He glanced behind him at the two riders following him with the packhorses they led. The three of them carried enough guns to discourage any Indian raiding parties they might encounter on their way to find Joe LaPorte. The packhorses carried trade items that LaPorte would use to pay his band of savages—mainly muskets, blankets, whiskey, and gunpowder.
Morgan felt certain that Jim would head west in his flight from St. Louis. So he had checked the docks, asking all the shippers if they had seen a boy of Jim’s description. One had recalled seeing a boy, outfitted with rifle and pack, who had sought passage to Council Bluffs. But his name was not Jim Tracey. According to the boat’s papers, it carried two passengers, named Dees and McCall.
No matter, Morgan thought. Jim would most likely head toward the frontier, and if he did, LaPorte and his Blackfeet would find him. The best place to start looking for LaPorte would be Fort Laramie. When he wasn’t trading or raiding with his savages, he usually liked to hang around Fort Laramie to get away from his Blackfoot wife. Laramie was a busy trading post, with lots of squaws from several tribes—all were welcome, except the Blackfeet, who were constantly at war with most of the other tribes.
* * *
The remaining days of summer dragged slowly by, and the first signs of fall appeared in the trees along the riverbanks. The boiling-hot afternoons gave way reluctantly to cool evenings when Trace could feel comfortable in his deerskin shirt again. By the time Logan confirmed that the settlement beyond the bend was Council Bluffs, the company of boatmen had already seen a light frost.
“Mighty early for first frost,” Rufus observed. “And after a summer as hot as this’un’s been. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we ain’t in fer a hard winter.”
Trace peered up at the sky, looking for signs of winter. Thoughts of mountain beaver streams were racing through his mind, and he felt an urgency to hurry. Trappers would soon be striking out for favorite streams they had scouted out during the summer, looking to trap when the beavers had their winter fur. Rufus could see the excitement in Trace’s eyes when the boy talked about his plans to become a free trapper. He had seen it before, the lure of the far mountains. When it got in a body’s blood, man or boy, there was nothing to do but follow the call.
“I was thinking I might talk you into staying on with me after we git this here load out to Laramie. They’s a heap of folks needin’ supplies out yonder, and they’s more ever’ year. I won’t try to fool you—you ain’t gonna git rich driving mules. But it’ll make you a good living.”
Trace was surprised by the offer. He counted Rufus as a friend by then, but he couldn’t tell him that it might be a little too dangerous for him to be in St. Louis on a regular basis. People were looking for him there, and even if there was not a constant threat from the law and Hamilton Blunt, driving mules was not enough to fill his hunger for the mountains. He expressed his gratitude to Rufus for considering him worthy of partnership, but explained that he had to decline. He had made up his mind to trap, and he had already invested in the equipment necessary for the job.
“I suspected as much,” Rufus said. “You’ve done heared the hawk’s cry, ain’t ye?” He smiled and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I hope you find what you’re a’lookin’ fer. You’re a right smart boy, Trace, and the offer still stands anytime you change your mind.” Rufus didn’t hold out much hope that Trace would change his mind, however. He had seen it before—the lure of the high mountains —and he saw it in this young man’s eyes now. Trace had heard the cry of the mountain hawk, calling out his name, and Rufus knew the boy was bound to answer.
Trace appreciated Rufus’s offer, but he was pretty certain he wouldn’t be changing his mind. He had sorely missed the mountains ever since he left Buck and Frank on the Green River. Maybe he had heard the cry of the hawk, as Rufus put it. Whatever the reason, he knew that the closer to the mountains he got, the faster his heart beat.
As soon as the boat was tied up, they started unloading the cargo. Trace helped Rufus stack his supplies in a big pile by the landing. When it was all on the bank, Rufus left Trace to watch over it while he went to the livery to fetch his mules.
“You better bring more than six mules,” Trace called after him. It looked like an awful lot of supplies when it was stacked up in one pile.
Rufus looked back and laughed. “Oh, I’ll get it all on my mules. Don’t you worry ’bout that.”
