The Morning River

  Green spoke to one of the servants and then took a chair opposite Hartman's. He grinned and rubbed the end of his thick nose. The light glinted in his blond hair. "You don't look much better than the last time I saw you."

  Travis fingered the scars crisscrossing his face. "I'd look a sight worse if n ye'd not taken care of me, Dave. Ye were a damned fool risking yer scalp that way." Hartman smiled, aware of what the action did to his face. "But this child's plumb grateful ye did."

  Hartman didn't look up as the plate slid in front of him. The server retreated rapidly. Hartman glanced up to see the woman wincing. At that, he became aware of his sweat-stained buckskins. "Reckon I'm a hair ripe. Winter's not the time fer bathing. Not in cold like this."

  Green waved it away. "Get yourself a bath tomorrow."

  Travis reached for the hot roast pork on his plate, caught himself halfway there, and picked up the fork, grinning. "Reckon it's been a while since I had the hang of a God-honest eating tool a'sides me knife."

  "How have you been?" Green asked, dropping his voice. "You still got hair under that hat, or have the Blackfeet taken your topknot?"

  "Still got hair." Hartman attacked the steaming meat, washing it down with strong ale from a tin mug. As the plate emptied, Green motioned for more. They sat in easy silence as only old friends can do.

  Three plates later, Hartman pushed the dish back and belched long and loud. "Good fixings, I dare say." He glanced at Green over the rim of his mug. "I was settling down ter a pleasant winter by the fire, doing a mite of hunting, and swapping lies at Pratte's post. Got word there that you wanted ter see me in Saint Louis. Cal Cummings run me down."

  "How is old Cal?"

  "Notional. Like always."

  Green tapped his blunt chin with a finger. "I thought about him. Thought about old John Tyler, too. Both good men. But I think I need you, Travis."

  Hartman waited, watching the little muscles around Green's mouth tighten.

  Green took a swallow of ale. "I did well in the Santa Fe trade. Made enough to outfit a boat. I took a big chance and bought a pile of trade goods. Invested everything I had."

  "And just where are ye planning on doing this trade, Dave?"

  Green rocked his tilted mug on the dark wood of the table top. "Mouth of the Big Horn. Remember Lisa's old Fort Raymond? The same place. I want to corner the Crow trade."

  Hartman leaned forward. "Pilcher tried that. Built Fort Benton. Remember what happened to Immel and Jones? Bug's Boys—the Blackfoot—done shut that country off to Americans."

  "I think we can handle the Blackfeet." Green grinned. "The Crow are mostly cut off since Lisa's death. They'd have a stake in helping us keep shy of Blackfeet."

  Hartman stared into the frothy head on his ale. "I'll be plumb damned. Just how much did ye make off'n Santy Fee?"

  "Between you and me . . . about eighteen thousand dollars. That's in silver, too. Not banknotes. If I play this right, Travis, I can control the Crow trade." Green pointed his finger. "Time's going to run out on the Blackfeet. Everyone on earth hates them."

  " 'Cept the British."

  "Who in hell are the British? No, you listen, old friend. The country's changing. I know the Crow. Good people. We get them the guns, give them a fair price for their furs, and they'll help us whip the Blackfeet. Name a tribe up the Missouri that would ally with the Blackfeet when they—"

  "Atsinas."

  "—could take an opportunity to . . . Atsinas? They're not that tight with Bug's Boys, are they? Myself, I just think the Atsina ally with the Blackfeet because no one else likes them. The Arapaho are related—and they don't even like them. Besides, I think a little influence in the right place with the Arapaho could split 'em away."

  Hartman twisted callused fingers into his beard and tugged thoughtfully.

  Green waved his hand. "Travis, twenty years ago folks thought Tecumseh and his Shawnee couldn't be whipped. Twenty years from now, people will look back on the Blackfeet the same way. As die Blackfeet are whittled away, I can help my Crow move right into those prime beaver lands. And that's just the beginning. We can expand our posts. Place one at the bend of the Yellowstone where it runs out of the mountains. Another up the Big Horn at the Hot Springs. And still another at the Three Forks. In thirty years I expect to control all the trade in the upper Yellowstone/'

  Hartman chuckled. "If you don't take all Hob."

