Read Online Cheyenne Winter by Richard S. Wheeler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
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your widows notified.”
“We number more than you,” Fecteau announced.
“Oh yes. And after we shoot, our rifiles make fine clubs.”
But they wouldn’t try that. Not Creole against Creole. “All aboard,” Samson said, prodding the opposition forward. He nodded to Bercier who ran ahead and plunged into the cabin, emerging with a handful of rifles, powderhorns, and ammunition pouches.
“Is that all?”
“I will check again, Samson.”
Bercier vanished into the cabin again, this time emerging with powder flasks and shot flasks for the swivel gun at the bow, along with three knives.
“Now it is an empty nest,” Bercier said.
Trudeau marched his prisoners up the plank and into the cabin, and closed the door. None of them protested much. They’d come to no harm; it was fur company war, nothing personal. Nothing to expend lives and blood about, especially the blood of fellow Creoles.
Samson’s men gathered their kits, hauled them on board, and stationed themselves on the deck. Two kept their rifles trained on the door, but it wasn’t crucial. Samson himself took hold of the tiller and steered the bateau into the swift current. Peace reigned, after a fashion. He intended to travel day and night when the moon permitted. He’d stolen a keelboat, the value of which was actually less than the destroyed and stolen livestock. It would have to do.
By keelboat they were only a day and two nights from Wolf Rapids, and they’d make up some of the lost time. Not that he expected Fitzhugh to be there: the packet would be late in this low-water year.
They drifted on into the night, exploiting a quarter-moon until it sank. He let one opposition man at a time emerge, relieve himself, drink some river water, and return. He had nothing to feed them other than what the Chouteau men had on board, which was an emergency parfleche of jerky. They had been making meat as they traveled, needing little else.
When the moon vanished he began steering badly, grinding the keelboat into a gravel bar. His men poled it loose and they drifted in the black current again. Mostly, the river took them where it would, the channel running now to one side and then to the other. He kept two men at the prow with sounding poles as the cool night progressed, and whenever they told him the keelboat was sliding into shallows he veered away. It didn’t keep them entirely out of trouble but a keelboat was forgiving, unlike a steam packet.
Samson Trudeau felt no guilt at all, not even for confining his fellow Creoles down there among the bales of robes. They were hungry, no doubt — everyone was — but comfortable, spread out on robes and warm. He sighed. Hard times required hard measures. And he had justice on his side anyway.
At dawn, Brasseau shot a muley doe, and he veered toward the far bank to collect it. Brasseau himself leapt into the river, gasped at its coldness, and then dragged the doe off the shore and floated it toward the bateau, where many hands helped him up, and pulled up the doe. Trudeau didn’t want to anchor — it would be a temptation for the opposition. They paused long enough to gather firewood and then Trudeau swung the long tiller, steering the keelboat into the relentless current. Swiftly, his men hung the deer from the mast, gutted it, butchered it, and began roasting venison over the small fire crackling in the sandbox that lay aft, the only device for cooking on board.
Around noon they passed a herd of buffalo shaded up along the bank under cottonwoods. No one shot; they didn’t stop. His men hadn’t slept, nor had he, and the paralyzing weariness of a second day without sleep invaded him. Weariness meant danger. Weariness meant bad judgment. He traded watches at the tiller with each man, and encouraged each man, in turn, to stay alert. He had Corneille Dauphin load the swivel gun at the prow just in case they ran into Indians. This was an oversized blunderbuss with an inch and a half bore, almost a small cannon.
“We number more than you,” Fecteau announced.
“Oh yes. And after we shoot, our rifiles make fine clubs.”
But they wouldn’t try that. Not Creole against Creole. “All aboard,” Samson said, prodding the opposition forward. He nodded to Bercier who ran ahead and plunged into the cabin, emerging with a handful of rifles, powderhorns, and ammunition pouches.
“Is that all?”
“I will check again, Samson.”
Bercier vanished into the cabin again, this time emerging with powder flasks and shot flasks for the swivel gun at the bow, along with three knives.
“Now it is an empty nest,” Bercier said.
Trudeau marched his prisoners up the plank and into the cabin, and closed the door. None of them protested much. They’d come to no harm; it was fur company war, nothing personal. Nothing to expend lives and blood about, especially the blood of fellow Creoles.
Samson’s men gathered their kits, hauled them on board, and stationed themselves on the deck. Two kept their rifles trained on the door, but it wasn’t crucial. Samson himself took hold of the tiller and steered the bateau into the swift current. Peace reigned, after a fashion. He intended to travel day and night when the moon permitted. He’d stolen a keelboat, the value of which was actually less than the destroyed and stolen livestock. It would have to do.
By keelboat they were only a day and two nights from Wolf Rapids, and they’d make up some of the lost time. Not that he expected Fitzhugh to be there: the packet would be late in this low-water year.
They drifted on into the night, exploiting a quarter-moon until it sank. He let one opposition man at a time emerge, relieve himself, drink some river water, and return. He had nothing to feed them other than what the Chouteau men had on board, which was an emergency parfleche of jerky. They had been making meat as they traveled, needing little else.
When the moon vanished he began steering badly, grinding the keelboat into a gravel bar. His men poled it loose and they drifted in the black current again. Mostly, the river took them where it would, the channel running now to one side and then to the other. He kept two men at the prow with sounding poles as the cool night progressed, and whenever they told him the keelboat was sliding into shallows he veered away. It didn’t keep them entirely out of trouble but a keelboat was forgiving, unlike a steam packet.
Samson Trudeau felt no guilt at all, not even for confining his fellow Creoles down there among the bales of robes. They were hungry, no doubt — everyone was — but comfortable, spread out on robes and warm. He sighed. Hard times required hard measures. And he had justice on his side anyway.
At dawn, Brasseau shot a muley doe, and he veered toward the far bank to collect it. Brasseau himself leapt into the river, gasped at its coldness, and then dragged the doe off the shore and floated it toward the bateau, where many hands helped him up, and pulled up the doe. Trudeau didn’t want to anchor — it would be a temptation for the opposition. They paused long enough to gather firewood and then Trudeau swung the long tiller, steering the keelboat into the relentless current. Swiftly, his men hung the deer from the mast, gutted it, butchered it, and began roasting venison over the small fire crackling in the sandbox that lay aft, the only device for cooking on board.
Around noon they passed a herd of buffalo shaded up along the bank under cottonwoods. No one shot; they didn’t stop. His men hadn’t slept, nor had he, and the paralyzing weariness of a second day without sleep invaded him. Weariness meant danger. Weariness meant bad judgment. He traded watches at the tiller with each man, and encouraged each man, in turn, to stay alert. He had Corneille Dauphin load the swivel gun at the prow just in case they ran into Indians. This was an oversized blunderbuss with an inch and a half bore, almost a small cannon.
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