up to Westport about the first of October and spent ten days investing in the best livestock they could find. And putting together a crew. And buying some wagons to transport Stewart’s show animals back. And buying gear, and seed. On October 21st they set out for Laramie.
Mac had hopes. He could get a good stake out of this—if he could avoid getting robbed, did some good trading, kept his animals healthy, kept the redskins away from them, and if and if and if.
Making a home base of Fort Platte, where this girl’s daddy was boss, would be a good start.
He wondered if he’d have time this winter to journey north to visit with Annemarie. Strikes Foot said they’d winter on Clear Creek—a couple of hundred miles. He doubted it, not in the snow.
Mac Maclean looked forward and saw Skinhead on a hill a couple of miles ahead. He didn’t reach for his Dolland—a fine telescope, gift of Sir William. No need to look. If Skinhead was willing to skyline himself, everything was fine.
Chapter 11
Hard-face moon
“Oh, that Little One,” Genet would say, indicating Lisette, rolling his eyes. And that would be all. “Little One and that One-Dollar,” he’d say with an air of exasperation, “they just rutted.” Little One was Lisette’s nickname, from the Sioux.
One-Dollar was the young Sioux Skinhead had killed. Genet Frenchified his name to “Dollaire.” Fortunately for Mac, he was a hang-around-the-forts Sioux and a drinker, not prized by his people.
Genet fascinated Paul the Blue.
The French partisan went around the fort with a long face. It was his conviction that the French explored North America, they created the fur trade, the English did nothing but colonize a little strip along the seacoast, and the whole should belong to France. “Damme,” he’d say, making it sound like the French femme . “Even the Indian word for white man is ‘Frenchman.’”
All this he proclaimed at breakfast, dinner, and supper, and mumbled in between. Aside from that, the trade was going to hell anyway, the Indians were bestial, the whites were worse because they should have known better, his wife was unfaithful and now she was dead, the weather would turn rotten tomorrow, and his daughter was ungrateful, meaning promiscuous.
To Mac and Skinhead the Frenchman was simply a sad sack. To Paul the Blue, an unlettered carpenter, he was a sensitive man, a man of melancholy, in tune with the sad music that was human life.
It was John Baptiste Reshaw that Blue couldn’t stand. He was a young French-Canadian trader, sharp, tough, cynical, and the firewater connection. Every summer he went to Mexico and smuggled back Taos lightning. Reshaw was also the brains of the fort, and the reason it gave Laramie good competition.
Blue’s problem with him was that he thought Genet contemptible, Lisette beddable, and everything amusing.
Sometimes at supper Genet would tell tales of the beautiful, heartbreaking music his mother used to make on the clavichord back in Montreal. His mother died young, Genet said—the best die young—and she made music like an angel. And after this mournful table conversation he would retire to his quarters and fiddle the evening away, scratching out the sentimental songs of the voyageurs , the French boatmen who first explored the forests of North America, in canoes. He never played for other people.
Blue liked to prop his huge frame against an adobe wall outside and listen rapt—the music was soulful, he said. Even Skinhead could be drawn to this solitary music-making. Lisette mocked the fiddling, as she mocked everything about her father.
Blue didn’t care what she said. He was in love with her.
All this mattered little to Mac. Genet was cooperative, even ingratiating about practical matters. Mac was welcome to trade livestock here next summer—that would surely draw customers to Genet’s humble post. Yes, certainly, Genet was glad for Mac to build corrals. Since the corrals would remain, Genet would
Mac had hopes. He could get a good stake out of this—if he could avoid getting robbed, did some good trading, kept his animals healthy, kept the redskins away from them, and if and if and if.
Making a home base of Fort Platte, where this girl’s daddy was boss, would be a good start.
He wondered if he’d have time this winter to journey north to visit with Annemarie. Strikes Foot said they’d winter on Clear Creek—a couple of hundred miles. He doubted it, not in the snow.
Mac Maclean looked forward and saw Skinhead on a hill a couple of miles ahead. He didn’t reach for his Dolland—a fine telescope, gift of Sir William. No need to look. If Skinhead was willing to skyline himself, everything was fine.
Chapter 11
Hard-face moon
“Oh, that Little One,” Genet would say, indicating Lisette, rolling his eyes. And that would be all. “Little One and that One-Dollar,” he’d say with an air of exasperation, “they just rutted.” Little One was Lisette’s nickname, from the Sioux.
One-Dollar was the young Sioux Skinhead had killed. Genet Frenchified his name to “Dollaire.” Fortunately for Mac, he was a hang-around-the-forts Sioux and a drinker, not prized by his people.
Genet fascinated Paul the Blue.
The French partisan went around the fort with a long face. It was his conviction that the French explored North America, they created the fur trade, the English did nothing but colonize a little strip along the seacoast, and the whole should belong to France. “Damme,” he’d say, making it sound like the French femme . “Even the Indian word for white man is ‘Frenchman.’”
All this he proclaimed at breakfast, dinner, and supper, and mumbled in between. Aside from that, the trade was going to hell anyway, the Indians were bestial, the whites were worse because they should have known better, his wife was unfaithful and now she was dead, the weather would turn rotten tomorrow, and his daughter was ungrateful, meaning promiscuous.
To Mac and Skinhead the Frenchman was simply a sad sack. To Paul the Blue, an unlettered carpenter, he was a sensitive man, a man of melancholy, in tune with the sad music that was human life.
It was John Baptiste Reshaw that Blue couldn’t stand. He was a young French-Canadian trader, sharp, tough, cynical, and the firewater connection. Every summer he went to Mexico and smuggled back Taos lightning. Reshaw was also the brains of the fort, and the reason it gave Laramie good competition.
Blue’s problem with him was that he thought Genet contemptible, Lisette beddable, and everything amusing.
Sometimes at supper Genet would tell tales of the beautiful, heartbreaking music his mother used to make on the clavichord back in Montreal. His mother died young, Genet said—the best die young—and she made music like an angel. And after this mournful table conversation he would retire to his quarters and fiddle the evening away, scratching out the sentimental songs of the voyageurs , the French boatmen who first explored the forests of North America, in canoes. He never played for other people.
Blue liked to prop his huge frame against an adobe wall outside and listen rapt—the music was soulful, he said. Even Skinhead could be drawn to this solitary music-making. Lisette mocked the fiddling, as she mocked everything about her father.
Blue didn’t care what she said. He was in love with her.
All this mattered little to Mac. Genet was cooperative, even ingratiating about practical matters. Mac was welcome to trade livestock here next summer—that would surely draw customers to Genet’s humble post. Yes, certainly, Genet was glad for Mac to build corrals. Since the corrals would remain, Genet would
Similar Books
