'Why? Because he was tradin' for furs, and the Injuns figured if he was any kind of a man,
e'd go ketch his own. He traded for 'em because he didn't know how to hunt or trap.
'The Sioux, the Cheyenne, an' all them, they despised the white man, although they wanted what he traded. They wanted steel traps, guns, blankets, and whiskey.' Cap pushed a brindle steer back into the herd.
'Some folks figured it was all wrong to trade the Injuns whiskey, and no doubt it was, but it wasn't meanness made 'em do it. They traded the Injuns whiskey because it was what most of those white men wanted themselves, so they figured the Injun wanted it, too.' We pushed 'em on into the evening and bedded down on Rocky Run, finding ourselves a little hollow down off the skyline. The mosquitoes were worse, but we were a whole lot less visible.
When we had a fire going, I roped a fresh horse and switched saddles. 'I'll mosey around a mite,' I told Cap. 'You an' Tyrel, you keep a hold on things whilst I'm gone.' 'We'll try,' Cap said.
Rocky Run was a mite of a stream that probably fed into the James, but there'd been rains, and there was good water. Topping out on a ridge, I dropped over the edge far enough not to skyline myself and took a look around.
Mostly, I studied the country to the west. Come daybreak, we'd be lined out to the west, shaping a bit north for the James again.
How many Sioux were there and how far away?
There'd be a-plenty, no doubt, but I was hoping High-Backed Bull would have to go some distance to his village. There was no way to hide eleven hundred head of cattle and no way you could move them very fast. We'd have to do what we could.
Turning back toward camp, a movement caught my eye. Somebody was coming, somebody on a slow-walking horse that stopped now and again, then started on. But he was coming my way.
Shucking my Winchester, I taken my horse down off the low ridge, kind of angling toward that rider.
It was already almost dark, and there were stars here and yonder, but a body could make things out. This rider was all humped over in the saddle like he was hurt.
I caught a momentary glint of metal, and I pulled up and waited.
When he was some fifty yards off, I covered him with my Winchester and let him close the distance.
'Pull up there! Who are you?' He straightened up then. 'What? A white man? What're you doing out here?' 'Drivin' some cattle,' I said. 'What about you?' 'I been runnin',' the man said. 'Sioux.
I'm headed for Fort Stevenson, Army mail.' 'Fort Stevenson? Hell, I didn't know there was a fort up this way. Come on into camp.' He was a fine-looking man, Irish, and with the bearing of a soldier. When I said as much, he said, 'Some years back, in England and India.' He threw me a quick glance. 'Cattle, you say?
Where to?' 'The gold mines,' I said.
'It's a long drive,' he said, 'a very long drive. Strike north toward the South Saskatchewan. You can follow it part of the way.
It won't be easy--and stay away from Fort Garry.' 'What's wrong?' 'There's trouble brewing. When the Bay Company let go of Rupert's Land, which means most of western Canada, there was no government. It wasn't immediately apparent that Canada was going to take over, so a m`etis named Louis Riel has set up a provisional government.' 'M`etis?' 'It's a name for the French-Indian or sometimes Scotch-Indian buffalo hunters. Anyway, it looks like trouble, so I'd steer clear of Fort Garry.' 'And Pembina?' 'The same.' By now, or very soon, Orrin would be there. He would be right where the trouble was, and he would be alone.
Chapter VI
Orrin Sackett boarded the stage at St.
Cloud. Two women were already seated, a short, stout woman with a florid complexion and a young, quite pretty girl in an expensive traveling suit. Seating himself in a corner, Orrin watched the others as they got aboard.
There were three. The first was a square-shouldered, strongly built man in a dark, tailored suit with a carefully trimmed beard. He was followed by two men, roughly dressed and armed with pistols under their coats and rifles in their hands.
Scarcely were they seated when, with a pistol-like crack of the whip, they were off.
The man with the trimmed beard glanced at him.
