Flight of the Hawk: The River

  Lisa exploded in laughter. “I’ll handle McKeever and any letters he might have left in Saint Louis.” Lisa gestured leisurely. “Charles Gratiot—since McKeever apparently doesn’t know—is also William Clark’s lawyer.”

  The trader gestured with a finger to Cunningham who’d sat silently watching, measuring, and evaluating. The tall, bearded man reached under the table and pulled out a lead tube. This he handed to Lisa.

  Reaching in with a finger, Lisa snaked out a sheaf of papers. Sorting through them, he handed two to Tylor.

  The first was a letter from Charles Gratiot. Hastily, Tylor scanned the pages written in flowing French. Tylor’s brows knit as he read. At the end, he looked up. “You’ve . . . read this?”

  Lisa spread his palms. “I am a trader, not a fool. Given the stakes and the sudden furor you have created, wouldn’t you?”

  Tylor looked at Cunningham, paraphrasing the letter. “Gratiot warns me that a Scotsman calling himself McKeever has unusual interest in locating me and may have killed a man named Bissonette in Saint Louis. Further, if I would keep an eye on the Scot, he could consider me to be on the payroll of John Jacob Astor. At the end, I am enjoined to make no mention of any of this to Manuel Lisa.”

  Cunningham arched a bushy brow in amusement.

  Tylor turned his attention to Lisa. “But I don’t understand, sir. What does Gratiot have to do with Astor?”

  “Let us just say it is a personal difference between us. Gratiot is on anyone’s side who opposes me and my success. But, beyond that, should I fail on the river, it would leave a hole in the trade, one which Astor would exploit by building a string of posts along the river that would tie his operations in the Pacific Northwest to Saint Louis, and thereby give him control of all the fur trade in America. Gratiot sees himself as Astor’s administrator of all those posts and men.”

  “I feel trapped, damn it.” Tylor rose. The room was too small to pace, so he bent over the table, eyes on Lisa. “I just want to be left alone! I’m not interested in any of this. What does it mean, Mr. Lisa? Why can’t they—”

  “I live in a spider court, Tylor.” The trader continued to watch him carefully, seeking any flicker of betrayal. “Astor, the British, the Spanish, my own partners, strangers I do not know, and now even a self-deluded madman, all have their agenda. Gratiot has long been involved in Astor’s plans—though he will end up a minor figure, no matter what happens. He is looking to expand his influence now that his competitors for Astor’s affection—Crooks and McClellan—have gone to the Pacific. A man of your obvious skills and talents? Obviously, he would dangle a carrot before your nose to work for him.”

  “No.” Tylor told him bitterly. “I’m through with intrigue and being someone’s intelligencer.”

  Lisa handed him the second letter.

  At the first words, his heart nearly stopped, and he had trouble swallowing. He knew that delicate hand: Hallie!

  Tylor ran a knuckle across his eyes and gulped the last of the whiskey. Forcing his gaze to the paper he read:

  Mr. John Tylor:

  John, this may come as a surprise, but I am writing to tell you that Joshua has hired a man named Fenway McKeever to track you down and kill you in Saint Louis. Do be careful. This McKeever is very good at his deplorable calling, and has developed quite a reputation for efficiency on the Great Lakes.

  If it helps you to stay alive, you should know that Joshua is hoping to expand his influence in the fur trade in the far west. Through various contacts, he has come to understand that the last key battleground will be the Upper Missouri and Rocky Mountains.

  Joshua is a close business associate of Mr. Astor and in recent years has become powerful in financing and investment in the fur trade. Do not underestimate him, for he will go to any lengths to do you harm.

  On a personal note, I apologize for having said the things I did. Time has given me other perspectives, and I have come to realize my own culpability. Do not try and contact me. I never wish to see you again for reasons I’m sure you understand. I can only wish you good luck.

  Hallie

  For long seconds he stared at the page, reading it over and over, and all the while a sense of loss yawned within.

  She understands. She has forgiven me.

  The sense of relief, the aching inside, it left him choked; caressing the foolscap between his fingers he fought the welling of tears. With a sigh he folded the letter and realized that no matter what, he’d crossed a divide into some strange new land of the heart.

