CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Be ye willin', now, ta sell this here wagon, miss?"
To this question, Stands Strong heard his wife correct the man, saying, "I am not selling it, and I am a missus, not a miss. Please understand, I have no intention of selling the wagon at all."
"But, I be willin' ta give ye five hundred fer it."
Stands Strong frowned, recalling only moments ago when, with great enthusiasm, he had been anticipating being with his wife again and the possibility of sharing more lovemaking with her. She was now especially on his mind after having spent several days in scouting. But, what was happening here? Where had all these white men come from? There were at least ten, perhaps twelve of them. Certainly, the steamship had arrived, but why were there so many of these white men here in his people's encampment—and why were they crowding around his wife?
Admittedly, he was accustomed to seeing the French engagées and voyageurs depart from the steamship to be quartered within the fort. But, a quick glance at these men showed each one of them to be neither an employee of the company, nor a trapper or trader.
For one, as a group, they smelled bad, as though they hadn’t bathed for perhaps many months. For another, they were an unkempt bunch of men, with long greasy and stringy beards, unwashed and greasy hair and clothing scented with perhaps unmentionable body fluids.
All of them appeared to be of questionable grooming standards, except a few of the younger men who were clean-shaven and were perhaps even handsome. But, why were there so many of them here? And, why were they crowding around his wife?
At first Stands Strong had thought to stand aside from them, if only to escape their stench. But, then he had spotted his wife within their midst.
And, though the words from this noxious crew appeared to reflect that their reason for coming into their camp was the wagon they each one seemed determined to purchase, no one was examining the object in question. Obviously, the attraction was not the wagon, buthiswoman.
One of the younger and better looking of the men said something to his wife to which she laughed, but whatever had been said remained a mystery to Stands Strong. All of his attention was centered upon one concern and one concern only: why was his woman speaking to these men and even laughing with them when she was married to him?
When one of these odorous men stepped forward and placed a hand upon his wife's shoulder, Stands Strong stepped quickly forward and planted himself firmly in front of her, his arms holding his shotgun clutched against his chest. He said in perfect English, "The woman said she does not wish to sell the wagon."
"So? What's it to you, Injun?" The foul-looking man who had asked this question fingered a gun hung down within his belt, and slowly the man lifted the weapon up from its holster.
With the swift and sure reflexes of a trained warrior, Stands Strong thrust his rifle straight up, and, pointing it into the air, fired off a loud and explosive shot. The fact that his action brought several warriors racing in his direction didn't at first register with him. He was only aware of this: he would make a stand here and now. He would not allow his woman to be manhandled by any of these lowlifes.
After all, these men had come into the Indian camp where all men, Indian and white, were equally armed. But, Stands Strong had no time to overly reflect upon this. All he knew was simply this: no one was going to lay a hand on his woman.
"Hey, we's only askin'," uttered one lowlife.
"No need ta go ta war over it," said another.
With several mumbles and grumbles, the stinky newcomers began to retreat, and it was only then, once they had turned their backs upon him, when Stands Strong took note of the Blackfoot warriors who had gathered in back of him and who had taken a stand along with him. Some of these warriors were still aiming their shotguns toward the whites; some had affixed an arrow to a bow pointed directly at these unwelcome men.
Who were these white men? Certainly they weren't traders, nor were they engagées. To his knowledge, no white trader had ever laid a hand on an Indian woman, unless that woman was his wife.
Again he asked himself: who were these detestable men?
But, perhaps a more important question to him at this moment was: why had his wife laughed at some statement made by one of them? One of the youngest and handsomest of them?
Still, although these thoughts were gathering storm clouds within Stands Strong's mind, neither he nor any other warrior made a move to let down his guard until every single one of the offensive and stinky men had returned into the inner sanctum of the fort. But, as soon as the last one was admitted there and the gate was closed, the warriors—who had crowded around him and had given him their support—slowly backed away, many of them grinning.
One of them, Howling Wolf, placed his hand on Stands Strong's shoulder and said, "I should have driven the wagon into the fort. Then, there would have been no trouble."
"It is not your fault. Think no more about it," replied Stands Strong, and, turning around to confront his woman, he said toCzanna, "Come with me. My relatives have erected a tepee for us. I will show it to you."
When his wife did nothing more than nod, this pleased him very much, and, calmly, with each step deliberate, he led the way to their new lodge. There would be time enough to talk to her without others hearing what he had to say to her.
And, perhaps in the time it took to pace through the camp and out toward the western side of the encampment, his temper would have cooled.
****
"You are angry with me, are you not?"
"Saa, I am not angry with you," answered Stands Strong.
Czanna looked over at her husband with a critical eye. "But," she said, "you are angry."
