Time was, when there were no strings on his heart, Titus worked those freezing months in the high-country streams so he could reward himself with a good time once a year or so at summer rendezvous, maybe afford a new shirt or a pair of those fancy black-silk handkerchiefs, besides his necessaries. But a man didn’t work just to make a living … that made him nothing more than a slave to those who bought the fruits of his labor.
Now there weren’t that many buyers left. And what those few buyers were paying for plew wasn’t near enough to make a good living for any man daring to wade around in icy streams. Beaver was gone belly-up. Buffalo hides brought a squaw far more than the labors of any trapper. Buffalo better’n beaver? These mountains sure as hell had gone crazy!
Any man with a tin cup full of beads, a few hanks of silk ribbon, or a dozen packets of vermillion could talk a back-broke squaw out of a buffalo robe … when a man had to work hardscrabble in finding a likely stream with good sign, choose where to make his set, wade out crotch deep to pound in his trap stake, then wait before he would return to learn if his efforts had been rewarded or not.
But with buffalo, all a nigger had to do was trade off a few cheap geegaws for a winter-kill’t robe!
Maybe there was a chance the Bents or other traders on east of the mountains would give him a fair enough price on his beaver that he would not have to return home to Crow country empty-handed come autumn. He sure enough had time to pull out in the morning, tramp south to avoid those low passes still clogged with snow, then swing back north again along the Front Range—getting back home to her in good time before she’d start to fret and worry.
Perhaps when he got back home, he might even trade away some of that foofaraw he bartered off the traders for a few robes from the Crow women up in Absaroka. He could carry those robes over east to Tullock near the mouth of the Tongue—
What a chuckleheaded fool he was! Caught himself scheming how to become a robe trader on his own hook. No sense in sinking that low. A man had his pride and self-respect. A man had to earn himself a living … not live off the sweat of others.
But, this raid on California might well be the last shining chance to rear its head up in the middle of the twisting path that was his life. In dimly remembered years gone before he had recognized that first great opportunity when it stared him in the face near Rabbit Flash, Kentucky. Eagerly he seized that chance to escape the life of a farmer, to float down the great rivers all the way to New Orleans—to grapple with life on his terms.
But once in St. Louis he had all but smothered that fire in his breast out of fear or not knowing, worse yet—out of self-doubt. Another opportunity beckoned, standing squarely athwart his path, seductively beckoning him to the Rocky Mountains if only he dared to stare Lady Fate in the eye.
When he lost hair and was left for dead in those shining mountains, lesser men would wisely have chosen a different path from there on out. And when he learned that three former friends had stolen everything from him, lesser men would never have set out to put things right, or die trying. Later when an old friend killed a chief’s wife and Bass was handed the task of bringing back the hair—most men, lesser men to be sure, would have ridden off and never come back.…
Over and over life had laid obstacles and opportunities in his path, to do with either as he saw fit. And here at Fort Uintah as the raiders gathered before setting off for the California missions and ranchos, Lady Fate was beckoning to him once again. Luring, enticing, seductive in her sloe-eyed, half-lidded come-hither of an unflinching invitation. Ride to California and bring back his share of the horses he could then sell to the highest bidder. Just as things had been with beaver in the heyday of the fur trade.
He could turn his back on what might be this one last chance before these mountains changed forever … turn his back, ride away come morning, and wonder for all the rest of his days what might have been for him and those he loved.
But, Titus Bass had never shirked opportunity, or flinched in the face of challenge. As one of the last hardy holdouts, he had ridden down the moon on the beaver trade. What more was he expected to do, after all? This raid could bring him the wealth that had eluded him for all these seasons. But to make it, he had to put up with Philip Thompson.
“That who I think it is, Peg-Leg?” the tall, rawboned Thompson asked as Bill Williams’s newcomers stepped into the post square.
“Who?” Smith asked.
“That one.” And Thompson pointed arrogantly at Bass.
Most of the other trappers eased aside, left and right, so that no one stood between them now.
