by John Legg
“Did ya ever find him?” Ransom asked.
“Aye, lad. More’n a mile away he were, I flung him that far. His pelt was so tore up from the fightin’ and the flingin’ that it weren’t worth the takin’. So’s I just took me the claws. Lost ’em to a Shoshone buck whilst I was havin’ me a spree a few years later. Damn, I miss them claws, too. Without ’em, ain’t no one wants to be believin’ my story. ”
It took only a few seconds, just long enough for Squire to chortle a bit, for the others to catch on. They laughed heartily.
“Well, lads, it be time for this chil’ to be rollin’ in his robes,” Squire said. He spit out the remains of his tobacco.
Chapter Fourteen
THREE days’ rest did the men good, and they were more cheerful when they rode out. Except for Strapp and Willis. The former sat uncomfortably on a horse and peered wistfully back toward his broken, abandoned wagon. Though Strapp hadn’t said anything, Squire knew he was a bitter and angry man.
Willis was even more angry. He rode alongside Strapp with a pack horse in tow. He cast frequent glances in Squire’s direction and steadily plotted ways to get back at the mountain man for the pain and humiliation he had suffered at Squire’s hands. His nose was off kilter now, and he had a new bandage of some dirty material wrapped around his head. His eyes over the flattened proboscis were swollen and brightly bruised.
Squire kept a surreptitious watch on the two men throughout the morning—not because he was afraid of them, but just to see if they were planning to cause trouble. They had been talking quietly nearly the whole morning, and Squire had noticed that they frequently glanced around to see if they were being watched.
Near noon, Squire swung around out of sight and headed back to the old camp. He stopped and loosened Noir Astre's saddle. Then he went through the wagon, tossing aside the useless items left behind. It didn’t take him long to find the false bottom, but there were no clues as to what, if anything, had been hidden there. There couldn’t have been much since the space was quite small.
Buried beneath the clutter he found two letters, opened but still in the carefully handmade envelopes. He also found a small notebook filled with the cramped handwriting that he knew belonged to Strapp. There was nothing else that seemed of importance, so he stuffed the letters and notebook in his possible bag, tightened the horse’s saddle and loped back to the others.
He said nothing of his discoveries but kept a close eye on Willis and Strapp whenever he was around them. He suggested that Bellows and Melton do the same. Both nodded, though Melton seemed disturbed to think that Strapp would try something against him.
As they rode along, mile after monotonous mile, Squire spent most of his daylight hours ranging far and wide, searching for meat, checking the trail ahead, watching for water, planning for the night’s campsite, keeping ever-vigilant eyes out for Indian sign.
Abner Train was almost always at Squire’s side these days, joined by Li’l Jim and Benji. And, surprisingly, after a while, Hank Carpenter became a member of the small group.
Train, Li’l Jim and Benji had quickly become adept with their rifles—especially Li’l Jim. Squire began letting them do more of the hunting each day, so that every night there was fresh meat in the camp. Usually it was buffalo, but occasionally it was deer. Meat not eaten right away was made into jerky by drying it in the sun when time was a bit more abundant, or by smoking it over slow fires when they had the wood.
The hides were being saved and tanned. Some would be tanned with the new growth of hair left on to be used as sleeping robes. Others would be cleaned of the curly brown hair and used for clothing or winter lodges. Deerskin, too, would be tanned so that clothes could be made.
All the men but Squire had left St. Louis wearing cloth clothing and leather boots or shoes. A few days out, Bellows had changed from his wool pants and shirt and moccasins into buckskin trousers, a linsey-woolsey shirt and plain, hard-soled moccasins. Squire still wore his fringed buckskin pants and calico shirt, as well as his beaded moccasins.
But this far along on the trail, the other men were looking shabby. Except for Melton, Strapp and Willis, the men had been poorly clad at best to begin with. Their homespun clothes were worn and patched when they began the trip. Now much of their clothing was falling off, torn. Their footwear had worn through in many cases. So they would need well-tanned buffalo hide or deerskin to replace their rapidly disintegrating clothes.
