Minerva’s swollen jaw had subsided by then, her split lip had healed. Beneath the bandage still on Hadley’s head, his ear was crusted and scabby where the Indian maul had struck it. But the ear was covered, and there was nothing about the physical appearance of any of them to indicate they’d been attacked by Indians two weeks before. Unless you looked into their eyes.
A dozen or more tipis formed a virtual Indian village on the level stretch of ground behind one wall of the fort, and more were scattered everywhere on the surrounding terrain. The Chisholms passed through them on their approach, Bobbo riding the Indian stallion, the mares trailing on halters behind the wagon. There was still war paint on the chest of one mare, where they could not scrub it clean this morning at the river above the fort. Indian dogs barked and nipped at the wagon wheels and the hoofs of the horses. Indian children ran half-naked in front of the mules, taunting them with sticks. Tall Indian men in white buffalo robes eyed the horses and noticed well the painted chest of the one mare. Squaws stood over simmering kettles, stirring, watching silently as the wagon went through.
At the main entrance to the fort, they left Bobbo to watch the animals and the wagon, and went through first a gate and then an arched passage. A second gate beyond opened into a courtyard that looked to be a hundred feet square. There were as many Indians inside the fort as there were out, squatting on the ground or in the doorways of rooms built against the walls. The walls were at least fifteen feet high, topped with a stockade fence shorter and flimsier than pictures they’d seen of the old fort back home, before the pickets were torn down. There were Indian squaws and children inside here yapping and yammering, food cooking, Indian men stopping at one or another kettle to pluck a piece of greasy meat from it. At the end of the fort opposite the main gate, there was a postern gate and a railing where half a dozen mules and as many horses were hitched. A flight of steps rose to a gallery above. As they approached, a man came down those stairs, his hand extended.
“My name is Lucien Orliac,” he said. His voice was tinged with the faintest French accent. “I am in charge of the fort.”
“Hadley Chisholm,” Hadley said, and took his hand. “My family.”
“How do you do?” Orliac said. He shook Hadley’s hand briefly and then said, “Ladies,” and nodded to Minerva and Bonnie Sue in welcome. He was wearing a broad-brimmed black hat, a sleeveless buckskin jacket over a homespun blue shirt banded at the wrists. His trousers were brown, and he wore leather leggings and beaded Indian moccasins. He had a thick black beard and black eyebrows, and black hair spilled in ringlets from beneath the flat black hat. From the neck up, he looked like a charcoal drawing Timothy might have made.
“You are traveling alone?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir,” Hadley said.
“You are lucky to have come this far unharmed.”
Hadley said nothing.
“The apartments in the fort are completely occupied at the moment—”
“We want only a place to—”
“Company personnel,” Orliac said. “Their wives, their children. You understand.”
“We need to rest,” Hadley said.
Orliac looked into his eyes. “You are welcome to stay within the walls,” he said.
“Thank you,” Hadley said. “I’ll go fetch my son.”
He began walking toward the main gate. Orliac fell into step beside him. Minerva seemed uncertain as to whether she should follow or not. She took Bonnie Sue’s hand, and together they stood close by the interior wall, watching the Indians, listening to their alien babble.
“The factor is in Winnipeg just now,” Orliac said. “I would have offered you his apartment, but it is occupied.”
“That’s all right,” Hadley said.
“A wagon train was here ten days ago; they’ve departed now for Oregon. All but some with lingering fever. It is they who are in the factor’s apartment.”
“Thank you anyway,” Hadley said.
“You’ll be safe here inside the fort,” Orliac said. “Or indeed anywhere near it.”
“Are there soldiers then?” Hadley asked. “Soldiers? No, no,” Orliac said, shaking his head. “This is the American Fur Company, eh? We are here for trade, that’s all. No, no, this is not an army outpost.”
They had reached the main gate now. Outside, Bobbo still sat on the wagon seat, looking apprehensively at the Indians all around. Orliac saw the horses at once.
“You have met Indians?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hadley said.
“I would bring the horses inside,” Orliac said. “I do not think any of the Indians here would steal a horse belonging to a white man, eh? But these...” He shrugged elaborately. “The saddles, the bridles, the paint...” He shrugged again. “They are without question Indian horses. I would bring everything inside. The wagon, the mules, the horses especially. Yes,” he said, and nodded, and extended his hand to Bobbo. “How do you do, young man. I am Lucian Orliac.”
“Bobbo Chisholm.”
“Come, come inside. Where did you meet these Indians?” he asked Hadley. “Bobby, bring them in. Come.”
Bobbo put the rifle on the seat beside him, and then picked up the reins. He shouted to the mules, and the wagon moved forward through the gate, the horses behind it. Orliac stepped aside to let them past.
“You said where?” he asked Hadley.
“Thirty, forty miles before we crossed the Platte.”
“Ah? They were Pawnee?”
“I don’t know,” Hadley said.
“No matter, you are safe now,” Orliac said, and smiled. “Here the Indians are interested only in trade, eh? They bring us furs, we give them in return guns, powder and lead...”
Hadley looked at him.
“... blankets,” Orliac went on, “cloth, looking glasses, beads, tobacco — never whiskey. It is company policy never to trade whiskey to the Indians. Come. Ah, there’s Gracieuse,” he said. “My wife.”
The woman was an Indian. Buxom, barefooted, her face long and slender, eagle nose, prominent cheekbones decorated with bright red circles of paint. She struggled across the courtyard with a pile of buffalo robes in her arms. A spotted dog trailed her, sniffing at the backs of her legs. She kicked at the dog, almost stumbled, and then kicked at it again. The dog went yelping away across the courtyard.
“Her name in the Sioux language is Mahgahskahwee,” Orliac said, and laughed. “It means Swan Maiden. I call her Gracieuse.... Do you speak French?”
“No,” Hadley said.
“That means ‘graceful.’ It could be a second meaning, don’t you think? Gracieuse!” he called, and his wife dropped the robes against the wall and hurried to him. He spoke to her rapidly in what Hadley supposed was a mixture of Indian and French, and the woman rushed off again.
“I’ve asked her to prepare some tubs, eh?” Orliac said. “You will want to bathe, I am sure.”
“Thank you,” Hadley said.
“We’ll find food for you as well. You are not to be frightened by any of the Indians inside the fort. The women are either married to our people, or else are sisters or cousins of the wives. The men are also relatives of one sort or another. C’est comme une grande famille — fathers, cousins, uncles. There is nothing to worry about, truly.”
“Where do you want us to...?”
“Near the wall there. Where Gracieuse has put the robes. That will be all right?”
“Yes, fine.”
“I know it is not very private...”
“It’s fine,” Hadley said.
“If you wish, we can unload the wagon and find someplace to store your belongings. Then perhaps the women could sleep in the wagon. If that is what you prefer.”
“We’re used to sleeping on the ground,” Hadley said.