“Shit, Phil,” Dick Owens replied dumbly. “You know ’im. That’s Bass. He was with Walker, Meek, and the rest when they come to steal back your horses an’ kill you few winters back.”
“I ’member that!” Thompson snapped as he came to a halt about four paces from Titus. “I remember saying I figgered the whole shebang weren’t worth killing a white man over … but this here nigger said he’d gut me if he had the chance.”
Williams stepped into that dangerous ground between them. “There was a fire lit under all of us that cold day. No use bringing it up again—”
“There’s only one other nigger I wanted to get my hands on as bad as I wanted to get my hands on Joe Walker,” Thompson admitted with a grumble. “The white nigger who made them Yutas turn away.”
Titus said, “Ol’ Bill never told me you was carrying a tumble grudge for me after all this time, Thompson.”
“Only against Walker for calling me out,” Thompson confessed.
“But you allays talked ’bout Bass in the same breath as Walker,” Dick Owens disclosed.
“That’s right,” Thompson said. “I carried a sour belly for saying you’d gut me if’n you had the chance.”
“We all had bad feelings back then,” Smith explained. “But now we’re going to California together so we’re peaceful—”
Williams interrupted, “Out in California both of you can shoot your share of bean-bellies to get it out of your craws. Just don’t cause me no problems or I’ll leave both of you hanging from a low tree so the buzzards can pick out your eyeballs.”
Smith turned on Thompson. “You wanna back out of our plan, Phil?”
“No,” Thompson replied grudgingly. “I wanna go to California, an’ steal enough horses to make myself a rich man.”
Then Smith turned to Bass. “Awright, Scratch. Do you wanna back out of Bill’s plan?”
Wordlessly, he glared at Thompson a long moment before answering. “I’m riding to California with this outfit.”
“If you’re both coming along, then hear me out,” Smith warned. “You two can either have it out right here and now—get it over and done with so’s one of you is dead on this spot … or, you can swear to me an’ Bill there ain’t gonna be no problems here on out.”
“Why—sure, Peg-Leg,” Thompson vowed. “I figger I can let bygones be bygones with this nigger said he’d gut me first chance he got. I’ll make peace with Titus Bass.” And he held out his hand as he took two steps forward across that open space.
The rest of them waited around Scratch as he stared at that hand Thompson offered. Finally he said, “I s’pose if we’re gonna be fighting Injuns and Mexicans, we don’t need be fighting each other.”
He seized Thompson’s big paw and shook it, looking briefly into those eyes where there really was no warmth. Although Thompson’s handshake was firm, although there was a smile on the man’s face, Titus Bass didn’t believe Thompson meant any of it.
Williams turned to Smith. “Now we got that settled, you come up with some broodmares, Peg-Leg?”
Smith nodded eagerly. “I traded for eight of ’em.”
“Where you get ’em?” Mitchell inquired.
Peg-Leg jabbed a thumb in the direction of the nearby village. “Them Yutas are keeping an eye on ’em till we’re ready to ride off.”
“They’ll keep the foals with them?” Williams asked.
“Y
ep, just the way we planned, Bill. I promised ’em some horses for the use of their mares.”
The bony, angular old trapper turned back to the entire crowd and roared, “Looks like we’ve got a reason to let the wolf out to howl tonight, boys! In two days we’re on our way to California … an’ that means there won’t be no whiskey after we ride outta here!”
It was downright boneheaded of him to expect that no trouble would ignite there inside Robidoux’s stockade after they started mixing liquor with the bold talk of men about to ride off on a daring journey, uncertain of their return.
“Maybeso out to California, we’ll all get a chance to see just how big your huevos are, Titus Bass,” growled Philip Thompson, his tongue thickened by whiskey.
Williams laid a hand on Bass’s forearm without saying a word. After a moment, Titus slid the arm out from underneath the hand.
“You wanna know how big my eggs are, you don’t have to wait till Californy,” Scratch shot back. “S’pose you come find out right now.”
Thompson took a swig of his whiskey, then dragged the back of his hand across his lips. “I don’t figger neither of us is in any shape to have at each other right now, ol’ man. Better we square off when we ain’t been drinking.”
