Seed of Evil Read online

  Ceran St. Vrain had an aristocratic bearing. Always the best-dressed man at the fort, he was known for his keen mind and his fairness. “As I live and breathe,” he said with a grin. “You’re back already? You were just here last month.”

  “Out of you know what.” Nate climbed down and warmly shook St. Vrain’s hand.

  “You have an entire lake to drink,” St. Vrain said, “yet that’s not good enough.”

  “As I recollect, you have no room to talk. Who is it orders brandy by the case?”

  St. Vrain grinned, then fixed his attention on the Crows. “Friends of yours?”

  Nate introduced Chases Rabbits. “He’s here to trade for a rifle.”

  “How much furs you want for long gun?” the young warrior asked.

  “The going rate is ten buffalo robes,” St. Vrain informed him. “I give you my word it will be a quality piece and not blow up in your face like some of Hudson Bay’s trade rifles did. You can hunt with confidence.”

  “He wants the rifle to kill Blackfeet,” Nate said.

  “You don’t say.”

  “You don’t say what?” Chases Rabbits asked.

  “We don’t sell rifles for tribes to make war,” St. Vrain informed him. “We sell them to use to hunt and so you can protect yourself.”

  “Me not make war. Me count coup.”

  “There’s a woman,” Nate said.

  St. Vrain arched an eyebrow. “You live a complicated life, young sir.”

  “Me do?” Chases Rabbits scratched his chin. “How I live it and not know it?”

  St. Vrain motioned. “Let’s not block the gate. You and your friends are welcome so long as you obey the rules. Come on in.”

  “Rules?” Chases Rabbits said.

  “No hard spirits are allowed inside the walls. No discharging of firearms. No fighting. No quarreling. Any disputes, you come to me or Bill or Charles Bent, and we’ll resolve the issue. One of us is always on the premises. Do you understand all I’ve told you?”

  “What be spirits?”

  “Liquor. Whiskey. Scotch. Rum. You name it. That includes ale and beer. We are most strict about alcohol.”

  “White man’s drink,” Chases Rabbits said. “Smell like horse piss. Me never drink. Crow who drink not be Crow anymore.”

  “Good for you, young sirrah.”

  “What that mean?”

  “Your English has gaps, doesn’t it?”

  “Many,” Nate said.

  “Come on in,” St. Vrain repeated, and after Nate and the Crows had ridden through, he nodded at two guards, who promptly closed the gate.

  The central square bustled with freighters and other visitors. At the northwest and southeast corners were towers with field pieces. A blacksmith shop was near the gate. Nate made for the hitch rail in front of it.

  “Have supper with me and invite your amusing friend,” St. Vrain suggested, falling into step. “Perhaps we can dissuade him from getting himself killed.”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “But he refuses to listen because he’s young and stubborn and in love.”

  “Weren’t we all once?”

  “What else do you need besides coffee? Or did you come all this way just for that?”

  “Don’t start. I get ribbed enough by Winona and Shakespeare. I don’t need to hear it from you.”

  “I’m just surprised you came all this way when you have somewhere so much closer to get your supplies.”

  Nate stopped. “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know?” St. Vrain smoothed his fine coat and clasped his hands behind his back. “I would have thought word had spread all over the Rockies by now.”

  “Keep me in suspense, why don’t you?”

  St. Vrain smiled. “How many settlers would you say there are in the foothills and deeper in? Besides the five families in King Valley, that is.”

  Nate shrugged. “About fifteen to eighteen, I reckon.”

  “Oh, it’s more than that. The Wards, the Kendals, and there are many others. It’s closer to two dozen, I would say. Enough, I imagine, to support the new general store that has opened for business.”

  Genuine shock gripped Nate. Stores and taverns were cornerstones of civilization, and until this moment he had cherished the reality that civilization, with all its many ills, was a thousand miles away, far across the prairie and the wide Mississippi. “Please tell me you’re jesting.”

  “Would that I were. I don’t appreciate having competition, but it’s competition on a small scale. They don’t sell nearly as much as we do. Mainly the basics, and drink and food.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “A social call, to be polite. And to gauge how they’ll cut into our profits.” St. Vrain grinned. “They sell coffee.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “About four miles northeast of your old cabin, along the foothills. They built it in a basin they call Mud Hollow. There’s a creek but no one has given it a name yet. The man who runs the store calls himself Toad,” St. Vrain chuckled. “I kid you not.”

  “What is he like?”

