The long, forested lake ran almost due east and west. Dutch turned to the north and rowed into a large cove where, high upon a sandy beach stood a log house with smoke rising from its stone chimney. Paddling for shore, he noticed Frenchie’s canoe resting on the beach. But in the shallows next to it, was another. Frenchie had customers. As Dutch glided ashore, he saw the marks on the canoe and knew it was from the Kickapoo nation.
Bloody strange. The Kickapoo roam hundreds of miles west of here...
As the canoe came to rest, King jumped out, ran for his favorite bush and promptly raised his leg. Pulling the boat to higher ground, Dutch removed his knapsack and put it on his back. Then grabbing his rifle and bundle of furs, he stumbled towards the front porch with the heavy load.
Moving slowly up the log steps, he found a new wooden sign above the doorway. In white letters, it read simply, ‘American Fur Co. Post 9.’
Dutch chuckled to himself. Foolish. Indians can’t read. As King joined him on the porch, the dog immediately started to growl and work his nose.
“Ye smell em, don’t you boy? No worry. I’ll shoo em off.”
As the dog backed away from the entry, Dutch used his knee to unlatch the door and swing it into the room. Crossing the threshold, he moved to his left and dropped the heavy pelts onto a wooden trading table with a loud thud.
Frenchie was at the rear of the room, restocking wool blankets on the tall shelves. The French Canadian was burly. His belly jiggled over a beaded Indian belt nearly forty five inches long. He wore buckskin trousers and a linen shirt that was soiled with blood and grime. His chin was covered by a weedy brown beard, stained black around the mouth from his constant chewing of tobacco. Frenchie’s eyes were as gray as his long matted hair.
“How did you do, mate?” the fat man asked in a heavy French brogue.
With a scornful glance, Dutch spotted two young Indians across the murky room next to the fireplace. They both were standing in soiled buckskins by a planked bar held up by large casts, drinking from a brown earthen jug. One brave was tall and rawboned, the other dirty faced and pudgy. Both were copper skinned, with wide fleshy noses and black hair.
Turning back to Frenchie, Dutch replied, “Twenty six prime pelts. From your fresh supplies and new sign, I reckon the barge came while I was gone.”
“Aye,” the fat man answered, moving to the trading table to inspect the pelts.
The room was smoky and smelled sour, so Dutch left the door open and moved to the fireplace, where he took off his pack and rested his rifle against the stones. “Did Astor send my pay?”
“Nay.”
Going behind the planked bar, Dutch grabbed a red-clay jug and poured a splash of whiskey into a tin cup. After taking a swig, he replied, with a bitter face, “Sent him a letter on the spring barge, telling him of my needs. You sure he didn’t send any money?”
Just then, the two Indians started squabbling about sharing their jug.
Dutch turned angrily to them and said in their tongue. “Take your damn argument outside Kickapoos. Don’t want to hear any more gibberish.” Then, turning back to Frenchie, he continued in English, “I’m not spending another winter in this god forsaken hell hole. My contract was up last week, and I want my wages.”
“Don’t have that kind of money Dutch,” Frenchie answered.
“How much do you have?”
The fat man moved to the bar and poured himself a drink from the same red-clay jug.
