Read Online Buffalo Palace by Terry C. Johnston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry C. Johnston
Ads: Link
horse’s back.
As Titus began to hop one-legged into his leather britches, the thin man out front asked him, “What the devil are you doing up here from St. Louis?”
“Headed west.”
“West?” the fat man demanded in a gush. “West, from here?”
“What you aim to do going west?” the thin one demanded. “Off to Santa Fe all by yourself?”
Stuffing the wooden buttons through their holes in the britches, Bass shook his head. “Ain’t going south to Santy Fee. Pointing my nose out yonder to them mountains.”
“You don’t say?” the third one replied with a bit of wonder. For the most part, he had been all but silent.
Bass dragged his yoke-shouldered linen shirt over his sopping wet head and asked, “You got room to put a man up for the night?”
“Do we, Sergeant?” the fat one asked. He let the Harpers Ferry musket droop until it pointed at the ground.
“I don’t know about putting you up here at the post,” the thin one began.
“Then I’ll just set myself up right out here,” Titus responded.
“Aw, c’mon, Sergeant,” the big-bellied man pleaded. “We ain’t none of us had no one new to talk with inside of weeks.”
“That’s right,” the third one agreed. “Maybe he’s gotsome news from downriver what ain’t gone rotted with time.”
Jabbing his big horse pistol into the waistband of his military breeches, the thin man inquired, “You ain’t a scout from one of them fur outfits, are you? Rest of ’em coming ’long behind you?”
On the ground where he plopped to pull on his boots, Bass declared, “Like I said, I’m on my lonesome.”
“And you know exactly where the hell you’re going?”
Titus pointed quickly in the general direction. “West. Out yonder.”
The younger, thin man with the beaklike nose chuckled, then said, “So do you know where you are?”
“I’m on the Missouri River,” Bass replied, flinging a thumb over his shoulder at the frothy, muddy, runoff swollen water. “Still east of the big bend.”
“Ain’t that far to the bend now!” the third man cheered.
“How far?” Titus replied eagerly, standing, stomping his heels down into the old boots.
With a shrug the older man said, “Not far. I never was one to measure things out exact.”
“He’s right,” the sergeant injected. “So you reach the big bend, what’s that mean to you?”
“Means the Missouri heads north,” Bass replied. “And me with it.”
With a bob of his head the big soldier said, “Sounds like he’s got him a notion of where he’s off to, Sergeant.”
“Could be, Culpepper,” the thin one replied, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the stockade for emphasis. “But—still don’t sound like he knows where he’s landed.”
Titus tugged the broad-brimmed hat firmly down on his head. “You mean this here post on the Missouri?”
The sergeant swelled out his chest proudly, swinging an arm expansively, proudly, over all his regal holdings. “Osage, it’s called,” he offered. “Fort Osage.” *
* * *
It was a sometimes proposition, this Fort Osage was.
During the early 1820s it had become the jumping-off point for those traders headed down the Santa Fe Trail.
“But there’s been a post here back to O-eight,” the thin man called Lancaster explained as they sat With Titus at the stone fireplace in what served as the fort’s mess hall.
From the size of the stockade down to the tiny barracks, it was plain for any visitor to see that a large force had never manned Fort Osage.
“That’s back when General Clark chose this here place for a government trading house,” Sergeant Clayton explained. “I s’pose that’s why to some folks this place’ll always be known as Fort Clark.”
In fact, to those on the Lewis and Clark expedition marching west to the Pacific Ocean, this location was first noted as a favorable site for a post and ever after became known as Fort Point on June 23, 1804—perhaps because of the low bluff on which
As Titus began to hop one-legged into his leather britches, the thin man out front asked him, “What the devil are you doing up here from St. Louis?”
“Headed west.”
“West?” the fat man demanded in a gush. “West, from here?”
“What you aim to do going west?” the thin one demanded. “Off to Santa Fe all by yourself?”
Stuffing the wooden buttons through their holes in the britches, Bass shook his head. “Ain’t going south to Santy Fee. Pointing my nose out yonder to them mountains.”
“You don’t say?” the third one replied with a bit of wonder. For the most part, he had been all but silent.
Bass dragged his yoke-shouldered linen shirt over his sopping wet head and asked, “You got room to put a man up for the night?”
“Do we, Sergeant?” the fat one asked. He let the Harpers Ferry musket droop until it pointed at the ground.
“I don’t know about putting you up here at the post,” the thin one began.
“Then I’ll just set myself up right out here,” Titus responded.
“Aw, c’mon, Sergeant,” the big-bellied man pleaded. “We ain’t none of us had no one new to talk with inside of weeks.”
“That’s right,” the third one agreed. “Maybe he’s gotsome news from downriver what ain’t gone rotted with time.”
Jabbing his big horse pistol into the waistband of his military breeches, the thin man inquired, “You ain’t a scout from one of them fur outfits, are you? Rest of ’em coming ’long behind you?”
On the ground where he plopped to pull on his boots, Bass declared, “Like I said, I’m on my lonesome.”
“And you know exactly where the hell you’re going?”
Titus pointed quickly in the general direction. “West. Out yonder.”
The younger, thin man with the beaklike nose chuckled, then said, “So do you know where you are?”
“I’m on the Missouri River,” Bass replied, flinging a thumb over his shoulder at the frothy, muddy, runoff swollen water. “Still east of the big bend.”
“Ain’t that far to the bend now!” the third man cheered.
“How far?” Titus replied eagerly, standing, stomping his heels down into the old boots.
With a shrug the older man said, “Not far. I never was one to measure things out exact.”
“He’s right,” the sergeant injected. “So you reach the big bend, what’s that mean to you?”
“Means the Missouri heads north,” Bass replied. “And me with it.”
With a bob of his head the big soldier said, “Sounds like he’s got him a notion of where he’s off to, Sergeant.”
“Could be, Culpepper,” the thin one replied, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the stockade for emphasis. “But—still don’t sound like he knows where he’s landed.”
Titus tugged the broad-brimmed hat firmly down on his head. “You mean this here post on the Missouri?”
The sergeant swelled out his chest proudly, swinging an arm expansively, proudly, over all his regal holdings. “Osage, it’s called,” he offered. “Fort Osage.” *
* * *
It was a sometimes proposition, this Fort Osage was.
During the early 1820s it had become the jumping-off point for those traders headed down the Santa Fe Trail.
“But there’s been a post here back to O-eight,” the thin man called Lancaster explained as they sat With Titus at the stone fireplace in what served as the fort’s mess hall.
From the size of the stockade down to the tiny barracks, it was plain for any visitor to see that a large force had never manned Fort Osage.
“That’s back when General Clark chose this here place for a government trading house,” Sergeant Clayton explained. “I s’pose that’s why to some folks this place’ll always be known as Fort Clark.”
In fact, to those on the Lewis and Clark expedition marching west to the Pacific Ocean, this location was first noted as a favorable site for a post and ever after became known as Fort Point on June 23, 1804—perhaps because of the low bluff on which
Similar Books
