St. Louis was a bustling beehive. The people never seemed to sit still for two seconds. Or so it seemed to Winona King, who was always amazed by the frenetic energy her husband’s kind showed in their tireless bid to acquire that which they valued most: money.
St. Louis had been built on the money reaped from trade. Specifically, the beaver trade. During the heyday of the trappers, the city raked in over four million dollars. Once the fur trade faded, St. Louis switched its focus without breaking financial stride and became a leading port and major link between the civilized East and the untamed West.
Winona insisted on taking strolls around the city every chance they got. Nate didn’t mind. He could use the exercise.
The city’s riotous bedlam of seething humanity was divided into districts. Not so much by design as circumstance. Along the waterfront were the establishments that catered to the rivermen who plied the inner waterways and the seamen who brought in goods from far shores. They thronged the taverns and grogshops, drinking, gambling, and chasing skirts with zestful abandon.
The poor lived close to the waterfront, where shabby apartments and flea-ridden hovels could be had for a week’s wages, if not more. Often, as they trudged about their daily drudgery, their eyes rose in envy to the fine homes and estates above the levee where the rich and generally well-to-do lived, some as lavish as palaces worthy of kings and potentates.
Sumptuous mansions, many three and four stories and made of limestone, boasted their owners’ wealth with mahogany furniture and crystal chandeliers.
Nate had been to a few of the mansions and was duly dazzled. One was the home of William Clark, the same Clark who accompanied Lewis on their historic trek. Clark’s main parlor was so huge, Nate jokingly swore he heard an echo when he talked.
St. Louis had cultural trappings to go with her commerce. Several newspapers competed for readers. Theaters put on popular plays. Haberdasheries catered to those with expensive tastes in apparel. Half a dozen establishments were devoted to dressing ladies’ hair.
A steady stream of traffic plied the city’s streets and alleys. Wagons of every type, carriages in gilded finery, riders on horses both fine and sway- back, and a legion of pedestrians flowed .ceaselessly from dawn until dusk.
At night the city’s pulse quickened and the timbre of her character changed. The orderly beat of business gave way to the carnal pursuit of pleasure and vice. Glitter and greed shined bright.
At night St. Louis literally glowed. But for all her luster, those who were abroad after the sun went down did well to remember that the city had its dark side. Crime and violence were epidemic. It was said that St. Louis had more cutthroats and thieves than any city in the country, and Nate King didn’t doubt it. On his first visit years ago he had nearly been robbed, so now, as he and Winona strolled about admiring the sights, he kept one hand on a pistol at all times.
They had arrived in St. Louis almost a week ago. Jake and Sam Hawken were both glad to see Nate again. Sam frowned when he saw Nate’s rifle, and suggested it might be better for Nate to buy a new one than go to the expense of having it fixed. But Nate had owned the rifle a good many years and grown fond of it.
“If you can, let’s fix her.”
“It could take five or six days.”
“We’re in no hurry.”
Winona didn’t mind the wait, either. She got to see all the sights, and to shop. Now, wearing her best beaded doeskin dress, her arm linked with Nate’s, she feasted her eyes on the sumptuous nighttime sights. As they came to a packed street lined with gambling dens and saloons, she remarked, “We are so different.”
“You and me?” Nate said in mild puzzlement.
“Your people and mine. Compare all this,” Winona said with a sweep of her hand at the chaos, “with a Shoshone village at night.”
Nate chuckled. There was no comparison. Shoshone villages were quiet and peaceful, with only the occasional bark of a dog or laughter from one of the lodges to break the tranquility. Except when special celebrations were held, their nights were given to visiting and talking and smoking, to young lovers standing under blankets, to contemplation and council. A Shoshone village was serene. St. Louis was bedlam.
Suddenly a drunk appeared out of the throng, a bottle of rum in hand. Muttering to himself, he lurched toward them and bumped Nate’s shoulder hard enough to make Nate break stride. “Watch where you’re going, damn you,” he slurred his complaint.
Nate balled a fist but Winona shook her head.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the drunk demanded.
“Go away.”
The man was big, almost as big as Nate, with dirty clothes and breath that reeked. His yellow teeth didn’t help much in that regard. “I have half a mind to thrash you.”
“You’ve got that right,” Nate said.
“What?”
“You have half a mind.”
The man grew red in the face. “I’ll bust your skull for that,” he growled, and raised the bottle.
In a twinkling, Nate had a flintlock up and out. But he didn’t shoot. Reversing his grip, he brought the stock crashing down on the man’s head. The drunk folded at the knees and dropped his bottle but gamely clawed for a knife at his hip. Nate struck him a second time, and in his anger he was the one who nearly busted the man’s skull. As it was, they stepped around the prone form and moved on. A few glances were cast their way, but no one tried to stop them or stopped to help the rummy.
“We should go back to our room,” Nate suggested. The incident had soured his mood. And he was treating her to a stay at one of the better hotels. The bed was soft enough to swim in, and the staff waited on them hand and foot.
“Don’t be silly,” Winona said. The spectacle of St. Louis’s nightlife was a rare treat for her, and she would not be denied.
Nate sighed. Knowing her, she would want to walk around until nearly midnight. “Can we stop somewhere to eat, then?”
“Men and their stomachs.”
“Excuse me?”
“I would love to eat. But at a place we have never been. How about there?” Winona pointed at a grogshop.
Nate imagined the seedy interior crammed with rowdy rivermen and food fit for goats, and shook his head. “We’ll splurge and go somewhere nice.”
“You are being very nice to me this trip,” Winona remarked.
“I’m always nice to you. In case you haven’t noticed, I happen to care for you more than I care, for, say, my horse.”
“It is good you do, or I would go back and get that rum bottle and use it on you myself.”
