Watching the American grab McKay’s hand, Jarrell explained, “This be Titus Bass—”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” McKay replied, his dark Indian eyes narrowing. “You come to Vancouver to visit the Doctor.”
“Two winters back it was,” Bass stated. “A good man, the Doctor. He is what you see of him.”
“Thomas here is leading the Doctor’s brigade this year,” Thornbrugh explained.
“We ain’t been doing much in the way of trading,” McKay confessed as he took a dipper of water from one of the company’s laborers and drank. Wiping the dribble from his chin, he said, “But we didn’t figure to scare up much trading from you Americans anyway.”
Bass looked at Thornbrugh. “Company men bound to deal with their own traders. Them what trap for American Fur gonna trade for company supplies. And Rocky Mountain Fur gotta trade with Sublette.”
“Last year them Rocky Mountain Fur partners had contracted with that Yank named Wyeth to buy supplies off him this summer,” McKay said. “But Sublette come in a couple days ahead of Wyeth, so Fitzpatrick started trading off pelts even before Wyeth got to the valley.”
Thornbrugh wagged his head. “So now Wyeth has all those goods Rocky Mountain Fur said they’d take off his hands, with no one to trade with.”
“How ’bout the free men?” Bass inquired. “Where they been trading their furs?”
Jarrell could tell by the set of Scratch’s jaw that the unfairness of Sublette’s actions didn’t sit well with his American friend. “Sadly, from what I have been witness to myself, it appears most of your American free men are conducting their business with Sublette.”
“Damn ’em,” Bass growled, his brow furrowing. “But it don’t s’prise me none. Most of ’em knowed Sublette for years now. Some trapped with him back when, or they been trading with him for the last few ronnyvooz. Natural, I s’pose, for ’em to stick with what they know. But it damn well sours my milk to see a man break his vow with another, like Fitz and the rest done to Wyeth.”
“Is there no honor among you Americans?” McKay inquired with a wry grin.
“Not when you’re speaking of prime pelts and beaver country,” Bass confessed. “For years now there’s been a war on between Rocky Mountain Fur and Astor’s company.”
“From what I’ve learned over the past few days,” Thornbrugh injected, “no longer is there any war between them. Instead, they’ve divided up the fur country on the east side of the mountains.”
Bass bellowed, “Divided it between ’em!”
Finally settling on the ground beside Thornbrugh, McKay declared, “Astor’s retired and turned his business on the upper Missouri over to Pierre Chouteau in St. Louis—so that Upper Missouri Outfit’s gonna run things up there from here on out.”
“They’ll have that country all to themselves now that Sublette and Campbell are pulling out,” Thornbrugh continued. “In turn, American Fur won’t give Sublette’s company any competition for a year down here in these central and southern mountains.”
Bass wagged his head as if it was incomprehensible to him. “They made ’em a truce? Dividing up the beaver country a’tween ’em … and here it was not so long ago the free men were hoping McKenzie would come on down here from his American Fur post to give Sublette some competition—his prices were so goddamned high!”
“Still are,” Jarrell replied. “And what he offers for fur is terribly low.”
“So Sublette’s got this cat skinned two ways of Sunday, don’t he?” Bass observed.
McKay explained, “McLoughlin sent us here to sell our goods at prices lower than what any American trader sells for, and to buy beaver at a price higher than Americans would pay.”
Bass looked around him a moment. “Don’t see no crowd lining up to sell you their beaver, fellas.”
Scratching at his cheek, the bearded Thornbrugh said, “Appears your Americans will trade with Sublette, no matter how black-hearted his business ethics.”
“You gotta dance the way Sublette dances: ain’t you offered them trappers any of your whiskey?” Bass inquired.
McKay exploded in laughter. “We didn’t bring any liquor! The Doctor’s an honorable man, so he wouldn’t hear of any whiskey trade.”
