Wind River

by Charles G. West

  “Welcome, neighbor. What can I do for you?”

  Squint stood in the doorway for a few moments before his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. He found himself in one large room with a counter running the entire width. The room was divided by some blankets hanging from the ceiling. These served as curtains to separate the store from the saloon so the womenfolk from the wagon trains could come into the store part without feeling like they were going into a saloon. He glanced back at the woman who had greeted him. She was a large woman, dressed in a man’s shirt and pants tucked into a pair of mule skinner’s boots. Her hair, blonde at one time in her life, was streaked with gray and piled up on her head in a knot. Her smile was cheerful enough as her eyes sized up the large mountain man standing in the doorway.

  “How do, ma’am. I got me some pelts I’d like to get rid of. I figured I might have to go back to Laramie to trade ’em. Tell you the truth, I didn’t think Bisonette would still be standing. I didn’t reckon on two trading posts at Deer Creek.”

  The woman’s smile broadened. “Mister, you’ll do better trading with us than toting them furs all the way back to Laramie. I reckon we’re giving one or two cents a pound more than you could get back there and a penny a pound better than Bisonette. My husband does the trading. He’d be glad to take a look at ’em.” She waited while Squint pondered the offer.

  “Well, I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to hear his price.” He wanted to get rid of the furs as soon as he could because his bankroll was down to small change and he sorely needed some things. He didn’t have much confidence in himself as a horse trader and he didn’t want to get taken on the price of his winter’s work, but it would be nice to have some cash.

  “Mott!” she bellowed and, in a moment, a gnarly-looking little man pulled the blanket aside that separated the store from the saloon. Upon seeing Squint standing in front of the counter, he walked over beside his wife.

  “Yessir?” He smiled up at Squint with stained teeth that told of long years of chewing tobacco. “What can I do for you?”

  Mrs. Mott spoke up, “He’s got some furs you need to look at. I told him you’d give him as good a price as he could get in Laramie.”

  The little man grinned and scratched his bald head. “I reckon I better.” He winked at his wife. “He’s a big’un, ain’t he?” Turning back to Squint, he asked, “Where you got ’em?”

  Squint motioned toward the door. “On a mule out yonder.”

  After a few minutes’ dickering, the trade was made. The furs didn’t bring as much as Squint had hoped for but, then again, he had already resigned himself to getting the short end of the stick from Mott. He didn’t care as long as he got enough to take care of his needs for the time being. He had a line of credit and a little bit of cash to buy a bath and a drink of whiskey.

  After the trading was all done, Mott and Squint settled up and Mott returned to the saloon side of the building. “Bring some of that cash money over here,” Mott called back over his shoulder before he slid through the blankets. “I got some honest-to-God drinking whiskey all the way from St. Louis. The first one’s on the house, since you’re a stranger here.”

  “I reckon I’ll be over there soon enough but first I want to get me a hot bath and change into my clean clothes.”

  Mrs. Mott walked over to the back door of the store and called a boy of about ten or twelve who had been busy chopping firewood. “Lemuel, heat up some water and fill the bathtub for this gentleman here.” Turning back to Squint, she said, “The bath is twenty-five cents. That includes use of the soap and towel. You can take your horse and mule around back by the bathhouse if it’d make you feel better. I don’t reckon anybody’d bother ’em though.”

  Squint smiled. “Much obliged but I ‘spect they’ll be safe enough. That ole mule is a mite particular about who steps up on Joe.” He paid the woman and went outside to get his saddle pack and rifle. Then he headed for the outbuilding the boy carried the water to. In the middle of the yard there was a huge iron pot sitting over a fire. The boy was dipping the hot water from it for Squint’s bath. It appeared the pot served more than one function. Squint guessed it was used to wash clothes and probably as a catchall during hog killing too. “Don’t get it too hot, son. I just want a bath. We ain’t scraping no hog’s hide.” The boy didn’t answer. Grinning shyly, he continued filling the bathtub, a huge wooden affair with metal bands around the staves. When the temperature suited the boy, he handed Squint a big brown bar of lye soap and showed him a towel hanging on a nail. That done, he left the big mountain man to his bath.