The camp hands had mastered their jobs well, and the hides they scraped free of flesh and fat and then rubbed brains into were rich and heavy and soft. The camps were made and struck with minimal effort. All of it made the going easier. But puzzles still plagued Squire—when he had the time to bring them to mind.
Mostly he wondered what Willis and Strapp were up to. He knew that sooner or later one or both of them would try something against him. He chafed at having to wait to find out what. He considered confronting them, maybe even running them off. Willis seemed competent enough to get him and his companion back to the settlements. But that would leave them short of men, and probably cause a heap of trouble for the Colonel, so he rejected that idea, preferring to wait until they tried something. He was supremely confident in his ability to handle anything the two men would try. And long ago he had learned patience. Those teachings stood him in good stead now.
He also wondered why Train had started asking Carpenter to join them on the daily hunts. At first he thought maybe the good-natured Train was trying to draw the small, quiet Hank out of his shell, but Train’s curious devotion to Carpenter bewildered Squire. While he liked Hank—indeed, the slightly built, soft- spoken youth knew more about tracking than any of the other youths, which earned Squire’s respect—it still seemed mighty odd the way Train seemed to be nearly always at Hank’s side.
Squire said nothing for many days, but finally he knew he could not let the situation continue any longer the way it was. He pulled Train aside one chilly twilight as the men were finishing their chores or setting to their evening meal around the fires.
“Ye seem to be gettin’ mighty friendly with Hank. It be seemin’ some strange to me,” he said, sitting on the rough, brown grass a little away from the camp.
They sat, as Train shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “He just gets lonesome is all. I thought I’d get him with the other fellers more. Maybe help him get some friends.”
“If’n that be the case, lad, ye needn’t be spendin’ all your wakin’ hours with him, helpin’ him, doin’ for him. Hank might be a small lad, but he can be takin’ care of himself. He’s showed that. Hell, he be far better on the trail than most of the lads we got. But I think there be a heap more to it than ye be tellin’.”
Train stared at his toes and mumbled, “There is.”
“Then tell it, lad.”
“I can’t, Nathaniel,” Train said, still looking down.
“If’n there be something goin’ on that I ought to know about, then ye’d best be tellin’ it. Ye be the best I got here, lad, ’ceptin’ for ol Homer, and I can’t set by watchin’ whilst your mind goes wanderin’ off like it’s been doin’ of late. It’s too damned dangerous for e’erybody. Hell, Hank and Li’l Jim have had to go findin’ buff’lo sign for ye more’n once the last couple days. And ye’ve missed several shots, too. That ain’t like ye.”
“You’ve often told me a man don’t ask too many questions of another out here. It might be best for all if’n ya didn’t ask this one. ”
“I ain’t given to pryin’ into a man’s affairs, lad. Ye know that. But this be different. Ye be slackin’ off in your chores, lad, and that touches on e’erybody here. I’d rather be headin’ off trouble now, afore it be too late.”
Train’s shoulders slumped. “All right, Nathaniel.” He raised his head and stared straight into Squire’s eyes. “But ya got to promise to keep it a secret.”
“I’ll be tryin’ to, lad. But I can’t be promisin’. Leastways not till I hear what ye got to say.”
&nb
sp; Train nodded sadly and took a deep breath. “Hank ain’t a feller, Nathaniel,” he said simply, the words coming in a rush. “Hank’s a girl.”
It hit Squire like a club. He gawked in silence, trying to digest the news. Even being surprised by Blackfeet like he had a couple of times had not astonished him as much as the simple statement by his young friend. But the shock quickly wore off, since the information instantly answered many of the questions he had about Hank Carpenter.
“Her name’s Hannah Carpenter,” Train continued after he saw the amazement wear off of Squire’s face. “She’s from out Illinois way,” he added lamely, as if that might help explain.
“Merde,” Squire muttered. “This be a heap of goddamn trouble, and there ain’t no denyin’ it, boy. This chil’ don’t see no good in this.”
