Flight of the Hawk: The River

  The cordelle was run out, and immediately the crew started up another channel only to meet the same challenge. Again, they rocked the boat back down the little channel they had chosen and cursed and sweated their way to another of the potential channels.

  Polly grounded immediately.

  “I could walk across the whole damn river here!” Tylor heard Lisa cursing on the deck above him.

  “Hey, Bourgeois!” Tylor called.

  Lisa’s scowling face appeared over the rail.

  “We don’t need you to walk across the river—just get the boat to.”

  Laughs and hoots broke out among the engages.

  “Who do you think I am, God?” Lisa asked.

  “Ye whar the one whot said ye could walk acrost the river,” Caleb Greenwood called back. “An’ how in hell do a coon like me know what bourgeois means in French?”

  Peals of laughter rang out as the men pitched to work trying another channel. It took hours and heroic effort, but they passed the shallows and struggled into deeper water. During the day they met three more of Lisa’s hunters who had wintered upriver with the Arikara and come down in advance to greet old companions and restock on tobacco, powder, whiskey, and the other things they had been missing.

  They camped that night three miles below the Grand River. Tylor watched the hawks wheeling in the evening sky while he dried what was left of his britches over a small fire. The stroud was rent and worn through in many places. He’d been lucky to have them last as long as they had, surviving snags, thorns, and constant use. His eyes kept straying to the birds that dipped and dove, his heart envying their freedom as they rode the thermals higher into the sky.

  Fenway McKeever spotted Tylor. From the way he walked, Tylor knew the Scot was headed his way. To Tylor’s way of thinking, McKeever’s company was as welcome as a case of the typhoid. Not only was there the matter of Latoulipe’s murder, and the man’s constant references of the Burr conspiracy, but Tylor always had the feeling that the man was playing with him, biding his time. That he was sort of like a rattlesnake, and a man never knew when he might strike.

  “Johnny, laddie!” McKeever greeted bluffly. “Tell me now, would ye have a wee bit o’ that good Scotch I left wi’ ye? This laddie has drank all o’ his.”

  Tylor looked up at the man, squinting his displeasure. “There’s a swallow or two left. I’ll admit, I’ve been hoardin’ it. That stuff sure beats the skin off a fox for a good drink. Best whiskey I’ve tasted in many a year.”

  “That it does.” McKeever seated himself as Tylor reached in his possibles and tossed the flask over.

  John pulled his needle and thread from his possibles and began mending a tear in his pants.

  “I heard ye talkin’ wi’ Goshe the other night,” McKeever began.

  “Uh-huh,” Tylor grunted, screwing his face up and sticking out his tongue as he attempted to thread the needle.

  “Did Goshe say anythin’ aboot how the tribes upriver are making oot?” McKeever asked, lifting the little flask to his lips.

  “Not much more than what you heard when Lisa was talking to him. Mostly he and I talked about the Arikara and the Pawnee. The Arikara are having a tough time of it. They sorta let in anybody who’s being picked on out here. They’ve got more different folks living in their villages than Arikara.”

  McKeever studied Tylor seriously. “I’d think there’d be a lot of stress in the village. Fighting an’ all. Putting that many savages together under one roof would make fer a bloody mix when it was all said an’ done.”

  “I guess it does from the way Goshe talks. Still, with the number of deaths they’ve had from the smallpox and the Sioux wars, they’ve got room enough for everybody. Another man is another warrior; each fighter makes them that much stronger. Way I hear it, the biggest single problem they’ve got is understanding each other’s languages.” A pause. “Must sound worse than Saint Louis on Saturday night.”

  “Aye.” McKeever loaded his pipe and pulled a burning twig from the fire to light it. “Still, ’tis a wonder why so many people be to loose ends oot here. Perhaps it’s jist the way of savagery. A constant muddle of beastly peoples clawin’ at each other.”

  Tylor looked dismissively at the man, then studied the stitches he was making in the thin cloth. “Consider the pressure, Fenway. The white frontier is like a tide. The flood of it pushes the eastern tribes into new lands, and those tribes they displace push yet other tribes before them. Some, the Huron for example, have eroded away. Others, like the Cree, have chased old enemies like the Sioux farther west. Some move, but there’s a lot of grinding going on.”

