Digging her boots once again into Honey Sugar's flanks, she spurred the pony onward. Another shot fired, and she looked back over her shoulder to see how close the two men were to her.
Where had the third man come from? And worse, this man was riding a steed bigger than hers.
Bending low over her mount, she whispered into Honey Sugar's ear, "Run! Quick as the wind, run!"
And, then it happened. Coming up to the left side of her, the third man reached out and caught hold of the reins of her horse, jerking them out of her hands. Gradually, he slowed the animal down until they had come to a stop.
But, Amelia was not to be taken by force so easily. Scooting down from the animal, she jumped to the ground, running as though the devil, himself, were after her. And, perhaps he was.
****
"I have much gold. Some silver. But, much gold. See my ring!" bellowed Gray Falcon, who stood in the center of Fort McKenzie's trading room, his hand held out in front of him. "I have more. But, how do I use this gold when it does not shoot a deer or a buffalo calf?" Gray Falcon turned to Strikes Fast and frowned. "You, Crow man, have many pretty trinkets my wife would like. What say you? Shall we play a game? What do you have for this worthless gold?"
Strikes Fast shook his head and, pushing out his lips, made a face.
"Saa,"uttered Gray Falcon. "Too bad. Is there no man who wishes to gamble with me for these worthless golden nuggets?"
The trading room became suddenly silent. As Gray Falcon stood upon the crudely-made wooden floor and looked around the room, he stared at the many engagées who worked in the fort. Only a few were paying attention to him. Most looked away.
But, these men had very little to offer in a game of chance, they being owned by David Mitchell, the superintendent of Fort McKenzie. There were perhaps eight of these men—mostly French—lounging within the trading room, a few of them carrying guns—a luxury no Indian was ever permitted to have within the fort. Dressed in buckskin shirts and vests as well as the trousers and boots of the white man's garb, these men were easily distinguishable from the Indian. Not only did the scent of the engagées' unwashed clothing declare who they were, but their pale skin and the dark hair that grew in profusion upon their faces told the truth of their race.
He knew of no Indian man who grew a beard. One reason was because it was too difficult to do, since very little hair grew upon an Indian's face. Indeed, a man found it easier to pluck out the few hairs growing upon his chin or upper lip.
At a single glance, faster than it takes to tell it, Gray Falcon took note of the dangers in this place. A musket, set upon the trading table, was primed, loaded and within easy reach. Several long knives were placed at arm's length. Two big men, armed with shotgun, pistol and knives, guarded the entrance to this place. All of these represented the threat that if a Pikuni man were peaceful and showed himself to be of no danger, he might be left alone. Yet, if an Indian gave any indication he could be dangerous, these men stood ready to fight and kill, if need be. That the Indian was always disarmed when being admitted into the fort—making him weaker and unable to defend himself—seemed to be of no concern in this place.
Gazing around the room, looking for possible defenses, Gray Falcon's scan took in the fireplace at one end of the room—so necessary during the winter months, but unused at present. It would give them no easy escape and was, therefore, not another means of flight, were it to be necessary .
He looked forward toward the long trading counter, noting the white antelope skin lying upon it and almost covering the table completely. Resting on shelves in back of the table were colorful trade blankets, as well as pots and pans so dear to a woman's heart. Furs hung from the ceiling, as well as ropes and halters for a man's horse, although they were useless to an Indian man, who preferred to make his own. Buffalo furs and caps made of beaver pelts were on display, hanging from the horns of a moose at each side of the trading worktop.
Crates full of grain or flour and other white man's food were kept off to the side of the counter, while glass beads of all different colors and sizes were kept at each end of the trading table. There was sage that could be bought in a man's trade, though most women preferred to collect the plant and dry their own.
Shotguns were kept on a locked rack and available only upon trading the very best a man had for them. But, ammunition was plentiful and was easy to purchase.
The most valuable commodity to the successful trader, however, was whiskey, and it was kept in wooden kegs piled up high on the shelves. These were out of the reach of the average man. And this was, perhaps, good.
It was evil, this whiskey, because the Pikuni men who drank the white man's brew seemed to take leave of their senses. Such men would trade the best they had for little more than a drink. And, some of these men were so lost within their minds, they no longer engaged in the daily hunt so necessary if a man were to feed his family. Instead, most of these men, who took to the drinking habit, preferred hanging around the fort and begging for more of the mind-altering brew until they either passed out or made other trouble for themselves.
Gray Falcon sighed. The white man had brought many good items of trade into this country: guns and ammunition being one of them. But, the pale-faced man had also brought an evil into this land, one that had never been seen nor experienced before by the Indian: this evil was a craziness caused by the poisonous drink—whiskey. It was why the chiefs forbade it and why no medicine man ever indulged in it.
Gray Falcon inhaled deeply, the foul scent of this place causing him to cough. Because the temperature was unbearably hot, the room reeked of body odor, particularly so because most of the engagées and other employees of the fur company did not bathe daily. It was strange why this was so, especially since the Marias River, as well as the Big River—the Missouri—were within easy stepping distance.
But, whether the place stank or not, did not matter to Gray Falcon. He was not to be turned away from his duty. Besides, he hadn't come to the fort to criticize, to trade or to parley with the white man. He had journeyed here to bring the evil one's hold upon his wife and her family to an end.
Because it appeared neither the white man nor any of the other Indians wished to gamble with Gray Falcon, Strikes Fast said loudly and in English, "Gamble with you…will I. No fear…you…stealing…from me."
Gray Falcon nodded, then in English asked, "Rules? Know you the rules of the game?"
"Game? What game…play we?" asked Strikes Fast.
"Why,Cos-soó,of course."
"Cos-soó?" asked Strikes Fast. "Play we 'til ruined…one of us? Other rules…wish…you?"
"Saa.None other is needed. We would set our guide by the ancient law ofCos-soó," answered Gray Falcon in English. "Let us set out the game in the middle of the floor where all can see." Then, in good Blackfeet, he said to the other Pikuni Indians who had gathered within the trading room, "Go tell the others a game ofCos-soóbegins."
"Now, hold on there, boys," came a voice Gray Falcon had never heard before, yet an instinct within him screamed at him, telling him this was the man he'd been waiting for.
Gray Falcon glanced up.