Squire sat there silently for a while, trying to puzzle it out and think of what to do. All the while he kept wishing he had done like he always had done—left St. Louis on his own hook, free and easy. He would have met up with old LeGrande somewhere in the Wind River Mountains or the Bitterroots. They could have wintered up, just the two old friends—and most likely a couple squaws—in Cache Valley or somewhere in the comfortable country near the Nez Perces or Flatheads. People were trouble, always were.
He shook his head. “How’d ye find out about her, lad?” he asked. Squire thought that letting Train talk might allow him time to figure out what to do about this. He stroked his beard.
Chapter Fifteen
“YA remember that second time we took us a few days off there, just before we hit the West Fork of the Blue?” Train asked.
“Aye,” Squire answered carefully.
As they had the first time, the brigade had taken some time to rest, make meat and see to the animals. The men made the most of it that first day after they had finished their chores. Nearly all would have fought like wildcats if they were told to take a bath back home, but since Indian Summer had come and the youths were hot and covered with dust, blood, sweat and grease, they could not pass up the opportunity for a refreshing, buck-naked swim.
Most of them had charged down to the small pool that the river left in a wide curve. Squire, Melton, Bellows, a surly Willis, the prim Strapp, and little Carpenter were the only ones who did not head for the water.
Late in the afternoon, when the sky was just beginning to slide from azure into molten purple, and the men were all lazing about, Train headed for the water to fill two buffalo bladders they used as canteens.
Since the men and animals had been using the area of the stream nearest the camp, Train headed upstream about a quarter of a mile, toward a secluded area where the water would be clear and fresh. As he neared the far end of the pool under the cover of the thick stands of willows and cottonwoods and patches of brush, he heard a quiet splashing. He approached warily, heart in his mouth, fearing it would be Indians.
Carefully, he peered through the foliage and stood, dumbfounded.
He could not believe his eyes. He blinked, then rubbed them, but still the vision remained. There was a white woman standing naked, in knee-deep water, furtively splashing herself and rubbing vigorously, trying to scrub away the caked dirt.
Train was transfixed, knowing it was probably wrong to stand and stare like this. But he was unable to move as he tried to sort it out in his mind. There were no settlements for hundreds of miles, and they had neither seen nor heard of any wagons with families in the area. Besides, no families would be out here. The only whites who came this way were men like those in the brigade. No white woman had ever been out here.
He thought he noticed something familiar about the slim, tawny-haired girl in the pond. But he could not puzzle it out.
A lump grew in his throat, and his mouth went dry. He wasn’t entirely innocent, but he’d never seen a totally unclad woman. His heart pounded as he stared at her. She was a vision sent from heaven—or from his dreams. It struck him like a slap in the face: She was all that he could ever desire in a woman. She was fair of face, and her hair, almost golden in the fading daylight, was short. Her slim, though well-rounded figure glimmered alabaster white in the dying sun.
All his doubts about what he wanted in a woman—or women— fled. There could be no more thoughts of varied dusky Indian women. No, standing right here was the woman he desired, and he was in love. Now he had to think of a way to approach her, find out who she was, proclaim his love for her, and try to convince her that he was honorable.
With a last dunk in the water, the young woman trudged to the bank and peered slyly about. She looked guilty and suddenly afraid.
Train stared in rapt attention, his heart thumping so loudly that he thought it would be heard back in St. Louis. He was fascinated as he watched her take some wide strips of buckskin and begin winding them tightly around her chest, pulling them tight to flatten her ripe, rosy-tipped breasts. He stared as she quickly donned the clothing that had been lying on the bank.
“Oh, my God.” It burst unbidden from his lips as the young woman placed the familiar broad-billed cap on her wet hair. “It’s Hank!”
The girl’s head snapped up. She looked like a frightened doe as she stared into the bushes.
Train stood rooted, heart thumping, groin tight. He wondered whether he should speak to her or just stand here and let her walk back to camp. He was sure the young woman knew she had been spotted, and now she would worry that her secret would be revealed.
