“H-how’s that?” he grunted between teeth-jarring bounces.
“Here she comes, runnin’ out from the rest.”
Titus twisted, although he still could not see her—but in moments he heard her moccasins padding on the sandy ground—then she was there in a swirl of sunset light and calico and flapping fringe. Her eyes shiny with worry as she started babbling ih Crow at him, the young ones rustling up on either side of the jostling travois, only a step or two behind their mother. Then he had heard Roman’s voice loud over the others, calling for Amanda. The dogs yip-yipping, aware of the humans’ elation. The three Burwell children cried out for their grandfather. And behind it all lay the sound of voices shouting the news of the attack by Hargrove’s bully-boys, the excitement and commotion beginning its relay through camp. Soon the ground thundered with several hundred feet, all come to hear the story of how this man came to be dragged into camp when they had last seen him standing with his arm around his daughter’s shoulder early that morning, both of them waving good-bye to their families with a promise to catch up before early afternoon.
And here it was almost nightfall. Supper was on the boil, bedsacks being shaken out, and stock picketed on the good grass before moonrise.
With help he hoisted himself off the travois and hobbled between the two taller men to the spot Waits-by- the-Water had chosen for their shelter. There Magpie had her mother’s medicines out for the second time in less than a day. The two of them began ministering to that oozy wound that had crusted and bled, crusted and bled repeatedly across the aggravatingly slow hours of that arduous journey to catch up to the train. First Waits cleaned both wounds with hot water that stung like wasps as he gripped the edge of the blankets. She chattered constantly at him, or to Magpie, telling her how lucky Magpie’s father was that he had not been crippled by the ball that had torn in, through, and out his body without striking a bone.
“Big bones, there—yes,” he had muttered, wincing as she kneaded some softened roots into the holes.
But he didn’t need convincing to realize just how fortunate he had been. Just from the touch of her hands on the spots where she was working, he knew how an inch this way or that, things could have turned out far different. As it was, the lead ball had entered just behind his hip, missing the femur and the hip cradle too, as it tore its way through the fatty part of his buttock, emerging near the crack of his ass. Which made him laugh again.
“What is funny?” she asked him in Crow as she pulled the flap of blanket back over his bare, bony rump.
He quickly glanced about, finding their children hovering near. “I just remembered,” he explained in her tongue so the curious whites clustered nearby would not understand, “back down the trail, I told Shadrach the shooter almost gave me a new asshole.”
She giggled with Magpie and the boys at the ribald joke, covering her mouth with her fingertips, her eyes twinkling in gratitude that he still possessed his unusual, off-kilter sense of humor. “One asshole is enough for my people,” she said with a tinkle of laughter. “Why would you white men even want a second?”
For two of the next three days it took the train to reach Fort Hall Scratch was too sore to even consider climbing atop a saddle. Instead, Amanda and Roman insisted he ride inside their wagon, where Burwell had nested on comforters as he healed from his near-fatal beating. It proved a damn sight more comfortable than that travois Shadrach had dragged him back on. Still … there were times in those next half a hundred miles that the springless wagon nearly jarred his back teeth loose as it clattered over a rough patch of ground. But these sojourners kept their heads down and pushed through every tough stretch along the way.
They had been hardened by the trail, had to have been, Bass thought. Pressing wagons and stock hard now that the next important stop was almost within hailing distance. Farmers were that way, these folks who moved only of a purpose. People who had been born and raised, lived out their adult lives in the same small fifty-mile area … and now they were venturing to the end of the earth—leaving behind everyone and everything they had ever known. Sad thing was, that sort of person never could savor the journey for itself. No, for these emigrants the journey was merely something to be done, gotten through, conquered. Once in Oregon, they would get on with what came next: the making of a life in a new country, building homes, plowing fields, raising corrals and fences and hayricks. There was a stoic, even pragmatic order to these emigrants; going somewhere had to serve the almighty god of purpose—the gathering of communities, the organizing of schools, the forming of their new governments. Once the trail was behind these farmers, they were on to the next phase of their lives, and the journeying would no longer be a part of them.
Why, he even had begun to wonder if these ham-handed sodbusters laid their women down in the dark with this same sort of get-it-over-with-and-on-to-the-next-chore brand of single-mindedness. This was simply not the way it was for him, who enjoyed the flesh-to-flesh journey and was not at all concerned with the hurry-up-and-get- there.
Lying there, his arms bracing him between crates and chests as the wagon jostled and rocked, Scratch hoped he still had enough rough edges that could never be smoothed down by the sands of time. The sheer, sweet wildness of those early days after he had come to this land. Ho, for the Snake! The Wind and Bighorn! The Musselshell and Judith too! Ho, for adventure so wild and forbidden only the half crazed and certifiable came west a’seeking it! Adventure only those insane ones who could live nowhere else would truly savor and did their damnedest to suck dry!
Was it only that he and the others had been young back then? For the short-horned bulls were always hard to frighten with what they hadn’t yet confronted … hard to frighten when danger and challenge stirred adrenaline into the blood, heady as any trader’s whiskey! Despite the unknown dangers and the unheralded challenges, back in those days they’d all thought they would never grow old, that the beaver would last and last, that these high times would only shine on and on … and on.
Back in those days when they were young and strong, bold … and … and didn’t know any better. In a time before they began to realize they had brought about their own undoing …
While for him the adventure still began anew with every sunrise, with these movers one day just seemed to bleed into the next. Good people as they were, Amanda’s family among them, their kind seemed driven to be somewhere else rather than enjoying the journey of getting there. Sweat and suffering, fatigue and frustration— pushing on through the constant wind and the ever-present sun until it was night, then they closed their eyes for a short while before the sun was up again for another day while the train rolled a little farther, one more day with all the joy drained out of it but for the fact that they congratulated themselves that their train was one day closer to the Willamette.
He breathed deep, smelling the sharp, tangy fragrance of the sage crushed beneath the wheels. Whining hubs that, if a man didn’t force his mind onto something else, was all he heard—their groaning against the axles. A constant squeak of wagon boxes shifting with the terrain, the rattle of everything strapped, roped, or hung from the sidewalls—this incessant symphony that carried these movers in a quest to find their dreams. So steadfast and single-minded were these emigrants that he knew they would make it to Oregon country. He had nary a doubt. If they had made it to the Southern Pass, Bridger’s post, to the Bear and Soda Springs, and now to Fort Hall … they were no longer innocents, and toughened by adversity and loss—these sodbusters would indeed reach the Willamette.
They were of a kind, these farmers, settlers, family folk who brought their schools, churches, and a quiet tidiness to a new place. While not wild or smart, they bored on through life with dogged determination to do, to accomplish, to see things set right in their own image, town by town. Just as it had been for his grandpap, and his pap after him. Titus was so young when he fled those shackles others were about to rivet around his ankles and wrists, too young to realize that even though it would never be a life for him, it could be a life of honor and decency for the many. Older now, many more choices had he made and regrets piled up. Yet Scratch had spent enough time with these emigrants that he had come to understand something of them and why they were going, even if that going wasn’t for him. The land out there in Oregon must surely be big enough for all their dreams, even if it wasn’t big enough for his.
Only this country had ever been big enough to capture and contain his dreams. Only … this.
“Ti-tuzz!”
He heard Waits yell his name before he saw her appear at the rear pucker hole, reining her horse close to the rear of the wagon. She sat swaying in that woman’s snare saddle, its high pommel and cantle both decorated with brass tacks and colorful quillwork and long, jiggling fringe.
Pushing himself up on an elbow, he asked, “What do you see?”
“White man’s post!”
