Established by fur traders, raucous Fort Reynald held not a single woman within its walls. Situated on the Arkansas River at the best ford for miles up or down the river, it catered to the rugged mountain men and traded with Indians for buffalo skins.
Jan went to trade his furs at the long, low shack with the hand-scrawled sign claiming, “Mercantile.” He found brightly colored material for the girls’ dresses. Since the Indians favored the pretty calicoes, the dealer had a good variety. Jan got plenty to make the girls’ dresses and maybe a shirt for Boister. He also bought a rifle, intending to take the boy hunting.
The owner also had an assortment of oddities gathered when the mountain men traded for supplies. Jan looked them over, searching for a ring to surprise Tildie when they wed. There was none. He bought a knife for Boister, a hair ornament worked in leather for Marilyn, and a little copper pot with a lid for Evie. He bought enough forks and spoons so all of them could have their own when they sat down to dinner. They’d been using wooden spoons that he had whittled.
One spoon stood out among all the others. It was obviously silver with a slender handle and a floral design at its end. Although tarnished, Jan knew it would serve the function he had in mind. He smiled as he added it to his selections.
Next, he went over to the side of the building that stored the grocer goods.
“You be the preaching Swede, be you not?” asked a man with a thick French accent. He sat on a barrel behind the counter, his feet propped up on a stack of boxes marked “salt.” A heavyset man, not fat, his short frame bulged with massive muscles. His dark beard straggled from a swarthy face. His greasy hair matched his old, worn clothes in filth. He’d whittled a toothpick and passed it back and forth across his row of yellowed teeth as he spoke.
Jan looked into the small, shifty eyes of Armand des Reaux. “My name’s Jan Borjesson. I’ve traded here before.”
“Heard you lived with the Indians.” The grocer’s voice held a note of disdain.
“I’ve lived with several tribes.”
“Arapaho?” Des Reaux spit out the word.
“Yes.”
“You being an Indian-lover, I suppose they’d give you something valuable if it came their way?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“A white woman, say a young white woman.” Des Reaux rose from his seat and leaned menacingly over the makeshift counter.
His attitude drew the attention of the men swapping tales around the potbellied stove. They stopped to listen to the exchange at the counter. Many of them had heard des Reaux brag about how his bed would be warmed this winter.
“I’ve just collected my family from Chief Two Bear’s camp. Is that what you’re referring to?” Jan responded quietly, seemingly undisturbed by the questions.
Des Reaux snorted. “Seems improbable a man who lives in the mountains, travels over the plains living with Injuns, does a little fur trading on the side, should all of a sudden acquire a wife and three shavers.”
The dirty Frenchman shrugged as if he was merely relating an interesting bit of speculation, but Jan knew better. Menace underlined every word.
“Now, I was expecting a bride this summer,” continued des Reaux. He stood polishing one of the many knives from his display case. “She was being brought to me by a friend.” He paused and looked directly at Jan. “A friend who never made it.”
Des Reaux carefully put the knife down and picked up a bigger, wicked-looking blade before he spoke again. “I traded with Drescher a while back, and he’s friendly with your Arapaho.”
Jan nodded. “I know Drescher.”
“He tells me that the Arapaho took on a young white woman with three kids. This most unusual event happened just about the time my bride was to come. Very unusual, don’t you think?”
“My friend Moving Waters,” Jan said distinctly, “came to get me. He recognized whose family had come to their camp.”
“Not many white women in this territory.” The words dismissed Jan’s explanation as if he hadn’t even spoken. The Frenchman suddenly leaned back, but rather than easing the tension, the move charged the air. In the same way a mountain lion drawn back to spring on his prey flexes his muscles, he turned the knife in his hand over and over in a rhythmic motion.
“Was your bride bringing you three children to rear?” asked Jan.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Des Reaux sneered.
“And the name of your bride?” asked Jan, wondering just how much the man knew about John Masters’ niece.
Des Reaux’s eyes narrowed with hatred. “What would be the name of this woman you got from the Arapaho?”
“Tildie. The children are Henry, Marilyn, and Evelyn. Have you any more questions before we get around to the salt, flour, salt pork, and beans I came for?”
Des Reaux reached behind him and Jan tensed for action, but the Frenchman merely put down the knife and pulled out a pad of paper, slamming it down on the countertop.
“I don’t know you. I’ll want hard cash for your goods.” The words delivered implied an insult but Jan ignored them and got down to the business of acquiring the things he wanted. The grocer scratched out the charges on his paper and totaled the sum.
It seemed high to Jan, and he asked to see the list. The men behind him once more abandoned their talk to watch the next episode. A fight would relieve the monotony.
Jan found an error in addition and pointed it out. He was on the alert. The Frenchman might have made an honest mistake, but it was more likely he meant to cheat him or provoke a fight. Des Reaux shook his head and smiled. Somehow the smile was not reassuring.
“I have made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Is it not so, Monsieur? Some mistakes, however, are more costly than others.”
