The store was well constructed. It was two stories, the bottom built from pine logs, the top from boards. There were windows with glass. There were also gun ports, a lot of gun ports, on all four sides. A corral was at the rear, a long hitch rail in front. A large sign proclaimed to the world that it was TOAD’S MERCANTILE.
“I’ll be damned,” Nate said.
“Why?” Chases Rabbits asked.
The young warrior and his companions had accompanied Nate from Bent’s Fort. Cradled in Chases Rabbits’ arm was his new rifle, a smoothbore with a thirty-inch barrel, manufactured in London.
Nate didn’t mind the company. In fact, he’d taken advantage and tried to talk his young friend out of venturing into Blackfoot territory. So far he hadn’t been successful.
“Big lodge,” Chases Rabbits said with a nod at the mercantile. “Heap important man live here.”
“He’d sure like you to think so.”
Several horses with saddles were at the hitch rail. In the corral were more without, milling or dozing. A short way past the mercantile, the three men Nate had seen with Geist and Petrie were erecting what appeared to be a stable or barn. All three, he noticed, kept pistols under their belts and knives in their sheaths as they went about their work.
“Me like this place,” Chases Rabbits said.
“We haven’t been inside yet.” Nate dismounted and tied the reins to the hitch rail.
The door was open. From inside came voices and laugher. A wide window revealed a counter that ran the length of the room and rows of shelves piled with goods. To one side were several tables with linen and silverware.
A man was staring back through the window at Nate. He smiled, then came outside, his hand outstretched as he had offered it at Bent’s Fort. “Mr. King. Fancy seeing you again so soon.”
“Mr. Geist,” Nate said.
“You must have heard about us at the fort and come for a look-see.”
“Something like that.”
“Allow me to show you around.” Geist smiled at the Crows. “You and your friends. Indians are always welcome. They’ll be a large part of our trade.”
“You’re in business with this Toad, then?”
“Oh, no,” Geist quickly answered. “Toad is the boss. I’m just another of the hired help.”
The inside smelled of tobacco smoke and food. In a corner sat a stove. By the counter was a pickle barrel.
Nate couldn’t get over it: a mercantile in the Rockies. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on over and I’ll introduce you.” Geist ushered them to the counter.
Behind it stood a remarkably grotesque individual. The man stood a few inches over five feet in height and was almost as wide as he was tall. His shoulders slumped, his body thickened at the middle, his legs were short and bowed, his feet wide and splayed. Then there was his face. It was broad across the chin but narrow at the brow. His brown eyes bulged as if seeking to burst from their sockets. His wide nose was flat, his mouth a slit. The total effect brought to mind the animal he was named after.
“Toad, I’d like you to meet Nate King,” Geist said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nate replied.
Toad’s bulging eyes fixed on him and he briefly touched a clammy palm to Nate’s. “Heard about you.”
Nate was dumfounded. The man’s voice sounded just like the croak of a real toad. His reaction must have shown, because the other frowned.
“You’re not one of those, are you?”
“Those?”
“The ones who look at me like I’m some kind of freak. I’ve had to put up with it all my life and I don’t like it one bit.”
“Now, Toad,” Geist said.
Toad colored and balled his thick fingers. “Well, I don’t,” he said sullenly. He shifted his bulging eyes back to Nate. “I’ve done a lot of asking around. They told me at Bent’s that you’re well thought of. One of the most respected men in the Rockies, St. Vrain said.”
“News to me,” Nate replied.
“Don’t be modest. Word is that you were a trapper once. You stayed on after the fur brigades disbanded and now you live deep in the mountains with a Shoshone wife and your family. The Shoshones even adopted you into their tribe, I understand. Grizzly Killer, the Indians call you.”
“You have been asking around.”
“I’m a businessman, King. And a businessman needs to know about those he might do business with. I came out to Bent’s a year ago and nosed around to see if I could make a go of it with my mercantile, and here I am.”
“I wouldn’t think there are enough settlers for you to make a go of it.”
“There aren’t. But I’m close enough to the Oregon Trail that wagon trains will stop. And then there are the Indians. I hope to trade with all the tribes.”
“Really?” Nate said.
Toad’s eyes grew defensive. “Is it me, or do you not sound too happy about my being here?”
Nate decided to be honest with him. “Some years back another man opened a trading post. He said the same thing you have, that he was only interested in trade. But he stirred up trouble between two of the tribes so he could sell them a lot of rifles.”
“I’m not him,” Toad declared. “Making money is in my blood, you might say. But stirring up a war is a damn stupid way to do business. I aim to be here a good long while, and to do that I have to stay friendly with everyone, white and red alike.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“What happened to that other meshuggener?”
“The what?”
“The putz who tried to stir up the war.”
“Someone shot him.”
“You?”
Nate hesitated. “My son.”
Geist had been listening with great interest. “We heard about him, too, at Bent’s. The notorious Zach King. A natural-born killer, they call him. Someone told us it’s because he’s a half-breed.”
Had it not been for Geist’s perpetually friendly smile, Nate would have slugged him. “Who told you that?”
“We forget,” Toad said with a pointed look of his bulging eyes at Geist.
“Not that I believe that nonsense about breeds,” Geist added quickly. “Just because a person has mixed blood doesn’t mean he’s bad.”
“No,” Nate gratefully replied. “It doesn’t.”
“As for my mercantile,” Toad said, “you have my word that we’ll cause no trouble whatsoever.”
“I hope to God that’s true,” Nate King said.
Chapter Five
Nestled in the heart of the Rockies lay a valley ringed by towering mountains over three miles high. Several were capped with the white of snow. Other peaks were the brown of upthrust rock or the red of bare earth.
King Valley, it was called, and at its center was the great blue eye known as King Lake. Lush grass spread south of the lake. To the west, north, and east grew forest as dense and untamed as the day the first man set foot on the North American continent.
Wildlife thrived. Mountain sheep roamed the high crags. Elk bugled in the upper meadows. Deer were everywhere. Mountain lions and wolves helped keep the population in check. Coyotes and bobcats fed on the small game.
Birds were as numerous as the leaves on the trees. Robins, sparrows, jays, and ravens constantly flew about. Out on the lake, ducks, geese, and terns swam and quacked and honked. High above soared the predators of the air, eagles and hawks, and the woods harbored owls.
“It sure is beautiful here, Pa,” Evelyn King said as she stood on the shore and skimmed stones on the lake’s surface. “There are days when I want to pinch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming.”