  “ ’Tis the way o’ the world, me thinks. Go back to the Bible. Whar be the Philistines today? ’Tis God’s plan.” He puffed at his pipe. “But bad fer trade, I’m thinkin’. Hard to make money when the heathens are killin’ each other. Wonder if there be a way to stop it?”

  “How? You’ve got age-old enemies. Think Irish and English. That kind of bone-and-blood-deep hatred.” Tylor checked his stitch. “In the meantime, the Sioux are becoming stronger since they have more access to rifles, powder, shot, and horses. We are seeing a major population shift here before our eyes. There may never have been such an uprooting of people since Genghis Khan rode west in the thirteenth century.”

  “Who?”

  “The Mongol hordes. Ever hear of them?”

  “Thar ye go, laddie, spinnin’ me head wi’ yer his’try.”

  Tylor ignored him. “It’s too bad. And I mean that for the sake of all humanity. Somebody ought to be writing all this down. Think of the peoples who are vanishing: the Tawakonis, the Mentos, the Nasonis, and Iskanis. These are tribes, entire peoples who used to be just as prominent as the Arikara. Each with their own behaviors and languages. Their own stories and histories. But for a turn of fate, what’s left of them are cowering in the Arikara towns, fighting for what’s left of their lives. After the whites roll over them, or the Sioux finally exterminate them, what memories will be left?”

  “Go back t’ the Bible, mon,” McKeever shrugged as he pointed his pipestem at Tylor. “The strong always overwhelm the weak.”

  “To what price?” Tylor demanded. “The tribes all made a living out here. The Sioux, the Pawnee, the Cherokees, are all numerous enough to be recorded before the whites wipe ’em out. But these little groups? The last of a people who might have once been as great as . . . as the Sioux? They’re living huddled in the Arikara village. Five, ten people? When they die—what’s left?”

  “Laddie,” McKeever’s voice was low, “if yer not strong enuff t’ survive, thar be nothing noteworthy aboot ye. Ye’ve strange ideas sometimes, Tylor.”

  “Oh? Ever hear of the Celts?” Tylor asked, nervous at the green ice in McKeever’s eyes. “Seems to me there’s a lot of interest in Celtish ancestry in England these days. If I recollect my history, Romans wiped them off the face of Europe and out of most of England. Pushed them into the remote areas. Same thing, isn’t it?”

  Tylor pointed with his needle. “And those are your ancestors, Fenway. You, with your red hair and freckles. Your ancestors who once ruled all of western Europe, driven frantically into little pockets on the western shore of Scotland. But for a bit of long-ago luck . . . ?”

  “I suppose.” McKeever nodded, taking his time, his eyes thoughtful as he studied Tylor. “I’m still surprised they all live in the village without cuttin’ each other’s throats. Savages . . . well, they jist be savage, aye?”

  “Maybe they know deep down inside how desperate their situation is,” Tylor said softly. “Maybe they can already see the inevitable. How long before the whites crush them under the wheels of their westward flood?”

  “In this wilderness?” McKeever looked shocked. “My God, mon! Look around ye! Nothing here but grass and brush! The damn place is too dry to grow anything. White men will never settle this.”

  “They will, Fenway. The Arikara and Mandan grow corn along the river. If they can, w
hites can. It’s a matter of time.”

  “Time?” McKeever spat. “Verra well, the land could grow bountifully. But how long do ye ken it’ll take before the white frontier makes it this far? The Americans ha’ barely crossed into the Ohio Valley.”

  “Did you ever study mathematics, Fenway?”

  “Nay, not beyond addin’ and subtracting on me fingers.” McKeever’s eyes betrayed his irritation. “ ’Tis pointless fer a mon—”

  “What did you see in all those American farms on the frontier?”

  “Corn, pigs, and kids.” McKeever snorted disgust.

  “How many kids?”

  “Lots,” McKeever grunted.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thar were no that many!”

  “Figure there’s six kids for each of those families at a low average. And in twenty years they’ll all have six kids. All needing new farms to feed them. Takes up a lot of land in a remarkable hurry. The frontier expands in size by three hundred percent every twenty years. How long will it take before they come drifting across that eastern horizon and onto this nice, fertile, river valley?”

