the stigma attached to breeds is uncalled for.”
“But you say this Zach King has a vicious disposition?”
“A poor choice of words on my part,” St. Vrain said. “Yes, Zach has a reputation. But his violence has always been provoked. Under normal circumstances he is as peaceable as you or I.”
I was not entirely convinced. His expression hinted at darker underpinnings. But I deemed it of no consequence since I never intended to make Zach King’s acquaintance. I was intrigued by the father, though. Nate King’s intimate knowledge of the mountains might surpass that of Augustus Trevor.
This was the day I would paint the trading post. What with an encampment of Crows nearby and a wagon train that had arrived the day before drawn up in a circle outside the walls, the painting promised to be picturesque.
Bright and early I gathered what I needed and made for the gate. Young Billingsley was waiting outside the quarters St. Vrain had graciously provided, and I burdened him with my easel.
Augustus Trevor had wanted to go along, with two or three others for extra protection, but I scoffed at the suggestion. I was only hiking a short way, I insisted, and I would be within hailing distance of the armed sentries stationed on the ramparts. Trevor relented, but only after I agreed to take one of the men. I chose Billingsley. He always did my bidding without question. Consequently, no sooner did we hike a suitable distance than I told him I did not need his services and he was free to spend the rest of the day as he saw fit. He protested, saying Trevor had been quite specific about not leaving me, but I pointed out that I was the leader of our expedition, not Mr. Trevor, and my word was final.
I think that secretly Billingsley was glad to have time to himself. He capitulated and scooted toward the post with a grin.
I was happy, too. At last, at long, long last, I was alone.
An explanation is called for.
I am not the most sociable of men. Human company tends to pale after a while. I value solitude as some men value gold, and I had enjoyed precious little of it since the expedition’s start. During our crossing of the prairie I was never alone. I rode at their side during the day, while at night their constant snores reminded me of their presence. Whenever I was inclined to venture off alone to paint or explore, Trevor always had at least one man go with me.
“You hired me to not only serve as your guide, Mr. Parker, but to bring you back to civilization safe and hale, and that is exactly what I intend to do, with or without your cooperation.”
While I admired Trevor’s devotion to duty, I was frustrated to no end by the lack of privacy.
At Bent’s Fort the situation was compounded many times over. Yes, St. Vrain graciously gave me a room, but I neglected to mention it was in use as a supply room, and he had his employees clean it out so I would have a niche of my own. A niche it was, too, with barely enough room for the cot he had his people fetch. There were no windows, only four close walls. During the day it was stifling and at night little better. I used it only for sleep, and then only to be polite to my host.
So here I was, outside the Fort and on my own. I promptly gathered my supplies and my easel and hiked to the northwest. I wanted to capture the entire post, including the picturesque teepees and the circle of wagons. For the proper perspective I needed to be as far from everything as practical.
I hummed to myself as I strolled along. The day was hot but not unbearably so. A sluggish breeze brought licks of relief now and again.
I was not worried about the Crows. Their camp was hundreds of yards to the south, and they paid no more attention to white men wandering about than they would to birds or butterflies. Besides which, they would never cause trouble so near the fort. The brothers and St. Vrain had an inviolate rule: trouble-makers were banished from trading, the length of the banishment depending on the severity of their misconduct. Not only that, the troublemaker’s tribe was also banned. To the Indians, many of whom depended on the post for trade articles they could not obtain anywhere else, being banned was a calamity of the first order. As a result, the tribes were always on their best behavior.
Bent’s Fort was a neutral zone where animosities were forgotten in the interest of the greater good for all. Thus it was that on occasion tribes at war with one another showed up at the trading post at the same time yet coexisted in perfect harmony for the duration of their stay. Once they were back in their own territories, they resumed killing one another with savage abandon.
I ask you, is there anything more fickle than human nature? And no, I am not singling out the red man in this regard. The white man is equally guilty of slaughtering his brothers and sisters on the flimsiest of pretexts. We, too, have our truces and our periods of peace, but has there ever been a time in our history when somewhere on the globe a war was not being waged and blood was not being spilled by the gallon?
If I sound cynical, it is only because I am. I have lost much of my faith in my fellow man. I prefer the honest beasts of the forest and the field to the devious beasts of city and town who preach love but practice lies, deceit, and carnage on a scale to stagger the mind.
Again I have digressed.
I came to a likely spot on a low mound about a quarter of a mile from the fort, and there set up my easel. I was still humming, which might account for why I did not hear the riders until they were a stone’s throw away. I glanced around sharply, saw they were white men, and went back to work. I was not so cynical that I distrusted every living soul on sight.
I expected the riders to go on their way to the trading post, and I gave them no more thought until I had an odd feeling I was being watched. I was mildly surprised to find the trio had reined up and were regarding me as I might regard an albino antelope. “Gentlemen,” I said cordially, and went back to my canvas.
“What in tarnation are you fixing to do, mister?”
Without looking to see which one had spoken, I replied, “I should think it is obvious. I am about to paint.”
“No fooling?”
“I am very much in earnest, yes.”
“Where did you come from?” another inquired.
“East of the Mississippi, where most everyone comes from,” I responded. “Now if you will excuse me, I want to get this done before the sun goes down.” I thought that would be the end of it and applied the brush with delicate strokes. I was so absorbed, I did not realize they had dismounted until a shadow fell across me. I glanced up.
They were scruffy specimens, these newcomers. Granted, most frontiersmen are always in need of a bath and their clothes in need of washing, but these three apparently considered cleanliness a state to be avoided at all costs. Their hair was greasy, their beards unkempt. Their buckskins were fit to be burned. All three bristled with weapons. Their hard, almost cruel faces betrayed not so much as a hint of friendliness.
“Gentlemen,” I said again. “What can I do for you? Perhaps you did not hear me, but I am busy.”
“Oh, we heard you, all right,” said the man in the center. He was of middling height and build, not the least bit remarkable in any respect except for his dark eyes, which glittered in a disturbing fashion. “And I can’t say I cared for your tone.”
“I meant no disrespect,” I said, and introduced myself.
“I’m Jess Hook,” the man revealed. “This ugly cuss on my right is my brother, Jordy. Our ma was partial to names that begin with J.”
His sibling was distinguished by a nose as huge as I ever beheld. It reminded me of a bird of prey’s beak. I smiled but received only a cold stare.
“This other coon is Cutter.”
The man in question had a knife on each hip and another wedged under his belt near the buckle. Thin and wiry, he sported a vivid scar that ran from his right ear to his chin. At one time he had apparently been dealt a fearsome blow. In healing, the skin pinched inward, so that half his face was disfigured. His eyes were flat and lifeless. The only thing I can think to compare them to were the eyes of a shark I once saw that had been netted and hung on a dock.
“Is that his first or his last name?” I asked.
“Neither. It is just what we call him,” Jess Hook said. He gazed toward Bent Fort’s, then at me. “Didn’t
