Bent’s Fort on the Arkansas River was actually a gigantic mud castle. There was nothing like it anywhere west of the Mississippi. Fort Union, situated where the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers met, and Fort Pierre, on the northern Plains, were two of the bigger centers of the fur trade, but they could hardly hold a candle to the fort built by the Bent brothers and their good friend Ceran St. Vrain.
The front wall alone was fourteen feet high, a hundred and thirty seven feet long, and nearly four feet thick. The side walls ran for a hundred and seventy eight feet. Huge towers had been constructed at the northwest and southeast corners, and each was constantly manned by alert guards who could effectively use the field pieces that had been brought in at much expense and with considerable hard labor to duly impress any and all hostiles.
Bent’s Fort was an impregnable fortress. The whites knew it and could sleep soundly within its sheltering walls at night. The Indians also knew it, both the friendly tribes and the hostiles, so the latter didn’t bother to waste the lives of their braves in trying to overrun it. The Comanches and Kiowas and others accepted its presence as inevitable, but many resented it all the same.
The fort almost qualified as a thriving colony. Up to two hundred men could be comfortably garrisoned there at one time, not to mention upwards of four hundred animals. Just inside the north and west walls were large corrals to accommodate the animals.
Nate had heard much about Bent’s Fort, and was eagerly awaiting his first sight of the post. From a low rise he got his wish, and on spying the high adobe walls he broke into a smile. All of them did. He lifted his reins and started forward, but a word from Winona stopped him and he turned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, husband. Blue Water Woman and I must get ready.”
“Get ready for what?”
“We must make ourselves presentable.”
“You look fine to me,” Nate said, and heard Shakespeare cackle as the two women rode off to be by themselves.
“For a married man, you sure have a lot to learn about womenfolk,” the mountain man declared. “They’re not about to wear their everyday dresses into the fort. It’s fanfaron time, and there ain’t a thing we can do but sit here and twiddle our thumbs until they’re ready.”
“What’s fanfaron, Uncle Shakespeare?” Zach inquired.
“A French word, little one. Showing off, you might call it.”
“What does Ma want to show off?”
“Ask me that question again in fifteen years and I’ll tell you.”
“Pa’s right. You always talk in riddles.”
“I try, boy. I try.”
When the wives returned they had on their very finest ankle-length dresses made of the softest buckskin and gaily decorated with beads, fringe, and even a few tiny bells that jingled as they moved. They had plaited their hair and each wore a brightly colored ribbon; Winona’s was red, Blue Water Woman’s blue.
“My, oh, my!” Shakespeare exclaimed, doffing his beaver hat to them. “You beautiful ladies look fit for a Washington banquet. You’ll be the talk of the fort.”
“We would be pleased if it was so,” Blue Water Woman said coyly.
Zach fidgeted in his saddle. “Can we go now? We’ve been waiting here for hours.”
“It only seems that way,” Nate mumbled, and assumed the lead. They had to swing around to the south side of the fort since the main entrance was located there. Along the way he saw a middling encampment of Indians close to the Arkansas River, twenty lodges arranged in a half circle. “Arapahos?” he wondered aloud, knowing that tribe did extensive trading at the post.
“Cheyennes,” Shakespeare answered.
Nate recalled hearing that it had been Cheyennes who had helped the Bents pick the site after William Bent had saved the lives of a pair of their warriors. Strategically placed at a crossroads of Indian travel, the fort now did a booming business with all of the tribes in the region. The Indians received guns, knives, tools, and trade trinkets in exchange for buffalo hides and other pelts. The Bent brothers and St. Vrain, all scrupulously honest, had acquired an unparalleled reputation for fairness so that even tribes who normally shunned the whites, such as the Gros Ventres and the Utes, routinely traveled to Bent’s Fort to barter.
It had been several years since Nate last saw any Cheyennes. He had been meaning to seek out one of them for quite some time, a prominent warrior called White Eagle, the man who had bestowed the name Grizzly Killer on him after he slew his first monster bear by a sheer fluke. That name had stuck, and now Nate was known far and wide as the white who had slain more grizzlies than any man alive. Not that he’d planned it that way. Somehow, he seemed to attract grizzles the way a magnet attracted iron. The truth be known, he would much rather attract rabbits or squirrels.
The main gate was wide open, and both whites and Indians were freely coming and going. Perched on the wall above the gate was a belfry where a lookout sat. At the first sign of hostiles he would sound the alarm and rouse the entire garrison. This worthy now leaned forward to study their party. “Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me, or is that none other than Shakespeare McNair I see?” he called out happily.
“Kendall?” the mountain man responded.
