Nate shrugged. “About fifteen to eighteen, I reckon.”
“Oh, it’s more than that. The Wards, the Kendals, and there are many others. It’s closer to two dozen, I would say. Enough, I imagine, to support the new general store that has opened for business.”
Genuine shock gripped Nate. Stores and taverns were cornerstones of civilization, and until this moment he had cherished the reality that civilization, with all its many ills, was a thousand miles away, far across the prairie and the wide Mississippi. “Please tell me you’re jesting.”
“Would that I were. I don’t appreciate having competition, but it’s competition on a small scale. They don’t sell nearly as much as we do. Mainly the basics, and drink and food.”
“You’ve been there?”
“A social call, to be polite. And to gauge how they’ll cut into our profits.” St. Vrain grinned. “They sell coffee.”
“Where is this place?”
“About four miles northeast of your old cabin, along the foothills. They built it in a basin they call Mud Hollow. There’s a creek but no one has given it a name yet. The man who runs the store calls himself Toad,” St. Vrain chuckled. “I kid you not.”
“What is he like?”
“The name fits. But do you want to hear something even more interesting? This Toad has five helpers. His clerks, he calls them. You met the gentlemen a few minutes ago. They were here to buy flour and sugar from us. Seems their own shipment was short.”
“You mean…?”
“Yes. Those men you encountered on your way in. Mr. Petrie and Mr. Geist and the others.”
“Petrie doesn’t strike me as the store clerk type.”
“Me, neither,” St. Vrain said.
Nate gazed out over the west wall toward the distant mountains. “So what you’re saying is that there is more to this than meets the eye?”
“I suspect so, yes. And I thought you would like to know.”
“Damn,” Nate King said.
Chapter Four
The foothills rose in serial ranks. Those covered with more grass than trees were light green; those covered with more trees than grass were dark green. Interspersed here and there was the brown of barren hills, the ground too rocky to support plant life.
The new trading post was easy enough to find.
Rutted tracks left by the wagons that hauled the trade goods wound among the hills to a broad hollow. A meandering creek had formed a pond so shallow it looked to be more mud than water. Thus, evidently, the name the owner of the store had chosen—Mud Hollow.
The store was well constructed. It was two stories, the bottom built from pine logs, the top from boards. There were windows with glass. There were also gun ports, a lot of gun ports, on all four sides. A corral was at the rear, a long hitch rail in front. A large sign proclaimed to the world that it was TOAD’S MERCANTILE.
“I’ll be damned,” Nate said.
“Why?” Chases Rabbits asked.
The young warrior and his companions had accompanied Nate from Bent’s Fort. Cradled in Chases Rabbits’ arm was his new rifle, a smoothbore with a thirty-inch barrel, manufactured in London.
Nate didn’t mind the company. In fact, he’d taken advantage and tried to talk his young friend out of venturing into Blackfoot territory. So far he hadn’t been successful.
“Big lodge,” Chases Rabbits said with a nod at the mercantile. “Heap important man live here.”
“He’d sure like you to think so.”
Several horses with saddles were at the hitch rail. In the corral were more without, milling or dozing. A short way past the mercantile, the three men Nate had seen with Geist and Petrie were erecting what appeared to be a stable or barn. All three, he noticed, kept pistols under their belts and knives in their sheaths as they went about their work.
“Me like this place,” Chases Rabbits said.
“We haven’t been inside yet.” Nate dismounted and tied the reins to the hitch rail.
The door was open. From inside came voices and laugher. A wide window revealed a counter that ran the length of the room and rows of shelves piled with goods. To one side were several tables with linen and silverware.
A man was staring back through the window at Nate. He smiled, then came outside, his hand outstretched as he had offered it at Bent’s Fort. “Mr. King. Fancy seeing you again so soon.”
“Mr. Geist,” Nate said.
“You must have heard about us at the fort and come for a look-see.”
“Something like that.”
“Allow me to show you around.” Geist smiled at the Crows. “You and your friends. Indians are always welcome. They’ll be a large part of our trade.”
“You’re in business with this Toad, then?”
“Oh, no,” Geist quickly answered. “Toad is the boss. I’m just another of the hired help.”
The inside smelled of tobacco smoke and food. In a corner sat a stove. By the counter was a pickle barrel.
Nate couldn’t get over it: a mercantile in the Rockies. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on over and I’ll introduce you.” Geist ushered them to the counter.
Behind it stood a remarkably grotesque individual. The man stood a few inches over five feet in height and was almost as wide as he was tall. His shoulders slumped, his body thickened at the middle, his legs were short and bowed, his feet wide and splayed. Then there was his face. It was broad across the chin but narrow at the brow. His brown eyes bulged as if seeking to burst from their sockets. His wide nose was flat, his mouth a slit. The total effect brought to mind the animal he was named after.
“Toad, I’d like you to meet Nate King,” Geist said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nate replied.
Toad’s bulging eyes fixed on him and he briefly touched a clammy palm to Nate’s. “Heard about you.”
Nate was dumfounded. The man’s voice sounded just like the croak of a real toad. His reaction must have shown, because the other frowned.
“You’re not one of those, are you?”
“Those?”
“The ones who look at me like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve had to put up with it all my life and I don’t like it one bit.”
“Now, Toad,” Geist said.
Toad colored and balled his thick fingers. “Well, I don’t,” he said sullenly. He shifted his bulging eyes back to Nate. “I’ve done a lot of asking around. They told me at Bent’s that you’re well thought of. One of the most respected men in the Rockies, St. Vrain said.”
“News to me,” Nate replied.
“Don’t be modest. Word is that you were a trapper once. You stayed on after the fur brigades disbanded and now you live deep in the mountains with a Shoshone wife and your family. The Shoshones even adopted you into their tribe, I understand. Grizzly Killer, the Indians call you.”
“You have been asking around.”
“I’m a businessman, King. And a businessman needs to know about those he might do business with. I came out to Bent’s a year ago and nosed around to see if I could make a go of it with my mercantile, and here I am.”
