Comanche Dawn (58 page)

The presence of Casaubon in Night Hunter's lodge prevented Jean from explaining as freely as he would have liked the nature of his proposed trade between French and Spaniards across the Great Plains. Secretly, Jean had already warned all the men in his party against mentioning the small cache of gold they carried, for fear Casaubon would steal it. This gold was hidden between layers of buffalo robes, covered with rawhide, lashed to a pole-drag that was now standing out in the rain.

After the first smoke, Casaubon got up, covered himself with a buffalo robe, and removed the thatched cover that fit in the doorway to keep rain from splashing in. He stepped outside into the heavy downpour, not even bothering to replace the door cover. Speaks Twice got up to cover the hole. Jean was hoping Casaubon would retire to his own lodge. He took advantage of the bald man's absence to provide Night Hunter with more details about the trade he hoped to forge to the east.

This talk only seemed to worry Night Hunter, who replied, “We trade with Bald Man. Speak to him.”

After several minutes, Casaubon came back in and flung his soaked buffalo robe aside to reveal a jug, which he offered to Jean. Jean let his eyes show mock fear of the trader's jug and refused to drink. He did not intend to drink after the likes of Henri Casaubon. More important, he did not intend to be the one to introduce the Comanches to the white man's spirits.

Seeing Jean's refusal to drink, Night Hunter also declined, but only to honor his tattooed guest. The Raccoon-Eyed elder seemed so disappointed, in fact, that he went to his willow-frame bed and lay down. The Comanches, too, began to stretch out on robes, their bellies full, their muscles tired, and the rain lulling them to sleep.

Speaks Twice got up and walked to the door Casaubon had again left uncovered. He urinated into the rain, replaced the door cover, then collapsed on a pile of robes nearby. Jean had noticed that Speaks Twice lavished a great deal of attention on doors, and supposed that the
Tiwa
translator must have missed the security of a pueblo with the ladders pulled up to turn back intruders.

Other than Henri Casaubon, and Jean himself, Horseback was the last to lie down. Without speaking, he pulled a soft buffalo robe over his head, leaving the conversation to the two Frenchmen. The liquor seemed to be taking the sparkle from Casaubon's squinted eyes.

“You are French,” the bald man said.

Jean answered in his native tongue. “Born French.” He sighed. “I belong to no nation now.”

“What is your Christian name?”

“Jean.”

The bald one turned the jug up, making the drink slosh with musical notes. “Are you sure you won't take a drink? This is my own good brandy from Arkansas post, not the wretched trade whiskey I bring for the savages.”

Jean shook his head. “Not with these Comanches.”

Casaubon sniffed and nodded. “Yes. One must watch his scalp among drunken savages, no?” He laughed hoarsely as he wrapped his meaty fist around the hilt of his cutlass, still slung in its scabbard across one shoulder. “This trade with the Spaniards, it is rich?”

Jean shrugged. “So far, it is worthless.”

“Bah! Hides!” Casaubon growled. “The French forts can get hides from any savages. The good trade is in slaves,
mon ami.
Slaves!”

“I have seen too much trouble with the slave trade across the plains. The Spaniards forbid it now, though it still exists to a certain extent. The Spaniards call them converts and send them to work in the mines and guano pits. They pay them a pittance, but they are slaves.”

Casaubon stared blankly, then took another drink. “I have sold Spanish slaves—little boys and girls!” He laughed again, his throat like a caldron of gravel. “The
Padouca
—Apache as your Spaniards call them—capture them around Santa Fe, and bring them to me on the Arkansas River—the River of Arrowheads—the Rio Napestle. The savages take anything for them—powder, guns, whiskey. And then—listen to this,
mon ami
—then, while the
Padouca
are away from their camps to bring slaves here, the
Pani
—the Wolf People—they raid the
Padouca
camps and take women and children. These the
Pani
keep for me in the camps to the north. The slaves are no trouble when I get them. Almost starved and beaten to death. It is good business, heh?”

Jean said nothing. Darkness, gloom, and fatigue began to close in on him, and he longed for his hacienda in Santa Fe and a tender embrace from Tia, his willing servant girl. He wished now that he had come alone, ahead of the Comanches, to discover Casaubon here. Then, he could have gone to one of the more southerly villages of the Raccoon-Eyed people—perhaps to the one called Wichita. But he had had no way of knowing Casaubon would turn up here.