He mustered up his courage and stepped out from behind the foliage. His heartbeats grew louder, the organ slamming against his ribs. He did not stop until he was only a few feet in front of her.
She glared at him defiantly. “Well, I hope you got yourself an eyeful, you sneakin’ son of the devil.”
Train stood with eyes cast down, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. A hundred phrases bounced around in his brain, but none could make the short trip to his lips. He tried to speak, but the words just would not come out.
“Well, say somethin’, you big dope. Get it off your chest, whatever nasty thing you’d like to say. Go on, say it.”
Finally the words came in a rush. “I . . . You don’t understand. Ya got me wrong. I was just comin’ for water. Then I seen ya. It was an accident. I swear ... I wasn’t spying on ya. Honest. I was just ...”
The girl smacked him hard across the cheek, surprising him with her strength. She reared back for another swing, but he grabbed her wrist. “Now hold on a minute,” he snapped, head swimming from all the strange things he had confronted in the past few minutes. “There weren’t no call for ya to do that.”
“Oh there wasn’t, huh?” She struggled to free her arm, but she was no match for him in size or strength.
“No.”
“Let me go,” she snarled, trying to kick him.
“I’ll let ya go if ya promise you’ll not try to hit me no more. I don’t mean you no harm. I . . .”
“I just bet. I reckon you’ll go runnin’ off first chance and tell all the others. Let me go, goddammit.”
“Do ya promise not to hit me?”
“No!”
“Then I ain’t lettin’ ya go.”
She relaxed, resignation coloring her face. “Well, go on,” she said with a sigh.
“Go on what?”
“Have your way with me. It’s what you want, ain’t it? So just go on and get it over with.”
“What? That’s not ... I don’t want . . . Well, I do, but ... I can’t ... I mean . . .”
Train was thoroughly befuddled. Youthful lust battled with an upbringing that made him respectful of women. And that respect would also force him to tell the Colonel. But, then, he was in love, had been from the moment he set eyes on her.
“I ain’t gonna do that to ya,” Train stammered. “But I got to tell Colonel Melton. This ain’t no fittin’ place for a girl. Ya can’t keep on with us.”
“You snake-eyed son of Satan,” she hissed, sparking a new struggle.
She was wiry and had a strength he
hadn’t reckoned on. Afraid to hit her, equally afraid to grab anything more than her arm, he had his hands full trying to keep her from biting, scratching, kicking and punching. Finally he smothered her in a bear hug, squeezing until she stopped struggling and slumped against him, drained of energy.
Train was suddenly short of breath and his heart slammed in his chest. He looked down at her and saw that she had her head tilted back to stare up at him, her eyes half-closed, her thin lips parted, inviting.
Her thoughts were awhirl. She wanted him, desperately, with a longing that made her nerves sing with the tension, God, how she wanted him, had since soon after they had left St. Louis. But how could she tell him that even now? How could she tell him she loved him more deeply than anything in her short life? How could she tell him that she had tried always riding so that she could watch him, feeling the pleasure of his movements deep in her breasts and between her legs?
She knew she could not. He would laugh at her. Or, worse, reject her after laughing at her. And he would tell the others what she was. Then the others would come around.
Through her slitted eyelids she gazed up at him longingly. It was all so complicated. She wished now that her brother Lute were alive, and nearby. She could talk to him, always could. He would help her. But there was no one. She was on her own, always on her own, ever since . . .
Her thoughts almost overwhelmed her, and she shuddered, reveling in the feel of Train’s strong arms. A small moan slipped past her lips.
Train’s head bent, almost as if it had a will of its own, his lips attracted to hers as if they contained opposite magnets. She did not resist as their lips touched; she just melted into his arms. A shock coursed through Train’s large, youthful frame as he hungrily tasted her mouth, his tongue toying with hers.
The girl groaned as pleasure and desire swept through her. She almost whimpered, and she clutched him with all her might. Suddenly Train pulled back, freeing her. She was reluctant to part. “Good Lord, almighty,” he said through a constricted throat. “What’n hell am I doin’?”