  “The name fits. But do you want to hear something even more interesting? This Toad has five helpers. His clerks, he calls them. You met the gentlemen a few minutes ago. They were here to buy flour and sugar from us. Seems their own shipment was short.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes. Those men you encountered on your way in. Mr. Petrie and Mr. Geist and the others.”

  “Petrie doesn’t strike me as the store clerk type.”

  “Me, neither,” St. Vrain said.

  Nate gazed out over the west wall toward the distant mountains. “So what you’re saying is that there is more to this than meets the eye?”

  “I suspect so, yes. And I thought you would like to know.”

  “Damn,” Nate King said.

  Chapter Four

  The foothills rose in serial ranks. Those covered with more grass than trees were light green; those covered with more trees than grass were dark green. Interspersed here and there was the brown of barren hills, the ground too rocky to support plant life.

  The new trading post was easy enough to find.

  Rutted tracks left by the wagons that hauled the trade goods wound among the hills to a broad hollow. A meandering creek had formed a pond so shallow it looked to be more mud than water. Thus, evidently, the name the owner of the store had chosen—Mud Hollow.

  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.”

  Nate cared for his daughter deeply. She was headstrong at times, but she had a good heart and a peaceful temperament. She was also very much in love—although she wouldn’t come right out and admit it—with a young Nansusequa. “How is Dega doing these days?”

  “Fine, I suppose.”

  Nate had been home less than an hour. He had hugged and kissed his wife and talked with their daughter-in-law, who was visiting. Then he had come out to stretch his legs and caught sight of his daughter on her way back from the Nansusequa lodge at the other end of the lake.

  “The two of you have been awfully close since that day you went off together.”

  “We’re friends, is all.”

  “Hard to find diapers for a man my age,” Nate said.

  “What would you need a diaper for?”

  “I must have been born yesterday.”

  Evelyn laughed. About to throw another flat stone, she glanced to the north and said, “Uh-oh. What has him in such a dither?”

  Nate heard the thud of hooves and guessed what he would see before he turned, and he was right. Riding hard toward them was his son, Zach. They looked somewhat alike, in that Zach had his father’s green eyes and build, but Zach mostly took after his mother and the Shoshone side of the family. “You might want to go inside.”

  “Are you two going to argue again?” Evelyn threw the stone, which skipped several times before sinking. “I might just do that, then. When he’s mad he’s not fun to be around.”

  Nate walked to the water, hunkered down, and dipped his hand in. He sipped from his cupped palm and wet his neck. As he was rising, his son arrived in a loud clatter and a flurry of dust.

  “It is true what Louisa just told me?” Zach demanded without dismounting.

  “Unless she’s taken to lying t
o you, I would say it was,” Nate replied.

  “She said she was visiting Ma when you got home. She said there’s a new trading post in the foothills.”

  “They’re calling it a mercantile.”

  “I don’t like it, Pa,” Zach said.

  “I’m not fond of the idea, either, but it’s there and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Zach patted one of the pistols tucked under his leather belt. “Yes, there is.”

  “Climb down, son,” Nate suggested, and when Zach alighted, Nate draped an arm over his son’s shoulders. “Listen to me. We don’t own these mountains. We can’t go around running people off because we don’t like them or because we object to what they do for a living.”

  “We can if what they do causes trouble. The last time we nearly had a war on our hands.”

  “Trust me. It’s all I’ve thought about since St. Vrain told me about the new trader.” Nate chose his next words carefully. His son had a tendency to let his feelings get the better of his judgment and was much too quick to resort to violence. “I’ve met the man. He’s given me his word he’ll be fair and decent and won’t ply the Indians with liquor. So long as he abides by his word, we have no right to interfere with his livelihood.”

  “Which is a fancy way of saying we twiddle our thumbs and hope for the best.”

  Nate lowered his arm and gazed out across the beautiful blue of the lake. Patience was another trait his son had not yet fully mastered. But Nate couldn’t blame him. He, too, felt a special bond with the mountains and the people who lived there. Many of the tribes were their friends. He felt especially protective toward the Shoshones, who had accepted him as one of their own. “We have to give the new trader the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You do, maybe,” Zach said.

  “The last time you took the law into your own hands, you ended up on trial for your life.”

  Zach’s dark features clouded. “I did what was right and you know it. And aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  Zach gestured, encompassing their valley and the ring of mountains with a sweep of his arm. “There is no law out here. There is no government. There are no army posts.”