Jan felt a frisson of warning and prayed that God’s angels would protect him from this wicked man, for now Jan was sure that the trader was not merely unpleasant, but truly evil. He prayed to be alert to the danger and ready to protect himself. The Frenchman was plotting some revenge. Even if he was unsure that Jan had taken the woman he planned to marry, he hadn’t liked being pointed out in error over the bill.
Jan took his purchases to one of the outer buildings where he expected to spend the night. Still within the compound of the fort, the boardinghouse had several rooms where lodgers slept side by side on the floor. After looking over the accommodations, he decided to sleep with the horses in the livery. The bedding was filthier than the last time he’d been in Reynald, and he didn’t wish to itch all night and carry bed bugs back with him.
“Now, I don’t mind the company,” said the young man who ran the stable. His speech was more formal than the usual in the west. He delivered it with great precision and a thick British accent. “But I’ll be charging you for the stall just as if you put another horse in here.”
Jan laughed, for the small Englishman had a cocky smile on his unlined face and was friendlier than most of the inhabitants of Reynald. He was by far cleaner, as well, than the old codgers around the fort.
“I don’t mind paying. The hay here is cleaner than the blankets at the house.”
“I’ve been told that before. It might not be as warm here as it is in the house, but few of the horses snore.”
“My name is Jan Borjesson. I don’t believe you were here the last time I was through.”
“My name’s Henderson. I came to the territory in late March, and now I shall most likely reside here forever.” He sighed as if admitting a great sorrow in his life.
“Why is that?” asked Jan, intrigued by the man’s sudden gloom.
“Have a seat, and I’ll tell you a sad story.”
Jan pulled up a small, empty nail barrel, sat down, and leaned back against the stall door where Greedy Gert ate her dinner. He noted that the Englishman had perked up at his interest and didn’t look particularly despondent about the prospect of telling his sad tale.
“Cup of tea?” Henderson offered.
“Thanks.” Jan took the warm mug of strong, sweetened tea.
“My story starts in London. I was the butler to the Earl of Dredonshire as was my father before me. The earl died and the new earl was a bit of a scoundrel. I had it in my mind that I didn’t want to settle down to the same life my father had. I decided to cross the Atlantic and start fresh in a new country.
“I was seasick to the point of offering fellow passengers all my worldly goods if they’d just end my life in a quick and painless way. One more day at sea, and there would have been no need to employ their services.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been plagued with that particular ailment,” commiserated Jan. “Of course, I’ve never been on the ocean—just Lake Erie.”
“Please, let us not mention any body of water bigger than a mud puddle.”
Jan laughed.
“I lay torpid—”
“Torpid?” Jan interrupted.
“Oh, definitely torpid, dear sir,” said the ex-butler.
Jan saw the gleam of subtle humor in the young Englishman’s eye and liked him better for it.
“I lay torpid in New York City,” Henderson began again, “until I could stand once more. Then, I felt the inclination to come deeper into the country. I heard of prairies so wide, you could walk days and not come across another human.”
Jan nodded for that was certainly true.
“Unfortunately, I got sick on the train. Indeed, it was not as bad as when I was on the ship, but my constitution just isn’t made for traveling.
“Next, I rode in a wagon. I surmised that that conveyance would be slower and wouldn’t cause me much discomfort.” The Englishman shook his head mournfully. “A wagon proved to be irrevocably and too frequently plagued by great jostling. I decided a horse might prove acceptable to my contrary stomach. This, too, proved to be disastrous.
“Mr. Borjesson, I walked the last three hundred miles to this fort, and I am ashamed to say I was stricken with yet another malady.”
“Surely, you weren’t nauseated while walking?” Jan asked incredulously.
Henderson stared down at his boot tips and sighed wearily. “No, I discovered a phobia, a weakness of character, that has doomed me to stay within the confines of this rudimentary settlement.”
“Rattlesnakes?” guessed Jan, thoroughly understanding how one could be terrified of the venomous beasts.
“No,” said Henderson wearily. “Perhaps you will understand if you know a little of my background. I was born in London. Never traveled until the day I set out for America. The most grass I’d seen at one time was in the London parks. The aristocrats prefer beautifully kept, tidy bits of lawn. Groomed, you might say, to match the cosmopolitan style of the populace.
“On the ship, I rarely came above deck. Those few times I did, the sight of the expanse of ocean quickly heaved my stomach. In New York, there were buildings to which I was accustomed. On the train, I rarely looked out the window since the countryside speeding by adversely affected my internal organs.
“I rode inside the wagon, and I stayed mounted on the horse for less than a day. At this point, I was bound to my companions by the sheer circumstance that I could not return east on my own, not knowing anything about the country or how to survive. For weeks I walked in utter agony, every moment fighting as panic rose within my breast, threatening to drive me mad. Once within these wooden barricades, I was able to resume a more equable demeanor.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jan. “Were you afraid of Indians, wild beasts, renegades?”
“The open space, Mr. Borjesson. The great endless expanse. The complete infinity of the horizon. It is a completely irrational fear. Totally beyond my abilities to subdue.”