“What’s this’un about?”
Clearing his throat, the artist explained, “This trapper’s taking a bride. Buying her from her father. That’s the father standing beside his daughter as the white man offers presents for her hand in marriage.”
“You seen this happen too?”
With a nod of his head Miller said, “I’ve seen all of these.” He shuffled through the stack of thick paper and brought out another page. “In fact, Mr. Bass—I’ve seen all manner of things out here in the West I never saw anywhere back east.”
“You must’ve see’d lots of griz,” Titus commented, looking at the scene of trappers flushing a huge silver-tip from some brush. “I lost some of my own hide to a griz, fingers too.”
“Miller!”
Together they turned at the call, finding the half-breed Antoine Clement jogging up on horseback.
“Miller! Sir William sent me to find you.”
“Something wrong?” the artist asked, his face grave.
“Nothing wrong,” Clement said. “But he wants you to come back to camp so you can draw something for him.”
Turning to stuff the large pad of paper into a narrow leather valise, Miller asked, “What is it this time?”
“He’s getting ready to make a present to Bridger.”
“Stewart’s gonna give Gabe a present?” Titus asked.
The handsome half-breed nodded, leaning on the flat pommel of his Santa Fe saddle. “Sir William had something shipped all the way from Scotland just for Bridger.”
Swinging into the saddle, Miller gazed down at Bass. “You feel like coming to see for yourself what this gift is?”
“Go most anywhere, long as I can watch you draw some more,” Bass pleaded.
With a broad smile young Miller said, “Grab your horse, Mr. Bass. Let’s go see what Stewart had shipped all the way from his native land to present to Jim Bridger.”
In a matter of minutes they had reached the company camp where a crowd was gathering.
“Let Miller through!” Stewart yelled as soon as he spotted his artist returning. “Let the man through, dammit!”
The young artist dismounted and handed his reins up to Clement. Stepping aside, the trappers allowed Miller to pass through the ring they had formed around an open patch of ground where company operators Fontenelle and Drips stood, joined by partisans Fitzpatrick and Bridger. The Scottish nobleman called forth two of his servants, bearing a large round-topped leather trunk.
“Jim—Jim Bridger!” Stewart called, waving the trapper to his side. “Join me here, would you?”
From his perch atop his horse at the outskirts of the crowd jostling and shouldering to get themselves the best view, Scratch watched an embarrassed, self-conscious Bridger step up to Stewart’s elbow.
“Jim, the first time I returned to your eastern cities after meeting you, I posted a message to my home in Scotland,” the nobleman explained. “I dispatched my request that they send me what I’m now going to present to you.”
“This come all … all the way from Scotland?”
“Aye,” Stewart replied, his burr crisp above the murmuring throng. He turned, stepped to the trunk, and threw back the domed lid.
More than a hundred heads craned forward as the nobleman drew forth the odd-looking apparel. Stewart turned to hold the metal plate to Bridger’s shoulders.
“Wh-what’s this?”
“Cuirass,” he answered.
“Kwee-rass,” Bridger repeated, his face flushing with embarrassment again. “What’s it for?”
“It’s part of an ancient suit of armor, Jim. Here, help me. I’ll show you how to put it on.”
Red-faced, Bridger began to mutter as Stewart removed the trapper’s broad-brimmed hat and handed it to one of the servants. Instructing Jim to raise his arms in the air, the nobleman lowered the armored breastplate and back protector over Bridger’s head and down his arms until it settled on Jim’s shoulders.
Bridger shifted it slightly. “Damn, if that ain’t heavy.”
“Meant to turn a pike or protect you from a claymore.”
“What’re them?”
“A pike is very similar to an Indian’s lance,” Stewart explained as he turned to bend over the trunk once more, accompanied by the sound of clinking metal. “And a claymore—why, it’s a very long, double-edged broadsword my Scottish tribesmen have used in battle for untold centuries.”
At that moment the nobleman straightened and wheeled back to stand before Bridger. Between his two outstretched hands he held a shiny helmet that glittered in the summer sun. From its top sprouted a broad decorative plume crafted from the tail of a horse and dyed a brilliant crimson.
“Here, Jim—I’ll help you with this.”
“That? It goes on my head?”
Stewart had it started down on Bridger’s head before he answered. “Noble knights of old needed such protection when they rode into battles of honor.”
Once the helmet had settled on Bridger’s shoulders, Stewart raised the slotted mask. Inside, the trapper’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“I’ll bet this’ll turn any damned Injun arrow,” Jim remarked, slapping his palm against the breastplate.
Shadrach Sweete cried out from the crowd, “You dang well could’ve used all that truck back when you took that Blackfoot arrer in yer shoulder, Gabe!”
Stewart had already turned to Miller, saying, “Alfred—are you getting all of this?”
“Some of it, sir,” Miller admitted. “I think a better composition would be to have Mr. Bridger mounted on horseback.”
“Splendid!” Stewart cried with an enthusiastic clap of his hands. He instructed his servant, “Go quickly to the wagon and fetch up the pike. Mr. Bridger must wear the whole outfit now!”
“P-pike?” Jim echoed. “The spear we was just talking about?”
The nobleman dragged his hat from his head and bowed at the waist before the brigade leader. “Indeed, my dear friend. Once we’ve finished dressing you in the entire suit of armor, I want you to carry that pike I brought for you to carry on horseback.”
From inside the helmet Bridger’s words had a dull ring of doubt. “You … want me to get on a horse with all this on?”
“By Jove I do!” the Scotsman cheered. “This suit of armor was worn by generations of ancient warriors in my family—a gift from me to a present-day warrior. I have fought against Napoleon’s finest soldiers in battles on the Continent of Europe, yet never have I found any braver breed than you and men like you, Jim Bridger. My hat’s off to your kind, noble sir!”
Suddenly Joe Meek leaped to the center of the open circle, pounding Bridger on the back, waving for the crowd to join him in their congratulations. “Sing out with me, boys—sing out for these Shining Mountains and our noble few!”
The throng answered the call, “Huzzah!”
And Joe cried again, “Huzzah for the Rockies!”
“Huzzah!” the voices echoed all the stronger.
Then a third time Meek exhorted them. “For the mountain man!”
When came the deafening roar that rocked this valley of the Green River: “HUZZAH!”
22
Times were in the past year he had reckoned on just what Bridger did with that heavy suit of armor the Scotsman gave him. Wondered what would have happened when all that foofaraw got too heavy to pack around in Blackfoot country, just where Gabe would have abandoned the damned thing. Bass didn’t think Jim would have
