Chapter 14 #3
At last, he and Yellow Swan climbed over the crest of the ridge, where Marietta still lay in wait. She gasped as they came into view, but he forgave her—he could see the panic in her eyes.
Signing toward Yellow Swan, he gave her to understand the general direction they were to take, and again, he let her lead their party. Silently, they crept away from the encampment.
They stole across the prairie, slowly, carefully, cutting a circuitous path back to the area of the rose bushes. At length, they trailed into their own little gully. The distance between this and the enemy’s location was not as great as it should be, so Grey Coyote would not permit open talk.
Slow gestures, fingers to one another’s lips if necessary, he cautioned.
However, he couldn’t stop Marietta from throwing her arms around Yellow Swan and hugging her, nor could he keep Marietta from whispering, “It’s Marietta, my friend. Remember me?”
“English…friend? Save…” There were tears in the Indian maiden’s eyes.
“Yes,” said Marietta. “It’s me.” It seemed to Grey Coyote that Marietta almost wept too.
But he would allow no more talk, and with slow, sweeping gestures, he gave Yellow Swan to understand that she was to disguise herself, much as he and Marietta had already done.
“I will help you to do this,” whispered Marietta.
Yellow Swan nodded, and Marietta led her friend to the stream where, only hours ago, a completely different couple had made magnificent love.
Watching them, Grey Coyote wondered if somehow the stream would retain their presence forever. Indeed, for him, this spot would always remain sacred.
But enough wasted time. Every moment counted, and Grey Coyote set about making preparations to abandon camp. After all, no matter how unlikely, the enemy might yet possess one amongst them who could track a scout.
With a loud bang, the beast, half man, and perhaps half bear, threw the wolf pelts onto the trading post’s counter. He grunted.
“What’cha give me fer these here pelts?” growled the beast.
The proprietor, a Mr. LaPrenier, approached the trading post’s platform, but he did so with some misgiving.
Accustomed to the wild look of the trappers in general, there was yet something about this particular man that seemed too savage, as though the trader stared into the eyes of a creature instead of a man.
Perhaps it was the brute’s smell, or maybe it was his size.
Or mayhap it was the man’s clothing. So greased were the beast’s garments from wear and use, what had most likely been a buckskin tan color was now an ugly black.
Worse, so stiff was the hide of these, from perhaps sweat and other unmentionable things, the clothing looked more like a sheet of metal than one of an animal skin.
Still, LaPrenier was a businessman, and in as friendly a fashion as possible, he came to stand before the beast, the trading post’s counter between them.
“Been wolfin’?” asked LaPrenier pleasantly.
The creature didn’t answer, simply grunted, showing yellow, crooked teeth.
Carefully, LaPrenier lifted up the skins one by one, setting them out before him. Without appearing to do so, he studied each one before he said, “These is good wolf pelts, monsieur. What do ye have here, thirty-five, forty?”
“What’s the matter with yer? Can’t ya count?”
“Of course, monsieur. Of course. Is only that the customer usually tells me how many he bring. I trust to their honor.”
“Does ya now?” grunted the beast. “In that case thar’s fifty pelts here. Thar’s right. Fifty.”
LaPrenier eyed the trapper warily, and fearing the man lied, the proprietor commenced to rapidly sort through the merchandise, counting each fur covertly.
As he had thought, there were only thirty-eight pelts. Mentally deducting the difference, he said, “I can give ye one dollar a fur.”
The brute snarled unpleasantly. “If’n I take ’em upriver, they’ll give me four.”
LaPrenier shrugged. “That is all I can give ye. Wolf pelts not in high demand—not like beaver.”
The beast grumbled but said nothing.
Still of a mind for pleasantries, LaPrenier asked, “Will ye be wanting anything from the store, monsieur? We have good assortment of hunting knives, traps, whiskey.”
“Whiskey, coffee, flour, sugar, tobacco,” said the beast. “Them things I need fer my outfit. But give me whiskey first.”
LaPrenier nodded, and turning, reached for a bottle of spirits. “That’s five dollar a pint.”
“Make ‘hat two bottles of whiskey, and keep it comin’.”
Again LaPrenier turned to do the brute’s bidding, but fearing the man—especially under the influence of drink—LaPrenier laced the brew with laudanum.
It wasn’t long before the beast fell to the floor, sprawled out like a giant bear.
But the creature was not so unconscious that what manner of liquid could not be kept down soon came up.
“Mr. Acme,” cried LaPrenier to his partner, who had kept to the back of the store during this exchange. “Come, help me roll this beastie to the water. Mayhap after a bath, we may be able to tolerate his stench. Come, help…”
Mr. Acme, braver now that the beast lay asleep, hurried forward to do his duty.