  "Manuel Lisa taught me well. Reach for those things most men think lie just beyond their grasp. Act while they're still trying to make up their minds. Be there by the time they finally get started."

  "Don't have ter remind ye that Manuel Lisa died young, do I?"

  Green ran a hand over his hair. "I've promised myself that I'm going to die sitting by a big roaring fire smack dab in the middle of my post. And when that day finally comes, I'm going to be the only trader on the upper rivers."

  Hartman slapped the table. "By God, ye just might at that. Is that why ye sent fer me?"

  "I want you with me, Travis. I'm going to need a strong right hand, a hunter and scout. You know the river as well as any man alive. You lived with the Crow—married that girl. You can talk Mandan, Crow, and some Sioux, Ree, and Pawnee. You can sign-talk as if you were a born Injun. They respect you, Travis. You got yourself special medicine, grizzly medicine." Green stared soberly into Travis's eyes. "I've staked everything I've got on this. I'm calling in my debt."

  Hartman sucked at his lips for a moment and grunted. "Ye don't have ter call in no debt. I reckon I'll throw my stick in with yers just ter see how it all plays out." He paused. "I'll be stitched. Young Davey Green, a rich boosh-way. Got hisself a boat cram full of trade goods, a title, and government permit all set ter—"

  "That's the other thing,"

  "What other thing?"

  "The other reason I need you."

  Hartman raised an eyebrow.

  Green shrugged. "You see . . . well, it's the permit. Clark won't issue me a trading permit. I'm still working on it but it's Ashley, Pratte, Chouteau, and the others. You know the politics, the wealth that can be made. I intend on having a share, seeing this thing through. I may have to get my boat, cargo, and men upriver—illegally."

  "Now that, old hoss, is going ter take a mite of doing." Green smiled grimly. "That's why I need you. I think I know how we can do it. . . but I must have someone I can trust with me."

  The bitter night air bit into Richard's bones as he walked past darkened shops. Countless feet had packed the snow on the walk into a treacherous ice. His breath puffed around him like a personal fog.

  The invitation from Will Templeton had come that afternoon; a reception, in his honor, was being held that evening. All of his friends would be there, and he couldn't stand the thought of facing them. Better to take to the streets and avoid such an inquisition.

  Yes, much better this way, he assured himself. He was leaving Boston on Monday. By the time he returned from distant Saint Louis, it would be late summer, and everyone would have forgotten the reception—and the fact that the guest of honor hadn't been there.

  "Richard!" a voice cried from a carriage clattering down Union Street. He turned to see the cab slow to a stop and Will Templeton lean out, gesturing. "Come on! I've been searching high and low for you. You didn't forget our party, did you?"

  With a sinking sensation, Richard swallowed his pride and climbed up to sit on the cold leather seat next to Templeton. Templeton wore a dapper silk cloak, a heavy black wool coat, a muffler, and black felt hat. His face had that elongated, half-starved look of English nobility. The nose was long and straight, slightly rounded on the tip. Black hair curled out from beneath the hat to accent the dancing gleam of charming eyes.

  "Everyone is waiting for you. Where have you been?"

  "Last-minute errands. You understand, I'm sure." He smiled wanly. "I was just on my way—"

  "Splendid!"

  "—and dreadfully sorry to be late."

  "Oh, Richard, it should be an exciting evenin
g. Professor Ames arrived at the last minute. We just couldn't let you charge off to the wilderness without an appropriate send-off." Templeton tipped his new beaver hat and knocked on the wall to signal the driver. The carriage rocked and began rattling along the icy streets. They proceeded down Hanover to Tremont, then south on Common Street toward the Templeton home.

  Dear Lord God, how am I going to stand this? They all know. Richard shot a glance at his companion. Of all his friends, Templeton consistently proved the most reliable— despite being the son of a ship's captain who'd reportedly had mixed allegiances during the Revolution.

  Will glanced at him. "There is something I don't understand. Why is he sending you, Richard? I thought you and your father didn't agree."

  "Oh, but we do! We agree that we don't like each other. But. . . well, you see, there's no one else he can trust on this matter. I'm surprised he trusts me." As if he did—but the lie eased Richard's soul.