Orrin knew he presented a good appearance in his planter's hat, his dark gray frock coat, and trousers of a lighter gray, his dark green vest sporting a fine gold watch chain.
'Fort Abercrombie?' The man asked. 'Or are you going further?' 'Fort Garry,' Orrin replied. 'Or possibly only to Pembina.' 'My destination, also. From Georgetown to the steamboat you may have to provide your own transportation. The stage often goes no further than Georgetown. Much depends on the condition of the roads and the disposition of the driver. And, I might add, on the mosquitoes.' Orrin lifted an eyebrow. 'The mosquitoes?' 'If you have not heard of them, be warned. They are unlike any mosquitoes you will have seen. At least in number. Leave an animal tied out all night and by morning it may be dead. I am serious, sir.' 'But what do you do?' 'Stay inside after sundown. Build smudges if you're out. Sleep under mosquito netting. They'll still get you, but you can live with them.' The young girl twisted her lips, obviously disturbed. The two men showed no concern, as if the story were familiar to them, but what was wrong about them? He did not wish to stare at them, but there was something, some little thing that disturbed him.
It was not that they were armed. He carried his own pistol in its holster and another, a derringer, in his vest pocket. His rifle was in the blanket roll in the boot. The man with the beard was also armed with a small pistol. Very likely, the women were also, although a woman could, in most cases, travel anywhere in the West in complete safety.
It was not that the two were roughly dressed that disturbed him. He had dressed no better, if as well, for the better part of his life, and in the West men wore whatever was available or what they could afford. Over half the greatcoats one saw were army issue, either blue or gray, and a good number of the hats came from the same source. Yet somehow these men seemed different.
Their clothing did not seem to belong to them. They were old clothes and should have been comfortable, but neither man wore them with ease.
'You have been to Fort Garry before? And Pembina?' The man with the trimmed beard nodded. 'Several times, although I am not sure what my welcome will be like this time.' He glanced at Orrin again. 'They aren't very friendly to outsiders right now.' 'What's the problem?' 'They've had an influx of outsiders. Some of them from Ontario but many from the States. Some are land grabbers, some are promoters. You see, when the Bay Company moved out, they left the country, Rupert's Land, they call it, high and dry and without a government.' He paused, peering from the window. The stage was slowing for a bad place in the road. 'The m`etis, the French-Indian people who formerly worked for the company, have lived on their land for several generations. Now, suddenly, there's a question of title. The newcomers say the m`etis own nothing at all.
'Louis Riel has returned from Montreal and is reported to be forming a provisional government. I have met the man but once, in passing, and know nothing about him.' 'He's a breed,' one of the other men spoke suddenly. 'He's part Indian.' His manner of speaking made the statement an accusation, and Orrin said mildly, 'Could be in his favor. I've dealt with Indians. They know the country, and some of them are wise men.' The man was about to reply, but seeing the way the conversation was going, the man with the trimmed beard thrust out his hand. 'I am Kyle Gavin, and a Scotsman, although I've spent a deal of time in both your country and Canada. We may be of service to each other.' 'I am Orrin Sackett, of Tennessee. I have been practicing law in New Mexico and Colorado.' At the name, both the other men glanced up sharply, first at him, and then they exchanged a glance.
Darkness was crowding into the thick brush and trees along the trail, leaning in long shadows across the trail itself. Atop a small hill where some wind was felt, the stage pulled up, and the driver descended.
'I'd sit tight if I was you,' he warned.
'Keep as many mosquitoes out as you can. I'm lightin' the carriage lamps.' He did so, and then they moved on into the darkness. 'There will be food at the next stop,' Gavin commented. 'I'd advise all to eat. The night will be long.' The road was a mere trace through towering trees, then across open prairies dotted with clumps of brush. Trees had been cut down, but the stumps remained, and occasionally a wheel would hit one of the stumps with a bone-jolting shock. There were strips of corduroy road across marshes, made by laying logs crosswise and covering them with brush and mud.
