The Nez Percé had long been friendly to whites. When Lewis and Clark made their historic odyssey, they noted in their journals that the Nez Percé were as helpful as could be.
Which was all the more remarkable, given that the Nez Percé were a powerful tribe who controlled a vast area of the Plateau region and could have resisted the white tide as fiercely as the Blackfeet, had they wanted to. Eventually they did, but by then it was far too late.
Two Humps of the Nez Percé was an honored warrior, a respected chief, and one of those who had long pushed for friendly relations. Not out of any noteworthy kinship of spirit. Rather, Two Humps, and many like him, saw the whites as a limitless source of the material goods the Nez Percé so highly valued.
It had not always been so. Once, the tribe had been like every other in the region, living simple lives in small scattered villages, subsisting as plain fisherfolk who dwelled in unadorned mat-roofed dwellings.
Then came the white invasion. The whites had guns and steel knives, steel traps and fire steels and tinder boxes and axes of superior make and so much more it dazzled the minds of the simple Nez Percé. They couldn’t get enough trade goods to suit them, and soon they found themselves unwittingly depending on the whites for many of the things they had once gone without or had made themselves.
To be fair, not all the blame could be placed on the whites. For another factor in the great change that had come over the Nez Percé was their decision to live as did the warlike Plains tribes. They started counting coup. They wore shirts and leggings of buckskin, decorated with beadwork. They forsook their plain lodges for tall buffalo-hide tepees.
In so doing, the Nez Percé were no longer the Nez Percé of old. They were just like the Blackfeet, the Crows, the Shoshones. They were powerful, yes, but they had paid a price for their power: the loss of their simpler life.
Of late there had been grumbling among some that the tribe had erred in cutting ties with the old ways and taking up the new. These tiny voices of protest were smothered by the greater greed. But they did not go unnoticed, and one of those who did notice, much to his own surprise, was Two Humps.
For several moons the old chief had been deeply troubled. He knew the old ways well, and when he parted the fabric of time to peer at the life once led by his people, it seemed that they had, indeed, been unwise. They were so caught up in owning horses and things that they had lost sight of some of the greater values that had once bonded them as a people.
Two Humps wanted to share his troubled heart with another. But not with his wife, who was perfectly happy with the way they now lived, with all her utensils and parfleches and brightly colored European-made blankets. Certainly not with any of the other prominent warriors who, like him, had been largely responsible for the changes and would laugh at the suggestion that they had done wrong. Nor could he talk to those who were complaining, since they would take his interest as evidence he accepted their argument and use his good name to further widen the rift between those who yearned for the old days and those who did not.
Two Humps was left with no one to talk to until the morning that a commotion in the village drew him outside to see a square-shouldered white man with hair and beard like driven snow and a younger one with the bearing and aspect of a big mountain cat.
Hurrying forward, Two Humps made the sign for friendly greeting and called out, “Wolverine! My friend! My heart sings to see you again!”
Shakespeare McNair gripped the chief by the shoulders and said sincerely in the Nez Percé tongue, “Your heart sings no louder than mine, old friend!” Turning, he indicated Nate and said, “This is another one whom I cherish. They call him Grizzly Killer.”
Two Humps regarded the younger trapper. “He has an honest face. And he kills silver-tips. If he is not married, I have a pretty granddaughter who might interest him. She cooks and weaves well, but I hear she snores.”
“Grizzly Killer has a wife,” Shakespeare said.
“He could have two. Some do.”
“Not him.”
“It is just as well. I have always been happy with one, myself. Men who want more must be able to close their ears at will.”
Nate was scanning the busy village, which reminded him in every respect of those of his adopted people. Laughing children played various games. Women at one spot had deer hides stretched taut on stakes and were scraping off hair and tissue. Elsewhere other women were gossiping gaily while mending a torn buffalo hide. Men worked at making arrows or sharpening knives or other crafts of war.
Horses, of course, were everywhere, as well they should be, since the Nez Percé were noted as the finest horse breeders west of the Mississippi. They had developed a special stock, which some called the Palouse because the animals were bred in the Palouse River region, and others had recently taken to calling the Appaloosa.
