do.”
“You sure you don’t want us wait ’nother day or so till they roll in here,” Shad offered. “It’d give you someone at your back with the two of ’em.”
Peering up at his friend’s crow-footed eyes, Titus said, “You’re the sort of friend the best of men deserve, Shadrach. Don’t know why you ended up my companyero—but I’ll just take it that you’re my friend for a damn good reason.”
“Ever’ man sticks up for his friends the way you do,” Sweete declared, “he deserves to have his back covered by them he’s helped.”
“Don’t fret ’bout lolly gagging ’round here with Roman’s train till Hargrove an’ his bullies get here. I’ve faced worse’n them. ’Sides, Waits and Magpie both purty damn good with a gun—so my women can cover my back if them bastards wanna raise some hell an’ put a chunk under it.”
No more was ever said about it between the two friends.
Then came the gray of that last morning together with family and old friends, before the parting, before some got on with the going on, and the rest got on with the turning back.
“Will you write to us, care of Oregon City?” Amanda asked when the oxen were hitched and the last of the coffee was poured on the breakfast fire. “Tell us what becomes of you and Waits when that child is born?”
“I-I can’t say I will,” he admitted. “Not just ’cause I can’t write—”
Taking his two hands in hers, she pleaded, “Find someone who can do it for you.”
That’s when he confessed, “Never been one to write—not back to my folks in Rabbit Hash.”
Nearby, Roman Burwell stabbed at the soggy, blackened embers at his feet with a thin branch. Wispy puffs of gray smoke rose into the chill, gray air here before the sun thought of appearing. Nearby, Hoyt Bingham was pulling the loud brass trumpet from the back of his wagon.
Amanda quickly glanced at her husband, then told her father, “Both of us, we’ve decided we’ll write to you. To that post on the Yellowstone you told the children stories of. We’ll tell you all ’bout how we make out in our new home. How Esau’s doing with his shop. And Shadrach’s family too. Just tell us who to post it to … where you’ll pick it up in the years to come—”
“No, Amanda,” he said quietly to shush her, squeezing his daughter’s wrists in his roughened hands. “Th-this ’pears to be good-bye for us.”
Her face screwed up in some momentary pain. Eyes pooling, she stared up at him, then said, “Y-you never know about that, Pa. We both thought we’d said our good-byes back in St. Louis when you left Amos Tharp’s place.”
He felt his heart stabbed with regret, a profound remorse for not giving her some hope to hold on to. So he hedged the truth and said, “You’re right, Amanda. Never know when we might run onto one ’nother come the years ahead.”
“So I can write you?”
Titus nodded, smiling behind his tears. “Yes, daughter. You write me much as you an’ them young’uns of yours can. I’ll find me someone can read your letters to me.”
“Where?” she asked breathlessly, using the fingers of one hand to smear the tears from both cheeks.
“Where else, girl? Fort Bridger. Black’s Fork of the Green. Rocky Mountains. Them letters’ll keep with Gabe till I get back round to see him.”
Roman Burwell took three steps and stopped there, towering over his father-in-law. “I can remember that. Black’s Fork. Rocky Mountains.”
“Lemme hear from them children too,” he requested. “As fine a bunch of young folk as there ever was, Amanda. You two made a gran’pa right proud … right proud.”
He turned to Roman, holding out his hand to the man. “I ain’t a prayin’ man—not like no Bible-talker is, Roman Burwell. But, you an’ your family gonna be in my prayers for a long, long time to come.”
Instead of seizing the old trapper’s paw, Roman shoved the arm aside and stepped against Scratch, surprising him as he wrapped up his father-in-law in his big arms. The fierceness of that embrace nearly robbed him of breath and made the hot moisture leak from his tired, red-rimmed eyes.
“I ain’t ever gonna forget you, Titus Bass,” Roman Burwell whispered in the old trapper’s ear. “Don’t know how I ever deserved to marry into such a fine family as yours.”
Then the big farmer inched back a step, and finally held out his hand. “Someday, I’ll figure out a way to properly say thank you for all you done for us—what with Hargrove an’ them men of his—comin’ out to find me and bring me back … doing your best to s-save our little Lucas …”
Titus could see how tough that was for the man to get out. “We all done our best—”
But Roman interrupted him, saying, “For all you done, down to seeing we had these two pilots what’ll get us to Oregon afore the snow flies. I laid in my blankets last night, tossing and rolling—fretting on how I ever could thank you proper.”
This time Titus embraced the farmer, then stepped back and said, “You don’t owe me a thing, Roman Burwell. Knowing how you care for my daughter, how you love her—knowin’ you’re gonna take care of her an’ your young’uns … that’s all the thanks I’ll ever need, son. You’re ’bout the best a father could hope his daughter’d marry to.”
“I-I hope I can live up to that—”
Scratch felt the tears come. “You awready have, son. You awready have.”
Amanda’s children were moving close when Hoyt Bingham trotted up on his horse with that brass trumpet propped against his hip.
“Sun’s coming, Roman!” he announced, pointing at the far ridge.
“You ’bout ready to have a blow on that trumpet?” Burwell asked as he dragged the back of his hard-boned hand under his nose.
Bingham’s eyes quickly surveyed the melancholy group; then he relented and said, “When you’re ready to lead this train to Oregon, Roman.” Then Bingham nudged his horse forward, leaned off to the side, and held down his hand. “Mr. Bass—”
“Name’s Titus,” he interrupted the train’s other captain as they shook.
“Titus, I just want to thank you for all you done for these people, since you’ve been with us. There was a time when I thought the only way we were going to find our way to Oregon City was on pure gumption.”
“You’d done it,” Titus said, his eyes landing on Roman for a moment before he looked back again at the man in the saddle.
“Now we’re sure to do it—sure to get these folks to a new country,” Bingham continued. “And it’s your help going to get us there, same as Mr. Sweete’s and Esau’s too.”
“I had family what needed my help,” he tried to explain as Waits-by-the-Water came up to slip her arm through his.
“Gonies, but I almost forgot! Want you to know just how much the whole train is beholden to you,” Bingham explained. “We ain’t got much extra to our names, but we took up a collection.” He reached under his belt and took out a faded bandanna, its four corners knotted together.
Scratch immediately put up his hand to signal and took a step back, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna take that, Hoyt. You folks save it till you get to where you’re goin’ … then you give it to Shadrach and Esau.”
Bingham stared at the bandanna, where a few coins were tied. “You’re sure you don’t want this?”
“I ain’t got a need for your money,” he explained as Esau walked up with Sweete and their horses. “Keep it for your pilots. They’re the ones you should pay for leadin’ you to Oregon.”
“A fine idea.” Bingham nodded and stuffed the bandanna knot under his wide belt, then peered down at Esau. “How far downriver till we reach the first ford of the Snake?”
“Less than three miles, by my reckoning,” the tradesman replied.
“Then we’ll likely spend a good piece of the day getting across to the north bank,” Bingham said, shifting in the saddle. His eyes touched Shadrach Sweete. “When you two are done here with your farewells, I’ll blow the trumpet and have Iverson help me line out the wagons for the march downriver to the crossing.”
They watched him turn his horse and move away, leaving behind that group of family and friends, all of them still in that nervous way of folks who don’t know quite how to say what needs saying.
To everyone’s surprise, Esau Bass was the first to make the attempt. He stepped up and held out his strong hand. “Titus, I said my fare-thee-well to you many a year ago … then you went and raised your head back into my
