by John Legg
As Melton grinned, Squire reached for the bottle and drained it. He tossed the empty toward the bar, where it smashed loudly. “Fetch up another bottle, lad,” he bellowed at the bartender. He leaned forward until his massive forearms were on the table and his face only inches from Melton’s.
“I reckon, Colonel, that if’n ye be bound and set on headin’ out there, I just might be comin’ along. But only to see that ye don’t get yourself and the rest of them boys killed, ye understand.” The bartender came with the bottle and slapped it down on the table. As Melton reached hurriedly into his purse to pull out a coin, Squire sat back, gazing at him. He was not sure exactly why he had changed his mind and decided to lead Melton’s brigade. There were several reasons, none convincing enough of themselves: his instant liking of Melton, the transparent challenge Melton had thrown at him, the knowledge that he would be heading back to the mountains himself at any time and the realization that he might as well earn some money during the trip.
Taken together, they were still not compelling, but they formed the basis for his change of heart. And when they were added to something intangible, some inner feeling he couldn’t quite fathom, they made the change an easy one. And now that the decision was made, he knew there was no more reason to ponder it.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Leander?” Strapp said. Melton winced at the use of his first name, but Strapp did not see it. “I mean, we are not sure this man”—he pointed at Squire— “knows what he is doing? And even if—”
“That will be enough, William,” Melton said hastily, seeing the hard look on Squire’s face as he gazed at Strapp over the top of the bottle he held to his lips. “I’ve made my decision, and so has Mr. Squire. There will be no more talk about it.” Melton turned toward Squire. He smiled. “So be it then, Mr. Squire. Are the arrangements satisfactory?”
Squire gently placed the bottle down, still staring at Strapp, who squirmed under the heavy gaze. He looked at Melton and grinned. “I did hear ye say you’d be payin’ five hundred dollars, didn’t I?”
When Melton nodded, silencing Strapp’s protests with a wave of his hand, Squire said, “Then there be but two more things, Colonel.”
“And they are?” He took a drink.
“First, I get to keep all the plews I take.” When he saw the blank look on Melton’s face, he said, “Pelts, Colonel. Beaver pelts.” When Melton nodded, Squire continued: “Second, if’n I sign on to lead this here outfit, then that’s just what I be plannin’ to do—lead it. That means I be in command. If’n I give an order, it’d best be obeyed straight off.”
Melton thought a few moments, ignoring the strangled look on Strapp’s face. Then he said, “Accepted, Mr. Squire. You may keep your pelts—plews, you called them?—and the men will obey you without question.”
“Includin’ ye, Colonel?”
“This is my brigade, Mr. Squire. I am, after all, its commander.”
“Then count me out, Colonel. Go’n find yourself someone else.”
“It would be unthinkable to let you usurp my command, Mr. Squire,” Melton said strongly. “I am responsible for the lives and well-being of all the men and equipment. I am charged with making a profit for those investors who have placed their trust—and their money—in my hands. I cannot subordinate that to anyone.”
“If’n that be the way ye want it, Colonel, I’ll not stand in your way. But afore ye go makin’ hasty decisions, maybe ye’d best listen a spell.”
Melton nodded and Squire continued. “Ye don’t know the least thing about the Injins, nor the weather, nor the animals ye’d be facin’. Ye e’er been in a blizzard on the plains? Or in a mountain pass? Ye e’er took on a Blackfoot or Cree war party when them red devils was hell-bent on raisin’ hair?”
“Of course not, but—”
“But nothin’, Colonel. I’ve done all them things and more. I know what it be like out there. Ye don’t. If’n ye want me to take on this job, then I got to have the last say. Ye can go worryin’ o’er dollars and plews and supplies and such. Them things ain’t of no concern to me. But ye’ve got yourself a group of pilgrims. That’ll only be makin’ your job harder. Ye don’t know enough to be teachin’ ’em anything. I ain’t plannin’ on nursemaidin’ ’em, but I reckon there’ll be a heap of teachin’ I’ll have to be doin’.”
Melton frowned, then nodded. “Of course, Mr. Squire. You’re right. It’s that kind of wisdom I am seeking. It will be as you say. ”
“But, Leander ...”