“In the cups or not, you’re a yellow-backed polecat, Thompson.”
The taller man bolted upright, wavered unsteadily a moment as he rocked on the balls of his feet, preparing to lunge across the circle for Bass, when two others caught him by the arms.
“Lemme go!” Thompson snarled as he flailed at those who held him prisoner. “I’m gonna tear out his gullet with my own hands!”
“You heard ’im. Let ’im go,” Bass echoed as he stood and adjusted his belt, his left hand brushing the handles on both knives where they lay tucked at the small of his back. “Man wants me to kill ’im here and now—I’ll oblige the nigger.”
Thompson’s face grew red with more than the flush of whiskey. “Y-you’re the one’s gonna d-die tonight!”
Smith came up to stand in front of Thompson, who danced from side to side as far as he could to keep his eyes on Bass.
Peg-Leg said, “You’ve had more’n your fill of whiskey this night, Philip. G’won to blankets and sleep it off—”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I get my hands on that ol’ nigger!” Thompson roared, trying to shove Smith aside.
“I said go to your blankets,” Smith repeated, seizing Thompson’s shoulders in his hands. “Either you go on your own, or your friends can drag you off.”
“No one’s gonna drag me off!”
Scratch hollered, “I said let ’im go so we get this done here and now!”
That’s when Williams stepped in front of Bass. “The son of a bitch gets heavy in the horn when he’s in the cups, Scratch,” Bill explained in a sharp whisper. “He goes and sleeps it off, he won’t even remember any of this.”
“Trouble is—I’ll remember,” Titus warned.
“You ain’t nowhere near as drunk as him,” Williams declared. “Man with as much savvy as you oughtta know he should play out a little more rope for a horse gone wild.”
Bass wagged his head, saying, “One of us gonna get kill’t—”
“First off I’ll kill you, Bass!” Thompson screamed. “Then I’ll go find Joe Walker, Meek, and them others!”
With a sigh, Williams said, “Tell you what, Scratch. You swear to me you’ll lay back and not pull on Thompson’s short-hairs … and I’ll promise you I’ll watch your back till we get out of California and back across the desert.”
“Then what?” Titus asked in a harsh whisper, his eyes glaring at the howling Thompson, who was wildly flailing his arms around.
“Come then … I’ll let you do what you want with the bastard,” Williams vowed.
“Why don’t I save us a lot of time and trouble,” Scratch snorted, “and just let him take me on right now.”
Williams clamped onto Bass’s upper arm and squeezed down hard. “I need Thompson. He’s been to California with Peg-Leg and me before. ’Sides, if’n I throw Thompson out, he’ll take near all the rest of these fellas Peg-Leg had waiting for us here. We can’t do California ’thout Thompson.”
On the far side of the circle Titus watched an increasingly angry Smith suddenly swing an arm back and backhand Thompson. But that only made the drunk madder, lashing out with a foot at the wooden peg leg. Smith pivoted swiftly, then stepped close as he yanked out a belt pistol and cracked Thompson on the temple. The drunk sank between the two men struggling to hold him on his feet.
“Get him back to his blankets!” Smith grumbled. “I don’t wanna see any more of him till morning.”
“His time’s coming, Bill,” Titus reminded the older man.
Williams nodded. “Just say you’ll wait till we get to California and back across that goddamned desert.”
“Maybeso I should just leave off and go my own way.” Bass whimpered with regret that he’d even come this far. Staring in the eye what lay ahead from here on out.
“You didn’t ride all this way with me just to turn back now,” Williams argued. “You gonna try to find beaver this time o’ year? It’s the goddamned high summer, coon! Naw—you come this far with me because you knowed you wanted to do it. Maybe do it for your woman. Maybe do it for your own self. I don’t figger you for one to pull out now.”
He wanted to tell Williams he was wrong, wanted to shout it into his face … but the old trapper could likely see right through him—and already knew why Titus Bass had come this far.
