billowing up from one of the buildings. Fire was leaping from the roof.
âWe better get down there. Those folks are going to need help,â another shouted.
A crowd gathered quickly around Dunniganâs store, and Art went with them, watching as the building burned furiously. From up the street he heard the sound of a clanging bell and galloping horses.
âHere comes the fire engine!â someone shouted.
âAinât nothinâ left they can do,â another said.
The team pulling the fire wagon came to a halt in front of the burning building. The driver and his assistant jumped down from the wagon seat and began playing out the hoses.
âYou men . . . get on the pumps!â the driver shouted and a half-dozen men, three on each side, began pumping the handles to build up the pressure. Within a shorter time than Art would have imagined, a powerful stream of water gushed from the hose toward the fire. Others present grabbed buckets and began replacing the water in the tank that was pumped out by the men on the pump handles.
After several minutes of diligent application of the water, the men gained control of the fire. The flames drew down, then disappeared altogether. After several more minutes, even the large billows of smoke were gone, replaced by a few smoldering embers. The building was totally destroyed, but quick action had prevented the fire from spreading to the adjacent buildings.
* * *
In LaBargeâs Tavern that evening, Art learned that, in addition to the storeowner, Danny Dunnigan, four other men had lost their lives in the explosion and fire.
âOne of âem mustâve been smokinâ a pipe,â someone said. âYouâd think a fella would have better sense than to smoke a pipe while he was workinâ around gunpowder.â
âMcDill, I done seen you smokinâ around gunpowder lots of times,â someone said.
At the mention of the name, Art looked up to see who McDill was. McDill, he knew, was one of the two men who had created the problem with the Arikara.
McDill was a big man with a flat nose and a scar that hooked down across his left eye, causing a deformation of the eyelid before it disappeared into a bushy, red beard.
âWell, Iâll tell you this,â McDill said. âI got me enough sense to know how to do it without gettinâ my fool head blowed off, which is more than you can say for Thompson now, ainât it?â
âThompson was one of the men killed?â another patron asked. âGeorge Thompson?â
âOne and the same.â
âWhy, Thompson was supposed to lead Ashleyâs trading party, wasnât he?â
âHe was supposed to,â McDill said. He chuckled. âBut I donât reckon heâll be doinâ that now.â
âWho you think Ashley will get to lead the party, now that Thompsonâs got hisself killed?â
âWell, I reckon itâll either be me, or Ben Caviness there?â McDill said. He pointed to one of the men who was sharing his table. That man was nearly as big as McDill, but dark-haired and clean-shaven. âEither one of us could do the job all right.â
âBetterân all right,â Caviness said, his massive arms crossed against his chest.
Ben Caviness, Art knew, was the other man who had traded whiskey to the Arikara. The damage he and McDill had done had set back relations between the Indians and the whites, possibly for good. At least it would take some sincere talking and trading to win back the trust of the tribes who had once been friendly to the white fur trappers.
âPercy McDill, there ainât no way in hell William Ashley is goinâ to let either one of you lead that party,â a patron said. âEverâbody knows you two is the ones that caused all the troubles with the Indians last year.â
â âTwas a misunderstandinâ is all,â McDill said. âThere waânt nothinâ
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