Seed of Evil (2 page)

Bent’s Fort had been the hub of white commerce for over a decade. Situated on the Arkansas River, it was the sole outpost between the States and Santa Fe. Freighters always stopped to rest their teams and stock up on provisions, which was why over thirty wagons were in a circle outside the walls.

Indians came often, too, to trade. Originally, the Bent brothers and their partner, Ceran St. Vrain, established the post to trade with the Arapaho and the Cheyenne. As word spread, other tribes traveled to the fort, tribes from far and wide, the Crows among them.

“There it be!” Chases Rabbits declared as they came within sight of the high adobe walls.

Nate didn’t say anything. He was pondering what his young friend had told him earlier.

“Now me get rifle,” Chases Rabbits said, with a nod at the packhorse he was leading. Tied to it were prime pelts, beaver and buffalo and others. “Then me go count coup on Blackfeet.”

“About that,” Nate said.

“Yes?”

“There’s always a chance they might count coup on you.”

“Me warrior!” Chases Rabbits said, and thumped his chest. “Me not afraid.”

“You should be,” Nate told him. The Blackfeet had long held sway over much of the northern plains.
They were fierce and proud and not ever to be taken lightly.

“Why you talk like that? Me no coward.”

“I never said you were. But a smart man doesn’t poke a hornet’s nest.”

“What stinging bugs have to do with it?”

Nate chose his words carefully. The Crows, as did so many tribes, placed a premium on courage. Warriors who performed daring deeds were the most esteemed and sat high in their councils. “Did Raven On The Ground say she wants you to go kill Blackfeet?”

“It my idea so she want me for husband. Women like great men.”

“Says the sprout who has barely lived eighteen winters.”

“Sorry?” Chases Rabbits said.

Nate remembered a time when his own son thought the same. Counting coup was all many a young warrior lived for. It was their stepping-stone to prominence. As a result, they took risks wiser heads avoided. “Can’t you impress your beauty some other way?”

“Me can steal many horses, but it quicker to kill a lot of enemy.”

About a score of Nez Perce were camped near the high walls. Not far off were Pawnees. To the south were some Arapahos and a few Cheyenne.

The freighters, Nate noticed, had posted guards. They didn’t trust the Indians any more than the Indians trusted them.

Nate and his Crow friend were almost to the gate when it opened and out filed five riders. All were white. In the lead was a tall man with a face like a shrew. He wore a blue cap and cradled a long Kentucky rifle. Instead of veering aside, he drew rein.

“You’re in my way, lunkhead.”

Nate had no objection to moving, but he didn’t like the insult. “And you’re in mine.”

“Suppose you move before you make me mad.”

“Suppose you go suck on a cow buff’s teat.”

The man tilted his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You should learn to watch that tongue of yours, mountain man.” Over his shoulder he said to the others, “Did you hear this idiot?”

“I heard him, Petrie,” growled a scraggly oldster with stringy gray hair that hung limp under a floppy hat.

Petrie brought his mount up close to Nate’s bay. “You ever talk to me like that again, you stupid son of a bitch, and you’ll be sorry.”

Nate almost hit him. He was cocking his arm to swing when a third man jabbed his heels and barreled his buttermilk between them.

“That’s enough, Petrie. You and that damn temper of yours. Leave him be and keep going.”

Nate would have thought that a testy character like Petrie would object to being bossed around, but Petrie rode on without another word. “I’m obliged,” Nate said.

“Think nothing of it, friend,” said the peacemaker. It was hard to tell his age. He was lean and sinewy, with a sharp, angular face and a jaw like an anvil. Blond curls spilled over his small ears. “Our boss wouldn’t like it, him causing trouble.” The man thrust out a bony hand. “Geist is the name, by the way.”

“Nate King.”

“That’s a strong shake you’ve got there,” Geist said. “No hard feelings, I hope.” He motioned to the others and rode off after Petrie.

“Who them whites be?” Chases Rabbits asked.

“I have no idea.” Nate turned to the still-open gate, and smiled at the man he saw walking through.

Ceran St. Vrain had an aristocratic bearing. Always the best-dressed man at the fort, he was known for his keen mind and his fairness. “As I live and breathe,” he said with a grin. “You’re back already? You were just here last month.”

“Out of you know what.” Nate climbed down and warmly shook St. Vrain’s hand.

“You have an entire lake to drink,” St. Vrain said, “yet that’s not good enough.”

“As I recollect, you have no room to talk. Who is it orders brandy by the case?”

St. Vrain grinned, then fixed his attention on the Crows. “Friends of yours?”

Nate introduced Chases Rabbits. “He’s here to trade for a rifle.”

“How much furs you want for long gun?” the young warrior asked.

“The going rate is ten buffalo robes,” St. Vrain informed him. “I give you my word it will be a quality piece and not blow up in your face like some of Hudson Bay’s trade rifles did. You can hunt with confidence.”

“He wants the rifle to kill Blackfeet,” Nate said.