Nate had once owned a fine Palouse, a gift from another Nez Percé chief, given after Nate saved the chief’s camp from an enemy war party. It had been the finest animal Nate ever owned, and one day he intended to trade for another.
Now, gazing on the idyllic scene, on the abundance of horses and decorated lodges and fine clothes of the inhabitants, Nate remarked, “Your people are some of the happiest I’ve ever seen, Two Humps. It looks like you have prospered over the years.” He spoke English because McNair had informed him the chief spoke a little.
Neither Nate nor Shakespeare understood why a fleeting sadness lined the old warrior’s features. “Yes, Grizzly Killer,” he said haltingly, “we rich people now.” The sadness deepened. “Much rich.” He motioned at his lodge and addressed them in his own language. “You would do me honor by smoking a pipe.”
“We will be glad to,” Shakespeare said. Since he knew the warrior well, he knew Two Humps was greatly aggrieved and was curious to learn why.
The subject had to wait until after they were formally escorted inside and had passed the pipe around. Two Hump’s wife, Blanket Woman, brought them pemmican in a bowl. They sat munching for awhile, waiting for their host to speak as etiquette dictated.
When Two Humps did turn to them, he used sign language as a concession to Nate. “It is a sign that you have come when you have, Wolverine. An omen. My spirit has been troubled of late. I have looked for answers and not found them. Now the answer walks into my lodge.”
“How can I be an answer when I do not know the question?” Shakespeare signed.
“The question is you. The answer is you,” Two Humps responded.
“My friend tries to confuse me,” Shakespeare said.
“I speak with a straight tongue.” Two Humps lowered his hands a moment. “For many moons now my people have lived by the new ways. Some say this is not right. Some say the old ways are better. I was of two minds. At times I would think the new is best. At other times I would think the old was better.”
Shakespeare thought he understood. He spoke in Nez Percé, “People change as they grow, my friend. A young man is ruled by his feelings. A man in his middle years by his thoughts. An old man is ruled by his regrets, unless he has learned to use his thoughts to control his feelings.” He paused. “A warrior like you should have no regrets. You have lived a full, long life. Most Nez Percé would give anything to have done as well.”
“These things I know,” Two Humps said. “The question that has bothered me does not concern the stages of my own life but the course of all my people.”
“As Grizzly Killer said, the Nez Percé have prospered. I remember the first time I set eyes on them, when they lived along the river in small, dirty lodges. They have come far.”
“At what cost?”
Shakespeare saw into the depths of his friend’s tortured soul, and made no answer.
“I have asked myself why many times,” Two Humps continued. “Why did we do as we did? Was it only for finer lodges, finer clothes, finer belongings?” He mustered a wan grin. “There was another reason. It was you, and friendly whites like you. We wanted to be as our friends were. That is why you are the answer to my question. That is why I thank you for coming when you have.”
Nate had listened in a fruitless effort to get the drift of their talk. He saw his mentor and the chief clasp hands, and was surprised to see a glistening sheen in the old warrior’s eyes. Since it was improper for a younger man to speak unless invited to do so by an older warrior, he contented himself with chewing more pemmican.
“I am glad I could help you,” Shakespeare said, “although I still do not know quite how I have done it.”
“What matters is that you have.” Two Humps patted the mountain man’s knee. “Now tell me. What has brought you to our country? It must be important. Too many winters have gone by since last you visited.”
In barest detail Shakespeare related the journey to date, ending with, “Last night we ate with the chief of the whites at the fort. He told us that at one time there was a small group of settlers on the Bear, but that they went westward four months ago.”
“This is so,” Two Humps said. “I visited them twice when we were in the vicinity of the Bear. Most of them were nice and offered me food or drink.”
“Do you remember one named—” and here Shakespeare had to resort to English—“Oliver Davin?”
“Sony, Wolverine. None of them told me their white names. The one I remember best was a beautiful young woman with hair like the sun and eyes like Black Bear Lake. She always had a smile for me.”