“Which puts us at a decided disadvantage,” Thornbrugh stated. “Sublette opened his packs and his whiskey kegs three days before Wyeth ever came in. Which meant that Rocky Mountain Fur was dead and buried by the time that Yank showed up to sell them his goods—”
“Rocky Mountain Fur’s … d-dead?” Bass sputtered.
“Sublette bought them out, one at a time I hear,” Jarrell said. “There were five partners, but by the time Sublette got through offering them this or offering them that for their shares, only two of them decided to stay on with Sublette.”
“Which ones?” Bass inquired.
“Thomas Fitzpatrick is one,” McKay answered. “Don’t know who the other one is.”
“Rocky Mountain Fur, dead,” Bass repeated, staring at the trampled grass. “Hard for that to make sense to me.”
“So where’s your future lie, Titus Bass?” Jarrell asked. “You want to bring your pelts over here and trade with Hudson’s Bay?”
The American regarded Thornbrugh a long and thoughtful moment, then admitted, “I figure I owe first crack to the Americans.”
McKay roared, “You’re gonna give in to Sublette’s temptations too?”
“No.” Bass wagged his head. “Feel I ought’n see what Wyeth’s got to offer a man like me what’s come in late too, after Sublette’s bamboozled all the rest into backing out on their word. What the Yankee can’t trade for, I’ll be over to see if you can help me out, fellas.”
Thornbrugh slapped his hand down on Bass’s thigh. “Good man, Titus Bass. Perhaps there is a bit of honor left in a few of you Americans after all.”
“We still got lots of honor, Jarrell,” Titus snapped. “A man ain’t nothing without his honor. Pulling something so underhanded like that goddamned Sublette done makes all us Americans look bad.”
By the time Scratch had pushed more than three miles downstream that afternoon, what had been a faint, far-off hodgepodge of sounds became the familiar revelry of rendezvous as he drew closer.
Down from the bluffs lining both sides of the valley wound small groups of hunters leading pack animals, carcasses of deer, antelope, and elk lashed securely athwart their sturdy backs. In the bottoms men competed with warriors from the visiting Nez Perce and Flathead camps in horse races, handsome fleet geldings as the champion’s prize. Even greater numbers of the trappers stripped down to no more than breechclout and moccasins as they pitted themselves against one another in drunken footraces. Cheered on by foggy-headed companions, the finish line judged by the unsteadiest among them, most of the contests erupted into a drunken brawl as knots of men rolled about in the tall grass.
Behind it all arose the periodic boom of rifle fire echoing from the meandering hemline of bluffs where others shot at the mark for a treasured prize or another cup of Sublette’s whiskey. Thin, ghostly wisps of gun smoke intertwined to trail lazily on the breezeless air that hot afternoon, its whitish gray captured among the branches of leafy Cottonwood and willow. From creekside and meadow alike came the constant din of whoops and hurrahs, loud voices raised in cheer, mingling with a few strident calls made in heat and anger as men fell to gouging eyes and kneeing groins, urged on by their backers.
More than six hundred white men—company and free—languished and played, celebrating their survival, toasting their having met the challenge for another year even though the greater number of them hadn’t trapped near enough to pay off the entirety of last year’s debt, much less be free to purchase everything needed for the coming season without hanging oneself on the company’s hook. Six hundred, not as many as last year for sure, but still more than had gathered for that high-water mark in Pierre’s Hole two summers ago.
Horses grazed, while some took a dusty roll, freed now for long days when they would not suffer the heavy burdens of the fur trade. A time for saddle sores, cinch ulcers, and herd bites to heal before making that climb to the autumn high country.
Off in the distance through the afternoon’s haze he could make out the tops of the lodgepole swirls, faint fingers of wood smoke still rising from fires tended by the squaws in that camp. Of a sudden he wondered if that were the Flathead village, and if chance dictated it might be the people Looks Far Woman left when she chose to find Josiah, the father of her child. Perhaps he would see before rendezvous played itself out, if only to tell her kin