“I’ll brook no argument, William,” Melton said sharply. Squire looked from one to the other, wondering why someone like Melton would be dragging around someone like Strapp. He shrugged it off as Melton sat back.
“Neither the men nor I will question you when you give orders, Mr. Squire,” Melton said firmly. “But when the danger is passed or the work is done, I claim my right to question those orders. It is the best way to learn, I have found.”
“That be fine, Colonel,” Squire said with a grin. He didn’t feel quite so strange now about having agreed to go. His respect for Melton grew considerably, and Squire knew he had made the right decision.
Strapp sat with a scowl curling his pasty face as Melton and Squire shook hands and sealed the pact with a few swigs of whiskey. Strapp did not take part in the ritual.
Melton stood. “We’ll meet tomorrow, then, at eight, near the stockyard?” he asked.
“Aye, Colonel.” Squire nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Come, William,” Melton said, walking away. Strapp had to hurry to catch up to him.
Chapter Two
DESPITE his towering bulk, Nathaniel Squire glided along the earth silently, moccasined feet hardly raising dust. He showed no effects of the previous night’s revelry other than the red spiderwebs lacing the whites of his eyes. He did not have the Hawken rifle in hand, but the pistol rode in his belt. With his two small knives, the large butcher knife, the long, gleaming tomahawk and his immense size and strength, he did not need the rifle here. Anyone with any sense at all would take one look at this walking mountain of a man and flee.
Suddenly he loomed next to Colonel Melton. “Mornin’, Colonel,” he said easily.
Melton’s head snapped around, a startled look on his face. “Good morning, Mr. Squire,” he stuttered. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Most folks don’t.”
Melton looked up at this imposing figure, searching the eyes shaded under the broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat Squire often wore here in civilization. Squire’s face was expressionless as he stared back at the Colonel’s broad, chubby face. Melton began to wonder if he had chosen right. Squire’s flat-cheekboned face, much of it hidden under the impressive beard and mustache, revealed nothing of the inner man. The Colonel knew right off that he liked Squire, but he realized suddenly that he feared the man, too, as he supposed most people did. There was a quiet deadliness that hung on Squire like a shroud.
“See anything you like?” Melton asked, suppressing a shudder and jerking his face away from Squire’s. He realized now, too, that Squire was considerably larger than he had supposed the night before.
Squire looked out over the dusty, beaten-down earth of the dismal stockyard. Within the barely substantial split-rail fence, the clay dirt was dimpled with the imprints of thousands of hooves. It was the place where local mustangers brought the wild horses they had caught, and where the farmers brought an occasional cow or mule to sell. It was unshaded and the heat was fierce.
“Might be one or two worth a look, but that’s all. It might help, though, was ye to be tellin’ me how many hands ye picked.”
“I believe William has hired twenty-one trappers and ten more men as camp helpers. Youngsters mostly.” He looked abashed. “I have William trying to find others. I hope to have thirty or forty trappers and at least two dozen camp helpers by the time we leave.”
Squire squinted down at Melton. “Lookee here, Colonel, I ain’t fixin’ to tell ye how to
run this here fandango, but I’d be advisin’ ye to stick to what ye have now. Ye got enough.”
“But I thought the more men I had, the more beaver we could take. Hence more profits.”
“Aye, that might be true most times, but not this one. If’n ye’d hired on old hands, tried and tested, ye could get away with havin’ a heap more. Hell, I seen brigades with forty, fifty trappers, plus camp helpers. I been amongst ’em when I was with M’seur Lisa, and I seen ’em run by the Nor’westers and e’en the old coureur de bois and les hommes du nord. But with a bunch of children, like as not that ain’t e’er been to the mountains afore, sacre bleu, ye’d be lookin’ for troubles.”
Melton did not look convinced. Squire stroked his beard, silent for some seconds before saying, “I know ye be thinkin’ of your sponsors and makin’ ’em a heap of profit and all. But there be some things ye got to consider, Colonel. We ain’t gonna be havin’ a heap of time for trappin’ on the way out. And you’ll have to be feedin’ all them boys. Then we’ll have to winter up somewhere, and there’ll be no trappin’ at all soon after we set to that. Them streams what ain’t froze over will be trapped out quick with e’en this many hands. We ain’t lucky, we’ll be seein’ starvin’ times afore winter’s end comes.”
