country far to the southwest of the low saddle* that took a man to the Pacific side of the great continental spine. The dust stived up with every hoof the horse set down. Dust from all those horses and mules behind him, all those hooves—and when the breeze stirred to temporarily cool the sweat glistening his skin, the breeze might just as soon blow that cloud of alkali dust in his direction.
A far, far different country, this, far different from that up on the Yellowstone in the land of the
That day after finding sign of their riverside camp, he had begun this journey south. Eager most of all to complete his side of the compact made with Silas Cooper and the others. Only way Titus knew for sure that their reunion would ever come to be was that he himself had to be there to meet up with the three when they rode in from Fort Vanderburgh on the Missouri. From there Cooper said he would bring them a little south of west. Unencumbered by all the weight of traps, baggage, camp gear, and what other truck four men required to survive one winter after another out here in the mountains, surely the three could make far better time hurrying toward their rendezvous south of Henry’s Fork and the Green River country east of the Uintah.
Was no doubt in Scratch’s mind that the trio could travel far faster than he had been able to since he had last seen them floating off down the Yellowstone. Considering the number of horses and mules he had to ride herd on … well, while he might not have as far to ride, Bass grew more certain with every day that Silas Cooper’s bunch could likely cover twice the distance he could in every sunup-to-sundown ride. And that’s what kept him pushing on as fast as the animals, and the rugged, broken terrain, and all the terrible storms of early summer allowed him.
The days drifted by as he scooted south along the winding path of the Bighorn, south farther still into the Wind River country and then the high breaks of the Popo Agie, where he crossed that high saddle as a hellish hailstorm battered him and the animals early one afternoon. The icy shards hurt so much, he was driven out of the saddle, dropping to the ground and dragging a thick wool blanket with him as he huddled beneath the belly of the tail-tucked saddle mount to sit out heaven’s attack on this treeless expanse of parched, high sagebrush desert. How all the horses whimpered and the mules snorted in their discomfort and pain until the bombardment moved on east and a cold rain fell. Eventually a band of blue and purple and dusty rose sky emerged along the western horizon, and the last of the storm was finally on its way over him.
Like him, the horses and mules had shuddered and shivered, and reluctantly they moved out with him once more as he urged them in motion. The wind had come up soon after and made for a damp, cold camp that night until he got his fire started. Chilled to the marrow, Scratch clutched his coffee tin close beneath his hairy chin and consoled himself with the fact that he was getting all the nearer to the country where he would await the arrival of his partners.
Partners.
It had been the first time in more than two winters with the trio that he had ever thought of them as partners. At first they had been saviors—arriving as they did just when his last horse had died of black water. Then he had come to think of them as his mentors, teaching him not only trapping but the ways of the mountains and of the brown-skinned natives who likewise called this high country home. And finally he was forced to consider Silas Cooper as his master when Cooper first exacted his tribute for saving Bass’s life, for keeping him alive.
What else would he call it when he had thrown in near everything he owned, certainly everything he had worked the better part of a year to acquire, handed over that fortune of his to join with theirs in that exciting, challenging endeavor of floating their furs downriver? What else would the four of them call themselves … but partners?
As anxious as he was to rendezvous with them, Bass had figured he would reach the reunion site far ahead of schedule, so he had turned back a bit on the compass and headed south by east toward Park Kyack—fondly remembering that high mountain valley and the Ute band. Recalling the widow and the warmth of her blankets.
But as much as he searched the familiar ground, there was no sign of the tribe, nor much evidence of what direction they had taken. On occasions as he worked his way through the valley, Bass crossed the trail of a hunting party, perhaps a raiding party—unshod horses of one and or another haunting this high country. The one old camp he came across showed him where the Ute had likely moved out of the valley, heading north by west to hunt both the buffalo and antelope they would not find here in Park Kyack.
Staring down at the cold, blackened rings of those lodge fires, the remains of drying racks, the litter of camp life, he had grown lonely, so lonely again.
Then he realized he was sore in need of seeing another human face, hearing another human voice, watching a smile emerge and eyes twinkle when they looked back at him. As much as he cherished the solitude, loved the aloneness, and savored being beholden to no one but himself … Titus yearned terribly. Yearned for faces and voices and laughing eyes. Hungered for the mere touch of a hand in his, perhaps the arms of a friend around his shoulders, even the mouth of a woman pressed against his as he tasted her breath and felt himself stir to readiness.
From time to time after reaching the beautiful valley, he stopped a day or so to lay his traps. But as well as he did, the pelts were poor compared to what a man could catch in-winter or early spring.
“Beaver always come to bait in this here country,” he spoke out loud one night at his fire, surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. “Come to bait they do: just as sure as a man’d lay down his money on a St. Louie whore’s feather bed so’s to get hisself a proper forking.”
It was pretty country, to be sure. No wonder the Ute felt so strong about it—were prepared to defend it the way the Crow defended their Absaraka.
That was just the way he got to thinking a few weeks later after pushing up and out of Park Kyack, wondering if it weren’t the same with those tribes along the Upper Missouri. Would they defend their land and the river that ran through it from a trio of white men floating down to a distant trading post? If those lone men were heading on out of that tribe’s precious country, why wouldn’t the warriors just let the trio pass on by? Or would they realize that the mere sight of white men meant the possibility of plunder, not to mention the presence of guns and powder to be stolen? And Bass knew, in the marrow of him, that might well prove to be enough of a temptation to spell the trio’s doom.
Dropping down out of the high country again, driving that herd of horses and mules north by west, constantly keeping his eyes moving along the far skyline, watching the distant ridges, staying to the long stretches of timber that bordered every stream and creek and riverbed so that he wouldn’t stand out with that cavvyyard he had stirring up a cloud of dust behind him. Then, at long last, he reached the banks of the Green as summer was growing all the hotter and the days had become their longest. For weeks upon weeks now he had counted upon laying his eyes on this river. For here was the place, and now was the time, the four would rejoin.
He waited.
The mosquitoes grew thick there in the valley of the Green as summer aged and the big bottle-green horseflies tormented the animals he was forced to move to new grass from time to time.
And he waited some more.
Scratch hunted, and watched the skyline for warriors. He rode out to the high ground northeast of where he maintained his lonely vigil and watched the skyline for Silas, Billy, and Bud.
Still he waited.
And each day he added a notch to a peeled wand of willow. So many days and notches now since he had watched the three of them float away—there were many such wands of willow stuffed down in his saddle pouch. More than he cared to count anymore. More than he cared to remind himself. Each time he did, the doubt crept back in.
He had waited long past the time Silas had calculated they would reunite.
Then he added notches he knew would put him past the time the traders’ rendezvous had come and gone at the south end of the Sweet Lake. With regret, and a growing anger, Titus tried to remember the faces of the merry Daniel Potts, mulatto dandy Jim Beckwith, young and randy Jim Bridger, and even crusty old Henry Fraeb. Faces he hadn’t seen in a year now, not since Willow Valley. Hard, tanned, wind-seamed faces and rough-edged voices brought easily to laughter with the tall tales he wouldn’t share now for at least another year.
