The man shot a hand over the fire. "Pleased to know you. I'm Adolphus O. Jackson. Wooden Foot to friends."
He lifted the leg of his hide pants and whacked his right boot, producing a hard sound. "Solid oak. Necessitated by a meet-up with some Utes when I was fourteen. My pa was alive then. We trapped beaver in the east foothills of the Rocky Mountains. One day, I was out alone and I got my foot in another man's trap by accident. Then the three Utes chanced by, in a bad mood. It was either get kilt or get outa that trap. I took my knife and got out. Well, part way. Then I fainted. Lucky for me, Pa come along. He drove off the Utes and got me out and took my foot off. He saved me from bleedin' to death." It was all said as if he were discussing the jerky he was chewing.
Charles waited till the dizziness passed. "I'm grateful to you, Mr. Jackson. I was in the cavalry till that little son of a bitch spotted me."
"Yes, sir, he's still fightin' you Southron boys, that's plain."
"I appreciate your taking me in and patching me up. I'll move along and find some other —"
"Stay right there," Jackson interrupted. "You ain't in no shape." He picked his teeth. " 'Sides, I didn't pull you out of the mud just because the fight was one-sided, with you on the wrong side. I got a proposition."
"What kind?"
"Business." Jackson discovered a speck of jerky in the tangle of white and brown hairs in his big fan beard. He flicked it away and said, "This yere group's the Jackson Trading Company. You met me already. This fine lad behind me is my nephew, Herschel. I call him Boy. It's easier. When his pa died of the influenzy back in Louisville, he didn't have no one else to look after him. He tries hard, but he needs carin' for."
Wooden Foot regarded the youngster with affection and sadness. That one glance made Charles like the man. Jackson made him think of Orry; he, too, had taken in a relative, and given him love and purpose to replace bitterness and hell-raising.
"And this here —" Jackson indicated the dog chewing the bone — "his name's Fenimore Cooper. Fen for short. Don't look like much. Border collies never do. But you'd be surprised how much weight on a travois he can pull."
Jackson finished the jerky. "Y'see, we go on reg'lar trips out among the Tsis-tsis-tas." He stressed the second syllable.
"What the devil's that?"
"All depends on who you ask. Some say it means our people, or the people, or the folks that belong here, to give it a loose translation. The Sioux translation's Sha-hi-e-la, which means red talk. Foreign talk. Other words, people the Sioux can't understand." Jackson watched his guest with a cheerfully superior smile. When he'd had enough fun, he said, "We trade with the Southern Cheyennes. You say their name this way, everybody understands." He executed a series of fast, smooth gestures, fist rotating, fingers jutting out or bending.
"I know that's sign language," Charles said. "Comanches in Texas used it."
"Yes, sir, the universal tongue of the tribes. What I just said was: We trade with Cheyennes in the Indian Territory. We take trade goods; we bring back Indian horses. It's a good livin', though not as rich as it could be. I won't deal in guns, or fermented spirits."
By then, Charles had a general fix on the nature of the proposition. "A good living, maybe, but pretty dangerous."
"Only now and then. They's two, three hundred thousand red men out this way, but way less than a third of 'em's ornery, and those not always. You can get along all right if they know you ain't scairt."
He plucked the turkey feather from his hair and ran his index finger into the broad V cut in the vane. "They can read a coup feather notched this partic'lar way. It says I met a bad Indian once and took his scalp, so he wouldn't have no afterlife, and then I cut his throat."
"The feather says that?"
Jackson nodded.
"Did you do it?"
Jackson's mild eyes stayed on his. 'Twice."
Charles shivered. Boy laid a soft hand on his uncle's shoulder, his face showing pride. Fen lazily licked his forepaws. The rain pattered on the tipi. "You mentioned a proposition."
"I need a partner to watch my back. I can teach him the country, and all that goes with it, but I got to trust him, and he's got to shoot straight. The first time."
"I'm a fair shot. I practiced a few years with General Wade Hampton's scouts."
Wooden Foot responded with an enthusiastic nod. "Southron cavalry. That's a tip-top recommendation."
"Are you adding a man or replacing one?"
Again the trader squished his tongue around his teeth. "No sense lyin' if we're to ride together, I guess. I lost one last trip. My partner, Dean. He laid hands on a woman. Her husband and some of his Red Shield friends carved Dean up for stew meat."
The jerky seemed to perform a leap in Charles's belly. "What's a Red Shield?"
"Cheyenne soldier society. They's several of 'em. The shields, the Bow Strings, the Dog Men — Dog Soldiers, they's sometimes called. 'Bout half the braves in the tribe belong to that one. When a young man gets to be fifteen or sixteen winters, he joins a society, and it's just about the most important thing in his whole life. All the societies started a long time ago. The way the legends tell it, a young Cheyenne brave named Sweet Medicine wandered way up north to the Sacred Mountain, which may be in the Black Hills — nobody's real sure. They say Sweet Medicine met the Great Spirit on the mountain and they powwowed a while. The Spirit told Sweet Medicine to go back and set up the societies to protect the tribe. Then the Spirit gave him all the society names, the special songs for each one, how each one oughta dress — the entire shebang. The societies are still run the way Sweet Medicine told the people to run 'em. They rule the roost, and you better not forget it. Even the forty-four chiefs in the tribal council don't fart in the wind 'thout the society men sayin' all right, go ahead."
"What exactly do these society men do besides boss the tribe?"
"Biggest job's to police the camp when it's time for a buffla hunt. They keep the young fellas in line, so nobody jumps suddenlike and scares off a prime herd."
"And I'd be replacing a man who got butchered by these people?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Main. I wouldn't pretend they's no risk. They's rewards, though. The sight of some of the cleanest, sweetest country God ever made — and some of the fairest maidens. I get along fine with most of the Cheyennes. They like old Wooden Foot."
With a gurgle and a coo, Boy knelt beside his uncle and patted his beard. Jackson took Boy's hand between his and held it. The youth was calm and happy.
"Here's the cut of the cards," the trader said. "First year, I give you twenty percent of whatever we get for the horses we bring back. You prove out, I raise you ten percent a year till you're in for a full half-share. Till that time, I own all the goods and stand all the risks. Oh" — he grinned — "I mean excludin' the risks to your hair and your life. What do you say?"
Charles sat quietly, unable to say anything just yet. The trader proposed a change both large and profound. The presence of Boy made him think of his son. If he joined Jackson, he wouldn't see little Gus for months at a time. He didn't like that. But he needed work; he needed an income. And before the war, serving in Texas, he'd vowed that he would return and settle there. He'd loved the beauty of the West.
"Well, Mr. Main?"
"I'd like to sleep on it." He smiled. "I don't honestly know if I could get used to calling a man Wooden Foot."
"I don't give a damn about that if you shoot straight."
Shortly after, Charles rolled up in a warm buffalo robe by the dying fire. He squirmed until he found the position in which his bruises hurt him least, and fell asleep.
Instead of enormous prairie vistas or fierce Indians, he dreamed of Augusta Barclay. In the gray and featureless landscapes of sleep he had his hands on her warm bare body. Then other women slipped in, taking her place. He woke to stiffness, and guilt, then the burned-out feeling of homelessness, made all the more painful because of his aborted Army career.