Crack in the Sky

maybeso a passel of beads and tacks and hawk’s bells—the likes of that.”

Bass gazed at the white-head in consternation. “Now, where you figger to use all that?”

“Injun country, Mr. Bass,” he answered cryptically, then turned his head to look again at the stranger below them. “You said Sublette’s got his tents on up the valley?”

The man pointed. “Just other side of the bend in the river. That Hatcher feller’s camped not far past the trader hisself.”

“Much ’bliged,” Asa said, tapping heels against his horse.

They hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when Scratch caught up with McAfferty at a lope. “Damn if you don’t seem in the hurry. Who lit the fire under you?”

“I can’t go ’thout them trade goods, Mr. Bass,” Asa explained, anxiety already graying his face.

He could see how something was chewing away at McAfferty. “Why are them trade goods so all-fired important?”

“I know now the Lord’s given me a sign. Showed me the road to go. ’For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed for ever. ’”

“What land?” he asked. “And what sign was give you?”

“Up north there, that’s the country give me by the hand of God,” McAfferty explained. “The sign come to me on the Judith—after you was near kill’t by the bear.”

“That can’t be the land been given you!” Bass replied in disbelief. “There’s Injuns there.”

Asa nodded. “’And he that overcometh, and keepeth my works unto the end, to him will I give power over the nations.’”

“I don’t understand,” Scratch admitted. “That surely can’t be where you been told to go, Asa.”

“North. I been told north.”

“B-but that’s Blackfoot country.”

McAfferty nodded solemnly, his eyes never touching Bass. “I will trust in the Lord that there will be many Blackfoot where I aim to go.”

Titus swallowed on that hard lump stuck in his throat, beginning to sense that this friend of his had found himself a sure and quick way to snuff out his own candle. “With your trade goods—you’re fixing to head north to trade with them Blackfoot?”

At last Asa turned to look at Scratch. “I’m no trader, Mr. Bass. But the geegaws and the foofaraw give me something to set before the heathen chiefs when I get there to talk.”

“You … you really figger you’re gonna ride right in to have yourself a palaver with them Blackfoot? Them red killers?”

“‘And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out

of the north, and a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it,’” McAfferty declared, his blue eyes relit with that ice-cold fire.

“What whirlwind gonna come out of the north?”

“The Blackfoot, Mr. Bass,” Asa said, then turned away to search the riverbank ahead. “The heathen Blackfoot.”

For a moment longer Scratch studied the man’s face, how it was illuminated by a most unholy light. Then he figured he was only spooking himself. Why, if he came to believe half of what Asa McAfferty spouted in his Bible talk, then he figured he was soft-brained his own self.

When he turned to look at the small herd immediately ahead of them, Titus suddenly squinted in the bright afternoon sun, not certain he could trust his eyes. “I ain’t believing what I’m seeing, Asa!”

“Believe it!” he whooped with laughter.

“Cows!”

“Five of ’em, Mr. Bass!” And McAfferty wagged his head. “One even looks to be a milker too!”

Sure enough, this summer William Sublette brought four head of beef cattle and a milch cow to accompany his ten big freight wagons each topped with huge canvas-covered bows and that pair of fancy Dearborn carriages.

“jumping Jehoshaphat,” Scratch mumbled sourly. “Man can’t hardly get away from settlement doings, can he?”

“It’s only ronnyvoo!” McAfferty cheered with a smile. “Them cows and wagons and such gonna be turning right back for St. Louie soon enough.”

“S’pose you’re right,” Bass replied eventually as they approached the grazing cows. “Ain’t none of them settlement doings gonna last out here longer’n ronnyvoo.”

The Sublette camp was mammoth this year, and bustling like a hive. There was no mistaking the many newcomers to the mountains from those hivernants who had endured at least one winter in the wilderness. Men moved about like ants on a prairie hill at midday. Trappers both free and company came and went on horseback and foot. Others clustered beneath the shade of the trade canopies or sprawled out near the last of the nearby whiskey kegs. Why, Bass had never seen so many humans gathered in one place since he’d put St. Louis behind.

Wagging his head, Scratch declared, “It purely bumfuggles my mind to try to figger how all these here fellers gonna find enough beaver in these mountains to make their trappin’ worth their while.”

“I don’t reckon all these niggers gonna make a living at all,” McAfferty replied as they reached the fringe of a small herd of horses and moved on past. “A goodly number of ’em likely to go under, that’s a fact. Other’ns gonna skedaddle back east with Sublette come next summer’s ronnyvoo.”

“After they see’d the elephant, eh?”

“Damn right,” Asa agreed. “Not every man gonna keep his hide or hair out in this country. ’For the Lord my God has set my foot down in the wilderness and abideth with me.’”

“Jack! Lookee here!”

Scratch jerked about to stare at the trees up ahead where the voice had called out. If that didn’t look like Elbridge Gray!

Hatcher peeled himself away from the base of a cottonwood tree where he had been leaning. Clambering to his feet, Jack roared, “Titus Bass? And Asa McAfferty too! Ye lily-livered polecats! We figgered ye both for wolf-bait by now!”

“Just ’cause we’re a li’l late for whiskey?” he bellowed, standing in the stirrups as he drew closer to Hatcher and those five men who gathered about him. “Jack Hatcher—don’t you dare take on airs now!”

“Take on airs?” Hatcher cried, thumping his chest. “Why, I ought’n kick yer bony arse—”

“Kick my arse, will you?” Scratch cried in glee. “Don’t you know I’m here to give you the thumping you been needing ever since’t last ronnyvoo!”

“Thump me now, Titus Bass? Why, I’ll have ye know I can outride, outshoot, and outthump ary a man in this hull valley! Mad Jack Hatcher be the nigger what can out-lie, outdrink, and outpuke all the rest of ye poor sons put together! We’ll wrassle if’n ye think ye’re man enough, Titus goddamned Bass!”

Reining up sharply, Scratch immediately flung his leg across the saddle and dropped to the ground, bursting into motion as his feet hit the grass—sprinting low and headlong for Hatcher. They collided with a mighty gust of air from them both as the two spilled onto the ground, a writhing, snaky mass of arms and legs, flying fists and buckskin fringe, spewing and grunting as they rolled over and over atop one another.

“Leave the poor man be, Scratch!” Caleb Wood lunged up to their side laughing as the pair tussled and romped in the grass, thumping one another with their fists and giggling like two schoolboys let out to recess.

“L-leave off me yer own self, Caleb!” Hatcher grumbled as he shoved Bass back, rocked onto his knees, and started brushing dirt and flecks of grass from his bare, sweaty flesh. “I gotta give a old friend a proper greeting!”

“Proper greeting?” McAfferty called. “Why, you ain’t never made me wrassle with you, Jack.”

Hatcher brushed some of his long, dark hair back out of his eyes and swiped at a bead of sweat sliding down the bridge of his nose when he peered up at the white-head as if measuring his words before he set them free.

“Asa McAfferty,” Jack said evenly in that way a man might when he had derided it best to leave certain feelings unspoken. “Didn’t figger either of ye for coming in alive this summer.” Then he turned back to Bass, looping an arm over Scratch’s shoulder. “Damn, but it’s good to lay eyes on ye both again.”

“I’ll be et for the devil’s tater if it ain’t good to see you boys again too!” Titus cried, thumping a fist into