Cheyenne Winter Read Free Page A

drawing himself up to peer down his aquiline nose.
    “Fitzhugh. Partner in the company.”
    “Your full name?”
    “Brokenleg Fitzhugh.”
    “Brokenleg? Have you no other?”
    “Not as I remember.”
    “I must have a name.”
    “Robert, it was.”
    “You’ve violated the laws of the Republic.”
    “I don’t reckon so. This ain’t our spirits.”
    “Oh, fiddlededee!” The Reverend Mister Gillian wheezed out his scorn. “I suppose you’ll tell me it was not on your cargo manifests.” He waved the papers as if they were holy scripture. “Here! Three thirty-gallon casks of vinegar. A little legerdemain. A little chicane.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Fraud. Foul fraud. A base effort to debauch and demoralize the savages in our charge.”
    “I know nothing about it,” said Brokenleg. He wheeled toward Maxim. “You know anything about this?”
    The youth looked frightened. “Yes. I — the barrels weren’t on the manifests,” he stammered. “I thought a mistake had been made so I added them to it.”
    “Ah!” cried Foster Gillian. “A mere youth corrupting the savages! And toying with the law of the United States. What sort of company is this?”
    Maxim reddened. “My task is to look for theft. Each day I check the hold for theft. There’s often miscounts — differences between what’s on the manifests and what’s in the hold. I — it’s nothing unusual.”
    “Stammering! A sure sign of a guilty conscience. Truth will out!”
    “That isn’t it — that isn’t it. Someone put them there!”
    The reverend wheezed, setting his whole torso to rocking. “I may be a minister, young man, but I’m not naive. I know that your foul trade is fueled by spirits. You fur and robe men think nothing of debahing whole tribes — corrupting helpless innocents, mere children, with your vile poisons.”
    Maxim stiffened and pressed his lips shut. He was plainly through talking.
    Fitzhugh felt like hollering but didn’t. No matter what he said he’d only dig their grave deeper. As far as he was concerned tribesmen were adults. They could choose to trade a robe for some firewater or not, same as any white man.
    “I’ve caught you red-handed! That’s plain. Enough spirits to send whole villages into the pits of hell!”
    “Maxim, come hyar — I want to talk.” Fitzhugh dragged Maxim out of earshot.
    “Stop!”
    “We’re havin’ us a company meeting.”
    “Fiddlededee! Fiddlededee!” The reverend scowled but there was nothing he could do. Fitzhugh halted at the roaring firebox. “Maxim — what do you know about this hyar?”
    “Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!” he screamed. “They’ve been on board for a long time, Brokenleg,” he mumbled. “I noticed them the first day. There’s two manifests — one for the captain and my own. The vinegar was listed on the ship manifests but not on mine. I just thought — ”
    Fitzhugh growled. “You jist thought! You jist thought!”
    Maxim looked so miserable that Fitzhugh wanted to calm down, but couldn’t. “Maybe you cost us the license! Maybe you busted your pa and the rest!”
    That was too much for Maxim. He wept.
    “You coulda told me!” Fitzhugh roared. “You coulda said we got three casks of vinegar. Vinegar! Who the hell uses three casks a vinegar? I shoulda done it myself.”
    He knew he was cutting the boy to ribbons and he didn’t care. Out in the wild lands anyone that made mistakes — them coons went under. The wilds, the Injuns, didn’t give a second chance. This robe trade, with all its cutthroats, didn’t give a second chance! He left the boy weeping spastically while firemen pretended not to stare, and stomped back to the Indian agent.
    “I’m sayin’ it and you can believe it or not. Suit yerself. I’m sayin’ it for the record. We didn’t put them casks in thar and we didn’t know what they had in ’em. Someone else done it.”
    The Reverend Mister Foster Gillian looked amused. “I’ll make note of your fiddle-faddle in