Looping his arm over her shoulder, Bass quickly turned his daughter away from the prying eyes and faced her toward Bordeau. “You got ’nother of these here shawls?”
“Same as the one she’s got on?”
“Lemme see all of ’em so we can pick out three of ’em.”
“Three?”
“The other two for our wives.”
“That’s awful good of you, Scratch,” Sweete said.
“You damn well can’t go back to that lodge without presents for her, Shadrach.”
“But I ain’t got nothing to repay you for ’em—”
He whirled on Sweete. “Don’t ever say that to me again. I do this ’cause I wanna. Don’t take away the joy from me doing this for you.”
“Aw … awright.”
“Shell Woman don’t ever need to know it weren’t your money,” he explained. “Ever’ woman needs some geegaws an’ girlews to make their eyes shine and their hearts go warm.”
“Popo!”
He turned at Magpie’s exclamation, finding her running her fingers over eight different patterns of shawls. Bass told her, “Pick out one for yourself, and Shell Woman, and a real pretty one for your mother too. Shad an’ me gonna scratch through these here earbobs an’ foofaraw for some pretty hangy-downs to go with them shawls.”
In the end, after they had argued over the worth of Mexican gold this far north of the old Spanish possessions, Bass finally relented and let go of two of his coins for a treasure trove of trinkets and jewelry, along with the three shawls, four more blankets, and a burlap sack filled with at least three of every sort of toy Fort Laramie had on its shelves.
“An’ you said I had some left over for a little whiskey,” Bass reminded.
“Yes, yes,” Bordeau answered in a gush as he scooped the two coins into a pocket of his drop-front britches.
Shadrach asked, “Where’s your likker?”
“Bring it out, trader!” Scratch demanded.
“No drinking here in trade room,” Bordeau stated. “Other room for whiskey.”
“Awright, show us,” Sweete said.
They stepped from the trading room just ahead of Bordeau as the trader snuffed the lamps, then pulled and locked the door behind him. As the group followed the Frenchman down the side of the square, Bass turned to study that group of six curious employees stepping away from the shadows near the trade-room window, slowly following the Americans.
“I dunno if there’s trouble brewin’, Shadrach,” he said in a low voice. “Maybeso there’s some nosy parley-voo niggers spotted my gold through the window.”
Sweete glanced over his shoulder at the half dozen following them. “They’re small, Scratch. Frenchies too. They can’t cause us too much trouble. ’Sides, you allays had your back to that window. They couldn’t see your pouch or your gold.”
“Then why you reckon they follerin’ us?”
With a shrug, Shad said, “Bet they know we’re headed for the whiskey room. Pork-eaters like them figger to drink a horn or two on your money.”
“Ain’t enough Mexican gold in my pouch to make me pay for a round of whiskey for one of their kind,” he growled as Bordeau stepped through a smudge of yellow light spilling upon the damp ground from a smoke-stained, dirty window and immediately flung open the cottonwood door beside it.
“Alors!” the trader called out to the fat man behind the counter as they came in. “Four whiskeys for my friends here!”
“For the petite fille?” the barman asked, his face drawn up in question.
“Non!” Bordeau exclaimed with a snort. “These mixed-blood children do not drink the whiskey. Two whiskeys for the one-eyed one, and two for his tall friend.”
“This Injun gal looks old enough for a cup of whiskey.”
Bass froze at the counter and slowly turned at the sound of the voice. On instinct, he quickly glanced around the room, counting enemy, hopeful of finding another female. But as he had feared most, he found but one woman in this smoky room, dank with the mingled odors of sweaty bodies, spilled whiskey and brandy, as well as the stench of clothing and anuses gone too long unwashed.
“Fill the cups, like the trader told you to,” Titus ordered the barman, then cleared his throat as he turned back to the stocky man who had called out with the loud voice.
“I buy the woman a drink of my own, yes?” the badger-eyed one asked.
Shaking his head as he felt his breath come hard, Bass growled, “This here ain’t no woman. My daughter she be, you gut-sucker of a parley-voo.”
“What is this you say of me … gut-sucker?”
Sweete immediately replied. “It ain’t good, what my friend called you.”
Slowly the Frenchman’s eyes tore from Shad’s to look again at Bass. “So, she is your daughter. Still I think she looks old enough to drink the whiskey.”
Bordeau slipped away from the counter, stepping behind the Americans and inching along the wall until he stood just behind the right elbow of his stocky employee.
“She’s maybe a moon away from her thirteenth summer, you no-count dog.” Titus reached out and gently snugged Magpie against his hip. With his other hand he dragged a cup of whiskey his way and brought it under his nose for a sniff.
“Me? A dog? That makes me laugh! You are the dog who sleeps with the Injeeans. Look at this half-blood girl. Now she is the best for a man like me, no? Half-blood women want a real man in the robes.”
After smelling the strength of Bordeau’s whiskey, Bass took a long drink, enough to make his throat burn and his eyes water. If it was going to be the only drink he’d have this night, then he wanted it to be a deep one. He set the cup back on the counter. So far, the Frenchman hadn’t moved any closer. Made no threatening moves. Although the stocky man still leaned against the wall, Titus nonetheless knew it was but a matter of moments. Scratch turned, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, and glared over at the antagonist. The man wore a pistol stuffed in his belt and one knife Bass could see over the right hip. Appeared to be a lefthander.
“We come to drink our whiskey, part of a trade,” Shad began to explain as he set his first cup down on the counter behind Bass and tugged Magpie a step back from her father.
“Trade? You want to trade, n’est-ce pas?”
Bordeau leaned over to his employee, whispering something in the stocky man’s ear. The Frenchman listened, nodded once, but never took his eyes off either the American or the half-blood girl.
“Awready done our trading for the night,” Bass said as he squared himself and laid a hand on Flea’s shoulder. “Son, move yonder toward the door now.”
“Popo, I don’t want to go,” the boy said in Crow.
“We aren’t going, not just yet,” he answered his son in the same language.
Bordeau asked, “Does your daughter know the words that will drive a man wild in this same tongue you speak to the boy?”
“Let’s not fight over her,” the muscular employee said with a mocking kindness. “I will bring some goodness to your poor family, old man.”
“How could a gut-eater like you do that?”
Sneering, he said, “Don’t marry your girl off to no Injeean warrior who picks the lice off his head. Non, marry your girl off to a real man like me who can get her out of those dirty Injeean clothes and put her in a fancy dress and hair combs.”
The thought of such a life for his daughter turned his stomach. “I’d sooner see her married to a half-starved Digger than to have a scum-lickin’ parley-voo in my family!”
“Let her make her choice, old man,” the Frenchman demanded. “A Injeean life with lice, the life you choose … or a life as my woman—”
“She’s just a girl, you French pig.”
“Old enough to me,” the muscular man provoked. “Look at her ass. Is that not how you Americains say it—ass? And she has those little teats so small and hard now too.”