River, dodgin' the Blackfeet, makin' cold camps and sometimes thinkin' my time was up, and all the time livin' wonderful, loose and free's ary animal. That's some, that is."
"Lord God!"
"A man gets a taste for it."
The hunter filled his pipe. His eye went around the camp site. Most of the men were down, but not yet asleep. An uneasy murmur came from them. "Git the French away from water and they ain't worth a damn, but they shine with a boat."
Jourdonnais came over to them and sat down sighing, as if he had a weight of trouble on him. "Sacre crapaud!" he said softly.
"Sickness, and so soon."
"No cause to worry about these two," answered Summers between puffs on his pipe. "They'll stick, I'm bettin'."
Jourdonnais looked at Jim and then at Boone.
"We aim to go where the boat goes," Jim said, "long as you're payin' us."
"And you, Caudill?"
"I come a right smart piece a'ready. I ain't turnin' back."
"You are signed," said Jourdonnais, as if to clinch the matter. "The deserter 'ave hard time."
He got out a cigar and lit it from Summers' pipe. When he drew on it the small red glow spread to his face. "She's a long night."
The hunter knocked the heel from his pipe. "How's Romaine?"
"Ah! All right. He complain, but he stick. He is with me a long time, and always faithful."
"That makes three of us, for watches."
"Oui. We watch."
"B'God, we better, if we want a crew. It'll be better, away from the settlements. That is, if we git by Leavenworth."
"Pouff! They find no whisky on the Mandan , except what is permit' the crew."
"We got to be slick."
"A good wind, and night. Pouff!"
"Take away the whisky and we won't have but a smidgen of goods to trade with."
The patron stroked his black mustache. Under it his mouth eased into a grin. "Six cats, too."
"How much you figger for them?"
Jourdonnais shrugged. "One plew, two each. Maybe more if the mice are enough."
They talked quietly, like men spending time speaking of little things while a bigger one was in their thoughts. They reminded Boone of people around a body waiting for the preacher to get started.
"And you'd still have the Injun girl," Jim broke in. It was like him to speak up, trying to prize out information. In his mind's eye Boone saw the Indian child, a little splinter of a girl who was all eyes in a thin face. His gaze went to the stem of the Mandan , where Jourdonnais had rigged a buffalo-robe shelter for her against the cargo box. He heard again what Jourdonnais had said the first night out. "You men, you leave the Indian enfant alone. No talk. No play. No hands on her. Summers will shoot, by God, dead anyone who monkey. Leave alone! You understand?"
Answering Jim, Jourdonnais' voice was soft. "The little squaw. Ah! With an eye like the bluewing teal."
"We'll raise hell in the Blackfoot nation," said Summers. "Alcohol and guns and powder and ball."
"Good business. They want it."
"The other side of Leavenworth," the hunter went on, "all we have to bother ourselves with is the Company. And afterwards, if we slide by that new fort, Union, there's the Blackfeet and maybe the British."
"Business is danger. We lose, maybe. Maybe we make money."
"It ain't worth it, for the money."
"You go," said Jourdonnais. "You are my partner."
"Not for the money so much."
Jourdonnais' shoulders came up to his ears and fell back. "All hunters are crazy. You like the lonely fire, the danger, what you call the freedom and, sometime, the squaw. We like silver in the pocket, people, wine, song, women. We ascend the river only for the return."
"This child don't feel easy in his mind about them sick ones in the boat."
"We do what we can. Now it is up to God." Jourdonnais went back to his subject. "But you are not all mountain man, Summers. Half of you is grayback farmer."
"So?"
"Oh, not that you are not brave, my frien'. Oui , you are brave for a certainty. But you are not hard and rough and cruel, like some. You do not go off, like the hermit, to stay
"Lord God!"
"A man gets a taste for it."
The hunter filled his pipe. His eye went around the camp site. Most of the men were down, but not yet asleep. An uneasy murmur came from them. "Git the French away from water and they ain't worth a damn, but they shine with a boat."
Jourdonnais came over to them and sat down sighing, as if he had a weight of trouble on him. "Sacre crapaud!" he said softly.
"Sickness, and so soon."
"No cause to worry about these two," answered Summers between puffs on his pipe. "They'll stick, I'm bettin'."
Jourdonnais looked at Jim and then at Boone.
"We aim to go where the boat goes," Jim said, "long as you're payin' us."
"And you, Caudill?"
"I come a right smart piece a'ready. I ain't turnin' back."
"You are signed," said Jourdonnais, as if to clinch the matter. "The deserter 'ave hard time."
He got out a cigar and lit it from Summers' pipe. When he drew on it the small red glow spread to his face. "She's a long night."
The hunter knocked the heel from his pipe. "How's Romaine?"
"Ah! All right. He complain, but he stick. He is with me a long time, and always faithful."
"That makes three of us, for watches."
"Oui. We watch."
"B'God, we better, if we want a crew. It'll be better, away from the settlements. That is, if we git by Leavenworth."
"Pouff! They find no whisky on the Mandan , except what is permit' the crew."
"We got to be slick."
"A good wind, and night. Pouff!"
"Take away the whisky and we won't have but a smidgen of goods to trade with."
The patron stroked his black mustache. Under it his mouth eased into a grin. "Six cats, too."
"How much you figger for them?"
Jourdonnais shrugged. "One plew, two each. Maybe more if the mice are enough."
They talked quietly, like men spending time speaking of little things while a bigger one was in their thoughts. They reminded Boone of people around a body waiting for the preacher to get started.
"And you'd still have the Injun girl," Jim broke in. It was like him to speak up, trying to prize out information. In his mind's eye Boone saw the Indian child, a little splinter of a girl who was all eyes in a thin face. His gaze went to the stem of the Mandan , where Jourdonnais had rigged a buffalo-robe shelter for her against the cargo box. He heard again what Jourdonnais had said the first night out. "You men, you leave the Indian enfant alone. No talk. No play. No hands on her. Summers will shoot, by God, dead anyone who monkey. Leave alone! You understand?"
Answering Jim, Jourdonnais' voice was soft. "The little squaw. Ah! With an eye like the bluewing teal."
"We'll raise hell in the Blackfoot nation," said Summers. "Alcohol and guns and powder and ball."
"Good business. They want it."
"The other side of Leavenworth," the hunter went on, "all we have to bother ourselves with is the Company. And afterwards, if we slide by that new fort, Union, there's the Blackfeet and maybe the British."
"Business is danger. We lose, maybe. Maybe we make money."
"It ain't worth it, for the money."
"You go," said Jourdonnais. "You are my partner."
"Not for the money so much."
Jourdonnais' shoulders came up to his ears and fell back. "All hunters are crazy. You like the lonely fire, the danger, what you call the freedom and, sometime, the squaw. We like silver in the pocket, people, wine, song, women. We ascend the river only for the return."
"This child don't feel easy in his mind about them sick ones in the boat."
"We do what we can. Now it is up to God." Jourdonnais went back to his subject. "But you are not all mountain man, Summers. Half of you is grayback farmer."
"So?"
"Oh, not that you are not brave, my frien'. Oui , you are brave for a certainty. But you are not hard and rough and cruel, like some. You do not go off, like the hermit, to stay
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