“That Injun pony do me jest fine, Titus. Ye’ll see—what when we get to Injun kentry. Injun pony best, mark my word on it.”
The day’s work complete—counting what Troost expected him to do and what time he could squeeze in forging traps and rifle parts, harness and bits for their horses—Washburn led them upriver from the wharf a ways. There they smeared pennyroyal on their exposed flesh at ankles and wrists and necks to keep off the seed ticks, then took a belt ax to blaze a blond mark on a tree, no bigger than the width of Titus’s hand, before pacing off the proper distance and toeing a line in the soft earth coming alive with the thick green springtime carpet.
Bass fired with Washburn’s rifle as much as he shot that mark with his grandpap’s old weapon. Slowly, every few days, week by week, Washburn moved the mark back farther and farther still. Teaching the younger man what he could about holding, breathing, letting the heavy barrel on the trapper’s weapon weave across the target rather than fighting to hold the sights perfectly still before he touched off the rifle.
“Yer gettin’ good thar’, coon,” Washburn had said one evening. “Not nowhere near good as me yet. But it’s comin’. Time’s come fer us go wet down our gullets an’ see ’bout pokin’ our stingers in a honey-pot.”
Days of work, evenings at shooting, and on into the nights with the women and the whiskey, then Troost nudging him awake to start it all over again.
“When’r you going to learn me how to throw a knife?” Bass had inquired one evening they headed back toward the livery after target practice, there to pack everything away before hurrying off to one of the watering holes. “Always wanted to know how to throw a knife proper.”
“I’ll show you, soon enough.”
“It ain’t long afore June’s coming.”
Isaac gazed at the sky deepening in twilight. “Yep. An’ afore then I’ll have you throwin’ a tomeehawk too.”
That first evening he had hefted the weapon at the end of his arm, the memory of sights and sounds of Rabbit Hash in Boone County flooded in upon him. Struggling to soothe his mind from those haunts of youth, he drank in the smells of considerable redbud in that damp grove where the two of them made their daily pilgrimage down by the river, where the strong, acrid stench hung heavy on the air at twilight.
Nearby a half-dozen women kept a trio of huge, bubbling, steaming kettles suspended over fires they tended as they boiled down lye from wood ashes and straw kept close at hand in more than a dozen brass tubs and barrel halves.
That odor always rankled his nose, even with the merest of memory. That night and ever since he had thought on home. Thought on his mam, and how she had made her soap outside on those cool spring and autumn days, never of a hot summer’s day. Always at hog-killing time. The feel of those slimy intestines slithering out of his hands as he’d spilled them into the brass kettle his mam had set to a boil until a thick grease had coated the white-oak paddle she’d used to stir the whole blamed concoction. Cooked and simmered all through the day, then cooled enough before the nastiest of the work had required them to plunge their hands into the semisoft mass, bringing out gobs of it to smear into blocks, where it would harden enough to be cut into cakes of the proper size.
From the earliest he could remember, it had been his job alone to keep the fire going beneath his mam’s lye kettle. After all, Titus was the oldest of the children, the only one capable of splitting the wood, carrying armloads of it out back of the kitchen shanty built apart from their first small cabin on the ground Thaddeus was helping grandpap clear. The kitchen and that little cabin were connected by a narrow dogtrot, where Titus had got himself out of the sun on those soap-making days every spring, then again every autumn. Out of the sun and upwind from the stench of that boiling lye.
No, neither his mam nor those women down by the clearing where he and Washburn went of an evening were making a fine Windsor shaving soap, much less a fine castile. It was only the crudest sort of cleaning agent, the sort that all but made a man prefer staying dirty, caked with sweat and grime in every crevice of his fingers, a deep, brooding crescent of old labors mired back of every fingernail rather than face a hard scrubbing with lye soap.
How Thaddeus had stayed as far from bathing as he could had always made his mother livid with anger as she’d sweated over those stinking kettles, or scrubbed their children at least once a week out in that big hardwood tub they’d kept hung from a nail hammered into a side of the three-sided bathing shed attached to the kitchen.
Regular bathing bordered on pure lunacy, Thaddeus would argue. The cause of agues and croups, tick-sicks and who knew what-all fevers! A body bathed was a body defenseless against all manner of assault.
But Titus took after his mother on that account. Sitting down in a warm, sudsy tub of water every two weeks or so these days was worth the few pennies it cost him at one of the few bathhouses in the city. Letting the old women pour that water over his head as he sputtered and gasped, to be scalded and scrubbed raw, as pink as a newborn before he set off for another wildsome frolic. Outside those bathing houses a lackey kept the water boiling, the sort of slow-witted man who could find no better work—much like those who made their rounds at twilight, firing up what lamps adorned the streets of St. Louis, lamps all too often badly in need of a good scrubbing themselves: the isinglass flecked and marred with the singed and blackened bodies of so many moths and other insects that nothing more than a pale and feeble yellow light flickered down upon passersby.
Here in the dark of this early morning as he listened, the trapper began to snore. At long last Titus sensed the arms of sleep embrace him.
Contentment come.
More often than he cared to admit, Titus sorely missed the smells that had filled his senses back in that Kentucky country hard by the Ohio River: green oak stumps smoldering at the far edges of the moist, newly cleared fields; green fodder beans simmering on the fire while sweet johnnycakes toasted in the Dutch oven; his mother’s white-as-snow hominy coming to a boil; his grandmami sweet potatoes, each roasting in its own mound of warm ash heaped on the brick hearth; his pap’s own corn whiskey poured steaming, fresh, potent, and with a hint of amber from the bung spout on the doubler.
In place of those memories he now savored the steamy earthiness of fresh dung from the horses he shoed or hitched to the carriages Troost hired out; the sweet lilac and gardenia perfume of the proper French ladies flouncing past in their layers of starched crinoline as they swirled by him with parasols a’twirl upon bare shoulders, devilment in their eyes; the heated closeness of the animals he brushed and curried, rank with cold sweat after the gentlemen of St. Louis returned their hire; the heavy scent of brimstone issuing from the forge; grown so accustomed to the aroma of the hardwood fire he kept glowing in that tiny stove of his cell; and the sweet elixir that was the quadroon’s body calling out to his.
What a man went and got himself used to as the years passed by.
“I ain’t goin’ with you tonight, Isaac,” Bass declared emphatically. “I ain’t got no more money to buy us whiskey.”
Washburn reared back, appraised the younger man, then snorted a loud guffaw. “The hell you say? You ain’t bald-facin’ me, are ye?”
“Bald-face?”
“Lyin to me, Titus!”
“No,” he answered quietly. “It’s all … all gone. Ever’thing Troost saved for me across the y’ars. All drunk up–”
“—an’ whored away,” Isaac sighed. “Ain’t that allays the way it be? Man works too damn long for what money comes his way, an’ it slips right through his hands a helluva lot faster’n he can make more money.”
Bass wagged his head. “We ain’t even got all you said we’re gonna need when we go.”
“Never you mind. We’ll get it,” Washburn replied, looking away, his eyes squinting as if he were fitting together the pieces of a child’s block puzzle in his mind. Then he suddenly looked back at Titus, a big grin on his face, the upper lip pulling back from that lone fang of a tooth in the middle of his face. “An’ don’t ye go frettin’ yerself ’bout drinkin’ money tonight neither.”
“We ain’t got no money to go—”
“Don’t need none,” he broke in. “Why, I’ll bet thar’s lots of fellers buy the both of us drinks in ever’ place we care to walk into this fine evenin’.”
“Who the hell’s gonna buy us drinks?”
“Ever’ man what loses his gamble with Isaac Washburn.”