“There is gold in Santa Fe,
non?
”

“Some,” Jean replied. “But it comes from New Spain. There are no good mines in New Mexico, as the Spaniards hoped there might be.”

“If you want to trade hides, bah! But if you want to trade in slaves or gold,
mon ami,
you need—what shall we say—an agent to the east of the plains. I know the savages from the Ousconsin River to the mouth of the Messipe—from the Blackfeet to the
Tejas.
You send the gold and the slaves. I will send good muskets, powder, whiskey, cloth. Hey, do you want me to send you a real French girl? I know where to get one or two.”

Jean slid off the rolled buffalo hide and feigned a yawn, though Casaubon's talk was making him more wary than tired. “No girls. No slaves. This whole trip has been wasted. I am going back to Santa Fe. Forget this trade, Casaubon. It is no good.”

Jean pulled his hat over his eyes, but kept the bald man in view under the brim. The fire in the center of the lodge had burned down to a few flickers, but he could still see the whiskey glistening on the slave trader's lips after he took another swig. He followed Casaubon's eyes: touching upon each of the sleeping
Comanches,
drifting to the door, finally settling on Jean himself.

Casaubon took another drink and smiled. He looked for a long time at Jean, grinning all the while. He knew he was being watched from under the hat brim, and Jean knew that he knew. It unnerved Jean to the point that he decided he had better not fall asleep.

Finally, he sighed, pushed his hat back on his head, and sat up. He said nothing. He thought about his pistols, out of reach now in his saddle holsters just inside the door. The powder was probably too damp, anyway. He wanted to reach for the knife on his belt scabbard to make sure it was ready, but he resisted.

Pretending to rub his brow as if his head ached, he covered his eyes and glanced across the floor of the lodge to look for a weapon equal to Casaubon's cutlass. He saw none. All the Comanche lances had been bound in tripods outside, the shields hung from them in their protective rawhide cases. There was not even a good-sized stick left in the fire.

Then he happened to glance at the place where Horseback lay. Under the cover of the heavy buffalo robe, he saw the faint glisten of two open eyes, though Horseback's chest was rising and falling heavily, as if in sleep. Relief washed his dread away from him like the rain cleansing the thatched roof of the Quiviran lodge. Horseback was awake and watching.

Jean knew very well that Horseback, as a Foolish One, carried only his buffalo scrotum rattle with him as a weapon. Still, the thought of Horseback remaining awake filled him with courage. The young Comanche would be of little help to him against the cutlass of Henri Casaubon, yet the mere fact that the proud young warrior was watching made Jean feel more bold. He would not behave as a coward in the eyes of the fearless pony warrior.

“I know who you are,” Casaubon suddenly said.

Jean removed his hand from his brow, a new confidence willing him to lock eyes with the slaver; “Do you?”

“
Oui, mon ami.
I recall. Fort St. Louis, on the Spanish Main. The slime pits. You remember me,
non?
You remember the day of death for the great lunatic, René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle.” He rasped in laughter again and took a drink of whiskey. “I was in Quebec in 1688 when your friend Goupil, the mapmaker, was hanged.” He looked at the dark smoke hole in the thatched roof. “Good God, that was twenty-three years ago!” He shook his head and took another swallow of whiskey. “Your name is in La Salle's diary,
mon ami.
And in the diary of your friend, Goupil, the hanged murderer.”

“Goupil was no murderer.”

“Bah! Who will believe you, Jean L'Archeveque, accomplice of the mapmaker, he who consorts with savages and Spaniards, a tattooed traitor?”

Jean grunted. He leaned back against the heavy post and crossed his arms over his chest. “I am no traitor. I am no murderer. I live among Spaniards because Frenchmen do not want to listen to the truth. It was Minime, the valet, who murdered La Salle—Minime and his followers. And you were one of them, Henri Casaubon. You would have murdered me, too, had I not fled to the Raccoon-Eyed People, who treated me as a brother and a son. I live as I must, not as I choose.”