  “I am to understand McKeever is not a British spy. Rather, he is working indirectly for Astor?” Lisa’s voice was sharp.

  Tylor took a breath, ordering his cartwheeling thoughts. “Trust me, Astor knows nothing of Fenway McKeever. Nor would Gregg want him to. The fact that Gratiot, as Astor’s agent in Saint Louis, knows McKeever isn’t working for the American Fur Company? That’s because McKeever must have tipped his hand. Perhaps through his very arrogance. Maybe it was Bissonette’s murder.”

  “Bissonette lived to see me destroyed. If Bissonette were close to McKeever, and McKeever didn’t show enough interest in ruining me, Bissonette might have confided his suspicions to Gratiot. McKeever—becoming suspect—may then have eliminated Bissonette?”

  Tylor nodded thoughtfully. “McKeever mentioned Bissonette the other night. Being my friend was Latoulipe’s death warrant. McKeever understood Baptiste’s fierce loyalty to people he considered his friends. Thought he stood in the way of my recruitment.”

  The expression on the trader’s face thinned in anger. “McKeever will pay.”

  “I didn’t mean to bring all this down on you, sir. It’s my fault, and I’m truly sorry. If you want, I’ll go out right now and shoot Fenway McKeever dead.” He said it calmly, but it turned his stomach.

  He’d never shot a man down like that before. Just executed him. This far from anywhere? It became survival. Law, after all, was what a man made it.

  Lisa started to agree, then shook his head. “It would have too many repercussions for the men. Morale here is everything. There will be trouble enough this winter without setting sparks now to smolder and be fanned to flame later.”

  Cunningham spoke for the first time. “Cut Tylor loose. T’morrer mornin’, we’ll collect McKeever in his blankets. Charge him with Baptiste’s murder. Reckon Mayette, LaChappelle, and the others, armed, will take the wind out o’ his sails. Put him under guard, and send him down with the hunters this fall. They can deliver him to Gratiot after you get them letters back. Makes time fer us, Manuel.”

  As if to cap his words, the Kentucky hunter downed his whiskey, smiled, and said, “That is good and smooth, isn’t it?”

  Lisa sat frowning. Mind racing.

  Tylor shrugged and toyed with his glass, imagining Fenway in his rifle sights, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Tylor raised his eyes. “One other thing, Manuel. If for some reason you see fit to turn me loose, no matter what happens, I need to disappear. I’d appreciate it if you could see to getting my name off the list of engages. As long as Gregg thinks I’m alive, he’ll keep a coming. With me gone, he’ll pay less attention to you and the river.”

  “It will be done,” Lisa agreed. “I will have Luttig make a new list. I will also check his journal and make sure there is no mention of you there.”

  “Still leaves McKeever,” Cunningham noted. “If you give him to Gratiot, word will get back t’ this Gregg feller. Even charged with murder, McKeever can beller like a banshee about the traitor Tylor being turned loose on the upper river.”

  Lisa leaned back in his chair, attention on Tylor. “As to McKeever, yes, we will arrest him in the morning before I head upriver to deal with Le Bourgne and his pesky Gros Ventre. A party of them stole Ree horses last week. If I don’t get them back, I’ll have an Indian war. Bad for trade. I need to settle the Gros Ventre down and take the wind out of British promises up there. McKeever will think you have accompanied me. If you don’t c
ome back, perhaps you will have drowned? The boats will be safe, you will be safe.”

  Lisa’s chuckle carried no amusement. “As if I did not have enough troubles.”

  Tylor stared at his empty whiskey glass. “I’ll take my possibles, leave tonight to keep McKeever off balance. I’d uh . . . If you’d advance me an outfit, I’ll bring as many beaver to Papin, or whomever you leave out here. My trade is yours, sir.”

  “Am I really letting two thousand dollars just walk out the door?” Lisa asked himself in amazement.

  “Three thousand,” Cunningham added. “Don’t forgit that skunk Jackson fessed ter another thousand.”

  Lisa laughed and pulled his jug of whiskey from a cabinet. “To you, John Tylor. We drink to your future. I wish you all the luck. Alone, a man has little chance. You will be wolf meat within the month.”