“You seem quite sure of all this, Mr. Squire.”
“I be, Colonel. I doubt any of them boys ye hired has hunted buff’lo or had to face down a mad griz or a dozen Blackfoot half-froze to raise hair. I’ll have to be takin’ care of ’em all the way nearabout, like as not. Plus I’ll have to be teachin’ ’em to trap, to hunt, how to watch sign. If’n I don’t, they’ll not survive.”
“Yes, I see,” Melton said slowly, absorbing the lesson.
“One more point, Colonel. The fewer men we be takin’, the fewer horses we’ll be needin’. That means we might just have a bit less trouble with Injins.”
“You’re right, of course. I should have thought of it.”
“Ye’ve got a heap of other things on your mind, Colonel.”
“To be sure,” Melton said. He knew Squire was trying to be kind to him, and he appreciated the effort. “I’ll tell William to stop searching.”
“Bon. Now let’s go find us some horses. And mules.”
“Mules?”
“Best animals ye can find for packin’. Tote more’n a horse and can go a heap farther on less feed. Injins won’t steal ’em neither. E’en friendly Injins’ll make off with your horses, if’n ye let ’em, but they don’t want no truck with mules.”
“All right. How many of each will we need?”
“Well, let’s see. Two horses for each trapper, plus ye, me and”—the mouth curled up in disgust—“William. If’n he be comin’.” His blue eyes bored questioningly into the Colonel’s.
Melton frowned in embarrassment. “He plans to. I’ve tried to convince him to stay behind . . .” He held up his hands, as if he was helpless.
“Why don’t ye just tell him to stay here?” Squire had no use for William Strapp or anyone like him. Those kind of men usually meant trouble of one sort or another. They seldom carried their weight, and almost without exception were nothing but annoyances.
“Would that I could,” Melton sighed. “But . . .” He paused, seemingly ashamed to go on. He sucked in a breath and plunged ahead. “But such a thing is hard to do when he is employed by the same people. And,” he added after a short pause, “when he is your loving wife’s brother.”
Squire shook his head, but he placed a beefy paw consolingly on the Colonel’s shoulder. “Mayhap I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, Colonel, but judgin’ from what I’ve seen so far, we’ll not be seein’ Mr. Strapp through the end of this trip.” He gave the shoulder a slight squeeze before he removed his hand.
Melton almost winced with the power of the squeeze. God, he thought, I would not want this man angry at me. But he nodded his head curtly, not displeased with the information. Then he said, “About the horses?”
“Aye, Colonel. Two for each of us and each trapper. That be fifty, if my figurin’ be right. Plus a single mount for each pork eater—camp helper to ye. Plus we’ll be wantin’ a few extra, just in case. Maybe five or six. All together, I figure we be needin’ sixty-five, maybe sixty-six. I hope your purse be full, Colonel.”
“Do not concern yourself about the money, Mr. Squire. There’ll be enough for our needs.” He couldn’t help grinning when he saw the smile creep across Squire’s face, softening it somehow, as if the wind had eroded some of the more blunt edges off a sandstone cliff. “But do you really think we’ll need that many?”
“Nay, Colonel. But if’n we be losin' some to Injins or the weather or anything else, you’ll be plumb glad we got ’em. Ye also got to remember,” Squire added with a smile, “that we be goin’ for beaver. And I aim to be a takin’ one hell of a heap of plews. So we’ll be needin’ all the pack animals we can tote along to pack them plews out.”
Melton smiled again, too. “Well, then, Mr. Squire, if it’s sixty-five horses you want, sixty-five horses is what you will get. ”
“Bon. I just hope we can be findin’ that many. The pickin’s look awful slim here. Them Santa Fe traders and other mountaineers already snapped up all the good ’uns. Looks like we be startin’ out behind on e’erything, Colonel.” He had a momentary flash of doubt, thinking for one brief instant that he had made a mistake in hiring on for this.
“How many mules do you think we’ll need?”