“You don’t say.”

“You don’t say what?” Chases Rabbits asked.

“We don’t sell rifles for tribes to make war,” St. Vrain informed him. “We sell them to use to hunt and so you can protect yourself.”

“Me not make war. Me count coup.”

“There’s a woman,” Nate said.

St. Vrain arched an eyebrow. “You live a complicated life, young sir.”

“Me do?” Chases Rabbits scratched his chin. “How I live it and not know it?”

St. Vrain motioned. “Let’s not block the gate. You and your friends are welcome so long as you obey the rules. Come on in.”

“Rules?” Chases Rabbits said.

“No hard spirits are allowed inside the walls. No discharging of firearms. No fighting. No quarreling. Any disputes, you come to me or Bill or Charles Bent, and we’ll resolve the issue. One of us is always on the premises. Do you understand all I’ve told you?”

“What be spirits?”

“Liquor. Whiskey. Scotch. Rum. You name it. That includes ale and beer. We are most strict about alcohol.”

“White man’s drink,” Chases Rabbits said. “Smell like horse piss. Me never drink. Crow who drink not be Crow anymore.”

“Good for you, young sirrah.”

“What that mean?”

“Your English has gaps, doesn’t it?”

“Many,” Nate said.

“Come on in,” St. Vrain repeated, and after Nate and the Crows had ridden through, he nodded at two guards, who promptly closed the gate.

The central square bustled with freighters and other visitors. At the northwest and southeast corners were towers with field pieces. A blacksmith shop was near the gate. Nate made for the hitch rail in front of it.

“Have supper with me and invite your amusing friend,” St. Vrain suggested, falling into step. “Perhaps we can dissuade him from getting himself killed.”

“I’ve been trying.”

“But he refuses to listen because he’s young and stubborn and in love.”

“Weren’t we all once?”

“What else do you need besides coffee? Or did you come all this way just for that?”

“Don’t start. I get ribbed enough by Winona and Shakespeare. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

“I’m just surprised you came all this way when you have somewhere so much closer to get your supplies.”

Nate stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?” St. Vrain smoothed his fine coat and clasped his hands behind his back. “I would have thought word had spread all over the Rockies by now.”

“Keep me in suspense, why don’t you?”

St. Vrain smiled. “How many settlers would you say there are in the foothills and deeper in? Besides the five families in King Valley, that is.”

Nate shrugged. “About fifteen to eighteen, I reckon.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. The Wards, the Kendals, and there are many others. It’s closer to two dozen, I would say. Enough, I imagine, to support the new general store that has opened for business.”

Genuine shock gripped Nate. Stores and taverns were cornerstones of civilization, and until this moment he had cherished the reality that civilization, with all its many ills, was a thousand miles away, far across the prairie and the wide Mississippi. “Please tell me you’re jesting.”

“Would that I were. I don’t appreciate having competition, but it’s competition on a small scale. They don’t sell nearly as much as we do. Mainly the basics, and drink and food.”

“You’ve been there?”

“A social call, to be polite. And to gauge how they’ll cut into our profits.” St. Vrain grinned. “They sell coffee.”

“Where is this place?”

“About four miles northeast of your old cabin, along the foothills. They built it in a basin they call Mud Hollow. There’s a creek but no one has given it a name yet. The man who runs the store calls himself Toad,” St. Vrain chuckled. “I kid you not.”

“What is he like?”

“The name fits. But do you want to hear something even more interesting? This Toad has five helpers. His clerks, he calls them. You met the gentlemen a few minutes ago. They were here to buy flour and sugar from us. Seems their own shipment was short.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Those men you encountered on your way in. Mr. Petrie and Mr. Geist and the others.”

“Petrie doesn’t strike me as the store clerk type.”

“Me, neither,” St. Vrain said.

Nate gazed out over the west wall toward the distant mountains. “So what you’re saying is that there is more to this than meets the eye?”

“I suspect so, yes. And I thought you would like to know.”

“Damn,” Nate King said.

The foothills rose in serial ranks. Those covered with more grass than trees were light green; those covered with more trees than grass were dark green. Interspersed here and there was the brown of barren hills, the ground too rocky to support plant life.

The new trading post was easy enough to find.

Rutted tracks left by the wagons that hauled the trade goods wound among the hills to a broad hollow. A meandering creek had formed a pond so shallow it looked to be more mud than water. Thus, evidently, the name the owner of the store had chosen—Mud Hollow.

The store was well constructed. It was two stories, the bottom built from pine logs, the top from boards. There were windows with glass. There were also gun ports, a lot of gun ports, on all four sides. A corral was at the rear, a long hitch rail in front. A large sign proclaimed to the world that it was
TOAD
’
S MERCANTILE
.

“I’ll be damned,” Nate said.

“Why?” Chases Rabbits asked.

The young warrior and his companions had accompanied Nate from Bent’s Fort. Cradled in Chases Rabbits’ arm was his new rifle, a smoothbore with a thirty-inch barrel, manufactured in London.