  Squint scrubbed six months’ worth of grime off his body. The soap was so strong his skin burned all over but it felt good to be rid of the dirt. He laid back and relaxed and enjoyed the soak. As large as the big wooden tub was, it wasn’t built for the likes of Squint, but it did the job as far as he was concerned. He propped his feet up on the edge of the wooden staves and let the warm water soak in. He didn’t realize he had dozed off until he was awakened by a voice behind him.

  “I can throw these things in the wash pot if you want me to.”

  He was startled to find Mrs. Mott standing almost beside the tub, his dirty underclothes in her hand. She laughed at his embarrassment when he hurriedly tried to cover his nakedness. The bathwater was so gray, she really couldn’t see anything anyway but he was still flustered to find her so oblivious to his privacy.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t cost you nothing. I’m getting ready to do a load of Mott’s and I’ll just throw yours in with his.” She walked around the tub to face him, as unconcerned as if she was making polite conversation with him on the front steps of the church.

  “Why, I . . .” he started, stammering for words. “Why, thank you kindly. I reckon they could sure use it.” He felt the flush in his face receding as she stood there smiling down at him. Hell, he thought to himself, if it don’t bother her none, it don’t bother me.

  “You ’bout ready to get outta there?”

  “I reckon.”

  Still smiling, she reached over and pulled the towel off the nail. He expected her to hold it out to him so he could cover himself but she just held it and waited for him to get up and reach for it himself. He began to feel the embarrassment creep back across his face. When she didn’t make any effort to display discretion, he began to realize what was going on. As he slowly stood up and reached for the towel, she confirmed it.

  “I reckon you been up in them mountains for quite a spell,” she started, making no effort to disguise her interest in his physical inventory. “A man more than likely needs more than a bath and a drink of whiskey. Two dollars more will get you what you need.”

  There was little doubt about what she was referring to but he was still not sure whether she was soliciting business for herself or for some half-breed girl and he wasn’t sure he would pay two dollars for an Indian unless he saw her first. Seeing his hesitation, she guessed what he was thinking.

  “I don’t make that offer to just anybody. I’m particular about that.”

  Damn, he thought, so it is her own behind she’s selling. He said, “What about your husband? Ain’t you a mite worried about doing it right under his nose?”

  “Mott? . . . Nah. Mott don’t mind. He knows I pick up some extra money ever now and then, when it suits me.” She laughed at Squint’s obvious expression of bewilderment. “Hell, he had to pay for it hisself the first time before we got married.”

  Well, if this ain’t somethin’, he thought as he considered the proposition. As he dried himself, conscious now of the shriveled state of his weapon from the long soaking in the bathtub, he attempted to cover his nakedness as much as possible. As he did so, he took a closer look at the formidable figure of Mrs. Mott. She was big, he decided, bigger than she was fat. It might be more like wrestling a man than making love to a woman. Still, her shirt seemed to be filled up around the chest and her hips were pretty tight in her skinner’s pants. The idea was getting more appealing by the second. />
  “You’ll dang sure get your money’s worth, if that’s what’s bothering you.” As she said it, she unbuttoned her shirt far enough to give him a glimpse of the merchandise she was offering. She was pleased to see that the gesture was not lost on the burly man cowering behind the towel. “Man like you ain’t gonna get many chances to get on with a white woman.”

  “What the hell,” he said, but even that was unnecessary. A noticeable stirring beneath the towel gave her evidence enough of his warming to the idea. She immediately went back to work on the rest of her buttons. At the same time, she reached back with one booted foot and kicked the door shut. He was amazed by the swiftness and efficiency with which she came out of her chothes. As was the case with her outer garments, she wore a suit of men’s long underwear underneath. Over in a corner of the room, there was a rolled-up pallet that he had not noticed until that moment. She unrolled it and tossed it on the floor. He watched wide-eyed as she peeled off her underwear. She looked even bigger with her clothes off, but she was solid. There was no flab on the woman’s body, he had to give her that. Her skin was as white as a bucket of fresh milk except for her neck and arms, which were tanned from the prairie sun, indicating to Squint that all her time wasn’t spent behind the counter in Mott’s.