“Awright,” Scratch finally said, some of the tension seeping out of his muscles. “I’ll walk wide around him … for now.”
“That’s all I ask, Scratch. Comes to Thompson and his friends, I promise you I’ll watch your back till it’s time for you to settle this between the two of you.”
“I’ll get my robe and blanket, leave the stockade,” Bass said quietly before he started away. “Better I go bed down somewhere else for the night.”
6
With Bill Williams and Thomas Smith at the head of the column, the twenty-four men put Fort Uintah behind them. Titus Bass rode with those who brought up the rear with those eight broodmares, hanging off to the left where he and his own animals wouldn’t have to eat so much of the dust kicked up by all those hooves.
The stars twinkled faintly in the sky, and the moon would still be some time in setting as they took off down the west bank of the Green River. At their backs rose the Uinta Mountains, their peaks mantled with white as summer had yet to begin. Ahead stood a broad plateau* that took on wondrous colors with the coming of the sun—smeared yellow, red-orange, and vibrant crimson too. The Green twisted and screwed its way through that barren escarpment, a land of stunted cedar and piñon joining the ever present sage. Until they began to ascend the heights into that plateau’s canyonland, the raiders would run across small herds of buffalo. But once on the other side and dropping to the Colorado River, the shaggy beasts would be no more. This would be their last chance to make meat.
Williams had them put into camp early that first afternoon. Their animals had yet to be hardened to the sort of trail that would become commonplace in the weeks ahead. And they needed to kill, butcher, and dry some meat for the lean times that were sure to come.
Three of the others who had been recruited by Peg-Leg were more than willing to mess in with Scratch. After making camp, they remounted with Bass to ride west into that short-grass country slashed by a maze of shallow washes and flash-flood erosion scars. Far ahead of them to the west lay the snowy heights of the Wasatch Range. All three of these companions had served the last years of the beaver trade with American Fur brigades, ofttimes with Jim Bridger leading the way. But this trio shared something much more indelibly in common with Titus that convinced him the three were good men to stand at his back no matter what might rear its ugly head on the coming adventure in California: They were counted among those who had managed to walk away from Henry Fraeb’s fig
ht against the Sioux and Cheyenne on the Little Snake the year before.
They hadn’t covered many miles under a graying sky before running across a small herd of less than a hundred beasts nestled down in the cleft at the foot of the plateau. The bulls hung together in three bunches, grazing at the outskirts of the scattered herd. The cows and yearlings dotted the center of the lopsided bowl where the first of the red calves were dropping to new, lush, emerald grass watered every afternoon with the arrival of a brief, harsh thunderstorm.
Since trading his roan off the Shoshone late last summer, Scratch had discovered his saddle horse was not trained as a buffalo pony. No matter, he had reflected several times since. Here in his forty-eighth summer, he damn well didn’t relish running meat anyway. Besides, the wind was favorable. Coming out of the west. In their faces. They could do with a stand.
“Better we hobble the horses yonder in that brush and make our creep up that draw,” Bass suggested.
Elias Kersey nodded, his now faded top hat wagging, and all three dismounted with Titus, leading their saddle horses and pack animals into the shadows of the coulee. Quickly tying them off nose-to-nose, two-by-two, the four trappers emerged from the mouth of the draw in a crouch.
Scratch stopped them with a signal, then whispered, “Maybeso, we’ll only get one shot apiece when the guns go off—if’n they set to a run. Best you boys make your one shot count.”
“Just like shooting them Sioux,” Jake Corn whispered with a grin that warmed his whole face. His cheekbones were so high they gave his eyes such an Oriental slant that upon meeting last summer Scratch had first believed Corn was a half-breed, Canadian-born Frenchman. He was instead a river-bred Cajun with a dusky drop of Creole blood in his veins.
Without another word the four fanned out, waddling away in a crouch from one clump of brush to the next, slowly working their way into killing range on the cows and yearlings. If nothing else was handy, a bull would do. But the cows made far better eating, especially when they would be drying wide strips of their tender meat for the trail ahead.
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