“None other,” said the lookout, a strapping fellow in a red cap. “I’m workin’ for the Bents now, and finer booshways you can’t find anywhere.”
“It’s been a while,” Shakespeare said. “How’s the family?”
“Lisa is as feisty as ever. And Vail is the apple of her dear mother’s eye. I’ll introduce you later after my stint here is done.”
“I’ll look for you.”
They were about to pass through the gate when Nate realized the nearest whites and Indians were looking his way and some of the whites were scowling. He faced straight ahead, acting as if he had no idea why they were perturbed. Samson was certainly oblivious to their dirty looks. He felt sorry for the mongrel because it still smelled like day-old garbage after a dozen baths or better.
Once past the iron-sheathed gate, Nate gazed at a spacious inner court ringed by small whitewashed guest rooms. Over to one side stood a well. There were also offices, meeting rooms, warehouses, wagon sheds, rooms for the staff, and more, just as Shakespeare had detailed there would be. Although Nate had never set foot inside the fort before, he felt as if he knew it as well as he did the interior of his own cabin.
There were Indians in abundance; Cheyennes and Arapahos and Osage and even a few Kiowas. Mingled among them were free trappers, Frenchmen from St. Louis, and voyageurs from far-off Canada. Altogether, it was as motley and colorful a gathering of humanity as anyone was likely to see anywhere west of the last Missouri settlement.
Nate made for a hitching post, running a gauntlet of frank stares. He began to dismount, then stopped in surprise on seeing a black woman emerge from a nearby doorway and scour the court for a moment before disappearing back inside.
Shakespeare grinned. “That’s Charlotte, the cook. Stay on her good side, Nate, and you’ll eat pumpkin pie and flapjacks as tasty as any offered in the fanciest home in New York City.”
The ringing of a heavy hammer on an anvil drew Nate’s attention to a blacksmith shop at the southeast corner of the fort, and when he turned back to the hitching post there stood a man with a receding hairline and aquiline features who was dressed in a fine black suit.
“As I live and breathe!” the man exclaimed, coming around the post and advancing on McNair with his hand extended. “Shakespeare, you old coon! What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“Howdy, Bill,” the mountain man said, swinging down and shaking heartily. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
The man nodded. “I figured by now some Blackfoot would have your hair hanging in his lodge.”
“I’m too ornery to let them get me,” Shakespeare said. He proceeded to introduce Blue Water Woman, Winona, Zach, and finally Nate to the stranger. “This here is William Bent,” he concluded.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Bent said. “Make yourselves at home here. If you’re staying overnight, I’ll arrange guest rooms for you.”
“We’d be in your debt,” Shakespeare said.
“Not at all. What, are old friends for?” Bent responded, and moved off with a cheery wave.
“You didn’t tell me that you knew one of the Bent brothers,” Nate remarked.
“I know all three of them.”
“Is there anyone you don’t know?”
McNair, grinning, tied his horse to the post. “You have to remember that there aren’t all that many white men in these parts. Sooner or later you’ll meet most of them if you get around enough.” He paused. “Bill and I go back to the time he was trading up in the Northwest. He was having a hard time making ends meet because of competition from the Hudson’s Bay Company. There was many a time we’d sit around sharing whiskey and I’d listen to him describe his woes.”
“Well, he doesn’t have many woes now,” Nate said, surveying the whirls of activity all around them. Here and there clusters of Indians were engaged in trade talks with members of the fort’s crew. That the talks were effective was testified to by the enormous piles of prime pelts being prepared for transport by caravan to St. Louis, pelts easily worth several thousand dollars on the open market. The Bents and St. Vrain, he deduced, must be making money hand over fist. They’d soon be incredibly wealthy if they weren’t already.
After Nate and Shakespeare assisted their wives down and secured all the animals, they all strolled around to see the sights. Over Zach’s protest Nate left Samson tied with their horses. The dog whined and pawed at the rope, but Nate refused to take the mongrel along and upset everyone within sniffing distance.
They saw lusty free trappers drinking and laughing. They saw proud Indians strutting about wearing new blankets draped over their shoulders or adorned with new trinkets. Toward the north end of the square, as they completed their circuit, a peculiar series of subdued cracking sounds could be heard. It gave Nate pause and he scoured the square for the cause.
Shakespeare, who never missed a thing, pointed at the roof of a building visible beyond the trader’s room right in front of them. “Billiards,” he disclosed.
“Here?”
“Bill and his brothers have spared no expense in providing all the comforts. Do you play?”
“Of course. Every boy in New York City can play by the time he’s twelve. At one time I was rather good.”