Nate didn’t mind the company. In fact, he’d taken advantage and tried to talk his young friend out of
venturing into Blackfoot territory. So far he hadn’t been successful.

“Big lodge,” Chases Rabbits said with a nod at the mercantile. “Heap important man live here.”

“He’d sure like you to think so.”

Several horses with saddles were at the hitch rail. In the corral were more without, milling or dozing. A short way past the mercantile, the three men Nate had seen with Geist and Petrie were erecting what appeared to be a stable or barn. All three, he noticed, kept pistols under their belts and knives in their sheaths as they went about their work.

“Me like this place,” Chases Rabbits said.

“We haven’t been inside yet.” Nate dismounted and tied the reins to the hitch rail.

The door was open. From inside came voices and laugher. A wide window revealed a counter that ran the length of the room and rows of shelves piled with goods. To one side were several tables with linen and silverware.

A man was staring back through the window at Nate. He smiled, then came outside, his hand outstretched as he had offered it at Bent’s Fort. “Mr. King. Fancy seeing you again so soon.”

“Mr. Geist,” Nate said.

“You must have heard about us at the fort and come for a look-see.”

“Something like that.”

“Allow me to show you around.” Geist smiled at the Crows. “You and your friends. Indians are always welcome. They’ll be a large part of our trade.”

“You’re in business with this Toad, then?”

“Oh, no,” Geist quickly answered. “Toad is the boss. I’m just another of the hired help.”

The inside smelled of tobacco smoke and food. In a corner sat a stove. By the counter was a pickle barrel.

Nate couldn’t get over it: a mercantile in the Rockies. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on over and I’ll introduce you.” Geist ushered them to the counter.

Behind it stood a remarkably grotesque individual. The man stood a few inches over five feet in height and was almost as wide as he was tall. His shoulders slumped, his body thickened at the middle, his legs were short and bowed, his feet wide and splayed. Then there was his face. It was broad across the chin but narrow at the brow. His brown eyes bulged as if seeking to burst from their sockets. His wide nose was flat, his mouth a slit. The total effect brought to mind the animal he was named after.

“Toad, I’d like you to meet Nate King,” Geist said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Nate replied.

Toad’s bulging eyes fixed on him and he briefly touched a clammy palm to Nate’s. “Heard about you.”

Nate was dumfounded. The man’s voice sounded just like the croak of a real toad. His reaction must have shown, because the other frowned.

“You’re not one of those, are you?”

“Those?”

“The ones who look at me like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve had to put up with it all my life and I don’t like it one bit.”

“Now, Toad,” Geist said.

Toad colored and balled his thick fingers. “Well, I don’t,” he said sullenly. He shifted his bulging eyes
back to Nate. “I’ve done a lot of asking around. They told me at Bent’s that you’re well thought of. One of the most respected men in the Rockies, St. Vrain said.”

“News to me,” Nate replied.

“Don’t be modest. Word is that you were a trapper once. You stayed on after the fur brigades disbanded and now you live deep in the mountains with a Shoshone wife and your family. The Shoshones even adopted you into their tribe, I understand. Grizzly Killer, the Indians call you.”

“You have been asking around.”

“I’m a businessman, King. And a businessman needs to know about those he might do business with. I came out to Bent’s a year ago and nosed around to see if I could make a go of it with my mercantile, and here I am.”

“I wouldn’t think there are enough settlers for you to make a go of it.”

“There aren’t. But I’m close enough to the Oregon Trail that wagon trains will stop. And then there are the Indians. I hope to trade with all the tribes.”

“Really?” Nate said.

Toad’s eyes grew defensive. “Is it me, or do you not sound too happy about my being here?”

Nate decided to be honest with him. “Some years back another man opened a trading post. He said the same thing you have, that he was only interested in trade. But he stirred up trouble between two of the tribes so he could sell them a lot of rifles.”

“I’m not him,” Toad declared. “Making money is in my blood, you might say. But stirring up a war is a damn stupid way to do business. I aim to be here a good long while, and to do that I have to stay friendly with everyone, white and red alike.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“What happened to that other meshuggener?”

“The what?”

“The putz who tried to stir up the war.”

“Someone shot him.”

“You?”

Nate hesitated. “My son.”

Geist had been listening with great interest. “We heard about him, too, at Bent’s. The notorious Zach King. A natural-born killer, they call him. Someone told us it’s because he’s a half-breed.”

Had it not been for Geist’s perpetually friendly smile, Nate would have slugged him. “Who told you that?”

“We forget,” Toad said with a pointed look of his bulging eyes at Geist.

“Not that I believe that nonsense about breeds,” Geist added quickly. “Just because a person has mixed blood doesn’t mean he’s bad.”

“No,” Nate gratefully replied. “It doesn’t.”

“As for my mercantile,” Toad said, “you have my word that we’ll cause no trouble whatsoever.”

“I hope to God that’s true,” Nate King said.