  “I’d ask one more favor, sir,” Tylor’s eyes dropped, suddenly nervous.

  “Ask it.”

  “I’d take it real kindly if you told the rest of the crew I was off—maybe doing you an errand. I guess, well . . . I’d hate it to be said I’d deserted. I worked hard to earn their respect. I don’t want that compromised.”

  “Is it that important to you?”

  “Sir, at this stage I’d say it’s more important to me than my life.”

  The trader bowed slightly in acquiescence. “You are now officially one of my hunters, John Tylor. I have sent Charles Sanguinet to see about Champlain’s luck with the Spanish. But the Rees tell me there are Arapaho a couple of weeks’ ride to the southwest of us along the Black Hills. Why don’t you head down that way and see if you can find word of him? You have some knowledge of the Spanish. You may be of inestimable value to me in that way.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tylor added reverently.

  “You are a free agent. I will have books sent upriver when I can as trade for your hides. I will also keep the same arrangement with you as with Michael Immel, Caleb Greenwood, and the others. We split fifty-fifty. Half of your proceeds are your profit.”

  Lisa offered his hand and they shook. “Pick up two horses when you leave. I will instruct Luttig. Say nothing of this to the men.”

  Tylor stood and drew a deep breath. “I never dreamed they’d be so close behind me.” He met Lisa’s eyes. “You’re on the line for profits. I give you my word, I’ll pull my weight making it even.”

  “Take care, coon,” Cunningham offered his hand. “I shore am sorry I brung ye such bad news.”

  “You came in time, sir.” Tylor shrugged. “Maybe you saved us all in the end. If I can ever do you a favor . . .”

  Cunningham waved it off and settled back against the wall, whiskey in hand. “Call me a notional coon, but I was plumb curious to see what sort of man could have half the country either trying to hang him, hire him, or save him.”

  “Tylor,” Lisa asked, “I do have one question. What motivated Aaron Burr to treason?”

  Tylor hesitated at the door. “We live in an age of men who would be giants, Manuel. Carving a country out of Spanish lands?” Tylor arched an eyebrow, “But for the political ramifications of forming a nation and a government, were his goals all that much different than your drive to control both the river and Santa Fe trade?”

  “An age of men who would be giants.” Lisa fingered his chin, eyes half-lidded. “I begin to understand what so many have seen in you. Go, John Tylor. And know that you have my blessing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  * * *

  After Tylor stepped out into the night, Lisa considered the hunter. “What do you think now, my friend?”

  Cunningham pulled his knife from his belt and began to clean his fingernails, the long blade moving easily. “Reckon that Tylor fella deserves the respect that woman back east show’d ’im. I thought it odd that a woman would spend that much on warnin’ a man out hyar.”

  “You like him?” Lisa’s face furrowed.

  “Yep. Manuel, reckon he’s gonna make it.” Cunningham gestured with the knife. “What they dun to him otta broke ’im. He’s still a swinging both fists, and he’s a doin’ it up his way.”

  “I, too, have come to respect him. He is a hard worker. Smart. I think he will make, yes, a good investment. He has skills. He has been to Santa Fe, knows the Pawnee. Has survived on his own out on the plains. Assuming he lives through the first year, I think he will be a man to deal with out here.”

  Lisa’s expression betrayed pain. “Even if he cost me the two thousand dollars in reward. And I know Jackson, he’d never have fessed up to the extra thousand.”

  Cunningham nodded, studying his fingernails.

  “You told me your lovely wife is dead. What are your plans?” Lisa poured another glass of whiskey.

  “Don’t rightly know, Manuel. I sure ain’t looking forward to goin’ home. That cabin got mighty empty when Anna died. What have ye got in mind?”

  Lisa lifted his glass and studied the fluid through the candlelight. “It is a long ride back downriver. Do you have any desire to return to Saint Louis immediately?”

  “Nope.” Cunningham dropped his knife in the scabbard.

  “You are a very good fur hunter, my friend.”

  “Yep.”

  “Tylor would be a very good fur hunter with instruction.”

  “Yep.”

  “You like him.”

  “Yep.”

  “Perhaps . . . ?”