“Is that a fact? Then we’ll have a match later. Our wives should find it interesting.”
“Say, Pa,” Zach said, tugging on Nate’s sleeve. “What’s that man doing to Samson?”
Turning, Nate beheld a trio of stern voyageurs ringing the hitching post. A hefty specimen in buckskins and a blue cap was angrily addressing Samson while jabbing a thick finger within inches of the dog’s face. Nate hurried over, fearing trouble. Voyageurs were a hardy, independent lot, as befitted men who made their living trapping the most remote regions of Canada. Occasionally some drifted south into the Rockies, but it was unusual for any to be as far south as Bent’s Fort.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” he politely inquired, stopping close to the post.
The three scrutinized him from head to toe, their dark, seamed features impassive.
“And who might you be?” demanded the one in the blue cap.
“I’m the man who owns this dog,” Nate informed them. “Has he bothered you somehow?”
“You’re damn straight he has, American.”
“How?”
“Hell, take a breath,” snapped Blue Cap. “The bastard stinks like dead fish.” He spoke a sentence in French.
“I don’t understand,” Nate said.
“I asked if your dog is part skunk,” the voyageur translated, his companions all smirking.
Nate struggled to control his surging temper. Voyageurs, he reminded himself, were renowned for their arrogance; they tended to look down their noses at their American counterparts, always acting as if they were better trappers and, therefore, better men. Better meaning tougher. All trappers took pride in being hardy souls. Voyageurs just went overboard.
“Maybe we should skin this ugly beast,” the spokesman taunted.
“We can sell the meat to the Cheyennes,” suggested another. “They love to eat dogs.” Chortling softly, he bent over and reached for the mongrel’s neck.
Samson wasn’t about to let a stranger touch him. Bristling, he lunged, his great jaws snapping down on the Canadian’s wrist, his teeth piercing the buckskin and digging deep into the man’s flesh.
Shrieking in agony, the man threw himself backwards, tearing his arm loose and ripping his sleeve in the process. Large drops of blood dripped from the puncture marks. “Damn him!” he roared. “Look at what the son of a bitch did to me!”
The man in the blue cap, cursing a blue streak, drew a pistol and pointed it at Samson’s head. “I’ll teach this cur to mind its manners.”
Everything transpired so quickly that there was no time for Nate to think, no time for him to do other than that which he now did—step in close and swat the pistol barrel aside with the stock of his Hawken. The flintlock discharged, the ball smacking harmlessly into the ground. “That will be enough!” he declared.
But the voyageur in the blue cap had other ideas. Enraged at Nate’s interference, he suddenly sprang, swinging the pistol at Nate’s forehead. Nate ducked under the blow and retaliated by driving the Hawken into the pit of the voyageur’s stomach, doubling the man in half.
Strong arms abruptly clamped around Nate from behind, pinning him in place. “I’ve got him!” cried the other uninjured voyageur. “Bash his brains out, Pierre!”
Nate saw the one in the blue cap straighten and raise the flintlock overhead. Instinctively Nate lashed out, ramming his left foot into Pierre’s knee. Pierre screeched and crumpled. The man who held Nate, roaring like a madman, drove forward, slamming Nate into the hitching post, and it felt as if a mule had kicked Nate in the gut. His lungs emptied in a great whoosh and he saw stars before his eyes. Dimly, he was aware the voyageur had drawn him backwards and was tensing to slam him into the post once more.
He mustn’t let that happen! Twisting sharply, he succeeded in throwing the voyageur off balance. The man’s arms slackened for a moment, and in that span Nate exerted all of his strength and wrenched himself free. Whirling, he glimpsed the voyageur clawing at the hilt of a butcher knife. Nate’s fist stopped that, rocking the voyageur on his heels. A second blow dropped the unconscious Canadian in a heap.
Not until that moment did Nate hear the loud shouts on all sides and see men rushing from every direction. He backed next to Samson and held the Hawken level.
A few yards away was Shakespeare, covering the man Samson had bitten.
“What the devil is going on here?” asked an irate man with the bearing and dress of an aristocrat as he pushed his way through the crowd to the front. “Everyone knows the rules. No shooting is permitted in the fort. Nor will we tolerate fighting.”
Shakespeare stepped up to Nate. “Don’t lay an egg, Ceran. My friend Grizzly Killer didn’t start the trouble. “ He bobbed his head at the Canadians. “They did.”
“McNair?” said Ceran St. Vrain. “When did you get in?”
