Chapter 58: Indian Traders and Hudson’s Bay Traders

 

Mac stood his watch, though he could barely stay upright in his saddle. He woke Zeke after midnight to take his place and fell into his bedroll.

The camp began to stir at first light. Mac groaned as he got to his feet, his head pounding. Maybe he was getting sick again, like Jenny said. He didn’t have time to be sick—he had to help Pershing with the Indians and he had to take care of Jenny.

He looked in the wagon. “How are you?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Stay still. I’m getting the doctor.”

Mac found Doc eating a biscuit. “Be right over,” the doctor said. “How’s she doing?”

“She says fine.”

“We’ll see.” Doc accompanied Mac back. Jenny stood beside their campfire.

“I told you to stay in the wagon,” Mac said.

Jenny lifted her chin and looked at the doctor. “I’m fine,” she said.

“Sit down, girl.” Doc felt Jenny’s stomach and back. “Any pains?” he asked.

Jenny shook her head.

“No squeezing or cramping?”

Jenny blushed and shook her head again.

The doctor looked at Mac. “No sign the baby’s coming.” Doc turned to Jenny. “Take it easy, you hear?”

She nodded. “Mac’s sick,” she said.

“Just tired, Doc.”

Doc frowned. “Let me know if you’re feverish.” Then he left, and Jenny picked up the skillet.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked.

“Getting breakfast.”

“Didn’t you hear the doctor say to take it easy?”

“No time for that, is there?” Jenny unwrapped the fish and put them in the skillet. “You find our trade goods for the Indians.”

Mac frowned, but did as she said. Then he stalked off to find Pershing.

“Keep your rifles close, men,” the captain said. “No shooting unless the Indians start it.” He looked at Abercrombie as he spoke. “They’ll have food to trade. Maybe furs. You can give ’em anything except spirits, weapons, and ammunition.”

Before the captain finished speaking, about twenty Indians rode silently into camp, mostly men and young boys, but a few women. The white women and children shrank back against the wagons, and the men stood with rifles in hand.

The Indian chief and two braves dismounted. The chief signaled, and a brave handed Pershing a parcel. The captain unwrapped it to find a smoked salmon. He nodded at the chief.

“Joel,” the captain said, “Bring me some sugar. In a leather pouch.”

When Joel returned from the wagon, Pershing gestured toward the chief. Joel handed the pouch to the Indian leader.

The chief tasted a pinch and nodded at Pershing. Then he raised his hand, and the rest of the Indians dismounted.

For the next hour Indians milled around the camp. They poked their noses into the wagons and pointed at what they wanted. Their women laid out food and leather clothing on the ground for display. A few white women crept forward to examine the Indian offerings. One Indian girl demonstrated how to pound a root into powder, and Jenny traded buttons for the roots.

Mac had his hands full keeping a young brave from climbing into their wagon. The Indian wanted gunpowder and offered a deer skin. Mac convinced him to take a pouch of glass beads instead of the powder.

When the trading slowed, Pershing raised his hand to the Indian chief. “You go now,” he said. “We leave for Fort Boise.”

The chief signaled to the Indians, and they rode away silently.

“Pack up,” Pershing said. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

They traveled west through the Boise River valley all day, with only a brief noon stop, then camped that night on the river’s bank. “We’ll cross tomorrow,” Pershing said. “Fort’s on the north side. ’Bout a day’s journey.”

Mac tried to assist Jenny with supper, but she brushed him off. “I’m making camas bread,” she said. “Indian girl showed me how.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Mac asked. He was weary from lack of sleep the night before.

“I’m all right,” she said, as she always did.

While Jenny’s flat loaves of bread baked on a stone set in a slow fire, Mac wrote:

 

August 26, 1847. We’ll reach Fort Boise tomorrow, after crossing the river. Traded with Indians today. Bought food, which we needed. Abercrombie managed not to shoot anyone. Extra guards again tonight.

Mac awoke refreshed after sleeping all night. Although Pershing had ordered extra guards, others in Mac’s platoon had taken the watches. He devoured the sweet camas bread along with dried salmon.

“I hope we can buy beef when we stop at Boise,” he told Jenny.

“How bad will the crossing be?” she asked.

“Zeke and Joel marked it,” Mac said. “We have to dodge tree snags, but it’s not deep. Current’s not swift either.”

The crossing took most of the morning. Then the emigrants plodded along the north bank of the river. In late afternoon Joel returned to the wagons. “Good campsite in two miles,” he said. “Just this side of the fort. Zeke’s there now.”

Pershing nodded. “We’ll camp there. Lay by tomorrow at the fort.”

The low adobe buildings of Fort Boise were visible from their campsite. Beyond the fort the wide Snake River shone silver in the setting sun.

Mac sat after supper, listening to a banjo strum.

 

August 26, 1847. Outside Fort Boise. Good grazing. We’ll buy supplies tomorrow.

In the morning Mac rode into Fort Boise with Pershing and most of the men in their company. “It’s another Hudson’s Bay Company post,” Pershing said. “British built here when the Americans built Fort Hall. Got to hand it to the British—they know how to trade. Don’t expect any bargains.”

Inside the trading post Mac heard his companions mutter.

“Highest prices yet. Sugar fifty cents a pint. And they ain’t got no coffee.”

“Beef seven cents a pound. Hell, I’ll shoot my own meat for that. Just sell me lead and powder.”

“What’d’ya expect when they haul the goods in from Oregon City?”

The Indian offerings—more camas roots, salmon, and pumpkin—were cheaper. Mac bought from the Indians, figuring Jenny would know what to do with the food, but he added a pint of sugar as a treat.

“How’s the Snake crossing?” Pershing asked the agent at the fort.

“It’s just west of here. Ford goes to the tip of the island, then bears left. It’s purty deep, but the current ain’t fast.”

“How does it compare to Three Island Crossing?” Mac asked.

“Deeper. But the water’s slower.” The man shrugged. “Usually not as dangerous. But we lost a man on horseback earlier this year. Horse reared, he fell off.”

Mac hoped Jenny didn’t hear that story. It was too similar to how Horace Mercer died. He wouldn’t let her ride Poulette.

“Where’s the trail go on the other side?” Pershing asked. “In forty-two, we went west to the Malheur, then north. Hear tell there’s a route along the Malheur now.”

The agent shook his head. “Can’t recommend it. Meek took a party that way in forty-five. Kept ’em out of the Blues, but there’s no grass. Rocks cut the animals’ hooves. They got lost. More’n fifty people died.”

“Don’t sound good,” Pershing agreed. “What about getting down the Columbia? Rafts? Ferry?”

Leaning his elbows on the store counter, the agent said, “There’s a toll road at The Dalles now. Don’t know much about it. Head for Whitman’s place. He’ll know whether it amounts to anything.”

Pershing shrugged. “Whitman’s as bad as any of you traders. Charging whatever you can get away with. I got a man always after taking the shortest route. Don’t know I can convince my company to detour to Whitman’s.”

“Whitman might have an agent at Grande Ronde,” the Hudson’s Bay man said. “Look for him.”

Mac followed Pershing out of the store. “Why would Dr. Whitman send an agent to Grande Ronde?” he asked.

“Whitman and his wife came out in thirty-six. He has a mission for the Cayuse near Walla Walla. He also sells supplies to the emigrants. He may say he’s converting Indians, but he’s also making money for himself.”

Surely it would be safer for Jenny to have the baby at the mission than on the trail. “How far are we?” Mac asked.

Pershing shrugged. “Couple hundred miles. Maybe three weeks.”

Three weeks. Would the baby wait three weeks?