  “Yep.”

  Tylor made his way through the dark camp, stepping around recumbent sleepers wrapped in their blankets. Finding his own bedding, he bent down and began rolling it up.

  “Laddie? I been waitin’,” McKeever hissed from the dark. “Where ye been?”

  “Had to drain my pizzle. What do you want, Fenway?”

  “T’night’s the night.”

  Tylor spun on his heels, seeing the bulk of the man looming in the blackness.

  “What?” Tylor demanded in disbelief.

  “Aye, c’mon, now.” The voice dropped, turning deadly. “Ye’d not be making me think o’ that two thousand dollars, would ye? A head packed in salt is no big thing to send to the Carolinas, now, is it?”

  Tylor fought a swallow down his too-tight throat as he stood. “Why tonight, Fenway?” He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the cool air.

  “B’cause they’ll begin unloading the boats come tomorrow. But more to the point, because I say so, laddie. I’d hate t’ think ye were b’coming a debility.” McKeever stepped closer.

  Tylor could feel the man’s body heat, smell his sour breath on the dark air.

  “Let’s go,” Tylor told him—gut sinking. Tomorrow morning they’d have placed McKeever in irons. Couldn’t God have granted him just those few hours?

  He smiled in the darkness, the inevitability of the moment sinking in. No, he shouldn’t expect Manuel Lisa to clean up a mess Tylor had brought on himself.

  “As if I didn’t have trouble enough.” Lisa’s words came back to haunt him.

  Tylor straightened. “All right, let’s be about it then. But, Fenway, I’ll tell you now, give you one last chance.”

  “Aye? An’ that is, laddie?”

  “I’ve played this game. Played it for stakes higher than you can know. You don’t have the head for it. Not where it really counts. Walk away. Now. While you still can.”

  “Ye’re daft, man. After ye, Johnny,” McKeever whispered. “Or I stick me knife right through yor kidney, and ye kin bleed t’ death at me feet.”

  The dry autumn-brown grass rustled under Tylor’s feet as he stepped lightly down to the riverbank. The dark hulks of Polly and the little boat could barely be made out against the river. Water slapped loudly against their hulls. He could hear the ropes rubbing wood where the bow and stern lines had been tied off on the nearest cottonwoods.

  Tylor looked at the river. So close! Maybe—with a little luck—three steps, and he’d be in the black waters.

  “Go aft,” McKeever ordered. “C
ut that stern rope, then meet me here. And don’t think o’ runnin’. Up here, where would ye go?”

  Tylor nodded, reaching for the blade at his waist. He moved back and found the thick line. He could wade out, let the current carry him away. Free.

  And what of the Polly and the little boat? Manuel Lisa had just given him his life back.

  The running stopped here. An ultimate irony. McKeever would kill him, at this place, on this last night before he could make good his escape. He had confessed his sins to Manuel Lisa. Received a partial absolution from Hallie. Been offered a chance at a new life to begin on the morrow, and with all that within grasp, McKeever would pick this moment.

  A grim smile bent Tylor’s lips as he sloshed back ashore. No, he could not slip away in the darkness. Nor did he have time to run for help. With his ax, McKeever would cut the boat loose and stave in the hull before John could rally the others.

  It’s up to me.

  He trotted forward, his shortened sword at his side.

  “Cut loose?” McKeever asked.

  “Y-Yes, damn it!” Tylor gritted. Vying with the terrifying fear came the odd notion that nothing mattered anymore. Just a sense of inevitability. That what would come, would come.

  McKeever’s laughter grated like sand on glass. “ ’Tis good, laddie. Help me push her off.”

  Together they bent their backs, fortunate to find the craft floating as it swung out. “Git aboard!” McKeever called softly as Tylor scrambled up the plank.

  He turned as the Polly swung out on the current; McKeever loomed out of the darkness behind him. The Scot would know any second that the aft line hadn’t been cut. Tylor reached for a pole—found the balance point—and swung it with all his might.

  Some cat-sense of McKeever’s warned him; the big man ducked as the heavy ash pole whistled over his head and banged into the cargo box. Tylor didn’t have a second chance; without a word, Fenway McKeever rushed across the dark deck.