“Can’t be sayin’ just yet. Once we get all our supplies bought, we can be worryin’ o’er that.”
Melton nodded as Squire vaulted the fence into the enclosure. The Colonel climbed over more carefully, marveling at the agility of the massive mountain man. He hurried to catch up. Together they strode over to a seedy, lanky man who was bent over near a rickety barn, cleaning the hoof of a cranky-looking sorrel horse.
“I be lookin’ for some horses, friend,” Squire said to the man, who had his back to him.
“You’ll have to wait till I’m finished up here with this old horse I’m workin’ on. Yep. Got to,” the man grumbled. He did not look up.
“That horse’ll keep,” Squire said calmly.
“You don’t like it, mister,” the man said, not lifting his head, “take your business elsewhere.”
Squire grabbed the scrawny man by the back of the shirt and hauled him around as if he were a child. “I told ye that horse could be waitin’.”
The man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to speak. The sheer size of Squire gave him pause. “Sure, sure,” he finally squawked. “It can wait. I got all day for it.”
Squire gently placed the man back on his feet. Safely on the earth, the skinny fellow whipped off his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead, then plopped his tattered felt hat back on.
Squire looked at him, something tugging at the back of his mind, as if he knew this man somehow. The man was in his late thirties, maybe early forties—it was hard to tell—of no more than average height, and thin as a rail. Like his Adam’s apple, his cheeks were prominent, jutting out from his face like the prows of miniature ships. The lips were thin, and bloodless, and his sweat-stained hair scattered all over his head. The eyes were much like Squire’s—faded blue and set deep in the head. There were wrinkles around the eyes, but they were not the wrinkles of age so much as they were from a life spent in the sun.
Squire decided he did not know this man, but he knew scores like him. Men who made their living wrestling with nature and animals—whether horses or mules or beaver, it did not matter. And something in this scrawny man’s eyes made Squire think that the man had been in the mountains before.
“Name’s Homer Bellows,” he said with a forced smile. “Ya said ya needed some horses? How many? Three? Four? I got ’em. Sure do.”
From the beaver pelt sack that hung around his neck and rested at his side, Squire pulled a pouch. He reached inside. His sausagelike fingers extracted a twist of tobacco. He bit off a chunk and chewed
slowly.
“I be needin’ more’n sixty of ’em,” he said, speaking around the wad of tobacco swelling up his cheek. “And I be wantin’ good ones, mon ami, not like these here sacks of bones I see standin’ round just waitin’ for the buzzards to get hungry enough to come get ’em.”
Bellows stared up at the big man, recognition dawning in his eyes. It had to be—there could be only one man this big wandering around. It would not do well, he thought, to cross this man, if he truly was Nathaniel Squire. To do so would be to court a painful death. He gulped, then said, “That there’s a tall order, friend. But I think I can do ya proper. Yep. I got more horses out where there’s grass for ’em.” He jolted to a halt, worried still.
“Let’s be lookin’ at ’em, then,” Squire said patiently.
“What’s your names?” Bellows asked. He nervously saddled three horses.
“I be Nathaniel Squire,” the big man said. Bellows, who had his back toward Squire and Melton, smiled, having had his suspicions confirmed. “And this here be Colonel Leander Melton, leadin’ the brigade we be takin’ to the mountains.”
“Pleased to meet you boys. Yep. I sure am.” Some of the fear slipped away from Bellows as he worked. Squire did not appear to be quite the demon his reputation had him painted as.
Bellows finished and the three men rode out to the pasture, not more than a mile away. “There they are,” Bellows said, pride evident in his voice.
A youth trotted over on foot. “Ah, is you, ’Omer,” he said in a stiff French accent.
“Oui, Pierre. We come to look at the horses. Yep.”
“Oui, monsieur.” He trotted back over to the tree under which he had been sitting, proud that he had been so vigilant as to have been awake when his boss rode up.
Bellows shook his head, knowing what the youth was thinking. “We got horses of all shapes and sizes and colors,” Bellows said, turning toward Squire. “One thing I’d best tell ya, though. Some of them horses ain’t broke. A few’s ready, and some’s been taught a bit, but a heap of ’em ain’t broke at all.”