Mandeh-Pahchu nudged the horse forward, reining in front of the gate. Glass dismounted and said, “Any particular reason you’re so trigger-happy?”
The gruff voice said, “My partner was murdered by Rees in front of this gate last week.”
“Well, neither one of us is Arikara.”
“Wouldn’t know that, sneaking around in the dark.”
In contrast to Fort Brazeau, Fort Talbot felt like a place under siege. Its log walls rose twelve feet around a rectangular perimeter, perhaps a hundred feet on the long sides and no more than seventy on the short ones. Two crude blockhouses stood on diagonally opposite corners, built so that their innermost corner touched the outermost corner of the fort. From this abutted position they commanded all four walls. One of the blockhouses—the one above them—had a crude roof, evidently built to protect a large-bore swivel gun from the elements. The other had the beginnings of a roof that had never been completed. A rough corral backed up to the fort on one side, though no stock grazed within.
Glass waited while the eyes behind the wicket continued their scrutiny. “What’s your business?” asked the gruff voice.
“I’m bound for Fort Union. I need a few provisions.”
“Well we ain’t got much to provide.”
“I don’t need food or powder. Just a blanket and mittens and I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t appear that you’ve got much to trade.”
“I can sign a draft for a generous price on behalf of William Ashley. The Rocky Mountain Fur Company will be sending a party downriver in the spring. They’ll make good on the draft.” There followed a long pause. Glass added, “And they’ll look favorably on a post that gives aid to one of their men.”
Another pause, then the wicket closed. They heard the movement of a heavy timber and the gate began to yawn on its hinge. The gruff voice attached itself to a runt of a man who appeared to be in charge. He stood there with a rifle and two pistols at his belt. “Just you. No red niggers in my fort.”
Glass looked at Mandeh-Pahchu, wondering how much the Mandan understood. Glass started to say something, then stopped, proceeding inside as the gate slammed closed behind him.
Two ramshackle structures stood inside the walls. From one of them, the faint glow of light seeped through the greased hides that served as windows. The other building was dark and Glass assumed they used it for storage. The rear walls of the buildings served as the back wall of the fort. Their fronts faced a tiny courtyard, dominated by the stench of dung. The source of the odor stood hitched to a post—two mangy mules, presumably the only animals that the Arikara had been unable to steal. In addition to the animals, the courtyard held a large machine for pressing pelts, an anvil on a cottonwood stump, and a teetering pile of firewood. Five men stood inside, soon joined by the man from the blockhouse. The dim light illuminated Glass’s scarred face, and Glass felt their curious stares.
“Come inside if you want.”
Glass followed the men into the lit structure, crowding into a cramped room configured as a bunkhouse. A smoky fire burned in a crude clay fireplace against the back wall. The only redeeming quality of the sour-smelling room was its warmth, a heat generated as much by the proximity of other men as by the fire.
The runty man started to say something more when his body contorted in a deep, wet cough. A similar cough appeared to afflict most of the men, and Glass feared the source. When the runty man finally stopped hacking, he said again, “We ain’t got any food to spare.”
“I told you I don’t need your food,” said Glass. “Let’s settle on the price of a blanket and mittens and I’ll be gone.” Glass pointed to a table in the corner. “Throw in that skinning knife.”
The runty man puffed his chest as if offended. “We ain’t meaning to be stingy, mister. But the Rees got us holed up in here. Stole all our stock. Last week, five braves come riding up to the gate like they want to trade. We open the gate and they start shooting. Killed my partner in cold blood.”
Glass said nothing, so the man continued. “We haven’t been able to get out to hunt or cut wood. So you’ll understand if we’re frugal with our supplies.” He kept looking at Glass for affirmation, but Glass offered none.
Finally Glass said, “Shooting at a white man and a Mandan won’t fix your problem with the Rees.”
The shooter spoke up, a filthy man with no front teeth: “All I seen was some Indian slinking around in the middle of the night. How was I to know you’re riding double?”
“You might make a habit of being able to see your target before you shoot.”
The runty man spoke again. “I’ll tell my men when to shoot, mister. The Rees and the Mandans ain’t never looked no different to me. Besides, they’re forting up together now. One big thieving tribe. I’d rather shoot the wrong one than trust the wrong one.”
Words began to spill from the runty man like water from a broken dam, and he pointed a bony finger as he spoke. “I built this fort with my own hands—and I got a license to trade here from the governor of Missouri. We ain’t ever leaving and we’ll shoot anything red that falls in our sights. I don’t care if we have to kill every damn one of those murdering, thieving bastards.”
“Who exactly do you plan on trading with?” asked Glass.
“We’ll make our way, mister. This is prime property. The army’ll come up here before long and set these savages straight. There’ll be plenty of white men trading up and down this river—you said it yourself.”
Glass stepped into the night and the gate slammed behind him. He exhaled deeply, watching as his breath condensed in the cold night air, then drifted away on the hint of a frozen breeze. He saw Mandeh-Pahchu on his horse by the river. The Indian turned at the sound of the gate and rode forward.
Glass took the new skinning knife and cut a slit in the blanket, poking his head through and wearing it as a capote. He put his hands into the furry mittens, staring at the Mandan and wondering what to say. What was there to say, really? I have my own business to attend. He couldn’t right every wrong in his path.
Finally he handed the skinning knife to Mandeh-Pahchu. “Thank you,” said Glass. The Mandan looked at the knife and then looked at Glass, searching his eyes. Then he watched as Glass turned and walked away, up the Missouri and into the night.
NINETEEN
DECEMBER 8, 1823