“So, you wish me to make this long journey and incur my people’s wrath in your place?”

“Yes,” the old trader responded, “but it’s not as bad as you say. You know that you can do this thing without penalty to your reputation. You are neither trader nor white man here. It is not you who has been suddenly besieged by all these bands of Blackfeet, all wanting to trade. You’ll do fine, son. Bring her safely to me from Fort Union. I entrust you with her life.”

White Eagle grunted. “I think that you use me, my friend. You came to our village only yesterday. Have you known since you arrived that you wished me to travel to meet your niece?”

“Completely.”

“And were you only awaiting the best moment before you would ask me to do this thing for you?”

The old man winked at his friend. “You always were smart as a fox.”

White Eagle grinned, at the same time shaking his head. “And it is this thing which has brought you to my lodge so early this morning?”

“It is.”

White Eagle didn’t say another word. At length, he passed his pipe to his friend, and only after the old gentleman had smoked and returned the pipe to its owner, did the Indian speak again, saying, “I will do as you ask, old friend, and bring the girl to you, but what do you want me to do about this man she is to marry?” White Eagle held up the letter. “It says here that you have demanded to meet this man she chooses to marry. Do you desire me to bring him to you, too?”

The old trader paused. “Well, now, my friend, I suppose you must, although meeting him doesn’t matter so much to me. But I do want him to try to travel to this place. I hear he is an Englishman—of a titled class and nobility.”

White Eagle grunted. “What is this nobility?”

“Did I never teach you that?”

White Eagle just stared at his friend.

“Nobility is a state in society, I suppose you could say, wherein a select few people feel they are better than all others because of wealth or mayhap position, or some other rubbish. It’s a title that…” The old trader looked toward his friend. “Never you mind, son. If this marquess is the kind of man that I suspect him to be, he will find reason enough to turn back from the trail. That is why I have made the requirement that I am to meet this man. Only if he can survive the journey here without much complaint will I give my consent for my niece to marry him.”

White Eagle hesitated. “You suspect this Englishman will not be able to make this trip?”

“Won’t last more’n a day.”

“But if you know this about the man already, why do you not just tell your niece that she must find another?”

The old man glanced up, his gaze calculating, if not downright prudent. “I have my reasons, son. Listen to me now. You must never mention any of what we have talked of this day to my niece, nor to anyone else. Do not let her know in any way that I wish her to come here.”

The Indian frowned.

“It would be considered ill-mannered if I were to request a woman to make this trip. It was enough that I managed to get her to Fort Union.”

White Eagle said nothing, although he continued to gaze at the old man as though his friend had suddenly lost the full measure of his senses.

“How can I make you understand this? In the white world, women are treated as frail creatures and are…taken care of…pampered, if you will.”

“Pampered?”

“Fussed over.”

“Your men fuss over a woman?”

The old fur trader sighed. “Yes, they do. And oh, what a pleasure it is to do so.”

White Eagle snorted. “Does the white man also wear a dress?” White Eagle brought his hands up in a motion…an expressive, though somewhat obscene gesture toward the older man. He continued, “You speak the words of man-who-is-a-woman, my friend, not those of a warrior. It is no wonder that the men of your nation are so weak-willed that they lie.”

The older man shrugged. “I will not debate that point with you. But you would do well to remember that you are dealing with another culture when you go to this fort. It is true that many of the white man’s ways will seem strange to you, but that doesn’t make them bad, only different.”

White Eagle raised an eyebrow.

“Son, you must understand, if I even imply that I wish my niece to travel farther than the fort to reach me, it will not happen. She, as well as every man at the fort, would consider that I have bestowed upon her the greatest of insults. How can I explain this? No well-brought-up lady would ever make this trip.”

“Is your niece well brought up?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you believe that she will come here willingly? Do you wish me to capture her?”

“Saa,
my son, no.” The old trader grimaced. “I believe she will come here of her own accord, that is, if she is anything like her father and mother.” The old man smiled, and seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. “I promised them, her father and mother, I would do right by her, and by Jove, I will keep that vow. Her father was the one who wanted the girl sent back East at such a young age, not me; made me promise to do so if anything ever happened to him. Personally, I’ve always believed it was a mistake, sending the child into a city where she had no friends or family. Why, I’d almost wager all my profits with you that the chit’s as spoiled now as…” The old trader suddenly stopped, looking up. “Now, never you mind, son, never you mind.

Just ensure that you tell M’Kenzie there at the fort that I only require the Englishman, her fiancé, to travel here to see me. Do not mention her at all. And then wait. I believe my niece will not be able to resist coming with you.”

White Eagle nodded. “I will do as you ask.” Then, glancing down, he went on to say, “I did not know that you had made this vow to her father. I had always thought that it was you who decided to send Shines Like Moonlight away. But do not worry, I will do as you say, and we will see if she decides to come. If she does not, I will bring her to you anyway. It will be harder that way, but I will do it.”

The older gentleman nodded, and White Eagle, with a symbolic gesture, tapped his pipe upon the stone next to the lodge’s hearth. Such was the Blackfoot way of signifying the end of a visit.

The white trader then stood, and although he made ready to leave, the grizzled old man stared at White Eagle for a moment longer, his look momentarily as cunning as that of a mountain lion.

And White Eagle, seeing it, grimaced. Perhaps this journey to this place was not to be as easy as it would appear.

