But that had stopped when he returned from the Indian war, as had all of the tenderness in their intimate moments. She found herself during that brief dream longing for that. But she couldn’t find Isaac, and when she snagged her healing toe on a rent in one of the hides, the pain startled her.
She remembered where she was and stayed awake the rest of the night.
Morning finally came—another clear blue sky, unseasonably warm.
When they emerged from their tent, they saw Cull down by the river packing his canoes. One held several barrels of whiskey among other containers.
Marté was seated directly outside, waiting, smiling slyly at them as he drilled into a huge bear canine that would eventually become part of a necklace. His expression conveyed amusement, either for their precautions or for a projected intimacy between Emmy and Jojo. In either case, his tone barely concealed contempt.
“Madame would like the services of guardians into the gathering?” he asked.
Emmy waited.
Hearing no response, he went on, “I am told there will be many of the peoples of this region at this potlatch. I am told there will be visitors there who very well may have what you seek. I know them. I know them well.”
Emmy looked over at Jojo for some direction.
“We will speak directly with Ksi Amawaal,” Jojo said. His hand was on his knife. “He is expecting us,” he lied.
Marté considered this, sneered dismissively, and rose.
When Emmy did not correct Jojo’s assertion, Marté spat onto the ground.
“As you wish.” Marté walked down to the canoe and spoke briefly to Cull, then returned.
“You will have no objections if we move upriver to the potlatch with you? It is dangerous in these parts,” he said and laughed to himself. “Everyone comes to these potlatches looking for something. And everyone departs with something.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
And so, they moved upstream, keeping Marté and Cull visible in front of them but far enough away that a musket shot from them would be difficult.
Jojo and Emmy both paddled, while Sarah sat in the second canoe and kept watch on the other tow-behind.
They were all nervous about their new company.
Emmy had concealed the gold in a small chest under several skins. The rest of the gifts—copper, iron, glass, several beautifully polished and semiprecious stones, fine lace, various small implements such as a large assortment of thimbles, and nails in gross bundles—were individually wrapped in linen or buckskin.
But it wasn’t their belongings that concerned them. Marté and Cull were desperate, despicable men, unpredictable and without honor.
Jojo told Emmy that, when they arrived at the Three Spirits Valley sometime next week, they must somehow find their way to Ksi Amawaal before Marté and Cull could mingle into the festivities. The two trappers would certainly expose their presence to the Northerners if they arrived first. Jojo knew he had to immediately invoke Ksi Amawaal’s protection for the two white females.
Emmy was exhausted from a sleepless night. While paddling, after seeing that Sarah had fallen asleep in the canoe behind and could not hear, she asked Jojo about Marté and Cull.
“I am told that Marté came from a place they call ’Keybeck,’ far east of here,” Jojo said. “He arrived in this region twelve years ago, and I remember seeing him when I was a little boy. He traded furs and other things to men on the ships, and my father said he always had information about every deal that went on all around. That’s what I remember.”
Jojo paddled for a while, then continued, “For a short time, he traveled with old Antoine Bill, a Suquamish Metís who translated for the King George Men. When Antoine Bill finally got himself killed because he lied one too many times, that Marté fella tried doing translation in Chinook. But he wasn’t very good at most of the people’s words. So I am told he went on to other things.
“As for Cull, I don’t know much about that man except that he carries two big knives and eats his meat raw. He is mean like a poked dog. You saw him last night. I know about two gold diggers from a place called LaBama who argued with him one night. They both disappeared a few days later. They never came back for their grubstakes, so many thought he killed them. If so, nobody ever found their bodies. Some say he ate them.”
Emmy shuddered.
She felt for the pepperbox in her cloak, hoped the powder was dry. Furious at the inept, rule-bound Brit captain who had refused to send men, she ran her thumb over the hammer, seeking some assurance from the weapon.
She had come to understand the Americans’ reasons for declining. They might be facing down the Brits right now. Maybe that’s why the Brits hadn’t returned to their post at Fort Simpson.
She also thought about the first time she saw Pickett, and it strangely stirred her— but she could not afford to hold on to that thought . . . dismissed it with the feeling that she was stronger than him . . . but knew, insecure as she sensed he was at his core, that he was probably an efficient killer like so many of the military she had met over the years . . . and wished that she could have had George Pickett with them right now.
In the presence of killers, it didn’t matter if someone who was on your side was a good person, just that he was calm and competent.
She wished that Isaac had not gotten himself killed. That thought made her angry with him, and then, holding back a shiv-like piercing that