  Squint had been with Indian women too long. He was amazed by Mrs. Mott’s alabaster skin. But the thing that amazed him most was the size of her breasts. The last thing he had seen that size was a watermelon in St. Louis six or seven years ago.

  “How you want it? On top or Indian style?”

  “On top, I reckon.”

  “Good. I favor it that way myself.” She took his hand and led him to the pallet. Still holding his hand, she laid down on her back and assumed the position. “Come on, honey,” she cooed, her voice taking on a new, feminine softness. At this point, he was more than willing. Still, for some reason, he was reminded briefly of the last time he saddle-broke a green mustang.

  Before diving completely into his work, he glanced over his shoulder toward the door. “What if somebody comes in? Your husband or the boy?”

  “Don’t fret yourself about that. Won’t nobody come in when that door’s shut. The boy knows better and, if Mott comes barging in here, he knows I’ll kick his scrawny little ass for him. You just relax and give me all you got. I don’t want you to think you didn’t get your money’s worth.”

  He did. And she was right, she gave him his two dollars’ worth. At one point in the merger, she could have demanded more money and gotten it. When it was over and she had all but destroyed him, he lay in her arms like a sick puppy and she purred over him for a few minutes before announcing that she had chores to get done. Drained of energy, he sat and watched her as she quickly got back into her clothes and opened the door. “Lemuel!” she bellowed out the door. “Come empty this tub.” Turning back to Squint, she winked and said, “Don’t spend all your money on whiskey.”

  Now that he was all scrubbed down and properly relaxed, he decided it was time to have that drink of liquor. When he walked back through the store, Mrs. Mott greeted him from behind the counter as casually as you please. It was as if the session in the washhouse had never happened. He had halfway expected some little sign from her, a secret smile, a wink, something. But it appeared to him that she had put the business out of her mind.

  “Your clean clothes will be done this evening, Mr. . . . I never did get your name . . .”

  “Peterson.”

  “Mr. Peterson. Well, anyway, I’ll leave ’em under the counter here. You can pick ’em up when you’re ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” He pulled the blanket aside and entered the saloon part of the building.

  Two men stood at the bar. Squint immediately figured them to be from the wagon train camped nearby. The proprietor of Mott’s was behind the bar and he favored Squint with a wide grin.

  “Well, sir, I reckon you ought to be feeling a lot better.”

  “I reckon,” Squint replied, watching the bony little man intently for any move that might seem suspicious. Maybe his wife was telling the truth when she said that Mott wouldn’t object to her roll in the hay with any stranger she fancied. But then, maybe he wasn’t as generous with her backside as she imagined. If he objected, he sure covered it well.

  “Did the missus take care of you all right?”

  The question caused Squint some amount of confusion. He didn’t know quite how to answer. Surely Mott didn’t know for a fact the extent to which his wife had seen to Squint’s needs. “Why, yessir,” he stammered, “I reckon she did.”

  “Ain’t she something though?” Mott beamed proudly.

  Squint, not wishing to pursue the matter any further, changed the subject. “Have you got any whiskey that’s fitten to drink? I ain’t talking about that stuff you sell the Injuns when you ain’t dipping sheep in it.”

  One of the men at the bar laughed. He had been eyeing Squint intently since he came in. He had obviously seen mountain men before but not often one the size of Squint. Squint turned to study the two men. The one who had laughed looked harmless enough, a farmer was Squint’s guess, probably on his way to find his paradise in the Oregon territory. His companion was a strange little man in an Eastern style beaver hat, one that had seen a great deal of prairie sun. His face, though pleasant enough, was red but not from the sun.

  “Join me in a drink?” Squint offered when Mott, still grinning, produced a bottle from behind the counter.

  The man who had laughed at Squint’s earlier remark spoke up, “Thank you, sir, but I’ve had my limit. If I take another shot of that stuff, I might not be able to make it back to the wagon. Thank you just the same.”