Chapter Two

Fort Union

The Junction of the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers

The Northwest Territory

June 24, 1833

Early evening

Fort Union stood towering above the Missouri River on a bank high enough to keep the spring floods from becoming a serious threat, yet close enough to the water so that the steamboat, the
Assiniboin,
had no trouble docking within a few feet from the fort’s main structure.

Many a distinguished guest arrived at the Fort this day. Besides Kenneth McKenzie, Fort Union’s proprietor and “Lord” of the Missouri, there were the German Prince of Wied, Maximilian, and his secretary, Mr. Drydopple; also Karl Bodner, the Swiss artist, who was traveling with the prince; the New York socialite, Katrina Wellington and her maid; the Marquess of Leicester, his two friends, plus all of the marquess’s dogs—and there were many of those hounds.

Never had Fort Union seen such royalty.

Never had the steamboat carried such uproarious gaiety. Cannon fire from the shore in greeting was returned from the decks of the steamboat. Natives stood on the grassy shore, some adding to the commotion by firing their rifles, some of the Indians contributing to the noise by raising their voices in lyrical trill.

Katrina Wellington, as well as her maid, stood at the railing of the
Assiniboin’s
upper deck. Gazing out upon the shore, and all the festivity to be witnessed there, Katrina’s expression was anything but enthusiastic. And it was true that, mayhap, Katrina was the only creature aboard the steamship whose countenance, this day, bore a frown. But she did not have a care for what others thought about her, nor did anyone else seem to notice her, not with all the merriment surrounding the steamship’s arrival.

A fierce wind pushed at Katrina’s bonnet, and it should have been a welcome relief from the heat, but the breeze only seemed to annoy her, not refresh her. She set her lips together and raised her chin against it.

So this was the far, northwestern frontier; this, the land where her father and uncle had struggled to amass their fortunes in the fur trade; this, the territory which, although well loved by the two male members of Katrina’s family, had forever taken away a treasure more valuable than all the riches of the world: Katrina’s father and mother.

Or so she had been told by a string of governesses and nannies, servants and solicitors.

Katrina had often wondered what had possessed her father and uncle to become traders and leave civilization behind?

But most of all, she wondered why her father had ever made that fatal decision to bring his new wife out to this place.

How her mother must have hated it, a young bride, forced to leave behind the only world she had ever known. And for what?

Hardship, death?

Had her mother, so many years ago, looked out upon this land and felt much the same as Katrina did now? Had her mother felt terrified? A young woman, alone?

Inhaling deeply, Katrina closed her eyes and tried to envision just how it might have been for her mother. She waited, images playing through her mind.

It was useless. There was too much distraction from all the activity aboard the steamship. She couldn’t concentrate.

Breathing in the smoky and grassy scents of the prairie, and the foreign smells of mud and river water, Katrina was drawn once again into the present. She wrinkled her nose, let out her breath, and opened her eyes.

Above her a wispy cloud raced across the sky.

She sighed and shook her head. How much different this land was from her own home in New York City. How much different, too, her life would have been had her parents never strayed from that grand city.

And how much better it would have been.

Enough! Katrina admonished herself. She could not afford to ponder such dispiriting thoughts. Not now. Not when she needed her wits about her. Besides, this line of reasoning led nowhere. She knew this from experience.

Taking a firm, mental grip upon herself, Katrina turned her gaze to the prairie.

“Barren.” She hardly knew she’d said the word aloud, until her maid responded with, “Yes, ma’am.”

“This land is hardly fit for life. Really, it is most barren,” Katrina continued, the word “barren” being the only descriptive term to come to mind.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It is completely devoid of the gentler side of life, it appears to me,” Katrina went on to say, more to herself than to her maid. “Why, I can hardly see a streak of green grass anywhere, and the Indians…look at them all. This would hardly have been a place to bring a new bride.”

“Pardon, ma’am?”

Katrina stopped speaking and gave herself a shake. Had she really spoken all that aloud? “I meant nothing,” she said to the young maid, who stood behind her, “I was talking more to myself…mumbling.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Setting her glance onto something else, Katrina determined to stop this pondering about her father…her mother, but peace of mind was not to be hers.

Like a familiar old song, her thoughts turned again to her parents. Why had he done it?
Had her father known the terrible price he would have to pay for demanding that he and his new bride live here?

Of course not, Katrina answered her own question. Still…

All at once old hurts, long-forgotten memories resurfaced, bringing with them stories which had been told to a young girl. Enchanting stories, rich tales of a land far away.

Katrina’s father and uncle had loved this territory, or so the saga had gone, and it had been this love alone which had caused her father to bring his new bride to this territory.

And her mother, Katrina remembered from the tale, had tried to make a home in this godforsaken land. But it hadn’t been possible, not in this wilderness. In the end, the land had exacted an enormous toll upon these two people, demanding more from her parents than either of them should have been willing to pay: their lives.

Katrina swallowed and cleared her throat before bringing her gaze once more toward the fort. Of course, there had been no fort back in her father and mother’s time, only a wilderness and the Indians.

Indians.

Katrina had been told that the Indians had not been the cause of her parents’ death all those years ago, that the Indians had actually tried to save the young couple, who had been caught in a flash flood.

But, the reports of what happened meant nothing to Katrina. She had her own opinions. She knew better.

Katrina visibly shook herself, and this time, when she returned her gaze to the fort, it was with a determined effort.

Fort Union lay sprawled out upon an open plain. Its wooden walls glowed almost red under the shadowed rays of a setting sun. Katrina studied the place with dubious interest.