angry.
Skinhead started dealing euchre. “She’s a cat, that one,” he observed.
Mac watched Blue restrain himself. Skinhead’s life and limb were momentarily in jeopardy. He didn’t notice.
“She just needs someone,” Blue choked out. His face was mottled.
Skinhead shrugged. “Little One has had everyone. She needs a lodgepoling. Ante.”
Mac put a hand on Blue’s wrist.
Genet’s voice came loud through the wall. “Right in my own home,” he yelled. The names he hollered included “slut.”
Mac took Blue by the arm and led him outside. Skinhead changed to solitaire.
“You can’t change a leopard’s spots,” Mac said softly.
For a moment Blue said nothing. They were walking toward the outfit’s wall tents. “She needs me,” Paul answered.
2
Mac regularly moved the livestock to better grass, fattening them for the long winter on the Laramie plains. Genet’s corn would get him through the bad months comfortably. At night Mac kept a close guard on the animals. He headed timber trips up the Laramie River. He oversaw Blue’s building of the corrals, cages for the captured animals, and more wagons.
And still he had too much time, time to think about his stake, his post on the Yellowstone. He got broody. He started thinking about those bales of trading goods sitting there not turned into furs. Mac was a good brooder—he had a knack for it and could make himself miserable. To recover his spirits, he would fantasize about Annemarie.
One morning he got up, sleepless, and told Blue to get ready—they were going traveling. A long way—to the Cheyennes.
Lisette insisted on making Mac a capote, a heavy, woolen coat. He couldn’t go on a winter journey with just blankets, could he? Like a poor Indian? This was December. She would have it ready before dinner, and they’d start out on full stomachs, wouldn’t they? Mac saved Little One’s life, and she wanted to do something for him.
Mac found it easier to give in than say no. And it was true that since Magpie robbed him, he was a poor man. Even now he didn’t have proper winter moccasins. He would have preferred showing up to see Annemarie looking rich.
He spent the morning getting ready. He would take four horses loaded with goods to trade. Blue was going along—Mac wanted to get the fellow away from Lisette. And Reshaw was going with them. The Fort Platte trader wanted to make contact with the Cheyennes, too, to invite them in to trade this spring.
Mac couldn’t very well refuse. He went out to look at the horse herd. He had told no one about Annemarie. They wondered why he was going all the way to Powder River country to visit some Cheyennes instead of trading with nearby Sioux. He kept his own counsel.
He eyed the horses thoughtfully. He could take ten extras now, make them a gift to Strikes Foot, and bring Annemarie back as his wife. He wanted to. He wanted to achingly.
But to Mac Maclean it didn’t make sense. By midsummer those ten horses would become twenty-five or thirty. And he had no appropriate quarters for her now—he didn’t want to start his married life in a tent outside the fort, or in a borrowed room in it. He wanted the master quarters in his own fort.
Mac went back into the fort. He would do what was sensible, and what required self-discipline.
They ate heartily. There was no denying, when starting out on a winter journey, a spirit of eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow you may die. Yet the young winter was mild—there were just thin patches of snow in spots. Only the incessant wind made men uncomfortable.
Little One stayed in Genet’s quarters during the meal, evidently finishing work on Mac’s capote.
Finally they were ready. “Lisette,” Mac called, holding the reins of his horse. The wind chilled him through his cloth shirt.
She came running with the capote. It was made from a blue Witney blanket, just like the one…
It was the one he shot.
Little One held it up, spread for him to see, smiling
Skinhead started dealing euchre. “She’s a cat, that one,” he observed.
Mac watched Blue restrain himself. Skinhead’s life and limb were momentarily in jeopardy. He didn’t notice.
“She just needs someone,” Blue choked out. His face was mottled.
Skinhead shrugged. “Little One has had everyone. She needs a lodgepoling. Ante.”
Mac put a hand on Blue’s wrist.
Genet’s voice came loud through the wall. “Right in my own home,” he yelled. The names he hollered included “slut.”
Mac took Blue by the arm and led him outside. Skinhead changed to solitaire.
“You can’t change a leopard’s spots,” Mac said softly.
For a moment Blue said nothing. They were walking toward the outfit’s wall tents. “She needs me,” Paul answered.
2
Mac regularly moved the livestock to better grass, fattening them for the long winter on the Laramie plains. Genet’s corn would get him through the bad months comfortably. At night Mac kept a close guard on the animals. He headed timber trips up the Laramie River. He oversaw Blue’s building of the corrals, cages for the captured animals, and more wagons.
And still he had too much time, time to think about his stake, his post on the Yellowstone. He got broody. He started thinking about those bales of trading goods sitting there not turned into furs. Mac was a good brooder—he had a knack for it and could make himself miserable. To recover his spirits, he would fantasize about Annemarie.
One morning he got up, sleepless, and told Blue to get ready—they were going traveling. A long way—to the Cheyennes.
Lisette insisted on making Mac a capote, a heavy, woolen coat. He couldn’t go on a winter journey with just blankets, could he? Like a poor Indian? This was December. She would have it ready before dinner, and they’d start out on full stomachs, wouldn’t they? Mac saved Little One’s life, and she wanted to do something for him.
Mac found it easier to give in than say no. And it was true that since Magpie robbed him, he was a poor man. Even now he didn’t have proper winter moccasins. He would have preferred showing up to see Annemarie looking rich.
He spent the morning getting ready. He would take four horses loaded with goods to trade. Blue was going along—Mac wanted to get the fellow away from Lisette. And Reshaw was going with them. The Fort Platte trader wanted to make contact with the Cheyennes, too, to invite them in to trade this spring.
Mac couldn’t very well refuse. He went out to look at the horse herd. He had told no one about Annemarie. They wondered why he was going all the way to Powder River country to visit some Cheyennes instead of trading with nearby Sioux. He kept his own counsel.
He eyed the horses thoughtfully. He could take ten extras now, make them a gift to Strikes Foot, and bring Annemarie back as his wife. He wanted to. He wanted to achingly.
But to Mac Maclean it didn’t make sense. By midsummer those ten horses would become twenty-five or thirty. And he had no appropriate quarters for her now—he didn’t want to start his married life in a tent outside the fort, or in a borrowed room in it. He wanted the master quarters in his own fort.
Mac went back into the fort. He would do what was sensible, and what required self-discipline.
They ate heartily. There was no denying, when starting out on a winter journey, a spirit of eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow you may die. Yet the young winter was mild—there were just thin patches of snow in spots. Only the incessant wind made men uncomfortable.
Little One stayed in Genet’s quarters during the meal, evidently finishing work on Mac’s capote.
Finally they were ready. “Lisette,” Mac called, holding the reins of his horse. The wind chilled him through his cloth shirt.
She came running with the capote. It was made from a blue Witney blanket, just like the one…
It was the one he shot.
Little One held it up, spread for him to see, smiling
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