  “If yer figgers be right.” Fenway now looked unsure.

  “They be right. Think about it.” Tylor studied his mending and, satisfied, put his needle back in his possibles.

  McKeever sat silently, brooding, then asked “And aboot the Indians?”

  “Ultimately they are destroyed.” Tylor pulled out his pipe and built a bowl. “I can’t see any way . . . well, unless Jefferson’s plan is given serious thought. But no, that’s little more than a fanciful wish. It can’t work in the end. The great Indian nations don’t stand a chance. Not like they are today. Just like the Aquitani who faced Caesar in Gaul, they, too, will be swept away.”

  “Does that bother ye?”

  “Of course it does. I would imagine that anyone who considers himself enlightened would rue the extinction of an entire people.”

  “Remember whot I told ye aboot strength, and power, and survival, laddie? ’Tis yore time to choose.” McKeever’s voice was soft, intimate, his eyes shifting as if to make sure no one was around.

  “Choose what?”

  “To choose if ye’ll survive, or be like one o’ these forgotten Indian tribes, Johnny.” McKeever was alert, ready—hand on his knife where it rested in the scabbard. “Not killing ye back in Bellefontaine was one o’ the smartest moves of me life.”

  Tylor’s heart leapt in his chest. “Not killing me? I . . .”

  McKeever cut him off, laughing from deep in his belly. “ ’Tis a god-like feelin’ to wrap me fingers around yer destiny, Johnny. I know all aboot yer involvement with Burr. I almost collected that heavenly bounty that night ootside o’ camp.”

  Tylor felt his mouth open, speechless. He couldn’t move, as though a paralysis had crept over his muscle and bone.

  “Laddie, I bin runnin’ round the Northwest fer years now. I kill men fer a fee, ye see. Sometimes I was hired to burn a warehouse full of furs. Sometimes I slipped a knife b’tween a trader’s ribs. Or maybe it was to make a mon disappear so his rivals might prosper.”

  “No.” Tylor’s fists knotted.

  “Hush, laddie! Hear me oot. What wi’ all the fighting ’tween the Nor’west Company and Hudson’s Bay, I made me a fine livin’. But I’m tired o’ doin’ another man’s work. At first I was going to kill ye and take Gregg’s money. Aye, laddie, he’s the one who hired me.”

  McKeever gestured with his pipestem. “But there’s too much opportunity here. Astor will take the river. Or the British. Whoe’er wins will need a mon to see to their interests. With Lisa oot o’ the way, ’twill be me they come to. An’ ye’ll be working fer me.”

  Tylor’s stomach convulsed. “You? You think they’d turn to you? You’re out of you mind, man!”

  “Nay, Johnny,” McKeever flushed with delight. “I’ve learned a wee bit o’ the river and how Lisa’s made it pay. But I needed a mon with a sense fer the tribes. I’ve got ye to see to dealing with the Rees. I have ties to Sioux traders back east who can do that job as well as Bijou. Ye’ve made yor point aboot the Americans, laddie. Yer mind is as keen as when yer reports kept Aaron Burr atop o’ things. Ye’ll be an asset.”

  McKeever smiled. “Or ye’ll be dead. ’Tis a simple choice, Johnny.”

  “You’re stark-raving mad! McKeever, you’re no more capable of taking over control of the river than you are of flying to the moon. Don’t you understand? If Astor, or the British, win out they have their own people—”

  “Who’ll mysteriously die one by one.” McKeever’s grin widened with anticipation. “I’ve seen how taking oot the right mon at the right time can throw an operation into chaos. Made a study of it, I have.”

  Impossibly, the mad fool really believed what he was saying. McKeever had somehow convinced himself he could take control of the river. A sort of deluded lunacy that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then yer a debility—like Bissonette and Latoulipe. Two thousand dollars be enough to counter—in a small way—the asset ye be to me alive.” His voice was a hissed threat. “Dinna think ye kin slide a knife ’tween me ribs, either. I’ve sent letters downriver. A lot of people know where ye are, laddie.”

  “You poor deluded fool of a . . .” Tylor closed his eyes and sighed. Gregg knew where he was. And if he did, so did Andrew Jackson and all the rest. Defeat, total and crushing, sucked away any will to resist.