At that juncture William Bent hastened up from the other side and glared at the man named Pierre. “Shakespeare is telling the truth, Ceran. I happened to see what happened from the blacksmith shop.” He jabbed a finger at Pierre. “You, Chevalier, have gone too far this time. You persist in imposing on our hospitality when we’ve warned you to behave.”
“No one tells me what to do!” Pierre said, wincing as he cradled his knee with both hands.
“There you are wrong,” Bent said calmly. “We will have your leg looked at, and then you and your friends will be escorted from the fort. Should you try to return, the lookout will be under my personal orders to shoot you on sight.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
From out of the throng came Bent’s employees, rugged Frenchmen and others armed with rifles, pistols, clubs, and knives. Fully a dozen strong, they stood on either side of William Bent, and all it took was one look at them for every man there, and particularly Pierre Chevalier, to realize they would gladly tear into anyone who in any manner threatened their employer.
“You were saying?” Bent said.
Pierre, his face beet-red, put both palms on the ground and pushed upright. He tottered unsteadily for a bit, then shoved his pistol under his belt. “I’m not fool enough to stick my head into an open beaver trap,” he said.
“You will gather your belongings and vacate the premises within the hour,” Bent directed.
“If you insist,” Pierre said bitterly. He glanced at Nate, hatred seeping from every pore. “This isn’t over, Grizzly Killer. Not by a long shot. You will see my friends and me again soon. Very soon.”
“Chevalier, why don’t you do us all a favor and go jump in Lake Winnipeg?” Shakespeare asked.
The general laughter only further fouled Pierre’s mood. “Have your fun, McNair. We’ll be paying you a visit too. You had no call butting into this affair.”
The crowd parted as the three Canadians were escorted into a nearby building, four fort employees carrying the one who was unconscious. With the excitement over, the rest of the gathering gradually dispersed.
William Bent and Ceran St. Vrain lingered.
“I wouldn’t take Chevalier’s words lightly, my friend,” Bent told McNair. “He’s not one to forgive a slight. He wears his hatred like most men wear clothes, and he can be as devious as a fox when he wants to be.”
“I know all about him,” Shakespeare said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be on our guard once we leave here.”
“Which will be sooner than you expect if you are involved in any more disturbances,” Ceran commented. “You always did have a knack for being in the thick of things.”
“And you always did wear your britches too tight,” the mountain man replied.
St. Vrain wasn’t amused. “If you will excuse me,” he said formally, and made for the building where the voyageurs were being tended to.
William Bent sighed. “You shouldn’t have done that, Shakespeare. I know the two of you never have gotten along very well, but he is my partner. I must put up with his stuffy attitude every damn day. Now I’ll have to listen to him gripe about you for the next week or two.”
“Is that all? I’ll have to insult him again before we go.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Bent said, turning. He inhaled deeply, then walked in a tight circle around Samson, examining the dog carefully. “Let me guess. He tangled with a skunk and lost. And you had the gall to inflict him on us?”
This last was addressed at Nate. “We couldn’t very well leave him out on the prairie to fend for himself.”
“Why not?” Bent asked half seriously.
From between Winona and Blue Water Woman, both of whom had been standing quietly close at hand, stepped Zach. He ran up to Samson and affectionately threw his slender arms around the huge canine.
“Don’t you worry, boy. I won’t let anyone harm a hair on your head,” he declared.
“There’s your answer,” Nate told Bent.
A warm smile curled the trader’s mouth and he nodded knowingly. “I see your dilemma. Very well. The dog can stay, but you’ll have to keep him in your room so as not to provoke another fight.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now come along and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” Bent said.
The guest rooms, while small, were comfortably furnished. Most, they were informed, were currently empty, but that would soon change as the Bents were expecting a large caravan from Missouri any day now. During the spring and summer months an unending stream of wagons passed through en route to Santa Fe.
Bent stayed and chatted while they unsaddled. He lent a hand in stripping their supplies off the pack animals, then graciously extended an invitation for them to join him and his wife for supper that evening.
Nate had only to see the spark of joy in Winona’s eyes to accept. He walked outside with Bent and thanked him for the offer.
“My pleasure. It will make my dear wife happy. She so enjoys the company of other women.” Bent stopped, glanced at the doorway, and lowered his voice. “I couldn’t help but notice that both Winona and Blue Water Woman were carrying rifles earlier. It’s most unusual to see women armed like that. Are they good shots?”
“The best. Shakespeare and I taught them ourselves. We figured it would come in handy if we’re ever attacked by hostiles again. Four guns speak louder than two.”
“Quite true. Wait until my wife hears.” He took several strides, then cast a somber look of warning over his shoulder. “You might need four guns, my young friend, if Pierre and his bunch ever come looking for revenge.”