”
“I’ll pay,” Guy growled. He stabbed the quill into the ink pot and scratched his initials. “They’ll honor it. I’ll deduct it from Fitzhugh’s share — if there is any share.”
The clerk returned with the passenger list, and Sire made a hasty exit. Guy rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing the bad news, knowing that the company hung by a thread — and much of his investment as well. Sabotage. He’d march over to that grubby office of Pierre le Cadet and wring his slippery neck. Chouteau’d hired some thug to slip those incriminating kegs on board and doctor the cargo manifest. Chouteau or one of his suave, bland relatives, which he had by the score.
And Maxim. Witless child. For a moment the full force of his fury landed on his seventeen-year-old son, but Guy curbed it. He’d yank the boy down the river and put him to work here. Too young. Much too young. Not an ounce of judgment . . .
He swept out of his offices, grabbed his gold-headed walking stick, and pierced into the steaming heat outside. He marched straight down Chestnut Street, bringing up a sweat under his arms with every step. It didn’t matter. He found the ornate federal building near the riverfront, the place where the fate of the Rocky Mountain Company would be decided. He pushed through the chipped brown double doors and turned right, steering toward the Indian Bureau — once the lair of General William Clark, who’d governed the Indian territories ever since he’d returned from his great expedition to the Pacific with Merriwether Lewis, except for a few years as governor of Missouri Territory. But the present superintendent, David Mitchell, was another type altogether.
Guy pushed in, swept past a clerk in shirtsleeves, and waited at the open door. Mitchell was reading something — and Guy knew exactly what. The man looked as weathered as any mountaineer — which Mitchell was. He’d tromped the whole west, befriended the bribes, worked for Chouteau for years — and knew the fur trade. There’d be no pretending here.
“Expecting you,” Mitchell said, waving Guy to a straight-backed wooden chair. “The Reverend Mister Gillian writes a remarkable report. Ninety-nine percent fulmination, one percent fact. But the one percent is bad news for you.”
“May I see it?”
“It’s your privilege. It don’t say nothing you don’t already know.”
“I don’t know anything for sure.”
Mitchell grinned skeptically. “I can’t stop this, you know. If it happened, you lose your trading license.”
“We know nothing about those casks.”
Mitchell scratched his brow with a pencil. “You’re in an odd position, Guy.”
“We didn’t buy or load those casks. You might ask le Cadet who put them there.”
Mitchell laughed. “I appreciate your indignation,” he said slowly. “But you know how it’ll go.”
Guy knew. The evasions of all the fur companies were common knowledge. Everyone knew the companies shipped spirits upriver, contrary to several laws of Congress. William Clark had winked at it if it wasn’t too blatant. Chouteau’s American Fur had been caught at it more than once and the great man had bought and politicked his way out, with the powerful Senator Benton bullying the administration and the Senate as well. If Pierre Chouteau had barely escaped, then Guy had no chance at all.
Guy sighed. “The reformers will love the whole spectacle,” he muttered. “And I’ll be ruined. And Pierre will go on, just as he has.”
Mitchell shrugged. “You’re in an odd bind. You can’t claim innocence. Whether or not those casks are yours, I’m sure you’d made arrangements of some sort.”
Mitchell stared directly at Guy. Guy refused to respond.
“Sergeant Bluff, I’d wager, old coon.”
David Mitchell knew the robe trade, Guy thought. “What do I do to escape the licensing hearings?”
Mitchell shrugged. “You can’t escape them. At least not unless someone confesses to the crime. It is a
“I’ll pay,” Guy growled. He stabbed the quill into the ink pot and scratched his initials. “They’ll honor it. I’ll deduct it from Fitzhugh’s share — if there is any share.”
The clerk returned with the passenger list, and Sire made a hasty exit. Guy rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing the bad news, knowing that the company hung by a thread — and much of his investment as well. Sabotage. He’d march over to that grubby office of Pierre le Cadet and wring his slippery neck. Chouteau’d hired some thug to slip those incriminating kegs on board and doctor the cargo manifest. Chouteau or one of his suave, bland relatives, which he had by the score.
And Maxim. Witless child. For a moment the full force of his fury landed on his seventeen-year-old son, but Guy curbed it. He’d yank the boy down the river and put him to work here. Too young. Much too young. Not an ounce of judgment . . .
He swept out of his offices, grabbed his gold-headed walking stick, and pierced into the steaming heat outside. He marched straight down Chestnut Street, bringing up a sweat under his arms with every step. It didn’t matter. He found the ornate federal building near the riverfront, the place where the fate of the Rocky Mountain Company would be decided. He pushed through the chipped brown double doors and turned right, steering toward the Indian Bureau — once the lair of General William Clark, who’d governed the Indian territories ever since he’d returned from his great expedition to the Pacific with Merriwether Lewis, except for a few years as governor of Missouri Territory. But the present superintendent, David Mitchell, was another type altogether.
Guy pushed in, swept past a clerk in shirtsleeves, and waited at the open door. Mitchell was reading something — and Guy knew exactly what. The man looked as weathered as any mountaineer — which Mitchell was. He’d tromped the whole west, befriended the bribes, worked for Chouteau for years — and knew the fur trade. There’d be no pretending here.
“Expecting you,” Mitchell said, waving Guy to a straight-backed wooden chair. “The Reverend Mister Gillian writes a remarkable report. Ninety-nine percent fulmination, one percent fact. But the one percent is bad news for you.”
“May I see it?”
“It’s your privilege. It don’t say nothing you don’t already know.”
“I don’t know anything for sure.”
Mitchell grinned skeptically. “I can’t stop this, you know. If it happened, you lose your trading license.”
“We know nothing about those casks.”
Mitchell scratched his brow with a pencil. “You’re in an odd position, Guy.”
“We didn’t buy or load those casks. You might ask le Cadet who put them there.”
Mitchell laughed. “I appreciate your indignation,” he said slowly. “But you know how it’ll go.”
Guy knew. The evasions of all the fur companies were common knowledge. Everyone knew the companies shipped spirits upriver, contrary to several laws of Congress. William Clark had winked at it if it wasn’t too blatant. Chouteau’s American Fur had been caught at it more than once and the great man had bought and politicked his way out, with the powerful Senator Benton bullying the administration and the Senate as well. If Pierre Chouteau had barely escaped, then Guy had no chance at all.
Guy sighed. “The reformers will love the whole spectacle,” he muttered. “And I’ll be ruined. And Pierre will go on, just as he has.”
Mitchell shrugged. “You’re in an odd bind. You can’t claim innocence. Whether or not those casks are yours, I’m sure you’d made arrangements of some sort.”
Mitchell stared directly at Guy. Guy refused to respond.
“Sergeant Bluff, I’d wager, old coon.”
David Mitchell knew the robe trade, Guy thought. “What do I do to escape the licensing hearings?”
Mitchell shrugged. “You can’t escape them. At least not unless someone confesses to the crime. It is a
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