Into the Unknown

Chapter Three

Bent’s Fort, June 16

We have arrived at an oasis of civilization in the middle of nowhere.

Since Trevor repeatedly referred to it as a fort, I had envisioned a structure along military lines, even though he stressed it was civilian run, and had never been anything but a trading center.

I can think of no better way to convey what I beheld than to say it was a castle made of mud. Adobe, the style is called, a word of Spanish extraction. More aesthetic than logs, it lent an atmosphere of dignity and sophistication to what was essentially a site where beads, trinkets and liquor were traded for furs.

How they ever built it with a relative handful of men, I cannot conceive. I would have thought an army would be required.

The dimensions were as follows: the front and rear walls were approximately one hundred and forty feet in length, the side nearer one hundred and eighty. The average height was fourteen feet, and all the walls were three feet thick. They were proof not only against rifles and pistols and arrows, but a cannon ball would not penetrate.

As if that were not enough, at the northwest and southeast corners were towers housing cannons.

At its maximum, provided provisions were adequate, the fort could sustain two hundred men and twice that in stock and poultry.

I had to paint it.

I also had to paint the men who ran it.

This remarkable enterprise was the brainchild of the Bent brothers and Ceran St. Vrain. I saw more of the latter than the former, who were busy with freighters bound for Santa Fe.

St. Vrain is an aristocratic gentleman, well-read and kindly yet firm in his dealings with subordinates. It was from his lips that I first heard the names which would soon figure so prominently in my life. It happened when he mentioned having a Cheyenne wife.

“How remarkable,” I responded.

“Not really,” said he. “Quite a few white men have found Indian maidens much to their liking. Nate King and Joseph Walker are the most famous examples.”

I had never heard of either and stated as much.

“Good Lord, man,” St. Vrain said. “Walker’s explorations are legendary. As for King, he is one of my closest friends and as ideal an example of the mountain man as you are likely to meet.”

“The mountain man?”

“That is what people are calling whites who stayed on in the mountains after the beaver trade faded. King was one of the best of the trappers and one of the first whites to go Indian, as they say. His wife is a Shoshone, and I don’t mind admitting she is as beauteous a woman as ever drew breath.”

“It is a good thing your own wife is not here beside us,” I joked. “She might take exception.”

“No, she would not,” St. Vrain responded good-naturedly. “Winona and my wife are good friends.”

An idea occurred to me. “This Nate King knows these mountains well, then, I gather?”

“No one knows them better. He used to live not all that far from here, at the eastern edge of the mountains. But he has since moved deeper in, and we do not see him nearly as often.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I would like to meet him.”

“I cannot speak highly enough of his character or that of his best friend, Shakespeare McNair.”

The name stirred the vaguest of recollections. “I would swear I heard of him when I was a boy.”

“You probably did,” St. Vrain grinned. “McNair is older than Methuselah. He was one of the first, if not the very first white man to ever reach the Rockies. He was here long before beaver drew men in droves.”

“Have they any children, King and McNair?”

“Nate King does,” St. Vrain said, and his face clouded.

“What?” I prompted.

“Nothing.”

“Is there something about them I should know? What if I run into them in my travels?”

“It is only that Nate’s son—” St. Vrain began, and caught himself. He gazed about us at the bustle of activity, then lowered his voice. “Zach King is his name. A nice enough lad, so long as you stay on his good side. The taint of being a breed has scarred him and made him more vicious than he would be otherwise, in my estimation.”

“Because he has a white father and a red mother?”

“Exactly that, yes. Halfbreeds are held in low esteem on the frontier, or anywhere else, for that matter. Most whites regard them as prone to violence, and many Indians do not want anything to do with them because they are considered bad medicine.”

“Are the opinions justified?”

“Oh, please. We are men of culture, you and I. We know superstition when we hear it. My own children are half-and-half, and they are as kind and as ordinary as any of so-called purer blood.” St. Vrain shook his head. “No, the stigma attached to breeds is uncalled for.”

“But you say this Zach King has a vicious disposition?”

“A poor choice of words on my part,” St. Vrain said. “Yes, Zach has a reputation. But his violence has always been provoked. Under normal circumstances he is as peaceable as you or I.”

I was not entirely convinced. His expression hinted at darker underpinnings. But I deemed it of no consequence since I never intended to make Zach King’s acquaintance. I was intrigued by the father, though. Nate King’s intimate knowledge of the mountains might surpass that of Augustus Trevor.

Bent’s Fort, June 19

This was the day I would paint the trading post. What with an encampment of Crows nearby and a wagon train that had arrived the day before drawn up in a circle outside the walls, the painting promised to be picturesque.

Bright and early I gathered what I needed and made for the gate. Young Billingsley was waiting outside the quarters St. Vrain had graciously provided, and I burdened him with my easel.

Augustus Trevor had wanted to go along, with two or three others for extra protection, but I scoffed at the suggestion. I was only hiking a short way, I insisted, and I would be within hailing distance of the armed sentries stationed on the ramparts. Trevor relented, but only after I agreed to take one of the men. I chose Billingsley. He always did my bidding without question. Consequently, no sooner did we hike a suitable distance than I told him I did not need his services and he was free to spend the rest of the day as he saw fit. He protested, saying Trevor had been quite specific about not leaving me, but I pointed out that I was the leader of our expedition, not Mr. Trevor, and my word was final.

I think that secretly Billingsley was glad to have time to himself. He capitulated and scooted toward the post with a grin.

I was happy, too. At last, at long, long last, I was alone.

An explanation is called for.

