The Holy Warrior by Gilbert Morris Read Free Book Online

corner table by Doucett. There the ebullient trapper told them of the fortune to be made going up the Missouri, punctuating his tales with sweeping gestures of his mighty arms. He and Con had made the trip once, and his eyes gleamed as he said, “Beaver? My leetle chicken—you nevair see no beaver teel you get to Yellowstone country— n’est pas, Conrad?”
    “That’s true. Heap of critters, right enough. Brought back all we could stack in four bull boats. Reckon the Winslows gonna be filthy rich if that keeps up...” The middle-aged trapper trailed off, then tried to cover up his rare outburst of optimism. “ ’Course, we probably won’t do as good this time,” he sighed. “If the Mandans or the Flatheads don’t scalp us, we’ll probably go over the Big Falls—if we don’t git sick and die on the way, that is.”
    Frenchie chuckled. “You know heem, Knox. He always say what bad theengs gonna happen—but they nevair happen!” He went on to describe in glowing terms the breathtaking mountains, alive with an abundance of game, until Knox cried out, “Frenchie, I gotta go with you!”
    “Your pa, he said you can go next time,” Con said. “Him and your ma, they say as how you need to light a shuck and git yourself home right off.”
    Knox was drunk enough to blurt out what he wouldn’t have dared to admit if sober. “They think I’m a baby!”
    “Well, they ain’t far wrong, boy!” Canby had come tostand beside them, a thin smile on his lips as he stared at Knox. “Why don’t you get along to your mama now and let the menfolks get to their gamblin’?” Ignoring Knox’s angry stare, he turned to Frenchie and added, “How about it? You want to lose any more money?”
    Instantly, Frenchie snapped up the challenge. “Come on, Con! We skin thees one, eh? Leave heem like wolves leave a buffalo—wis nothing but ze bones!”
    The game went on into the night. At first, Canby won a great deal of money from Doucett and Con. Chris sat at the table with a glazed look on his face, taking a roll now and then, but mostly just drinking. Knox drank more of the raw whiskey as the disappointment of having to return home ate at him.
    Meanwhile, the darkness fell, and lanterns were lit, but the game went on. The tide turned, and Frenchie began raising the stakes recklessly. His winning streak allowed him to win back all the money he’d lost, and a good deal more besides. But Canby was a poor loser, and the higher the stack grew, the more he stared across at the halfbreed with undisguised hatred.
    Finally, the largest pot of the game came, and it was obvious that Canby was sure to win it. He raised the stakes several times and then said, “Got you beat this time, breed!”
    “Let’s see your money, Canby!” Frenchie demanded, shoving another stack of coins across the table. His small eyes gleamed as he added, “Now we see what kind of man you are!”
    Canby stared at him, and then looked into the small leather bag he used for his money. “I can’t meet you—all I have is on the table. Wait...” He pulled a small pouch from his pocket, saying, “You’ll have to take these, breed.”
    He handed the pouch to Frenchie, who unfolded the leather; two large white pearls rolled into his huge palm. Chris was impressed—but Frenchie wasn’t. “Me—I don’t want thees!”
    “You have to take ’em!” Canby argued. “They’re worth fifty dollars!”
    “Not to me.”
    Chris spoke up. “Con, you know my father?”
    Con stared at him, then nodded slowly. “Reckon so.”
    “I want fifty dollars. I’ll pay it back if I live. If I don’t—tell him it’s what my funeral would have cost if I’d come home to die.”
    Conrad smiled. “Reckon Mr. Winslow would stand to that.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out a bag. He struggled with the leather cord that held the mouth shut, but it was in a tight knot. “Blasted thing—does it every time!” he muttered. Drawing his knife, he cut the drawstring,