into a stupor of sleep, gazing up at the sky he hoped she was watching too.
Ten … this will be ten since we sent the Sioux packing.
There are more of you?
Bass had nodded. Then twice he flicked up the fingers on both hands as he held them out before him.
The horseman signaled the others on both sides of him, and most of the riders nudged their ponies away, streaming past on either side of the trio, hurrying on down the river valley to gather up the rest of the stragglers.
Turned out it was Rain’s camp. The old man who came to Fort Davy Crockett two years ago reporting that white men he had taken in for the night, fed, and given his finest hospitality had shown him their appreciation by stealing some of his horses.* Two women helped the crippled, slow-moving old man out of his lodge to stand before the first dozen of the trappers who limped into that camp, trailed by a parade of children and barking dogs.
“I have seen your face,” Rain said as he studied Titus Bass up close with his rheumy eyes. “Two winters ago: did you ever steal my ponies?”
“No, I was not one of those who stole your horses,” Bass said in his halting Shoshone tongue, emphasizing it with his sign. “But, I went with the men who took your horses back from the white men who stole them from you.”
“I knew I had seen your face,” Rain replied, clutching the arms of the two women unsteadily. “It was a good thing you took those ponies back. Because the others dishonored themselves by stealing my ponies—
“You see, it is plain we need horses.”
“You walked a long way from this fight against the Lakota?”
“La … kota?” Titus echoed the word.
“That is what they call themselves,” Rain answered. “We made a prisoner of one of them two summers ago. He explained, this Sioux word is the white-man name for his warrior bands. But, the Creator gave his people the name of Lakota. He died bravely at the hands of my people. I fear they will be a strong enemy if they come into this country to try taking it from us.”
“Do you have horses to trade?”
Rain grinned, all but toothless in that wrinkled walnut of a face. “So if the Lakota did not ride off with your trade goods, I think we could find enough horses for you to call your own.”
It was not a big village, but neither was it small. That night the Shoshone ignited a big fire at the edge of camp where they heated some antelope stew, broiled some buffalo steaks, and welcomed the white men back from the maw of the desert. Stuffed beyond belief, Titus watched as some old men brought out their drum, plopped it down near the fire, then began to play, drawing the young men and women of the band to the hypnotic music. Some of the more energetic, younger trappers got up to stomp and gyrate with the Shoshone, but Scratch eventually dragged his blanket and buffalo robe off down the creek to the far side of camp where things weren’t near so noisy.
When he awoke later to the throb of the drum, every bit as thirsty as he had been on their ten-day walk, Bass knelt beside the stream and drank until his belly ached. The second time he awoke, he found himself ravenous and ready to put away another three pounds of buffalo flank steak. At the trappers’ fire, he discovered that most of the old drummers had retired, but at the drum sat an enthusiastic ring of white men, both French and American, hammering out a rhythm for the sweating, enthusiastic Shoshone youngsters who had every intention of making a night of it.
After stuffing himself a second time to the point of a bellyache, Scratch trudged back through camp to sprawl on his buffalo robe and blanket, asleep almost as soon as he hit the ground. He did not awaken until the sun had fully risen and a troublesome fly would simply not leave him be.
For the white men that next day was given over to more eating and sleeping, and not until the second morning did they began negotiating in trade for some of the Shoshone horses. The first item of business was to mutually determine what value the animals would have in the pending trade talk. That agreed upon, the trappers and the Shoshone leaders had next to settle on the value each individual trade item would have. These two long discussions lasted into the evening of that second day, so it was decided they would begin the actual barter on the following morning.
Bass figured Rain had seen to it he came out on the better end of the bargain, getting a lot more horse than most of the other white trappers. And three of the finest animals to replace the mule and saddle horse he had sacrificed at the Little Snake.
Needing to make some meat for his journey north, Bass went hunting with two young warriors before dawn on the fourth day. They had five antelope down and gutted, strapped across the backs of their horses, and were on their way back to camp when Titus asked, “Ever hear of a Snake warrior by the name of Slays in the Night?”
The older of the pair nodded. “He was my uncle.”
“W-was?” Titus inquired. “He is dead?”
With a shrug, the warrior answered, “As good as dead. He left his band many summers ago, taking some young men with him who wanted to plunder the white men wherever your people could be found.”
The other youngster spoke up. “He has never returned, none of those who went with him either. So we think they are all dead.”
It was some time before Scratch declared, “I knew your uncle. Knew him long, long ago. His woman made good pemmican.”
“You have not seen my uncle in a long time?”
He studied the young man’s face as they led their horses down the long slope toward the brown, fire-smoked lodges of the Shoshone camp. “I don’t remember for sure, but I think I saw him eight summers ago.”*
“We were just boys then,” the youngest said. “That was about the time he left to go steal from the white men.”
Clearing his throat, Bass halted. “I must tell you: your uncle and his warriors tried to steal from me.”
“Did he get away with your horses and trade goods?” the nephew asked quietly.
“No. I had to kill some of the young men who rode with him,” Bass explained. “At the time they took my horses, I did not know the raiding party was led by my old friend Slays in the Night. There were two of us. We killed some of the warriors with him. But when I found out it was my old friend … I left him afoot to live or die by his own hand.”
The young nephew was long before he replied, “It was right.” When the three of them had continued toward the village, he added, “A man must not steal from his friends.”
To Bass, that was the worst sort of theft. Many times after seeing Slays in the Night for the last time, Scratch had brooded on it—wondering if the warrior hadn’t known just whose animals he was stealing. Was he sure who his victim was? Or, had it only been coincidence?
Several times in the last two years, he had brooded on how those white trappers had preyed on Rain and the old man’s hospitality. The worst sort of treachery, committed against those who were trusting. So good of heart they fall prey to those who say one thing and do another. Let such thieves steal from enemies or strangers—not from friends.
Chances were Slays in the Night had come through his ordeal of being put afoot by Bass that summer so long ago. Even still, it had been so many years since their confrontation that the odds weren’t very good the Indian could have survived long in his newfound lust for booty and plunder.
What was it that made men change from good to bad? Was it simply because the world around them was no longer the same and some men believed they must change too? Of a time he would have put his life in the Shoshone warrior’s hands. But Slays in the Night had become another person, the way Asa McAfferty had changed seasons before.
So why was it that Bass looked at everything, looked at everybody, around him and wondered why he was the only one not grown different over the years? Did the changing nature of the fur business, did its decline and utter ruin, mean that those men in the fur trade