“For a Shoshone you’re awful violent.”
The next street was more to Nate’s liking. Fewer people but classier places to eat. A sign boasting the finest food in all St. Louis caught his eye. Nate held the bronze-gilded door for Winona. Inside, the aroma of food mixed with that of pipe smoke. They only drew a few stares, and then only because of Winona. Indians were regular visitors to St. Louis, but few rivaled her in poise and beauty. Nate came close to hitting a man who openly ogled her. He held her chair out for her, commenting, “If that lecher looks at you again, I’ll go over and introduce him to my tomahawk.”
“And you claim Shoshones are violent? You will do no such thing, husband. We must show we can be as civilized as anyone else.”
A waiter in a red coat with silver buttons brought a fancy menu written in blue ink.
“Dear God. Look at these prices. This is civilization for you. They rob you blind and pretend they are doing you a service as they take your money.”
“I can do without the grumpiness, thank you very much.”
“I’m only saying.”
“You also said we could splurge. That this whole trip we could treat ourselves. That since it was just you and me, we could have—what did you call it?— a second honeymoon?”
“Order whatever you want.”
Winona laughed and reached across the table to clasp his hand. “You are adorable when you try so hard to please me.”
“Don’t ever tell Shakespeare you said that or I’ll never hear the end of it,” Nate responded.
“Where did that word come from, anyhow? Honeymoon? It has a nice sound but the moon is not made of honey.”
“I don’t know where it came from,” Nate admitted. “And I don’t know what the moon is made of, either. Although I read that some people think it’s not much different than here, with animals and trees and rivers.”
“There is a story my people tell. Back at the beginning of the world, the sun was too hot, and burned everything when it rose. So one morning Rabbit waited with his bow, and when the sun came up, he shot it with an arrow.”
“A rabbit was using a bow?”
“Remember, husband, that my people believe animals were much like us at one time. They could even talk.”
“So what happened to the sun after Rabbit shot it?”
“Part of the sun became the sky and part became clouds and another part became the dark and its liver became the moon.”
Nate chuckled. “The liver? What about its kidneys?”
“They became stars. The sun, too, became a star, but it was not as hot as before, so when it rose, it did not burn everything.”
“That’s some story”
“You should not poke fun. Whites have strange stories, too. Remember the one you told me about the horseman with no head?”
“By Washington Irving. One of my favorites. But he wrote that to scare people, not explain where the moon came from.”
The waiter in the red coat whisked over to their table and gave a slight bow. “Have mister and madam chosen yet?”
“I don’t suppose you have roast liver?” Nate asked.
“Behave,” Winona said.
“Only the items on the menu, sir, and liver is not one of them. I take it you need more time?”
“Unless you have kidney pie.”
“This isn’t London, sir. Might I recommend the calf’s head? It’s quite popular. Our cook leaves the windpipe on, as some prefer it that way. He also scoops out the brains, mixes them with bread crumbs, and makes an excellent stuffing. If I do say so myself, we serve the best calf’s head in all of St. Louis.”
Winona said, “I would like to try that.”
“Very well, madam. Do you prefer your brains plain or with butter and salt?”
“I am treating myself, so butter and salt.”
“It comes with a side of succotash. And might I suggest ginger beer to wash your food down? It’s a local favorite.” The waiter turned to Nate. “Have you made up your mind yet, sir?”
“Chicken pot pie and apple brandy.”
“A fine choice, sir. Our chickens are grown locally and plucked the day they are served. You won’t find plumper birds anywhere.” The waiter took their menus, bowed and smiled sweetly at Winona, nodded at Nate, and briskly departed.
“Isn’t he marvelous?” Winona asked.
“He’s your admirer, not mine.”
“Why, Nathaniel King, are you jealous?”
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he started drooling. You made quite an impression.”
“He probably does not get to meet many Shoshones.”
“Especially Shoshones who fill out their dresses as nicely as you do.”
“You are jealous?”
“Just hungry. You dragged me all over the city today. I now know St. Louis better than I know the back of my hand.”
“Tomorrow we will be on our way. You are supposed to pick up your rifle in the morning.”
Nate couldn’t wait. Without his rifle he felt as if part of him was missing. In the mountains he never went anywhere without it. He never even stepped out their cabin door without the Hawken in the crook of his elbow. “Would you like to go to a play tonight?” Their second night there, he had taken her to see The Tempest and she enjoyed it immensely. They both regretted Shakespeare McNair wasn’t along; he would have been in heaven.
“I would like to spend a quiet night,” Winona said. “You can read one of the new books you bought.”
A tingle of delight filled Nate. Reading was his favorite pastime. Or second favorite, depending on if Winona was feeling frisky. One of his new books was by an author he highly admired, James Fenimore Cooper. It was entitled The Pathfinder or The Inland Sea, and continued the adventures of the Leatherstocking Natty Bumppo, or Hawkeye as the hero was more commonly known. Which surprised Nate considerably, given that in Cooper’s previous book about Bumppo, The Prairie, Natty Bumppo died.
Their food came, and Nate had to admit the chicken was tasty. Winona loved her calf’s head and shared the breaded brains with him.
That night Nate lay cozy and warm in a soft downy bed and read his cherished Cooper until his eyelids were too heavy to stay open. They awoke at six, had breakfast next door, and were at the Hawken brothers’ shop at the appointed hour of nine a.m.
Nate’s rifle was as good as new. As always, the Hawkens had done superb work.
Samuel watched Nate fingering it and restlessly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Relax,” Nate said. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“It’s not that,” Samuel said.
“Then what?”
“I have a question to ask and I’m not sure how to go about it, so I might as well come right out with it.” Samuel took a deep breath. “How do you feel about blacks?”