A couple of hours later, Rufus returned, riding one mule and leading six others. The two of them set to loading the animals, and when it was done, Trace still marveled that every last bit of the load was securely packed on the six mules. Rufus knew his business. The loads were carefully balanced on each mule, covered with hides, and securely lashed.
There was still the matter of acquiring a couple of horses for Trace, one to ride and one to carry his traps and gear. Rufus took him at his word when he maintained he had the money to purchase his horses. He offered to lend the boy a mule, however, in case Trace might have underestimated the cost. But Trace insisted that he had made provisions for buying his horses, so the best Rufus could do was tell him where he could buy them.
“Now, I’ll tell you who to see. His name’s Gus Kitchel. He owns the stable where I keep my mules. Gus knows horseflesh about as good as anybody in the territory—and I seen some stout-lookin’ stock there this morning. But, mind you, Gus is in it fer the money, same as ever’body else. So keep a sharp eye on him and you’ll be all right. I’d go with ye, ’cept I’d rather a man pick his own horses. I’ll wait here till you get back.”
Trace left Rufus busy making himself a pot of coffee and set out for the stable. It was half an hour’s walk, and along the way Trace ripped the money out of the inside of his deerskin shirt. It was considerably lighter when he put it back on.
Approaching the stables from the corral side, Trace paused to look over the horses before seeking out the owner. After a few minutes, he picked out a couple of spirited mounts that caught his eye. He had just started toward the stable door when it opened and a man walked out to meet him. Trace remembered his mother remarking once that when two people had been married for many years, they often began to look like each other. With that thought in mind, Trace figured that Gus Kitchel must have been dealing with horses all his life. He was a lanky man. A slouch hat was pulled so far down on his head that the brim pushed his ears out to the sides. A face as long as winter featured a prominent nose that ended with a small mouth and no chin to speak of. If there ever was a man with a horse face, Trace was looking at him.
“Hello, young feller,” Gus greeted him. “Rufus said you might be coming by.” He offered his hand and Trace shook it.
“Mr. Kitchel,” Trace acknowledged.
“Rufus said you’d be needin’ a couple of horses.”
“Yessir. I like the look of that bay over there, and maybe that paint.” He looked at Kitchel. “That paint looks like an Injun pony. I don’t reckon he’ll cost as much.”
Gus grinned. “You know good horseflesh when you see it, don’t you, boy? Them’s two good horses, all right. I don’t keep nuthin’ but good stock. I recollect Rufus said you was set on headin’ to the Rockies. Trappin’, he said.”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, then, I think I might have a horse you’d be interested in. Take a look at that blue roan over there. Ain’t that a fine-lookin’ animal?” Trace admitted that it was. “That there’s a mountain horse, trained to work in the mountains. You ride that horse, and you’ll be the envy of ever’ trapper in the territory.”
Gus threw a rope on the roan and led him over to the gate. Trace was no expert on horses by any means, but he looked the horse over as best he could, watching for any obvious flaws. He could find none.
“You won’t have to break him, either. He’s ready to ride.” He pushed his hat back a little and scratched a tuft of sandy-gray hair. “Now, to be honest with you, son, I’d have to ask a little more for that horse than the paint. You w
as right, the paint is an Injun pony, and this here roan comes from purebred stock. But you’ll thank me for it when you’re climbing them high mountains.”
Trace decided to trust the man’s word, and he made a deal for the blue roan and the bay. Gus, to show his heart was in the right place, threw in a saddle and bridle and a coil of rope. The saddle was old, but Gus had put a new girth strap on it. He picked up the saddle and threw it on the bay. “Best ride the bay a day or two. He ain’t been rode in a while and might need a little smoothin’ out. The roan’ll take the lead line all right.”
Gus held the bridle while Trace climbed aboard. The bay stamped his hooves and sidestepped a few paces, but settled down quickly enough. Trace took the lead line from Gus and headed out the gate, leaving the horse trader to count his money.