Hacking laughter rattled from deep within Casaubon's chest. He coughed, spat toward Night Hunter's bed, and put the whiskey jug to his lips again. “We are a long way from the nearest French fort,
non?
”

“What matter is that to me?”

“What matter, you say? A hangman's rope waits for you there, L'Archeveque, and a bounty of gold for me. I suppose I might have some trouble getting you there,
non?
More than the slaves—women and children—who are starved and beaten. I would have to keep you bound and guarded all the while. A difficult proposition,
non?
And you with your friends. How do you call them? Comanches?”

Jean shifted on his roll of hides. Now he indeed reached for his knife, and felt it pull smoothly from the sheath when he tested it. “You would attempt to take a brother of the Raccoon-Eyed People from their own village?”

“You are their brother,
oui.
But here is their master.” He held the jug before him at arm's length, grinned, and stuck his tongue hideously into one of the gaps in his row of discolored teeth. “Now, listen, traitor. It is known everywhere across the kingdoms of France and Spain that Jean L'Archeveque wears the tattoos of a savage on his face. Charles the Second, that bastard king of Spain, boasted of your capture in 1688, when you were taken across the ocean to report as his spy.”

“I am aware of my infamy, Casaubon. Why do you remind me?”

The slaver pulled the red wool cap from his bald head and tucked it into the waist of his trousers, as if preparing for a fight. “Your heathen tattoos betray you.” He reached for the hilt of his cutlass. “I have taken heads with one blow. I have a keg of trade whiskey in my lodge where yours would fit. Nothing rots in that swill. I need not take you alive to the forts,
mon ami.
All I need to collect his majesty's bounty for a traitor is your tattooed head.”

A certain realization struck Jean. To complete the plans for his illegal trade between the French and Spanish frontiers, he would have to kill Henri Casaubon. Perhaps within the next minute. He prepared to spring from his sitting position if need be. His heart was pounding furiously. “Your head is probably worth more than mine. You are the most infamous
courier de bois
on the continent, Henri Casaubon. If you wish to take my head, then come and get it. You will be hanged as soon as you arrive with it at the Arkansas post, or Creve Coeur, on the Seignelay.”

Casaubon removed his hand from his sword hilt and laughed at the ceiling, a Voiceless burst of whiskey breath grating up his throat. “You know me well,
mon ami.
Yet, there are ways. I could sell your head to some legal trader, but it wouldn't be worth as much. I will make a bargain with you, L'Archeveque. Work with me in this trade for Spanish gold, and I will let you keep your head.”

“I have already told you that there is but little gold in Santa Fe. The trade I wish to begin here is for my friends, the Comanches. I only want to keep them from raiding the
ranchos
around Santa Fe.”

The ugly smile slid from Casaubon's face. “You are a liar as well as a traitor. Do you think I am so stupid? Earlier today, when your Comanches untied the ponies from the travois, I was watching. You had them stack two of the travois on top of the other one. What were you trying to protect in that bundle of hides on the lower travois?”

Jean sniffed as if in ridicule, but he knew now he had been observed paying too much attention to the one pony-drag. “I merely wanted to keep the best furs above the mud. A fool could see that a storm was coming.”

“You lie well, L'Archeveque. But I see through your lies. Earlier, when I went into the rain to fetch my jug of brandy, I visited your stack of three travois.” He pulled his cutlass from its sheath and jabbed at the air between himself and Jean. “I pushed my blade in between the layers of hides and felt the metal of your cache,
mon ami.
”

Jean's anger began to boil as he watched Casaubon reach into the front of his shirt and slowly pull a chain of gold into view. At the end of the chain came the golden crucifix Jean had flaunted to Horseback on the River of Arrowheads.

“You see, I already have your gold, traitor. You might as well take what whiskey and guns I offer in trade. I will throw in a young French whore girl as a token of my good faith. If you decline, I will be forced to take your gold—and your pickled head—back to Creve Coeur.”

Jean reached his right hand around the back of his right hip, where his knife hilt jutted above the sheath. It was a plain knife, but good, made of tempered steel with an ivory handle. He kept it honed and serviceable at all times, but it was no match for a cutlass. He would have to move quickly to avoid Casaubon's first blow, and hope he had truly seen Horseback's open eyes gleaming under the cover of the buffalo robe.