“Hestia Davin,” Shakespeare said.
“What’s that?” Nate asked, forgetting himself. “From the description Porter gave us, Two Humps met his daughter a few times. You’ll be glad to know she isn’t anything like her pa.”
“Does Two Humps know why the settlers left?” Nate asked. “Smythe-Barnes had no idea.”
“It was the point men,” Two Humps answered when the question was relayed. By point men, he referred to the Hudson’s Bay contingent at the fort, a nickname the traders had earned because of the point system used to rate the worth of their trade blankets. “They drove the pretty woman and the others away.”
Shakespeare translated for Nate, the two mountain men sharing flinty looks.
Two Humps went on. “I know because I was out hunting with my nephew one time when we saw a line of riders to the south. We went to see who it was, thinking it might be enemies. But it was the pretty woman and her people, leaving. She did not look happy. One of them had learned a little sign. He said the point men would not trade with them, would not sell them goods. He said the point men did not want them here.”
Nate involuntarily clenched both brawny fists. He recollected how Smythe-Barnes had played the innocent the night before, remembered the HBC man claiming he’d done all in his power to help the settlers out. It had all been a bald-faced lie.
“Did this man tell you where the pretty woman and the others were going?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, Wolverine. He did not.” Two Humps scrutinized the two men. “You will try to find them, will you not?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I am going with you.”
Shakespeare had been about to make excuses so he could inform Porter of the news. The chief’s offer, like a bolt out of the blue, rooted him in place. “You want to come along?”
“I do.”
“May I ask why?”
“It has been too long since we rode together. I want to do so one more time before I go to meet my ancestors.”
“These people I am with are not my people. I have put myself under the man who leads them. He is chief, not I. He must make the decision.”
“Take me to him.”
Shakespeare could readily imagine how Porter would react; the man despised Indians. But he was loathe to flat-out refuse his friend’s request out of respect for the many grand times they had shared when young men. So he tried another approach. “I have no idea how far we are going, or how long we will be gone.”
“It will be like the old days when we went where we wanted, when we wanted,” Two Humps recalled fondly.
“We might go through the country of your enemies.”
“Since when has an enemy stopped a Nez Percé from doing as he pleased?”
Shakespeare had one last argument, a statement he bit off before making it. You are not as young as you once were, he almost said, and inwardly laughed at his audacity, for neither was he. “If I cannot change your mind, meet us west of the fort when the sun is straight overhead. We leave soon after.”
“I will be there.”
Nate was amazed when he heard, and made no bones about it as they walked back. “Have you gone plumb crazy? You know how Porter feels about Indians. The rivermen hate them even more. They’re likely to try and make wolf meat of your friend.”
“They’ll try.”
“I wouldn’t do it if he was someone I’d ridden the mountains with.”
“Yes, you would.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because we think alike. We know that true friends come few and far between. They’re as rare as hen’s teeth, more valuable than diamonds. A person can go a lifetime and not have more than two or three deep friendships.” Shakespeare hooked a thumb in his belt. “Two Humps and I were like peas in a pod once. I’d do anything for him.”
“In that case, you can count on me to back you.”
The Nez Percé village lay close to the east wall of the HBC outpost. As the two trappers rounded the southeast corner, they beheld Cyrus Porter in a heated exchange with Smythe-Barnes. Behind Porter stood Clark, Hughes, and Chavez. Behind the HBC man were the ruffians who had given Winona a hard time.
Porter was practically raving. Livid, gesturing angrily, his bellows could have been heard in Canada. “—formal protest with my government when I return! You’ll learn that you can’t treat American citizens this way and get away with it!”
“I am in charge,” Smythe-Barnes sniffed, “and I can do as I damn well please! If I don’t care to sell goods to Americans, that is my prerogative.”
No one, as yet, had noticed the mountain men. Shakespeare startled everyone by stepping up to Smythe-Barnes and giving the Englishman a shove that sent him tottering into the ruffians.
“McNair!” cried one, and went for his flintlock.