The bay felt good underneath Trace. He fell in with the horse’s gait right off, and when he nudged him with his heels, the horse responded without hesitation. Trace was relieved. In hindsight, he knew he should have ridden the horse before he bought him. But now he felt confident and ready to head back to the mountains. He had never owned a horse before, and he couldn’t suppress the pride he felt as he loped along the narrow wagon road. Looking behind him, he felt an added satisfaction at the sight of the blue roan, its head high, tugging at the rope.
After admiring Trace’s newly acquired horses, Rufus got on his mule and led the string out on the trail. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and Rufus decided they might as well get started. Leading the blue roan, Trace brought up the rear. They rode until dusk before making camp by a small stream.
The next day Trace saddled the roan. Gus had advised riding the bay for a couple of days, but Trace decided the bay wasn’t as rusty as Gus figured. The roan was a handsome horse, broad and muscular, and as gentle as Gus had promised. Trace’s spirits were soaring as he followed the mule train all day. In the late afternoon they reached a wide creek where Rufus said he always camped on his way to Laramie. There was still considerable daylight left, but Rufus said there was no good water for half a day beyond, so they made camp early. Trace, impatient with the slow pace of the mule train, longed to feel the wind in his face with a good gallop. He pulled the roan around the mules and kicked his heels. The horse did not respond right away, and Trace had to kick several times more before the roan made a move. Finally he took off at a hard gallop, Trace yelling and spurring him on. He pulled him up hard at the edge of the creek, and the roan slid to a stop in the soft sand.
Trace dismounted, whooping and laughing, full of the thrill of a fast horse. Then just as quickly, he stopped laughing. Something was wrong with the roan. Trace would almost swear he saw the horse stagger before walking to the edge of the water. Trace watched in shocked confusion as the horse, wanting to drink, could not because it was wheezing too hard for breath. When Rufus came up with the mules, he found Trace puzzling over the animal.
“Well, I’ll be. . .” Rufus started. “That horse’s wind is broke. He’s been rode into the ground.”
Trace stood staring at the tortured animal. “No wonder he wanted me to ride the bay for a couple of days.”
“That damn Gus bamboozled you.” Rufus quickly added, “Could of happened to anybody, Trace. There wasn’t no way to tell, without you riding him hard like that. That damn Gus—probably figured you wouldn’t do more than walk behind them mules.” He shook his head as he walked all around the wheezing horse. “He might be able to walk all the way to the Pacific Ocean. But if you git jumped by any Injuns, you might have to ask them to chase you at a walk.”
Trace felt sick inside. It was hard for him to go to sleep that night, thinking about the money he had thrown away, getting taken for a greenhorn as soon as he set foot off the boat. He had worked hard for that money, and his father had died for it.
The morning air was cool when Rufus threw his blanket back and sat up. There was a soft mist rising from the dark water of the creek that gave the cottonwoods on the far side a veiled, ghostly appearance. He stretched and yawned. “Time to git up, Trace.” There was no answer. He looked across the smoldering campfire and saw that Trace’s blanket was missing. Finding that strange, he got up and looked around. The boy had gone. His pack and his horses were gone as well. Well, I’ll be . . . lit out on me. And I never heard a thing.
* * *
Gus Kitchel pulled his boots on over his long johns and headed for the stable. He paused outside the little one-room shack he called home and broke wind, applying sufficient pressure to obtain the desired resonance. Satisfied, he continued to the stable. He barely glanced toward the corral when something caught his eye. “What the hell. . .” he muttered. The blue roan was quietly standing in the corner of the corral.
Confused, he stood there staring at the horse for a few moments before going into the stable. He pushed the door open wide enough to step through and then turned to close it. When he turned around again, he was met with the barrel of a Hawken rifle only inches from his long nose.
“God a’mighty!” he blurted, his heart in his throat. “Hold on!” He backed up against the closed door. “Now, hold on a minute, son. I didn’t mean to cheat you, I swear. Take any horse you want, just take it easy with that rifle.” Trace did not reply, but continued to hold the rifle on him. “You can have your money back. I won’t even charge you for a different one.”
