Absaroka War Chief

Chapter 3

James Beckwourth chugged uphill toward the master blacksmith’s shop. He was late. Late for another day of wielding hammer and tongs, sweat stinging his eyes as it poured from his brow. His head throbbed and his stomach churned; a small price to pay for an evening of revelry with his beloved. He burst into the shop and slapped on his leather apron, glancing at his fellow apprentice.

“I hope she was worth it,” said the other.

Beckwourth plucked a pair of tongs off the wall, but as he scanned for a hammer, he sensed a presence behind him.

George Casner thought of himself as a fair master to his apprentices. But with this one, his patience was wearing thin. “Beckwourth,” he said, “what excuse do you have for me this time?”

“I think I will finish up these beaver traps today, sir,” Beckwourth said, evading the question. Cinders crunched under his boots.

“You lazy bastard,” said Casner.

“I am not,” said Beckwourth.

“You lazy, half-naggur bastard,” growled the smith.

Beckwourth stiffened and turned to face his boss.

“You may call me lazy, though I am not. But I will not stand the rest. Take it back.”

“Oh, you won’t stand it, eh?”

The other apprentice faded into the wall behind him as best he could.

“Take it back, or I will make you eat those words.” Beckwourth tossed the tongs on the floor between them.

“Pick that up,” said the smith.

“Take it back,” said Beckwourth.

“Pick it up now.”

“Go to hell.”

Casner grabbed a hammer and threw it at Beckwourth. He ducked, and the hammer hit the wall behind him with thud.

“I’ll call you what I want, when I want, boy,” said Casner. “And you will do what I say, when I say.”

Beckwourth felt his face flush. He scooped up the hammer and in the same motion fired it at Casner with all his might. Casner fell to the floor, and the hammer clattered into a bank of half-finished grappling hooks. He rose with a snarl and charged Beckwourth. Taller and wiry, the master smith grappled the younger man to the ground. Beckwourth twisted this way and that until he was able to free his right arm and land a powerful shot to the master’s face. That stunned him and gave Beckwourth the opportunity to land a few more. Casner released him and sprang away.

“Beckwourth, I have tolerated you long enough in the name of your father. But this is it. You are fired,” he snarled, wiping blood from his mouth, and cinders from his clothes.

“Suits me just fine,” said Beckwourth. “I would sooner burn in hell than work for you another minute.” He threw his apron at Casner and walked out of the shop.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the fracas through the gaping door. Beckwourth pushed past the disparaging looks of well-to-do merchants and the jeers of the ragged boatmen and roustabouts. He scooped water from a rain barrel, splashed it on his face, and ran downhill toward the ramshackle grog shops. A cluster of Indians, partially shaved heads protruding from their buffalo robes, regarded him with regal indifference. There was his boarding house, pinched between the grog shops. He burst through the doorway.

“Greetings and salutations, Mrs. LeFevre,” Beckwourth said.

“Lord above, James, what happened?”

“Mr. Casner and I had a disagreement,” he said. “I am no longer in his employ.”

“My word! Your face!”

“Psh. He looks worse.”

“That’s not good either,” the woman said, dabbing at his face with a cloth. “Not for the likes of you.”

There was a knock at the door. LeFevre opened it. It was Casner.

“There he is,” the smith said. “Evict that scoundrel, Mrs. LeFevre. I will no longer be paying his bills.”

“My affairs are no longer of any concern to you, sir,” Beckwourth replied. “I will pay my own way.”

“Then you owe me for the unfinished time in your contract,” said the smith. “You will pay for that.”

“You may stuff that contract up your bung, sir, or if you prefer, I will gladly do it for you,” said Beckwourth.

Casner’s eyes widened, and he charged Beckwourth again, but he received such a beating that he retreated outside and stormed down the street, slurring curses through swollen lips.

“It is probably best now that I depart for my father’s place, ma’am,” said Beckwourth to LeFevre. “I will miss your cooking greatly, and our evenings of speaking French together.”

“Go. And quickly,” she said.

In his upstairs room, Beckwourth poured black powder into the muzzle of his pistol, then rammed in a wad and a lead ball. His few clothes went into a sack, on top of which he laid the rawhide pouch that held his papers. His precious, despised papers. The pistol went in his belt.

Beckwourth heard loud voices downstairs. It was Casner and another, and he had a notion who the other was. Mixed in with the swearing was that racial epithet. Twice in one day. The last time he had heard that had been a few years ago, from a schoolmate whom he had made swallow those words and spit a couple teeth. He nodded to himself and tossed the sack on his bed. Ear to the door, he drew his pistol.

“Beckwourth, it’s Buzby,” said the second man.

“Yes, Constable?” said Beckwourth.

“I would like a word with you.”

“What about?” Beckwourth asked.

“You know what. Come on down.”

Beckwourth kissed the coin that hung on a lanyard around his neck, the one possession he had from his mother, and then opened the door to his room. He pointed his pistol down the stairs at Buzby. “Come any closer and I will shoot you dead.”

“Don’t be a fool there, son,” said a startled Buzby, backing up a step.

“Don’t ‘son’ me.”

“Careful, Beckwourth,” said Casner. “You would hang for it.”

“Just leave then. The both of you.”

“All right then, let’s cool down, Beckwourth,” said Buzby as he backed away. “I’m leaving.” He tossed his head towards the door, and the two slunk out.

Beckwourth followed them and watched as they two scurried away, mention of the sheriff wafting in their wake. He hustled upstairs to grab his things, thrust coins into LeFevre’s palm, and was soon outside, headed out of town. But first, a hurried goodbye. The grog shop where his love worked was steps away. The bartender gave him a nod and motioned to a back room. There was Eliza, sound asleep. He shook her shoulder.

“My love,” she said. “Your face! What happened?”

“I traded blows with Casner.”

“Oh, James, why?”

“He called me a name I allow no man to use.”

“You are such a hothead sometimes. I am proud of you for standing up for yourself. I am. But now what?”

“Well, I also held Buzby at gunpoint. So, I can’t stay.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. So, I came to say goodbye, for now.”

“No. Take me with you.”

“Wouldn’t be wise. Besides, I have a better plan for us.”

“Us? What plan?”

Beckwourth grasped her darker hand in his. She entwined his fingers.

“I will seek my fortune trapping out West. Our fortune.”

“Wait. How long would that be?”

“A year. Or so.”

“A year or so!” She pulled her hand away.

“I know. I know. But think of it. I can come back wealthy.”

“I love you. As you are. I don’t want wealth. We could go to New Orleans.”

“It will tear at me forever if I don’t try.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

The moment was right. He had given it some thought for weeks now.

“Eliza, dearest,” he said, falling on a knee. “Marry me.”

Eliza dabbed blood from Beckwourth’s lip and kissed him gently.

“Go,” she said. “I will wait.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That is a ‘yes’.”