Read Online The Shirt On His Back by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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small hands stilled on the stone
pestle, and her brows pulled together over her aquiline nose. 'Owl was a strong
man. They still sing songs about him. I'm glad they keep to their own side of
the river, mostly—'
'Mostly ? ' Hannibal's eyebrows raised a whole ladder of startled little wrinkles up to his
hairline. 'Did I hear you utter the fatal word mostly, o dove of the rocky places?'
She
made a gesture at him, as if shooing flies, but January saw her smile.
'Chased
By Bears, and Faces The Wind - my other brother - tell me they've seen signs of
Blackfeet on this side of the river, but those aren't the ones they're worried
about.' She shrugged. 'In the villages they say that there is another band in
the mountains north of here, and no one knows who they are. Faces The Wind says
there are at least twice as many of them as there are of the Blackfeet; eighty
lodges, he thinks. Chased By Bears thinks they may be Crow, who have quarreled
with the Company's Crow and won't come into the camp on account of it. But
Moccasin Woman says no, they are Flatheads . . . But if they are Flatheads, why
are they not camped with the traders of Hudson's Bay? But there are a lot of
them,' she concluded and resumed her steady pounding. 'And they take great care
not to be seen.'
'Any
chance they'll attack the camp?' asked January, after a moment's mental
computation of how many warriors generally slept in one lodge - anywhere from
five to nine, as a general rule. He did not much like the number he came up
with.
Gil
Wallach, sopping up cornbread and stew on the other side of the fire, shook his
head. 'Indians may have rifles, but they've seldom got the powder and ball to
sustain an attack,' he said. 'It's why they fight the way they do. They need
that ammunition for hunting. And, even if the Crow wanted to come down on us
for some reason, there's enough other tribes that want to preserve us - as a
source of powder, ball, Vermillion, steel knives, an' what-have-you - that
they'd be mightily pissed at the Crows for upsettin' the apple cart.'
'There's
the Law of Nature for Captain Stewart,' mused Hannibal. 'Either simple
acquisitiveness for the fruits of decadent Civilization ... or the fact that
the neighbors may be watching.'
'Which
don't say anythin',' put in Shaw softly, 'about smaller groups - either them or
the Blackfeet - comin' into the camp, when they think nobody's lookin', an'
pickin' off a few here an' there.'
'And
on the subject of the fruits of decadent Civilization . . .' Hannibal nodded
toward the footpath that led toward the main trail as Edwin Titus, Controller
of the AFC camp, appeared around the screen of scrubby rabbitbrush that
bordered the Ivy and Wallach pitch.
Titus
was a big man, bland-faced, frock-coated, and despite a tidy Quaker beard and
the pomade he wore on his hair there was nothing in him of the weakness that
trappers usually saw in citified Easterners. The trappers loved to boast of how
their farts and sneezes could send lesser mortals like Mexicans and niggers
('Present company excepted, Ben . . .') fleeing in terror, but they walked
quietly around Titus. There was a deadly quality even to his geniality - he'd
lost no time in offering January a job with the Company the previous afternoon,
the moment Gil Wallach was out of hearing: a hundred and twenty dollars a year,
to clerk at their St Louis offices - and at the AFC store tent, effective
immediately. 'You know Ivy and Wallach aren't going to last the year,' he'd
said with his wide, impersonal smile. January guessed this to be true - the AFC
was mercilessly undercutting the prices of every independent trader in the
camp. 'They're losing money in that little fort of theirs—'
'I
didn't know that, sir.' And YOU wouldn't know it either, unless you had someone IN that fort sending
you reports . .
.
Unless,
of course, you 're simply making that up .
Titus
had shrugged. 'It's not something they'd tell a man they'd just hired. But if
you think your loyalty now
pestle, and her brows pulled together over her aquiline nose. 'Owl was a strong
man. They still sing songs about him. I'm glad they keep to their own side of
the river, mostly—'
'Mostly ? ' Hannibal's eyebrows raised a whole ladder of startled little wrinkles up to his
hairline. 'Did I hear you utter the fatal word mostly, o dove of the rocky places?'
She
made a gesture at him, as if shooing flies, but January saw her smile.
'Chased
By Bears, and Faces The Wind - my other brother - tell me they've seen signs of
Blackfeet on this side of the river, but those aren't the ones they're worried
about.' She shrugged. 'In the villages they say that there is another band in
the mountains north of here, and no one knows who they are. Faces The Wind says
there are at least twice as many of them as there are of the Blackfeet; eighty
lodges, he thinks. Chased By Bears thinks they may be Crow, who have quarreled
with the Company's Crow and won't come into the camp on account of it. But
Moccasin Woman says no, they are Flatheads . . . But if they are Flatheads, why
are they not camped with the traders of Hudson's Bay? But there are a lot of
them,' she concluded and resumed her steady pounding. 'And they take great care
not to be seen.'
'Any
chance they'll attack the camp?' asked January, after a moment's mental
computation of how many warriors generally slept in one lodge - anywhere from
five to nine, as a general rule. He did not much like the number he came up
with.
Gil
Wallach, sopping up cornbread and stew on the other side of the fire, shook his
head. 'Indians may have rifles, but they've seldom got the powder and ball to
sustain an attack,' he said. 'It's why they fight the way they do. They need
that ammunition for hunting. And, even if the Crow wanted to come down on us
for some reason, there's enough other tribes that want to preserve us - as a
source of powder, ball, Vermillion, steel knives, an' what-have-you - that
they'd be mightily pissed at the Crows for upsettin' the apple cart.'
'There's
the Law of Nature for Captain Stewart,' mused Hannibal. 'Either simple
acquisitiveness for the fruits of decadent Civilization ... or the fact that
the neighbors may be watching.'
'Which
don't say anythin',' put in Shaw softly, 'about smaller groups - either them or
the Blackfeet - comin' into the camp, when they think nobody's lookin', an'
pickin' off a few here an' there.'
'And
on the subject of the fruits of decadent Civilization . . .' Hannibal nodded
toward the footpath that led toward the main trail as Edwin Titus, Controller
of the AFC camp, appeared around the screen of scrubby rabbitbrush that
bordered the Ivy and Wallach pitch.
Titus
was a big man, bland-faced, frock-coated, and despite a tidy Quaker beard and
the pomade he wore on his hair there was nothing in him of the weakness that
trappers usually saw in citified Easterners. The trappers loved to boast of how
their farts and sneezes could send lesser mortals like Mexicans and niggers
('Present company excepted, Ben . . .') fleeing in terror, but they walked
quietly around Titus. There was a deadly quality even to his geniality - he'd
lost no time in offering January a job with the Company the previous afternoon,
the moment Gil Wallach was out of hearing: a hundred and twenty dollars a year,
to clerk at their St Louis offices - and at the AFC store tent, effective
immediately. 'You know Ivy and Wallach aren't going to last the year,' he'd
said with his wide, impersonal smile. January guessed this to be true - the AFC
was mercilessly undercutting the prices of every independent trader in the
camp. 'They're losing money in that little fort of theirs—'
'I
didn't know that, sir.' And YOU wouldn't know it either, unless you had someone IN that fort sending
you reports . .
.
Unless,
of course, you 're simply making that up .
Titus
had shrugged. 'It's not something they'd tell a man they'd just hired. But if
you think your loyalty now
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