  "From the tone in your voice, Richard, I dare say there's more to it."

  Damn you, Will You always see through things, don't you? Richard forced a smile. "He doesn't believe that my philosophical tenets will allow me to deal with the real world. So, it's a sort of, well, challenge between us."

  Templeton exhaled, watching his frosty breath swirl about the interior of the coach. "After having met your father, that really doesn't surprise me. Tell me more of this challenge . . . and how your superior mind will rise above it."

  "I have to deliver a package to a Santa Fe trader and his illiterate associates—clear out there in the wilderness."

  "Smashing!" Templeton laughed. "Just like the prophets of old. How splendid! I almost wish I could go with you. Richard, it will be an adventure. Think, man, you will have the ability to prove yourself superior to the elements and the ruffians. Why, it wouldn't surprise me if you owned the West after having been there for three weeks. Daniel Boone, Meriwether Lewis, and Richard Hamilton."

  Hardly the analogy Richard would have chosen. To be ranked with frontiersmen? Men little better than the savages they consorted with? He laughed bitterly, watching the passing lights as the coach bumped over the ruts and swayed on its leather suspenders.

  "Perhaps." Richard gestured with his pipe. "Instead of dealing with the world of perception, I will deal with the world of observation. Keeping Kant's beliefs in mind, of course, I shall investigate Rousseau's hypotheses of man in nature. I shall be able to observe man in his true state. Unsullied by the corruptions of our civilization. Wild Indians walk the streets in Saint Louis. Think of the comparisons that a trained mind can draw between the savages and the vanguards of our civilization."

  Will held up a hand in warning. "Beware, my friend, that you yourself do not fall victim to the primitives."

  "I shall be a fortress!" Richard clenched his gloved fist. "Give me your barbarian masses, Will. Let's see what they can do to a man of character and education."

  "Bravo!" Will applauded. "Here I sit—with a warrior! Hail, conqueror of ignorance, savagery, and darkness! But ho, we have arrived at our destination."

  Will tossed a coin up to the driver before slapping Richard on the back.

  The Templeton house was a huge three-story affair, built of brick, with a high-pitched slate roof. Elaborate white lintels graced the windows, each charmingly illuminated by a candle on the sill. The steps were of Vermont granite, the giant front door imported from Paris.

  Once inside, a black servant took Richard's hat, coat, and scarf. The hallway was warm, lit by glowing lamps. A stairway of polished walnut rose to the upper stories. To the right, voices carried from the parlor. Will placed a hand on Richard's shoulder and gestured for him to proceed.

  The parlor was tastefully done, white walls with maple wainscoting, and a broad-planked floor covered with thick Persian rugs. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and above it, small porcelain sculptures and silver knickknacks were displayed on the mantel. The couches and chairs were French, upholstered in white with blue flower patterns. A polished harpsichord stood in one corner, and an ornately carved buffet in the other.

  Richard nerved himself and walked forward to greet his friends. It was a small gathering, but then, he'd never really had many friends. They looked up as he entered, questions in their eyes.

  Professor Ames nodded and lifted a cup of tea. He was short of stature, barely five feet tall, thin-boned, and white-haired. He weighed little more than one hundred pounds— even after Christmas dinner. Age had lined the pensive face. Those gentle blue eyes belied his vigor when at the lectern, but outside of the classroom, he was a mild man, fatherly in his actions. Ames always dressed conservatively in black.

  "Richard! How grand that you finally made it!" George Peterson said.

  Richard shook his hand while the others, Thomas Hanson and James Sonnet, patted him on the back.

  ''Richard!'' Professor Ames clasped his hands. ''We have heard from your father that you shall be going to the interior. As a result, we have gathered here to pay you our respects and wish you well."

  "I, for one, am happy that you have." Richard accepted the goblet Sonnet handed him, and toasted them. The brandy ran warmly down his throat and he savored the mellow flavor.

  Will gestured for attention. "Most of you don't know what Richard is about to endure. He is headed to Saint Louis, on the far frontier. He enters a land of darkness and ignorance. Richard's father has offered him a challenge of philosophy, and Richard has courageously accepted. Mr. Hamilton believes that the real world is different from that perceived by the mentors we study. Richard disagrees, and will prove by his venture into the unknown that his convictions are stronger than ignorance and brutality."

