Frontier Agreement. Shannon Farrington

      The best Claire could hope for was that his conduct, and that of his comrades, would not snuff out any light she and her mother were trying to kindle.

      * * *

      Two days later, having just returned from Captain Clark’s hunting excursion, Pierre stepped into the fort. He arrived just in time to see Toussaint Charbonneau storming out of it. The Frenchman was clearly angry about something, angry enough to ignore Pierre’s greeting, angry enough to outpace his heavily pregnant teenage wife.

      Sacagawea struggled to catch him. Pierre couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He doffed his cap at her. She offered him a sweet smile and hurried on.

      Captain Lewis was standing at the entrance to his quarters, arms folded across his chest, looking rather miffed himself. He and the trapper must have quarreled over something, Pierre thought. Again.

      As Pierre approached, the obvious frown on the captain’s face shifted to its customary stoic expression.

      “I see Captain Clark’s party has returned,” Lewis said. “Was the hunt successful?”

      “Indeed, sir. Ten buffalo. They are being brought in by sled as we speak.”

      Lewis nodded pensively. “Has the captain determined what is to be done with them?”

      “Yes, sir. He thought it best to take them to the main Mandan village first since it was a joint hunting party.”

      Lewis nodded again. “Tell Captain Clark that the men should return when the delivery of meat is complete.”

      “Yes, sir,” Pierre replied. He started to turn.

      “The woman,” Lewis then said, “the one who came in search of medical assistance. What is she called?”

      “Claire Manette, sir.”

      “She is fluent in French?” Captain Lewis asked.

      “I believe so, sir.”

      “When you go to the village, see if she would be kind enough to assist us with our vocabulary, since Charbonneau is unable to cooperate or agree with anyone.”

      So that was the cause of the argument. The captains had eagerly accepted Charbonneau as an interpreter because Sacagawea could speak not only the local language but also that of the mountain tribe where the expedition was headed in the spring. She dictated vocabulary to her husband, and he translated her language into French. Then, with the help of Pierre or one of the other Frenchmen, his words were translated into English for the captains.

      It was a tedious process, and Charbonneau had a tendency to argue pronunciation and the nuance of every French word rather than convey the basic messages necessary for maintaining friendly relations with the current tribe. Evidently Captain Lewis’s patience was wearing thin, and he was prepared to replace the disagreeable Frenchman if he could.

      “Ask Miss Manette to come to the fort,” Lewis told Pierre.

      The memory of her sharply spoken insistence that she could indeed understand English crossed his mind. For one split second, he grinned.

      “You find that assignment agreeable, Mr. Lafayette?” Captain Lewis said.

      “No, sir,” Pierre said quickly, feeling himself redden. What exactly had made him grin? “That is, yes, sir. At your command, sir.”

      Dismissed, Pierre instantly turned for the front gate. Make a fool of yourself, why don’t you, Lafayette?

      Trekking across the snow-covered ground, Pierre recalled the adventure from which he had just returned. They had been hunting buffalo—huge, hot-breathing, massive, hairy beasts—and he had been the one to fire the shots that had brought not one but two of the animals to their knees. Pierre clutched his musket. A feeling of pride, of accomplishment surged through him. God had blessed him with a hunter’s prowess, and he was making the most of it.

      And I am determined to continue to do so. Of all the animals he had hunted thus far, there was one he wanted above all others—the great brown bear.

      The Indians insisted the creature was like no other, a massive grizzly beast with claws strong enough to mortally wound a man in one swipe, or break him in half with a single bite. Yet as dangerous as the bear seemed, every man on the expedition wanted to see one. Pierre was determined to be the first man to bring one down.

      And then, when I return from doing so with a deed for a land grant in hand, property of my own and plenty of stories of grand accomplishments to share, my father won’t think my adventures a waste of time.

      At the riverbank, Pierre climbed into a waiting pirogue. The small boat carried him toward the opposite shore. He navigated the water carefully, for the Missouri was teeming with floating chunks of ice. Soon it would close completely, and he’d be able to walk across the frozen water.

      The smell of cooking fires and sound of excitement was discernible as he neared the main Mandan village. A ditch and a walled embankment of clay surrounded the Indian dwellings. Pierre had never seen anything quite like them before. The lodges, made of timber, were partly sunk into the ground and then covered with a thick layer of earth. He imagined they were quite warm inside.

      They’d have to be, he thought. For who could survive winter after winter in this harsh landscape if not? That was one thing to which he had not yet become accustomed. Upper Louisiana was much colder than Lower Louisiana.

      Following the sounds of chatter, he walked toward the center of the village, to a plaza of sorts. There, beneath a large tree, stood Captain Clark and Chief Black Cat. The ten slain buffalo lay before them. The remainder of the hunting party and the rest of the village were there, as well.

      Chief Black Cat was waving his arms toward the sky while speaking loudly in Mandan. Pierre had no idea what was being said, but he guessed that the chief was thanking the spirits for a good hunt. Pierre glanced about the crowd. Someone else was giving thanks, as well. Amid a cluster of females, two women had bowed their heads and folded their hands.

      Are there Christians in this village? he wondered. Pierre watched for a moment. When the women raised their heads, he recognized one of them. Mademoiselle Manette. The woman beside her was older but of similar features. That must be her mother.

      Pierre lingered for a moment where he stood, watching the pair of them. Then, thinking better of what he was doing, he moved toward Captain Clark.

      “Ah, young Lafayette,” the buckskin-clad American said. “I presume you have a message.”

      “Yes, sir. Captain Lewis wishes for our men to return to the fort.”

      Clark nodded.

      Chief Black Cat’s ceremony now finished, the women of the tribe came forward to carve the buffalo. Miss Manette and her mother were among them.

      Captain Clark instructed his men to take their five buffalo back to the fort. Yet the moment the soldiers moved to do so, Chief Black Cat waved his arm in a sign of obvious disagreement. He gestured toward the women, then the buffalo, then back to Captain Clark. The American did not understand.

      Neither did Pierre. Was the Mandan chief insisting all ten buffalo remain in the village? Pierre felt his muscles tense. He saw Captain Clark’s jaw tighten as well, apparently reaching the same conclusion—and no happier with it than Pierre was. They were hungry. It had been a joint hunting party. They would stand for no less than an equal share of the meat.

      The chief continued gesturing toward his women, speaking louder, more emphatically. Noting the suspicious gazes of the surrounding warriors, Pierre gripped his musket tighter. Something lightly touched his arm. Jerking to the side, he found Miss Manette before him.

      “Chief Black Cat is offering you assistance,” she said.

      “What type of assistance?” Pierre asked warily.

      “He says the women will prepare your share of the buffalo for you.”

      “Our share?”