distance.
Digging frantically in the possibles pouch hanging at his hip, Caleb Wood roared in alarm, “Cain’t see a goddamned camp down there!”
“You reckon we’re late?” Elbridge Gray groaned, his big bulb of a nose looking all the bigger for the morose look on his face.
Scratch peered up at the sky, reckoning from the track of the sun just what part of summer it was right then. “I don’t callate as we’re late, Jack.”
“There!” Caleb Wood suddenly cried, the short brass-cased looking glass stretched out from his right eye. “I see some horses, way off yonder!”
Squinting in the high sunlight, the rest shielded eyes to peer into the distance, eager for that reassurance.
“A herd?” Hatcher asked skeptically.
Wood shook his head. “Not no big cavvyyard, but there be a bunch.”
“Hope to shout they’re white men,” Solomon Fish prayed, sweeping a hand under that long beard of blond ringlets.
Wood went on to explain, “And I see some white spots back in the brush and trees, Jack.”
“Take ’em to be tents?”
“Reckon they are,” Caleb replied, his eye locked against that brass telescope.
“Bring up them packhorses,” Hatcher ordered as he gave heels to his own animal. “Move ’em on down torst the bottom, where we’ll get us a better look at things there along the shore of the lake.”
“I was here my own self,” Bass commented as they descended off the low hills at the southeast shore of that inviting body of blue water reflecting a patchless summer sky. “Back to twenty-six.”
“The Willow Valley,” Rufus Graham replied. He was missing his four front teeth, two top and two bottom, which gave him an appealing lisp. “Leastwise, that’s what the fur outfits call it.”
At that moment several figures emerged from the tall willow and cottonwood far ahead of them at the bottom of the gentle slope.
Hatcher groaned with disappointment. “Figgered there’d be more coons come in by now.”
Titus assured, “’Pears we’re just a mite early, is all.”
“Longer we wait,” Hatcher snorted, that wild smile there of a sudden, “the thirstier Mad Jack gets!”
“Been two year for me,” and Bass wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “You ain’t the only child half- froze for whiskey!”
“Whiskey, or rum—don’t make me no never-mind,” declared Graham. “Long as it’s got the kick of a mule when it hits the bottom!”
Isaac said, “Trader ain’t in yet, so it looks to be we got us a leetle more wait afore you get your eggs kicked, Rufus!”
On down into the lush meadows of that fertile bottomland at the south end of Sweet Lake, Hatcher’s brigade whooped, called, and whistled, wrangling their cavvyyard of pack animals and Blackfoot ponies. The closer they drew toward the narrow creek that fed itself into the lake, the more figures stepped from the shade and shadows, all carrying rifles. Suddenly one of those men raised a shout, lifting his long weapon into the air. Bass saw the puff of muzzle smoke appear an instant before the low boom reached their ears.
In concert more of those distant figures raised their rifles and fired them, then went to waving hats and bandannas at the ends of their outflung arms.
Off to Bass’s right, Elbridge Gray was the first to fire his rifle in reply. In the space of three heartbeats the shooting became general as Hatcher’s brigade was welcomed by some thirty men streaming into the open. Screeching wildly with the whole lot of them, yahooing and whooping, keerawing like Missouri mules, or hoo-hooing with a hand clapping over their mouths in the manner of attacking Indians, Scratch lifted his fullstock Derringer flintlock and yanked back first on the rear set trigger, then barely touched the front trigger. The rifle went off—a universal sign of peace for those who traveled the early far west. To empty one’s gun upon approaching a camp was the surest way to show one’s peaceful intentions.
“Boys, let’s keep these here horses of our’n from mixing in with theirs,” Hatcher hollered to his men as they approached the figures that had emerged from the groves of shady trees. Just beyond that camp dotted with canvas pyramid tents and blanket arbors grazed a herd of horses and mules.
“What say we cross the crik and raise our own camp yonder?” Titus asked, pointing off to the west.
For a moment Hatcher stood in the stirrups, gazing this way, then that. When he plopped back down in the saddle, he agreed, “Follow Scratch, boys! Yonder—cross the crik!”
In a matter of seconds the others were bellowing and screaming, slapping coils of buffalo-hair ropes to turn their herd of horses, whistling and calling to the animals, shouting at one another, congratulating their companions on surviving another year, every last man among them busting his buttons to have made it through to another rendezvous with his hair.
On came those who rushed afoot to welcome the new arrivals, some loping through the tall grass, others strolling more casually, most every one of them stripped to the waist in the midsummer heat, their flesh about as white as white men could be—save for the oak-browned tan of their hands from the wrists down, the same leathery look from the base of the neck up. Their leather flap-front trousers and pantaloons were blackened with seasons of grease and blood, smoked by countless fires. At the end of their arms they waved their low-crowned, big-brimmed wool hats, many of which were nearly shapeless after countless soakings by rain and snow. A few had red-and-blue bandannas tied about their heads, while some had tied the popular black silk handkerchiefs to keep their long hair from spilling into their eyes. Even a handful had their tresses braided or wrapped with strips of fur in the fashion of Indian warriors.
“Where from you bound?” cried one of the closest ones who plunged right into the creek, approaching Bass as Hatcher’s men urged their animals off the east bank, crossing to the far side.
Hatcher shouted back, “Up to Blackfoot country for the spring hunt!”
“That bunch of motherless sons chased us right on out!” Bass added.
The squat, powerful stranger cried, “Har—with your tails atween your legs I’ll wager!”
Rising immediately in his stirrups, Scratch looked behind him in mock surprise as he patted his own rump with a hand. “I’ll be damned, Jack! Them Blackfoot bastards done bit my tail off!”
They all roared with lusty laughter as the greeters loping up on foot splashed out of the creek right alongside those on horseback, their leather and nankeen britches soaked above their knees.
The short trapper trotted up to Bass’s side, holding up his hand, grinning like a house cat caught with feathers still tangled in its whiskers.
“Name’s Porter,” he announced. “Nathan Porter.”
“Who you with?” Caleb Wood called out.
“Smith, Jackson, and Sublette,” the man answered, holding a hand at his brow to shade his eyes in looking up at the arriving horsemen.
Wood asked, “You was one of Ashley’s men, eh?”
“Till two year ago.”
“Trader ain’t in yet?” Jack inquired.
“Hell—Ashley sent his supply train out early,” Porter explained as Hatcher’s horsemen came to a halt and some began to drop to the ground. “Why, Billy Sublette and Davy Jackson brung us out our necessaries last winter, fellers.”
“L-last
Graham lunged in closer. “Summer’s nigh the time for ronnyvoo!”
Porter drew back a step as the others closed in menacingly. “You fellers ain’t with the company?”
“Hell, no,” Hatcher spat.
“You ain’t American Fur neither?”
Jack roared with laughter, dropping his head back and letting go at the sky. “Wouldn’t take orders from Pilcher if’n he was the last outfit in the mountains!”
“We’re free men,” Solomon explained, slapping John Rowland on the back. “And we don’t owe no man our allegiance.”
“November, it were, when they come early with supplies,” Porter started, apology in his voice and eyes.
