Wasn’t Amy Whistler a white farmer’s wife by now? Likely she had her a brood of her own, tugging at her skirt, the newest tucked in her arm, suckling at its mama’s breast. He remembered those breasts at times, how they broke the surface of that swimming hole back to Boone County, Kentucky. Firm and high, slicked with summer cool water, just begging him to fondle, to excite, to kiss each one.
How about Marissa Guthrie? Had she given Able Guthrie a grandchild yet? Why, the way that girl threw herself into the coupling, Titus was dead certain she was the sort could end up with a man of her own not long after he had pulled himself free and run off for St. Louis that autumn of 1815. Slipping away by the skin of his teeth—for he had fallen in love for the first time in his life … and if he hadn’t escaped, he’d be there still. Working the land, planting seed, tilling the ground, and raising walls around them … just like Able Guthrie, like his own pap, Thaddeus.
How much better could those greaser gals be than was Fawn, the Ute widow he bedded that first winter in the Rockies? His first Indian, so warm and fragrant with the smells of grease and smoke, bear oil and old soot, had she been. Very much like Pretty Water, the Shoshone woman who had cared for his wounds and sated his hungers that third winter before it came time to leave as the high country began its spring thaw.
In their own way, each one of them hard to leave behind.
“Just be keerful you don’t end up like Rowland or Kinkead,” Elbridge Gray warned.
Scratch would grin every time one of the others chivvied him about the Mex gals. “Don’t you worry none about me, fellas. I ain’t the marrying kind.”
“I wasn’t neither,” Matthew protested.
Hatcher would always roar, “Kinkead wasn’t till he met up with Rosa!”
At which Kinkead would nod in affirmation and agree, “That’s the solemn truth.”
Moving south over the low ridge of the Bayou Salade, the outfit dropped west to strike the Arkansas once more, following it downstream for two days until they left the river behind to climb south slowly toward the lowest pass compressed among those mountains surrounding the narrow northern reaches of a valley that eventually widened its funnel into a fertile, verdant floor carpeted with autumn-crisp grass crunching beneath the icy remnants of winter’s recent snow.
“You’re in Mexico now,” Rufus Graham explained as he brought his horse alongside Bass’s saddle mount.
“Don’t look no different to me.”
Solomon Fish explained, “Been in Mexico since we come ’cross the Arkansas.”
“How far north the greasers ever come?” Scratch asked.
With a spill of raw laughter Hatcher declared, “Never would they come this far north, Titus Bass. This still be the land of the mountaineer and the Injun. Ain’t many a greaser gonna venture far outta their villages.”
Down, down through the heart of that high valley they hurried against the lowering storms that gray- shouldered the peaks on their left and right. Finally they struck the river flowing into the valley in a tangle of streams given birth in that high ground to the west.
“A blind man could foller this all the way from here clear down to Taos,” Caleb instructed Bass that afternoon as they began winding their way along a dim trail some distance back from the brushy banks.
Hatcher said, “The wust of the ride’s over now, Scratch.” Then he sniffed the cold air deep into his lungs. “Eegod, boys! Why, I swear I can smell tortillas and beans awready!”
Two days later Bass spotted his first herd of wild horses racing along the bench a short distance above them. None of the creatures appeared to be the least bit concerned about men capturing them—often loping along the outfit’s line of march for hours at a time. On those occasions the trappers had to be very wary that none of their pack animals broke loose to follow the wild herd. The farther south they pushed, the more of those mustangs they encountered crossing their trail day after day. This had to be a horse thief’s paradise, Scratch thought.
“Injuns in these parts?” he asked of the others one night at their fire as the men unfurled their robes and blankets, settling in for a few hours of sleep.
“Not many what a man might worry about,” Jack replied.
Then Elbridge added, “Less’n the Comanche ride down on the town.”
Hatcher nodded. “The Comanche been known to cause considerable trouble for the Mexicans.”
Throwing his arm in a wide arc, Bass inquired, “This here Comanche country?”
“Not rightly,” Jack declared. “They just come here to raid the poor
“That means they’ll carry off Mex young’uns too,” Solomon stated.
“What the hell they want with the young’uns?” Scratch asked.
“Turn ’em into good Comanche,” Caleb said. “The boys they make into warriors, and the girls—well, down the line the girls gonna start having Comanche babies.”
Rufus wagged his head sadly. “The greasers ain’t all that good at putting up a good fight of it.”
“Ain’t they got any soldiers?”
“They got soldiers, Scratch,” Isaac said. “But they ain’t allays the sort to be any help.”
“What these soldiers good for?”
“Sometimes they dare ride out on the Santy Fee trail what takes a man back to Missouri,” Hatcher said. “But there’s Comanche out there in that water-scrape hell. So most times them yellow-backed polecats are hanging round where they can be safe when they stare real hard at traders come in from the States. Making sure they’re always somewhere they don’t have to worry ’bout no Comanche.”
“Mostly, them
“Fandango?” Scratch asked.
“Mexican for dance,” Rufus said with a generous grin. “A real hurraw an’ stomp—with plenty likker and womens!”
Turning back to Hatcher, Titus asked, “So how bad these Comanche be?”
Jack’s merry eyes darkened. “The Blackfoot be the devil’s sumbitches up north. And down here the wust a man run up against be the Comanch’. Ain’t no red nigger any finer on the back of a horse.”
That night it snowed, right on into the pale, murky dawn as the sky continued to lower off those craggy mountain slopes rising on either side of them as they flung the fat, icy flakes off their robes and blankets, quickly rolling up the bedding and lashing it atop the packs they hung across the backs of their animals. The wind stirred just before sunrise, hurling itself at their backs all that day, whining and whimpering around them on into that night when they made camp just as the sky muddied and the snow finally let up.
“How far now, Jack?”
Hatcher ruminated on that a moment, then said to Scratch, “Less’n a week, give or take.”
“Five days, I’ll wager,” Solomon declared.
“Ye’re up to making a bet?” Jack asked.
“Five days,” Fish repeated. “An’ I said I’d wager.”
“A week,” Hatcher stated. “No less.”
“Anyone else?” Solomon asked, gazing around at the others huddled shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the flames as he shook Hatcher’s lean hand.
“Can’t be soon enough for me,” Kinkead groaned. “No matter how many days.”
It began to snow again the following morning as the nine of them rolled out and stomped around to stir up some warmth in their limbs. Bass, Kinkead, and Fish went out to take the horses down to water, finding the narrow creek beginning to ice up along the banks. Using a dead limb he found beneath an old cottonwood, Scratch hammered away at a thin crust, breaking a large hole where the animals could drink before taking to the trail.
As he stood there shivering slightly, huddled within his soot-smudged, grease-stained red blanket, Bass watched the frosty halo over the herd slowly change from a misty gray to a delicate rose as the sun climbed briefly until swallowed by a thickening boil of snow clouds. As he watched, that tint of crimson gradually faded to pewter as the sun continued to rise, hidden once more behind the lowering of the heavens.
“C’mon, Scratch!” Caleb hollered as he and the others drove the horses back toward their camp. “We only got us five days till we reach Taos.”
“Seven days!” Hatcher bellowed like a calf hamstrung by a pack of prairie wolves as he struggled past, huffing as he hefted a pack onto the back of a horse.