  “There’s no end is there?”

  “Aye,” McKeever told him through slitted eyes. “The same end I give to Latoulipe. He was a debility, laddie. He got in the way. See that you don’t.”

  McKeever thrust his ham-like hand into Tylor’s face—his thick finger leveled before Tylor’s nose. “Ye’ll no take this t’ Lisa. If ye do, I’ll swear I be but an agent for . . . Andrew Jackson! Aye! Whose word d’ ye think Lisa’ll take? Mine? Or that o’ a Burr conspiracy traitor?”

  He paused for a heartbeat, “O’ course, I’ll have t’ let Lisa collect that two thousand dollar reward on yer head, but ’twill put me in good wi’ the booshway, eh? A lot o’ sins are forgiven fer two thousand dollars and the exposure of a traitor, a mon who can be accused of working fer Astor, or the British. And who’ll he believe?”

  Tylor nodded, his eyes closed as a reeling desolation filled him. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Ah,” McKeever breathed, seeing victory. “That’s more like it. When the time comes, all we have to do is destroy Lisa’s goods. Break the Missouri Fur Company. We wait until Lisa has his new post built. The night before he unloads, we sink the Polly and the little boat. After that, we sell our services to the highest bidder.”

  “And I’m suppose to trust that you won’t kill me when this is all finished?”

  “That’s me Johnny! Yer thinking, laddie. That’s how ye’ll stay alive. I need yer head with the tribes. Ye’ve been to Santa Fe, know the Pawnee. Speak Arikara. So long as yer an asset to me plans, why, ye’ll live. Make a fine livin’ to boot. Ye might say I have a two thousand dollar investment in ye. Jist be sure yer worth it.”

  McKeever handed the flask back before he stood and headed across the camp to where his blankets lay.

  Tylor watched him leave, then looked down at the flask. McKeever hadn’t so much as taken a sip.

  A little after six the next morning they passed the mouth of the Grand River. Lisa had the boats beached while he, Reuben Lewis, and John Luttig walked the marshy floodplain at the confluence. As they inspected the ground in search of a location for a new trading post, Lisa noted the presence of driftwood wedged in the lower branches in several of the trees. A measure of the potential depth floodwaters rose to.

  “It is no good,” the trader declared. “If we build here, not only is the water table too close to the surface, but the spring flood would wipe the post out. Nor can we go high. The bluffs over there do not offer enough protection.”

 
“You could go to the Rees fait accompli,” Lewis added. “They wouldn’t have the opportunity to influence your decision.”

  Lisa declared, “No Ree can turn my mind when profit is at stake. If they can convince me they can increase their trade by leaving the post at their village, then, and only then, will I leave it.”

  “As you wish, Manuel,” Lewis sighed as they turned back toward the boats.

  “Load up. Avant!” came the order, and the men lined out on the cordelles. For the rest of the day they fell into the routine of pulling the boat against the current.

  Tylor felt wooden, each step meaningless, his heart like lead in his chest.

  What the hell was he going to do about McKeever?

  The sun was a burning orb in the sky. It beat down on bronzed backs and sweat-covered heads. The songs of the boatmen lacked the spontaneous note that eased the burden of the cordelle and quickened the feet. Men hawked dry phlegm from cottony throats and spit idly into the current that whisked by their feet.

  That night they camped twelve miles below the Arikara village. Over the evening meal, McKeever grinned and shot Tylor a knowing wink. He might have been a spider, knowing full well he had Tylor trapped in his web. All that night, Tylor twisted in his blanket, heedless of the mosquitos, and tried to plot a way out of his dilemma.

  By morning—as the men were lining out—the wind mysteriously changed to favor the boats, and happily the engages piled aboard to ride. Tylor sat in his usual place on the cargo box and watched the shore slide past. His mind reeled at the implications: to live, he must play the game again. Only, this time, he must play for a man he hated.

  McKeever would kill him without hesitation. And just as quickly, he’d reveal Tylor’s identity to Lisa.

  I could run.

  But that would leave the mad serpent loose to act against Lisa.

  And, damn it, Tylor really had come to like and admire Manuel Lisa. Try and convince himself as he might, he just couldn’t talk himself into cutting and running.