I am not the most sociable of men. Human company tends to pale after a while. I value solitude as some men value gold, and I had enjoyed precious little of it since the expedition’s start. During our crossing of the prairie I was never alone. I rode at their side during the day, while at night their constant snores reminded me of their presence. Whenever I was inclined to venture off alone to paint or explore, Trevor always had at least one man go with me.

“You hired me to not only serve as your guide, Mr. Parker, but to bring you back to civilization safe and hale, and that is exactly what I intend to do, with or without your cooperation.”

While I admired Trevor’s devotion to duty, I was frustrated to no end by the lack of privacy.

At Bent’s Fort the situation was compounded many times over. Yes, St. Vrain graciously gave me a room, but I neglected to mention it was in use as a supply room, and he had his employees clean it out so I would have a niche of my own. A niche it was, too, with barely enough room for the cot he had his people fetch. There were no windows, only four close walls. During the day it was stifling and at night little better. I used it only for sleep, and then only to be polite to my host.

So here I was, outside the Fort and on my own. I promptly gathered my supplies and my easel and hiked to the northwest. I wanted to capture the entire post, including the picturesque teepees and the circle of wagons. For the proper perspective I needed to be as far from everything as practical.

I hummed to myself as I strolled along. The day was hot but not unbearably so. A sluggish breeze brought licks of relief now and again.

I was not worried about the Crows. Their camp was hundreds of yards to the south, and they paid no more attention to white men wandering about than they would to birds or butterflies. Besides which, they would never cause trouble so near the fort. The brothers and St. Vrain had an inviolate rule: trouble-makers were banished from trading, the length of the banishment depending on the severity of their misconduct. Not only that, the troublemaker’s tribe was also banned. To the Indians, many of whom depended on the post for trade articles they could not obtain anywhere else, being banned was a calamity of the first order. As a result, the tribes were always on their best behavior.

Bent’s Fort was a neutral zone where animosities were forgotten in the interest of the greater good for all. Thus it was that on occasion tribes at war with one another showed up at the trading post at the same time yet coexisted in perfect harmony for the duration of their stay. Once they were back in their own territories, they resumed killing one another with savage abandon.

I ask you, is there anything more fickle than human nature? And no, I am not singling out the red man in this regard. The white man is equally guilty of slaughtering his brothers and sisters on the flimsiest of pretexts. We, too, have our truces and our periods of peace, but has there ever been a time in our history when somewhere on the globe a war was not being waged and blood was not being spilled by the gallon?

If I sound cynical, it is only because I am. I have lost much of my faith in my fellow man. I prefer the honest beasts of the forest and the field to the devious beasts of city and town who preach love but practice lies, deceit, and carnage on a scale to stagger the mind.

Again I have digressed.

I came to a likely spot on a low mound about a quarter of a mile from the fort, and there set up my easel. I was still humming, which might account for why I did not hear the riders until they were a stone’s throw away. I glanced around sharply, saw they were white men, and went back to work. I was not so cynical that I distrusted every living soul on sight.

I expected the riders to go on their way to the trading post, and I gave them no more thought until I had an odd feeling I was being watched. I was mildly surprised to find the trio had reined up and were regarding me as I might regard an albino antelope. “Gentlemen,” I said cordially, and went back to my canvas.

“What in tarnation are you fixing to do, mister?”

Without looking to see which one had spoken, I replied, “I should think it is obvious. I am about to paint.”

“No fooling?”

“I am very much in earnest, yes.”

“Where did you come from?” another inquired.

“East of the Mississippi, where most everyone comes from,” I responded. “Now if you will excuse me, I want to get this done before the sun goes down.” I thought that would be the end of it and applied the brush with delicate strokes. I was so absorbed, I did not realize they had dismounted until a shadow fell across me. I glanced up.

They were scruffy specimens, these newcomers. Granted, most frontiersmen are always in need of a bath and their clothes in need of washing, but these three apparently considered cleanliness a state to be avoided at all costs. Their hair was greasy, their beards unkempt. Their buckskins were fit to be burned. All three bristled with weapons. Their hard, almost cruel faces betrayed not so much as a hint of friendliness.

“Gentlemen,” I said again. “What can I do for you? Perhaps you did not hear me, but I am busy.”

“Oh, we heard you, all right,” said the man in the center. He was of middling height and build, not the least bit remarkable in any respect except for his dark eyes, which glittered in a disturbing fashion. “And I can’t say I cared for your tone.”

“I meant no disrespect,” I said, and introduced myself.

“I’m Jess Hook,” the man revealed. “This ugly cuss on my right is my brother, Jordy. Our ma was partial to names that begin with J.”

His sibling was distinguished by a nose as huge as I ever beheld. It reminded me of a bird of prey’s beak. I smiled but received only a cold stare.

“This other coon is Cutter.”

The man in question had a knife on each hip and another wedged under his belt near the buckle. Thin and wiry, he sported a vivid scar that ran from his right ear to his chin. At one time he had apparently been dealt a fearsome blow. In healing, the skin pinched inward, so that half his face was disfigured. His eyes were flat and lifeless. The only thing I can think to compare them to were the eyes of a shark I once saw that had been netted and hung on a dock.

“Is that his first or his last name?” I asked.

“Neither. It is just what we call him,” Jess Hook said. He gazed toward Bent Fort’s, then at me. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not safe to be by your lonesome in these parts?”

Only then did it hit me how far I had walked. The trading post was uncomfortably distant. “I warrant the sentries can still see me,” I remarked. “And you,” I added for emphasis.

“Maybe so,” Jess said. “But this far out, they can’t tell who we are.”

The man called Cutter casually placed a hand near the knife close to his buckle.