Cheyenne Winter by Richard S. Wheeler

tabac and waited for dawn, which would shed light on their dilemma. There was nothing to say; not among these old friends who knew each other’s innermost thoughts without a word being uttered.
    When at last dawn grayed the northeastern firmament and they could distinguish earth from sky, tree from prairie, they spread out silently, seeing the carnage that had been curtained from their eyes in the night. Of the twelve oxen, seven lay dead or wounded, pierced by arrows. The others had vanished. Of the six mules not a one remained. And back at the campsite sat three giant freight wagons, as useless as a canoe without paddles.
    “This was the work of Pierre le Cadet, oui?” said Bercier.
    No one replied. Trudeau thought they probably all agreed. It had been an odd raid, well timed, four days from Fort Cass and Fitzhugh’s Post,and six or seven from the Wolf Rapids rendezvous. Well planned by observers who had seen the wagons turn off the trace to this hidden bankside meadow. Pierre Chouteau’s work indeed, or that of one of his underlings at Cass or Fort Union. And right in the tradition of American Fur, the ruthless monopoly begun by John Jacob Astor and later sold in pieces to the Chouteaus and others. Trade war, with Indians doing the dirty work.
    “We will walk, alors,” he said.
    They loosened the sheeting from the three wagons and cached it nearby in the woods. The wagon sheets would be a prize for any tribesman. The wagons were a prize, too. Their wheels could be burnt to get at the iron tires, which could be fashioned into lance points and arrowheads. He would hide them if he could. Sweating and cursing, three men on the tongue and three behind, pulled and pushed each wagon off the meadow and into the timber. There in the shadowy forest floor they heaped brush against the Pittsburghs. It would not fool anyone for long but it might conceal them from the casual observer.
    Silently they started walking, each man carrying a heavy pack over his back laden with the food and robes and camp supplies from the wagons. No man complained. No Creole engage ever complained; it was not in the gallic blood to do such a thing. Trudeau was grateful for that. The walking slowed them down at once. They needed to rest their aching shoulders every little while. They had to send a hunter ahead and stop to butcher and eat whenever he shot game because there was no way to carry meat. They were used to walking; indeed, they had walked beside the oxen, driving them along with curses and whips. But this was different, now that each man was a beast of burden carrying his necessaries on his back.
    Fur wars. Trudeau thought that this was just another small episode in the brutal battles of the trading companies. Still  . . . an idea blossomed in his mind. If this was war, he thought he knew a way to fight back.
    “We will stay close to the river,” he announced the second day. The five engages eyed him curiously. It would make their work even harder and the trip longer but Samson Trudeau had his reasons. He laughed malevolently, enjoying his thoughts.

Five
     
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    Guy Straus read and reread Maxim’s letter, absorbing the bad news. The master of The Trapper had hand-delivered it, and sat across from Guy.
    “Captain Sire, this is about an inspection at Bellevue. Were you present?”
    “Oui. I saw it all. Maxim took the Indian Agent, a Reverend Foster Gillian, into the hold. A bit later the agent demanded — in a most strident tone, I must say — that some deckmen lift three casks to the main deck — casks labeled vinegar. The reverend pulled the bungs, sniffed, poked his finger in and licked it, and proclaimed them contraband spirits. He was most indignant, mon ami. A volcano of righteous wrath.”
    Guy nodded, his heart sinking. The news was cramping his belly and he felt the dull pain of the ulcer jab at him again. “What did he say, Captain?”
    “Why, that your company’d lose its license, of course. That he’d move