Instantly there was a loud metallic click. A pistol had blossomed in Chavez’s hand as if out of thin air. “I would not do that were I you, señor,” he warned, “or you will have a hole in your head the size of a walnut.”
The Hudson’s Bay men froze, Smythe-Barnes in the act of rising, his knees half bent. “Now hold on, Mex!” he said. “We don’t want any killing!”
Cyrus Porter turned to McNair. “This son of a bitch has been playing us for fools! When Hughes went to buy supplies yesterday, he was told the sutler was too busy with the Nez Percé and to come back today. They assured him they had plenty of goods on hand and could fill our order.” Porter glared at Smythe-Barnes. “But when we showed up, he told us they had changed their minds and had no intention of selling us a damn thing!”
“He did the same to your daughter and those settlers,” Shakespeare revealed.
Porter reacted as if struck. “How do you know?”
“I know,” was all Shakespeare would say. To identify Two Humps by name might reap dire consequences for the Nez Percé. “My guess is that when the settlers first showed, Smythe-Barnes acted as if he was their friend, led them to believe they could buy all the supplies they needed. That’s why they settled on the Bear instead of going on to the Oregon Country. They figured they could get everything they needed right here.”
Smythe-Barnes had straightened, his expression defiant. “You’re making idle conjecture,” he snapped.
“Am I?” Shakespeare sparred. “I’ve been wondering why a bunch of greenhorns set down roots in the middle of nowhere. I knew they had to have a good reason. And they did. They believed they could get everything they needed for their homesteads from your post. They thought they could trust you, that you were a godsend. Little did they know that you were deceiving them.”
“You have no proof,” Smythe-Barnes said.
Shakespeare seemed not to hear. “I’m curious. How did you do it? Did you wait until their guide had left and then showed them your true colors, thinking they would have to go on back to the States without someone to show them the way to the Oregon Country? And what happened to their wagons and household goods? They didn’t take them, because I know for a fact they went westward on horseback.”
“I refuse to dignify your accusation with an answer,” the HBC man said.
Porter was distraught. He appeared about to hurl himself at the head of the trading post. “In God’s name, why would you do such a thing? There were women in that party! How could you have let them go on without a seasoned guide?”
Smythe-Barnes smoothed his jacket, saying nothing.
“I can tell you,” Shakespeare offered. “He did it because he’s British and the settlers were Americans.”
“So?” Porter said.
“So sooner or later the two governments will get around to working out who gets the Oregon Country. And the one who has the most settlers living there will have the better claim.”
Shock made Porter’s mouth drop. “Is that the truth?” he demanded of the Englishman. “You want to discourage Americans from settling there?”
Smythe-Barnes squared his shoulders. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions. And I’ll thank you to leave the vicinity of my fort while you still can.”
“You pompous ass!” Porter roared. Lunging, he seized Smythe-Barnes by the front of the shirt. “Thanks to you, my daughter might be dead!”
“I had my bloody orders!” Smythe-Barnes roared back.
It was Nate who pried the two apart before they came to blows. He no sooner held Porter at arm’s length than all the fight drained out of the New Englander and Porter slumped dejectedly.
“My poor, poor girl,” he mourned.
“Don’t chalk her off yet,” Shakespeare said. “With a little luck they might have made it by their lonesome. There’s plenty of game, so they wouldn’t have starved if any of them could shoot half straight. And water wouldn’t be a problem once they reached the Columbia.”
Adam Clark took hold of Porter’s arm and gave it a shake. “Did you hear him? Cheer up, Cy. At least we know she was alive when she left here, which is more than we knew when we left St. Louis.”
Porter nodded dully, repeating, “My poor, sweet Hetty.”
“Take him to camp,” Nate advised Clark, and as the shattered father and the hopeful suitor departed, he wheeled on Smythe-Barnes and the ruffians. “The more I hear, the more I suspect that what you did to my wife was done on purpose. If I can ever prove it, I’ll be back, gents. And I’ll come loaded for bear.”