  The one wearing the beaver hat moved over beside the big man, “Aye, I’ll be happy to join ya, sir, but only if you’ll permit me to buy your drink.”

  Squint looked at the little man for a moment. From the sound of his brogue, he figured him for an Irishman and one not long off the boat. He grinned and motioned for Mott to fill the glasses. “I tell you what, Mr. Mott here already told me the first drink was on the house. You can buy the second one. Then, if we’re still standing, I’ll buy the third.”

  “Spoken like a real gentleman,” Beaver Hat replied and lifted his glass. “To your health, sir.” He tossed the shot of whiskey down, closing his eyes tightly in order to contain the tears the fiery liquid spawned.

  Squint hesitated but a moment while he held the glass up in front of his eyes. It had been a while, he thought, as he peered intently at the amber liquid. He wet his lips and anticipated the libation about to be enjoyed. Then he tossed it back. The wicked concoction hit the back of his throat like a hot coal, seeming to tear the lining from his esophagus as it went down. He stood there gasping for breath, tears welling in his eyes, fighting to keep from going blind. He tried to speak but could not utter a sound until some of the fire subsided in his throat. When finally he could, he simply exclaimed, “Damn!”

  “Smooth, ain’t it?” Mott asked expectantly.

  Beaver Hat laughed, enjoying the huge man’s reaction. When Squint looked to be recovered from his first drink, the little Irishman offered his sympathy. “It’s the devil’s own piss, I’m thinking. It takes a little getting used to, but after a few gallons of the stuff, it’s like drinking your mother’s milk.” The Irishman almost giggled at Squint’s obvious distress. He stuck out his hand. “Me name’s Waddie Bodkin and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . .”

  “Peterson,” Squint managed to rasp. “Squint Peterson.”

  “Well then, Mr. Squint Peterson, are you ready for your second drink?” Squint would have sworn there was a twinkle in the little man’s eye as he glanced at Mott, who held the bottle poised over the empty glasses.

  “I reckon I am. I expect that first one has eat its way through my gizzard by now.” He snorted and wiped his sleeve across his nose, which had begun to run after the first drink. “I got to have at least one more because I don’t
believe that first one burnt as bad as I remember.”

  Waddie Bodkin waved his hand over the glasses. “Mr. Mott, if you please. This one’s on me.”

  It didn’t seem possible but Squint would swear the second one burned deeper than the first. After a few moments to recover from the shock to his throat, he began to feel the warmth generated in his stomach. Realizing he was drinking on an empty stomach, he resolved to hold it to three drinks. Three drinks of that poison was enough anyway, he decided. He had no desire to see the contents of his stomach spew out of his mouth and a few more shots of that fiery brew were bound to lead him to that. It would have been impolite not to stand for the third round so he bought it but he nursed this one along slowly, only sipping it. His need for strong spirits satisfied for the moment, Squint settled into conversation.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Squint, where are you headed for?” Waddie asked.

  Squint scratched his beard, trying to remember. “Well, to tell you the truth, I ain’t sure. Maybe Fort Laramie, might try to hire on with the army as a scout, I ain’t decided. I’ve spent the last few years up in the Wind River country, trappin’, and I know the country better’n most and the Injuns better’n some.”

  Waddie studied his new acquaintance carefully, plumbing the depth of the mountain man’s character. They talked a while about the mountains and the Indians and then some about Waddie Bodkin’s home in Ireland. Waddie had left there on a boat bound for Boston, two years ago. Like his father before him, Waddie was trained as a bookkeeper.

  “What in hell is a bookkeeper doing out here?” Squint wanted to know.

  Waddie shrugged his shoulders. “Like everybody else, I suppose, I’m just looking for something better.”

  By the time it got around to suppertime, the two had become pretty good friends and, at Waddie’s suggestion, they collected Squint’s belongings and went over to Waddie’s wagon to rustle up some grub. Supper turned out to be some soup beans Waddie had boiled that afternoon. While they ate, Waddie explained that the wagon train was stalled there at the crossing, waiting for an army escort to see them through to Fort C. F. Smith.