Irishman was intent on returning to his native soil—much disturbed at a number of letters that had reached him in the mail his good friend had packed overland to rendezvous. Instead of accompanying the mule train bound for the States himself that July, Sublette installed Campbell as booshway over those he assigned to see those forty-five paltry packs of beaver all the way to St. Louis.
By any measure, a miserable take for a whole year in the mountains.
Of the three company owners, it appeared only Sublette had secured any profit for their joint efforts—and all of that through the dogged efforts of Campbell’s Powder River brigade. It was hoped that David Jackson was still somewhere north in that Flathead country where the Blackfeet were wont to go, but after two years no one expected ever again to lay eyes on Jedediah Smith and his outfit … not this side of the great by-and-by.
At the same time Campbell was to backtrack east toward the Sweetwater and the Platte, Sublette dispatched his younger brother, Milton, along with German-born Henry Fraeb and Frenchman Jean Baptiste Gervais, north—leading a forty-man brigade to hunt the Bighorn basin in three smaller outfits that fall. Now William could himself lead the rest of his hardened veterans and a crew of green recruits to search for some sign of what had become of his long-overdue partner—reported to be somewhere in the country of the upper Snake River.
The Blackfeet hadn’t rubbed out the industrious Jackson!
After more than a week of revelry beside the Popo Agie, word had come that the ever-enterprising brigade leader would be waiting on the Snake instead of coming to the prearranged valley of the Prairie Chicken—news of that change in plans arriving with Tom Fitzpatrick, who weeks before, as Jackson’s brigade had begun to work its way south from Flathead country, was dispatched as a lone express rider sent to reach Sublette east of the Wind River Mountains.
“Tell Billy I’ll meet him on the Snake below the Pilot Knobs.”
With that electrifying report Sublette had promptly hurried to wrap up the last of his trading with what free men wandered in to rendezvous so he could turn west himself. This was great news! Not only was Davy Jackson still alive and kicking—but their company would now have more to show for their efforts than those puny forty-five packs of beaver.
Why—with what furs Jackson was likely to have with him, the two partners might even have enough left over after paying off General William H. Ashley that they could show a profit for the year! Things were looking up.
Jack Hatcher and his outfit of a half-dozen free trappers had decided they would mosey along behind the booshway’s brigade, with the idea in mind that they could divide off from the company men after reaching the Snake, laying plans to trap into the autumn season there on the eastern fringe of Hudson’s Bay territory.
“That Snake sure is purty country,” Mad Jack had boasted the morning Sublette and more than fifty company men were to start into the high country for the headwaters of the Wind River. “Eegod—them three bee-you-tee-full breasties just pointing up there agin’ the sky like tits on a squaw ye’re thumping! My, but that’s country the likes I ain’t seen none of anywhere else!”
As the twenty-eight-year-old Milton struck out down the Popo Agie, which would take his outfit north for the Bighorn and Yellowstone country, Campbell whipped the balky mules south by east for the States* that same morning.
An hour later Bill Sublette himself turned his nose north by west, ascending the Wind River with some free trappers in tow until he crossed over the mountains and dropped down the Buffalo Fork to strike the Snake River in the northern part of what was already widely known as Davy Jackson’s Hole. On the shores of Jackson’s Lake, the booshway allowed his outfit to recruit and recuperate for a few days before he would set off again in his search.
Where was Davy? He sent word that he would meet Sublette on the Snake below the Pilot Knobs!
Trouble was, by the time he reached Jackson’s Hole, the booshway realized there were
So when William Sublette struck that river and failed to find any sign of Jackson as he doggedly continued on down the Snake, the booshway came to the conclusion that his only hope lay in crossing the mountains to continue his search on the western slope.
There in what the mountain trappers were just beginning to call Pierre’s Hole … the dead were about to be resurrected.
“Who is that up yonder?”
Those company men at the head of the caravan with Sublette ignited a buzz that shot back the length of their pack train eventually to reach the half-dozen free trappers led by Jack Hatcher.
Bass squinted into the morning light, anxious with alarm—suddenly spying the distant horsemen. “Didn’t bump into a Injun war party, did we?”
A half a mile ahead along the foot of those peaks still snowcapped here late in summer, a force of more than half a hundred was spotted riding their way out of the north, several leaders immediately spurring away from the rest as they put their horses into an easy lope. At two hundred yards Sublette’s men could see that the oncoming riders had hairy faces.
At a hundred yards out, those buckskinned strangers raised their rifles and fired a joyous salute into the air.
Now the company men were roaring in delight up and down the caravan—recognizing old friends of the trail.
“Tom Fitzpatrick says it looks to be Davy Jackson hisself!” came word from one of the excited brigade men as the caravan was whipped into a lope.
Immediately a curious Hatcher and the rest gave heels to their mounts, spurring toward the action.
Caleb Wood roared, “Fitz oughtta know if it’s them—he wintered with Jackson’s men!”
“Davy Jackson’s brigade, by God!” Elbridge cheered as they hammered toward the reunion.
Then, just about the time Sublette, Bridger, and Fitzpatrick all fired their rifles and reined to a halt to greet the overdue Jackson … they had themselves another shock that rattled each man jack of them all right down to the soles of his moccasins.
There beside Davy rode none other than Jedediah Strong Smith his own self! Come back from the land of the dead!
Why, there was more back pounding and hooting, hurrahing, and bear hugging that late morning in the shadow of the Tetons to last any man a lifetime!
Then and there the three reunited partners decided they’d camp and hold themselves a
“Hatcher? Is that you, Jack Hatcher?”
Bass got to his feet as the impressive stranger came to a halt on his horse some five yards away from where the seven were occupied unlashing packs and preparing to make camp themselves.
Hatcher stood, shading his eyes to stare up at the man who had the high sun at his back, his snowy mane radiant in the summer light as it spilled from beneath the wide, rolled-up brim of a crumpled felt hat.
Caleb Wood was the first to utter a sound as he came up on the far side of the stranger. “McAfferty?”
Then Hatcher bellowed, “Th-that really you, Asa?”
As the stranger slid from his saddle, Elbridge turned quickly to Titus and declared, “That’s the preacher fella we tol’t you of—one what kill’t that Ree medicine man.”
Scratch watched alone while the others knotted around McAfferty like acorns around an oak, shaking hands and pounding one another on the shoulder, all laughing and talking and jabbing at the same time in their joyful surprise.
“Didn’t ever figger to see you again!” Rufus confessed.
McAfferty asked, “What? Me rubbed out, Mr. Graham?”
“Nawww!” Jack roared. “I figgered ye give up on the mountains and run back east with yer tail tucked up atween yer legs!”
“Oooch! Mr. Hatcher, you sting me to the quick!” McAfferty shrieked, then started to laugh with an easy, contagious mirth that got the rest of them laughing with him.
Scratch had to admit that this McAfferty did have him an elegant, booming voice the likes of which would