At a gesture from the indignant Smythe-Barnes, the Hudson’s Bay men marched into Fort Hall. The gate slammed shut behind them, and from within wafted snide laughter.
“For two cents I’d bum the place to the ground,” Shakespeare muttered.
“Their government would be outraged. The British might label it as an act of war,” Hughes said, alarmed. “Washington would call for an official inquiry, and we all could find ourselves facing charges.”
“It was just wishful thinking,” Shakespeare pacified him, then changed the subject. “How bad is our supply situation?”
“We’re very low on flour, almost as low on salt. And Mr. Porter ran out of oats for his horse. He insists it must have a portion daily.”
“We can make do without bread and cakes. I’ve lived on a strict meat diet for weeks at a time with no problem. The salt won’t be missed after awhile. As for the horse, it can eat grass like the rest.”
“I suppose we can get by,” Porter agreed. Shakespeare squinted at the sun. “We have two hours to pack up. So let’s get cracking.”
Porter had secluded himself in his tent. Shakespeare oversaw their preparations to leave, and he was directing a pair of rivermen in the loading of pack horses when someone hailed him from a corner of the fort. Looking up, he recognized Pearson, the sentry he had spoken to upon their arrival.
“I’ve got to make this short,” the man said when Shakespeare went over. “Smythe-Barnes would have my head if he knew I was talking to you.” Pearson nervously glanced at the rampart. “I heard about what happened, and I’m mad. It wasn’t right. Not all of us who work for HBC agree with company policy. If I was in charge and not that horses ass, Americans could buy whatever they wanted.”
“I’m grateful for your honesty.”
“There’s more,” Pearson said, lowering his voice. “I’ve heard you’re hunting for those settlers from Bear River. One of them mentioned that they were headed for the Willamette Valley. Hope that helps you.”
“It does,” Shakespeare said, since it eliminated California and saved them a lot of searching. “You were here when they left. Do you know why they went on horseback instead of in their wagons?”
“Sure. They sold them to Smythe-Barnes, and the oxen that pulled them,” Pearson disclosed. “He swindled those pilgrims good, he did, and made a hefty profit.”
“How?”
“It was like this.” Pearson paused. “When they first arrived, he sold them things. A few goods here and there. Then, after Fitzpatrick had gone and they were about to begin building their cabins, Smythe-Barnes told them they weren’t welcome at the fort anymore. It left them stranded and short on supplies.”
“The bastard,” Shakespeare said.
“They protested, but there was nothing they could do.” Pearson moved close to the wall. “They claimed they wanted to go back to the States, but they didn’t think they could manage the wagons by themselves, since none of them knew the route well enough to find their way back again. Smythe-Barnes offered them a way out. He bought the wagons and their household goods at pennies on the dollar, then turned around and offered the horses and a few piddling supplies at twice the going rate.”
“I’m surprised they took him up on the offer. They must have known he was playing them for fools.”
“They knew, but they had no choice. The Blackfeet were on the prowl. Raven Beak’s bunch. Those greenhorns had to move on or be wiped out.” The Hudson’s Bay man chuckled. “But they had the last laugh. When they’d bought their horses, they headed west, not east. Smythe-Barnes was fit to be tied.”
All the pieces to the puzzle fit.
Pearson peeked around the corner. “I’d best be going before I’m spotted. But there’s one last thing you should know.”
“What?”
“One of the men in your party is a spy working for the American government.”
Impressed by the HBC man’s sincerity, Shakespeare had been willing to accept everything, until this. “What bill of goods are you trying to sell me? We’re out to find a missing woman, nothing more.”
“So you think, McNair,” Pearson said. “But I overheard Smythe-Barnes and Dinkus talking. They never mentioned a name, but they’re certain one of the men with you was sent to spy on British operations in the Oregon Country.” He took a step. “Now I must be off. If you ever make it back this way, we’ll share that drink.”
“I’m in your debt,” Shakespeare said absently. He was greatly troubled by the news, for it changed everything.
Pearson touched his hat. “Good luck, mate. I reckon you’ll be needing lots of it before too long.”