Trace finally spoke. “I don’t want my money back. “You’re the only thief around here. I’ll pay for my horse.” He stepped back to give the trembling man a little room, the Hawken still leveled at him. “Now go throw a rope on that paint.”
Gus didn’t have to be told twice. He cut the paint out from the other horses and slipped a rope over its head, all the while throwing cautious glances at the determined young man still holding the rifle on him. He nodded toward the bay tied to a post near the barn. “You want me to tie this’un onto the saddle?”
“No, just give me the rope and open the gate,” Trace said.
When he was mounted, he walked the bay toward the gate, where Gus was holding the paint’s lead line. Taking the rope from the terrified man, Trace nudged the bay lightly and rode out the gate. Gus Kitchel stood by the gatepost, shaking his head, thankful to still be alive.
Rufus Dees woke up the next morning to find Trace rolled up in his blanket on the other side of the fire. “Damn,” he mumbled, “I didn’t even hear him come in.”
CHAPTER 7
Rufus led the way, following the Platte River to Fort Laramie, a journey he planned to make in two weeks or better. Trace rode behind on the paint, leading the bay. He had assumed that Rufus would want him to lead three of the pack animals while Rufus led the other three. But Rufus insisted that the mules would trail just fine. They had done it many times before. This suited Trace, as it afforded him an opportunity to occasionally string the bay behind the last mule, leaving him free to range out to the sides and work the paint a little.
Trace was satisfied that he had bought two good horses with his money. He found that while the bay was as good a horse as a man could hope for, the paint was the more nimble of the two. In a race, the bay might nose ahead of the paint after a mile or so, but the paint would beat the bay out of the gate and could cut as quick as a rabbit. Riding across the endless expanse of prairie, Trace was soon free of worrisome thoughts of the Blunts and St. Louis. The only things that occupied his mind were the horizon before him and the river that led to the mountains.
On the third day out, Trace spotted a Pawnee hunting party on the far horizon while he was ranging away from the mules. He quickly guided his horse down into a gully and dismounted. Leaving the paint to nibble at the grass, he crawled back up to the edge to see if the hunting party had spotted him. About a quarter of a mile away, the Pawnees gave no indication that they were aware of his presence. They continued on, riding in a direction that would cross Rufus’s intended trail if they held to it. He looked back to see how close the mule train was. There was no sign of Rufus, but Trace knew he
couldn’t be far behind the slope that he had crossed moments before when he had first seen the Pawnees.
Scrambling back down to the gully, he jumped on the paint and, riding low beneath the crown of the slope, hurried back to warn Rufus. He met him near the foot of the slope, about to lead the mules up it.
“Injuns!” Trace called out as he galloped up. “Keep them mules below the rise.”
Rufus was immediately alert. “Where?” he replied, looking right and left. Trace told him there were about six or seven and they would most likely cross their trail about a mile ahead. Rufus, relieved to find that an angry horde of redmen was not about to descend upon him, slid his rifle back in its deerskin sheath. “Pawnee, I expect—probably a hunting party. We’d best hold up and give them a chance to clear our path.” There was little danger as long as the hunters did not discover their presence.
During the days that followed, there were a couple more incidents when small hunting parties were sighted at a distance. Trace always seemed to spot the Indians before they saw him, and Rufus soon came to appreciate his sharp-eyed young friend. Each time Rufus had made the solitary trek to Fort Laramie in the past, he never failed to count himself a fool for making the trip alone, counting on sheer luck to save his neck. He truly wished the boy would consider throwing in with him, even though that would make the trip only one shot safer. The safest thing to do was to wait until a sizable train made up in Westport or Council Bluffs, with twenty or thirty teamsters for protection against the Pawnee and the Sioux. But that was not Rufus’s style. He was an independent businessman. This way he could make a trip whenever it was convenient for him, and he had always felt that a smaller train like his would be less likely to attract the attention of a large hunting party. Small parties of five or six hunters did not cause him concern. He carried two rifles and two pistols, enough to discourage a party of that size.
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