Free Dreams Beneath Your Feet by Win Blevins Page A

Shoshone Indians and the Blackfeet as well. They brought in buffalo hides and ermine and river otters, peltries now more profitable than beaver. They traded him dried buffalo meat to send down to Vancouver. And Ermatinger got the trade of whatever trappers had not yet given up working the streams.
    It all added up to something important. This tough little man meant to keep the Indian tribes allied with Britain, not the United States. He intended to drive the American fur men out of the entire Oregon country. If Americans tried to emigrate to Oregon—so far only a handful of missionaries had made the attempt—he would welcome them, warn them of the dangers ahead, laugh mockingly at the idea of getting wagons across that rough trail, and turn them back.
    Yes, Oregon now belonged by treaty to both America and Britain. But Francis Ermatinger intended to rule it all someday.
    He took a last good look through the glass.
Damnably few furs.
    â€œTell the cook to prepare sufficient food,” the trader called down to Roller. “Then raise the colors.”
    He smiled to himself about that. The fort seldom flew the Union Jack, because the American trappers didn’t like to be reminded. Once in a while, in his opinion, a gesture of empire was a good touch.
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    â€œI T’S AN INSULT ,” said Joe. “Let’s tear the damn thing down. Goddamn Brits.”
    While the women put up the tipis, the men relaxed and took in the fine afternoon. Sam and Hannibal had decided that the chance of rain today on the Snake River plains was none. They would build their brush hut tomorrow, or perhaps never.
    Hannibal watched the missionaries put their three tents up. He noted with amusement that they took care to arrange the tents in a straight line. What, a thousand miles from anywhere, was the point of a straight line?
    â€œHell,” said Joe, “let’s just shoot their damned Union Jack down.”
    Hannibal jumped up. “Hell, yes.” He called to the tents, “Mr. Littlejohn, Mr. Clark, Mr. Smith, we need a confab.” He always called the three preachers Mr. instead of Reverend, to keep the amount of ego in camp tamped down.
    The three ministers pulled long faces and rumbled over to the mountain men.
    â€œThat flag,” Hannibal said, “is an affront to American sensibilities.” The Delaware was having fun.
    Joe Meek sidled over to Sam and whispered, “What does ‘affront to sensibilities’ mean?”
    â€œA slap in the face,” said Sam.
    â€œLet’s get ’em,” said Joe.
    Hannibal went on about treaties and legalities. Doc echoed his words, both acting like they were in high dudgeon.
    Littlejohn said, “What do you say, gentlemen?”
    The missionaries tugged at their beards and muttered low. They’d called each other Reverend and gentlemen all the way across the plains and mountains. Joe Meek had said more than once that the West had never seen a Reverend or a gentleman, excepting Captain William Drummond Stewart, who was gone back to Scotland to play the part of a lord.
    Now Joe piped up, “I don’t care about nothing but that Union Jack flying in my face. Let’s give ’em what for.”
    The missionaries nodded.
    â€œJoe,” Hannibal said at the end, “you will be our ambassador plenipotentiary.”
    â€œWhat do that mean?” said Joe.
    â€œI say,” said Littlejohn irritably. He was a British emigrant.
    â€œIt means you will approach the fort with a formal diplomatic statement.”
    Joe looked sideways at Sam and grinned.
    â€œYou must leave your rifle behind but carry a stick with a piece of white cloth tied to it.
    â€œI am plenty of whatever you want,” he said.
    â€œHannibal, I want to go with Joe.”
    This was Esperanza. Sam hadn’t realized she’d walked up. She and Joe were buddies.
    â€œUnseemly,” said Littlejohn.
    â€œExactly,” said Hannibal. “The