Harris’s face was painted with worry as he took a step closer to Hargrove. “The big’un—he can do it, Cap’n.”
“Damn right he can, Harris,” Titus said, watching Hargrove’s eyes fill with concern. “The man what got his pistol aimed at you ain’t no peach-faced farmboy bully like these three you got pointing guns at me. Tell ’im, Harris. Tell ’im how Shadrach’s killed Injuns from the Musselshell clear down to the Arkansas, some of ’em with his bare hands too. These snot-nosed bully-boys of your’n ever done anything more’n jump on some poor farmer, three to one?”
“Lemme shoot him,” one of the trio growled at Hargrove, his crimson face flushing with anger. “Benjamin can shoot the big one got a gun on you—”
“No!” Hargrove shouted, then repeated it softer, “No. There’s no need for any shooting. If this man will release my arm, the four of us will be on our way. There’s no sense in shedding any blood, boys. We’ll be gone from here day after tomorrow. On our way to Fort Hall and California. Right, Mr. Harris?”
“That’s right.” Harris took a step closer to Bass.
“Maybe someone ought’n tie you up to ’nother tree, Harris,” Scratch warned. “Leave you out there to die.”
The pilot’s face went hard as stone. “No one ever gonna tie me up to no tree again—”
“Hard to show these fellas all the way to Californy,” Bass said, “if’n you’re tied to a tree somewhere out there in the hills.”
“I got lots o’ friends now, so there ain’t no chance of that,” Harris snorted.
Scratch said, “Leastways, till you go an’ get drunk.”
“About time you let go of me,” Hargrove repeated.
Slowly Titus began to open the fingers on his left hand, while he inched his hand toward the pistol stuffed in the front of his belt. The captain quickly yanked his arm free, slapping the calf of his leg with the wide leather strands of that horsewhip as he lunged a step backward. His eyes went back and forth between the two trappers.
Then Hargrove said, “You’ll keep an eye out for these two, won’t you, Harris? Let me know if you see them coming around again—between now and the time we’ll pull out for Fort Hall.”
“He’s your lookout boy now?” Titus asked.
“I’ll come let ye know,” Harris growled.
“You allays was a good bootlicker,” Sweete finally spoke, for the first time in minutes. “Didn’t have much good sense of your own—but you was awright when your booshway told you where to shit an’ how to wipe your ass.”
“Damn you—” Harris started toward Sweete but stopped suddenly as he watched Shad shift the direction of his pistol.
“G’won now, train boss,” Scratch suggested. “Better you an’ your coward bully-boys go see what trouble you can cause other folks. I won’t let you cause no trouble for this here family.”
He watched Hargrove’s head turn as the captain regarded the farmer with his family gathered nearby. “What concern are they of yours?”
Bass said nothing, but as Amanda was opening her mouth to speak, Titus shook his head.
“You related to her somehow?” Hargrove asked. “That it? That dumb farmer Burwell can’t fight his own battles—he’s got to bring in his missus and her relations to stand up for him.”
“Thought you was goin’,” Scratch said.
“I am.”
Hargrove got four steps away before he stopped and turned around. “I don’t know your name, or what any of this has to do with you … but, I want to suggest you stay out of our camp, and out of our way until we depart day after tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?”
The captain wore a half grin on his face. “Just a suggestion. You’d be wise not to let any of my men catch you around my camp.”
Bass watched the man move off, trailed by Harris and those three hired toughs who reminded Scratch of the sort of thugs who peopled every riverport town along the Ohio and lower Mississippi. Amanda moved up with her husband and children at the same time.
“I didn’t need none of your help,” growled the big farmer who stomped up to stop before the trappers.
That caught Scratch by surprise. From the looks of Burwell’s red face, the man was mad as a spit-on hen at most everyone in general right now. And he recalled how Amanda had spoken of her husband being proud to a fault. “I sure didn’t mean to step into your business none—”
“It is my business,” Burwell snapped. “And it’ll please me if you stay out.”
“Roman,” Amanda said at his side, “I’m the one you ought to blame.”
He twisted around and glared at her. “You?”
“I saw them come up to the meeting, went over to tell my pa why we hadn’t come for supper. So if you’re going to blame anyone for helping you stand up to Hargrove, blame me.”
His jaw jutted, the ropy muscles below the temple flexing as the big farmer worked her confession over and over in his mind. “I … I got my pride,” he said quietly.
Bass thought that as good an apology as the farmer could bring himself to utter. “If there’s one thing I unnerstand, it’s pride, son. You don’t owe me no more words to explain. You don’t want my help, I’ll stay clear o’ your troubles.”
“I can accept that,” Burwell replied, the harshness suddenly gone from his eyes. He watched his children, two boys and a pair of girls, happily rubbing the bony backs of those two lanky dogs for a moment, then turned to ask, “You really Amanda’s pa?”
“Proud to say I am.” He held out his hand. “She said your name was Roman. Awright I call you that?”
Burwell grinned as if all that bristling uneasiness of their first meeting was forgotten as he brought up his big paw that easily swallowed the old trapper’s hand. “My friends back to home always called me Row. That’d be fine by me, for Amanda’s father to call me Row.”
Shad cleared his throat for attention.
“Shame on me,” Scratch scolded himself. “Where’s my manners? Get over here, Shad. This here’s my good friend, Shadrach Sweete. An’ that’s my oldest child, Amanda.”
“Should I shake your hand, ma’am?” Shad inquired as he stuffed his pistol back in his belt.
Amanda grinned a little, saying, “Of course it’s all right.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Sweete replied as he stuck out his big arm and quickly bent at the waist. “Been a while since I been in the company of a proper white lady.”
She winked at her father. “I’m no proper lady, Mr. Sweete. But thank you for your manners anyway.”
“Be pleased to have you to call me Shad—like all my friends do.”
As Roman and Sweete shook hands, Amanda held out her left arm for her eldest son. “Pa, this here’s Lemuel.”
“You look old enough to shake hands, son.”
Lemuel Burwell said, “I turned twelve this past spring, just before we set off from Westport.”
“Likely you’re a big help to your pa, ain’cha?” Titus asked.
Roman said, “He does ever’thing he can to help out on the road to Oregon.”
“Who are these pretty girls?” Titus inquired.
The oldest nodded slightly, clearly self-conscious. “Leah,” she said in a modest voice.
“Leah, that’s such a purty name,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Just turned ten.”
“You really our grandpa?” asked the other girl as she sidled forward beside the oldest sister.
Bass said. “Would that disapp’int you—to find out a feller like me is your grandpa?”
“My, no!” she exclaimed. “Just wish I could take you to school back at home to show you off to the other’ns.”
He laughed at that. “Good idee from such a li’l girl. What’s your name?”
“I’m Annie,” she replied. “Sometimes my mama calls me Spitfire Annie.”
Quickly flashing a look up at his daughter, Titus asked the girl, “Why your mama call you that?”
