“Gladly, Titus Bass! We’ll all have us more’n one round of Billy Sublette’s whiskey when we reach Willow Valley!”
But they wouldn’t drink any whiskey that year. And the mountain men sure as hell wouldn’t have their rendezvous hurraw in the Willow Valley either.*
As it turned out, after crossing to the west bank of the Green the next morning and setting out for the day, they ran onto a small group of free trappers heading east.
“Where you bound?” their leader asked as Bass and Hatcher’s bunch hailed the strangers, and both groups came to a noisy halt.
“For ronnyvoo in Willow Valley!” Jack cried exuberantly. “Ain’cha going?”
“Not to be no ronnyvoo in the Willow,” their leader replied. “We was coming south from the lower Snake country where we trapped this past spring.”
“Near Sweet Lake, we was,” interrupted another of the strangers.
The first man continued, “When we come across some of Bridger’s men, he sent out to pass the word.”
“Pass what word?” Caleb demanded.
“Rocky Mountain Fur wants all free men to meet ’em on the Green, up near what they call Horse Creek.”
“Horse Creek, no shit?” Hatcher echoed.
Pointing his arm north, the leader explained, “A ways yonder, up the Green.”
And with that, Scratch shuddered. “Heard that’s damned cold country come winter.”
“Heard that myself,” the leader replied, looking over the rest of Hatcher’s free men. “You care to throw in with us for the trip to ronnyvoo?”
Quickly Jack turned to the rest, seeing them nod. He looked back to the stranger. “Name’s Hatcher,” and he held out his hand as he continued. “I figger we might as well all ride up the Green together.”
As each of the free trapper bands reached the growing encampment nestled down in the fertile, grassy bottoms along the Green near the mouth of Horse Creek, one or another of the company booshways made a point to come over to explain this change of site.
“Fitz didn’t get off for St. Lou early as we’d planned for him to,” Bridger declared to the group who rode in with Hatcher. “What with Willow Valley being a far piece to the west, me and the partners figgered to move ronnyvoo some to the east so Fitz and Billy Sublette could reach us quicker when they come out from St. Lou.”
Titus asked, “What’s ronnyvoo got to do with Fitzpatrick making it back to St. Louie?”
Bridger cleared his throat. “When we bought out Smith, Jackson, and Sublette last year, we promised ’em we’d have a man back to St. Lou arranging for supplies afore March each spring, when a mule train’s got to make its start west. Just like it was when Sublette hisself went back. Trouble was, we didn’t get Fitz away from the mouth of the Powder this spring as soon as we wanted to.”
Bass felt concern taking root within him. “Jim, you don’t figger there won’t be no trader this year, do you?”
The younger booshway shook his head and smiled. “Fitz ain’t the sort to cache hisself, boys. He’ll make it back just fine. ’Sides—Smith, Jackson, and Sublette are savvy fellers: they know we’re all needing supplies to make out the next year.”
“That’s right,” Titus worked to convince himself. “Sublette and the rest gotta know every man out here needs provisions, year in, year out.”
Jack bellowed like a bull with its bangers caught on cat-claw brush, “We’ll damn well go under we don’t get powder and lead—”
“Whiskey and tobacco!” Rufus whimpered.
Bass agreed and echoed, “Whiskey and tobacco, some coffee and sugar too. Why, hell—how’s a man to winter up ’thout the trader’s supplies less’n he’s got a band of friendlies to hunker in with, or he points his nose south for the greaser diggings?”
Bridger nodded, shoving his floppy felt hat back onto his head. “I know how you feel, boys. Just ’member: we all suffer the same in this. Seems we just have to wait together and keep our eyes peeled for Broken Hand.”
They did keep their eyes locked on the eastern horizon for Tom Fitzpatrick, William Sublette, and those vagons every man was sure the trader was bound to bring back for a second trip to the mountains. Day, after day, after day they kept up their vigil … while July grew old and August loomed close.
Even the unflappably gruff Henry Fraeb finally grew concerned enough to seek out the services of an aging shaman traveling with a small band of Crow who had come in to trade with the white men.
“Frapp said he told the ol’ boy he’d give him some tobacco and coffee if he’d do his medicine and figger out what happened to Fitz. He’s figgering Broken Hand went under—never made it back to St. Louie,” Scratch explained to the others late one afternoon when he returned to the spot where he was camped with Hatcher’s men.
“That medicine man come up with a answer for us?” Isaac asked.
Bass nodded as he settled at the fire. “The ol’ goat was at it for more’n a day. Just a while back he come to Frapp and told ’em all that Fitz ain’t dead—”
“That’s some plumb fine news!” Caleb hooted, stomping a foot.
Jack shushed the sudden clatter and noise, “But if he ain’t dead, where’s he? And where’s the whiskey?”
“That old Crow says Fitzpatrick ain’t gone under, but he’s on the wrong trail.”
“On the wrong trail!” Rufus squeaked.
“Hell—we ain’t gonna get no whiskey now!” Elbridge groaned as he slapped his forehead and turned away with utter disgust.
Hatcher flapped his hands again for quiet. “What’s that mean: wrong trail?”
“Ain’t no one knows,” Scratch answered with a shrug. “So Frapp’s going out in the morning to look for Fitz.”
Biting on his lower lip, Solomon advised, “There ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell Frapp gonna find Fitz out there to the east.”
“Not in time for us to have a ronnyvoo!” Graham complained.
“Shuddup, goddammit!” Hatcher demanded again. “To hell with ronnyvoo!”
Caleb leaped to his feet, hulking over Hatcher, bristling like a spit-on hen. “To hell with ronnyvoo?”
Jack glared up at his friend. “Damn right. We got bigger problems, boys.” He waited a minute as Wood turned back to the group and the others settled around the fire to hear what their leader had to say. “For a man to miss ronnyvoo one’s thing … but for a man to figger him out a way to get through the winter in Injun country ’thout supplies—that’s the real fly in this nigger’s ointment.”
“Jack’s right,” Bass replied. “Like I said when we come in and Bridger told us the trader wasn’t here yet— man’s got to make one of two choices.”
As Hatcher looked them over, the rest stared into the fire as afternoon’s shadows grew longer. “So what’s it gonna be, fellers?”
Elbridge drew himself up and jutted out his proud chin. “Taos. There we’ll find Workman’s lightning and Mex gals.”
“What ’bout them soldiers?” Graham worried.
“That is a problem,” Hatcher agreed thoughtfully.
Scratch grumbled, “Damn, but me and Asa really boogered things good down there, didn’t we?”
“Weren’t none of yer fault,” Jack scolded. “Any one of us done the same if we was jumped by a greaser soldier.”
“’Specially when you was jumped same time you was crawling the hump of some Mex whore!” Rufus roared.
“Maybeso we can slip into Workman’s place one night,” Solomon suggested, holding his hands up for quiet. “Ask him about the lay of the land with the governor’s men.”
“If things don’t look good,” Bass continued, “you can skedaddle back north.”
“We?” Jack chimed in. “You mean ye ain’t gonna come to Taos with us for the winter?”
Scratch shook his head and snorted. “Ain’t gonna be healthy for this child down there for a couple winters yet.”
“So if we care to slip on down to Taos for the winter and supply-up,” Hatcher commented as he turned on Bass, “what ye gonna do for yer own self?”