  Tom could barely suppress a smirk.

  "Further," Will cried, "he will take the opportunity to make observations on man in his natural state of savagery—which we all know cannot be done in Boston, center of light and knowledge. Let us all raise our glasses in the hopes that the real is the rational!"

  Cheers burst out.

  Professor Ames rubbed the side of his cup with a delicate thumb. "What will you do if Hobbes is correct and life is little more than conflict? Where shall you go to find defense? The state, with its laws and institutions, will not be there to protect your liberties."

  Richard swirled his brandy. "I sincerely believe that the mind of the individual, when strong enough, can overcome the lack of social contract, Professor. I believe in perception and moral strength. As a free man, no one can force me to become that which I am not. What I perceive, will be."

  "You seem very sure of that." Ames raised an eyebrow. "This will not be a lecture, Richard, but life."

  "When I return, I'll be the same man who leaves Boston on Monday. That I assure you, for I have found truth by noting that the real is spiritual and not material—a grievous fault my father has fallen heir to."

  "And his son never will?" Tom asked as he studied Richard through half-lidded eyes. Thomas Hanson had settled into one of the chairs. For some reason beyond Richard's understanding, God had given Tom a ruggedly attractive face, bold and blocky, with a mobile mouth and dancing blue eyes that hinted of deviltry. He walked with an athletic grace, broad-shouldered and sure of himself. Even Tom's sandy hair curled insolently. Worse yet, Tom attracted women the way a lodestone drew iron filings.

  You've already scratched me from your ledger of associates, haven t you, Tom? You wouldn't be here if Ames hadn't come. Look at the derision in your eyes. God's plague upon you. "I believe that logic functions in the world. If I believe and act rationally, what I desire will occur. If I can understand what happens to me, I can overcome. Let's call it a rational extension of perception."

  "And if your assumption is flawed?" Tom shifted. "After all, you would have perceived yourself to be attending classes next week, wouldn't you?"

  Richard's gut churned with humiliation. "We agree, don't we, that the human mind is endowed with certain qualities: logic, reason, and spirituality, among others? Would it not follow,
then, that even a brute can be prevailed upon by reason? If this be the case, any man's behavior can be modified by a superior mind which points out advantages to be gained by reasonable action."

  Tom raised an eyebrow. "If you really think creatures like Indians are human. Are they, Richard?"

  Ames shot a sympathetic glance at Richard and asked, "Tom, do you disregard every aspect of Rousseau's argument? Aren't the Iroquois and Shawnee already tainted by our civilization?"

  Tom said flatly, "Rousseau was an idiot. Indians—and all the primitive races, for that matter—are beasts. They can't be tamed. Just like wolves and foxes can't be domesticated into dogs. They can only make way for civilization with its nobler institutions."

  "We're getting away from the argument," Will interrupted uneasily. "Go on, Richard. You were making a point."

  "Ah, I know what Richard is getting at," George Peterson said as he wiped his mouth. "A synthesis of enlightenment and romanticism with just a dash of rationalism. Exquisite, Richard! I shall be impatiently waiting to hear how your wild frontiersmen receive that."

  "On the end of an Indian war lance, no doubt," Tom gave Richard a dour look.

  Richard waved them all down. "I shall be in no danger. I should be more than well enough prepared for any eventuality of the frontier. As I perceive it, my greatest problem will be communicating with men who have no understanding of proper English. I'm not sure I can translate the concepts while speaking in grunts and moans."

  Chuckles erupted.

  "That could be a problem," Peterson agreed. "How do you attempt to elevate an ignorant clod to the finer things in life? I doubt that they can pronounce metaphysics, let alone comprehend it."

  "Richard will probably be eaten by a bear," Tom said.

  "I've heard they feast on people without regard to education or social standing."

  "Is it true that bears prefer to treat their palates with men who read Greek?'' Sonnet asked. "Or is it Latin speakers they cherish?"

  "He won't be eaten by a bear!" Will insisted. "It's the human beasts I'd worry about."