from him by the Comanche in those mountains above Taos.
How sad it made Titus to remember the melancholy of that dreary, rainy morning when John parted company from old friends.
Rowland had taken the small folder of waxed paper from the crude pocket sewn inside his blanket capote, thinking on it a moment before handing the folder to Rufus Graham.
“You keep this now,” he told Graham. “You boys get stopped here or there by some Mex
“That’s the name on that paper what says you can trap in Mex waters,” Rowland instructed. “I don’t need it … leastwise not for some time to come.”
“So that’s your license?” Elbridge asked, tapping a finger against the corner of the waxed envelope Rufus held.
“To the greasers my name is Juan Roles.” He repeated what they all knew. “Now you carry the license for the rest of these here men, Rufus.”
“I’ll hang on to it till you need it again,” Graham replied. “You just ask for it back.”
With a shrug John continued, “They give it to me ’cause I got married to Maria. Padre Martinez baptized me in their church and married me the same day to her. That’s why they give me a license last winter after we come back … come back from fighting them Comanche and why they ain’t gonna ever give the rest of you a license.”
“No, Johnny,” Hatcher said, stepping up to tap his finger against the envelope, the huge dollop of an emblazoned wax seal growing brittle and cracking. “They give ye that license ’cause you was a brave man.”
Rowland shook his head. “I become a Mexican citizen, so they give it to me—”
“They didn’t give it to ye when you was baptized, did they?” Jack demanded.
“N-no.”
“And they didn’t give it to ye when you got married neither, did they?”
“No,” Rowland admitted.
“You was a brave man, going with the rest of us to get them women and children back from the Comanch’,” Hatcher explained. “They give ye that license for being a brave man with the rest of us.”
“You think they knowed the rest of us was going to use Johnny’s license?” Elbridge Gray had asked.
“Damn right they did,” Jack said. “And I don’t figger it made ’em no never-mind. It was the governor’s way of saying to us—saying to Johnny—he was grateful for what we done to bring his family back to him.”
Throughout the winter there had been other expressions of gratitude for the men who had risked their own lives to rescue those who meant nothing to them, to rescue women and children who weren’t even American. The tax assessor had turned his head and looked the other way, or had conveniently been busy or out of Taos when William Workman rode into town to trade. For gringo trappers who expected to trade off their furs in barter for supplies from Mexican merchants, the local officials normally levied a tax of 60 percent on every beaver plew brought into Mexican territory. After all, to the government’s way of thinking, there was simply no way an American could prove that his packs of fur weren’t Mexican beaver.
But throughout that long winter in Taos, they hadn’t suffered any hefty governmental tax. And by disposing of the beaver a few pelts at a time, Workman was able to see that Hatcher’s men were resupplied by the time they prepared to set off north for another trapping season. In fact, the $3.50-per-pound price the whiskey maker was able to wrangle in pesos for their plews in Taos actually turned out to be a half dollar higher in American money than they figured they would have made packing those furs to rendezvous where they would trade them off to Billy Sublette. That meant Hatcher’s men earned at least five dollars per hide in Taos.
Perhaps for no better reason than because John Rowland’s Mexican wife had been slaughtered with a Comanche lance.
Scratch stared off through the trees, gazing across the stream at that cluster of buffalo-hide lodges, watching the fires kindled out in front of each one, studying the shadowy figures passing this way and that in the Shoshone village.
As Campbell’s men carried on with Hatcher and Wood, Titus suddenly interrupted them to ask, “Any you fellas know what band that be over yonder?”
Some of the company men turned to look at him in surprise, wagging their heads.
Jack glanced across the creek, then turned back to ask, “Ye don’t figger it might be Goat Horn’s bunch, do ye?”
“Nawww. That camp ain’t near big enough,” Bass replied. “But maybeso that bunch knows where Goat Horn’s people are … knows if they’re coming in for ronnyvoo too.”
Hatcher asked, “Ye fixing to see about it?”
“Morning be soon enough, I s’pose.”
This here was Snake country, no doubt of that.
But that wasn’t Goat Horn’s band.
Two of the headmen in the village across the creek did know of the chief and his oldest son, Slays in the Night. But in sign and little of their spoken tongue, the two explained they did not know where Goat Horn’s band was that spring, nor if he would bring his people to join in the white man’s rendezvous.
Last night had been a restless one for Scratch. First he had grown too warm, kicking off his blanket and robe. Later he became chilled. Then warm again as he tossed and fought through dreams and remembrances of Pretty Water.
A great, gray disappointment settled upon him when he discovered there would be no familiar faces, no joyful reunion with Slays in the Night, nor with the old, blind shaman, Porcupine Brush, nor a chance to gaze upon, perhaps to embrace, that woman who had cared for him as his shoulder had knitted, as he had nursed his rage in losing his topknot to the Arapaho. Not a young woman, but he had found Pretty Water all the more desirable because of her experience in the robes. She knew what it took to satisfy herself, and more so, she practiced what it took to satisfy a man.
He had crossed the Popo Agie on foot that summer morning as soon as it was light enough for a few of the Shoshone women to emerge from their lodges and go about kindling fires, preparing breakfasts, seeing to infants bundled tightly in their cradleboards.
Only two of Campbell’s men stirred when a dejected Bass recrossed the stream and slogged onto the east bank. Their coffee was just beginning to boil as Scratch walked up.
One of the men pulled the kettle to the edge of the flames to slow its roiling. “Coffee?”
“Never passed up a cup,” he admitted with a sigh, settling to the ground by the fire. “Either of you fellers know a man named Potts?”
“Daniel?” replied the first.
“That’s him.”
Asked the second, “How you know Potts?”
“Come to meet him my first ronnyvoo out here, back to twenty-six.”
The coffee maker tossed Bass a tin cup. “Potts give up on pulling the tiger’s tail. He’s gone back east.”
“East.” Bass said it as if that land were a far and foreign place now after these few short years.
“Daniel figgered he ought’n made his fortune out here already,” the second man explained. Then he peered into the smoky fire. “Ain’t none of us gonna make ourselves rich men.”
The coffee maker wagged his head. “’Cept maybe the booshways like Smith or Jackson—like Sublette his own self.”
“’Diah Smith’s gone under,” the second man claimed. “Ain’t no man see’d him since he took his men to Californy two y’ar ago now.”
“Davy Jackson ain’t the kind what’ll make hisself a rich man neither,” the first man declared. “He’ll allays be a working man like the rest of us.”
“But that Sublette—now, he’s gonna make hisself a tidy nest egg afore long,” the second trapper said as he began to carve thick slices of red meat from the rear haunch of an elk.
“Plain to see that some men come out here to this high land for the money,” Scratch commented as he brought his coffee tin to his lips. “Dame Fate does end up smiling on some of them what come for the money.”
“Like Billy Sublette,” the coffee maker replied.
But the meat carver commented, “Then there’s most what your Dame Fate might as well spit on—like poor
