Trace bade them farewell early the next morning with the customary exchange of cautionary advice to watch their scalps. With a fresh breeze blowing off the river, he set out for Blackfoot country.
CHAPTER 3
Buck Ransom sat on his horse and peered at the gathering of tipis on the creekbank. Clustered among the trees, the lodges were hard to identify from the ridge where he sat, so he prodded his horse and circled around to the south, keeping the ridge between himself and the Indian camp. Working up along the creek from the south, he moved up closer until he reached a point where he could get a clear view of the lodges.
He was on his way back to Promise Valley after a trip to visit his old friend Jim Bridger at Jim’s fort at Black’s Fork of the Green River. He had not encountered any Indians until now, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to return to his cabin in Promise, so he decided to have a look at this camp. It might be that he could spend a little time visiting, if they were a friendly band.
“Snakes,” he murmured. “Ol’ Broken Arm’s bunch.” He recognized the markings on the lodges, having spent some time with them at the last rendezvous held on the Green. Friendly enough, he figured, at least enough to sit down and have a squaw rustle up some supper for him. He rode out of the trees and approached the camp in the open, so the Snake warriors could clearly see him.
Recognizing the old trapper, Broken Arm himself walked out to welcome him. “Ransom,” he called, “what brings you to this part of the country?”
Buck dismounted and clasped the old chief’s arm in a gesture of friendship. “On my way back to the Blue Mountain country,” Buck answered. “Been visitin’ a friend of your’n, Jim Bridger.” Buck knew it never hurt to drop Bridger’s name—he was a big friend of the Snakes.
Broken Arm smiled and nodded his head. “Ah, Bridger. How is he? I have not seen him for many moons now.”
“Why, he’s passable, I reckon. He speaks often of his friend Broken Arm,” Buck lied.
“Come, we will sit by the fire and smoke. My daughter will get some food for us.” He led the way toward his tipi. Buck followed, leading his horse, exchanging polite greetings with some of the small crowd that had gathered.
Buck and Broken Arm sat beside the fire, smoking a pipe and talking. While they discussed the availability of game and the recent wars between the various tribes, Broken Arm’s daughter came from inside the tipi and placed a pot of meat on the fire to boil. Her eyes averted, she did not acknowledge Buck’s nod of recognition as she hurriedly prepared their supper. Buck remembered the girl—Blue Water was her name—and a right handsome maiden she was. As he recalled, she was the little Snake maiden who had seemed to be quite taken with his young friend Trace McCall—and had, in fact, figured in the trouble with Joe LaPorte.
Buck watched her as she moved quietly about the fire, tending the boiling meat, still keeping her eyes down when Buck looked directly at her. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught her staring at him when she thought her father wasn’t watching. She’s shore findin’ somethin’ curious about me, he thought. Maybe she remembers I was with Trace at that rendezvous.
He started to say something about the rendezvous on the Green River, but just then a small boy—maybe five or six years old—appeared out of nowhere and stood by Blue Water’s side. Buck couldn’t help but notice the striking resemblance between the girl and her son. But his features were also reminiscent of someone else, someone white, and without being told, Buck knew he was looking at Trace McCall’s son.
“Leave us now,” Broken Arm said, motioning for the child to leave.
Buck wanted confirmation. “That’s a fine-lookin’ boy there. Who is he?”
Broken Arm shrugged as if it was of no significance. “He is my daughter’s son.”
“Where’s his father?”
“It is not polite to speak of the dead,” Broken Arm answered, reluctant to discuss it, but after a moment he said, “His father was Eagle Claw. He was killed in the war with the Gros Ventres.”
This was not the answer Buck had expected. He would have bet money that the boy was half white, and he was the spitting image of Trace McCall when Buck and Frank Brown had first found Trace. Well, it ain’t the first time I’ve been wrong.
Old Broken Arm insisted that Buck should stay the night in his tipi, and Buck was more than happy to accept. They sat before the fire and talked of the old days when beaver was plentiful and when the trappers of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company worked the streams and rivers on both sides of the Rockies.
When Broken Arm finally announced that it was time to sleep, Buck, stiff from sitting so long, got up and stretched his back. “I reckon I’ll take my horse down to the creek to give him a drink of water,” he said and left the firelit circle, disappearing into the darkness. When he returned, Broken Arm’s family was preparing to retire for the night. Blue Water, two older women Buck assumed were sisters of Broken Arm’s late wife, and the boy all laid out sleeping robes around the perimeter of the tipi. A buffalo mat was spread out for Buck opposite the women, and he laid his bedroll on top of it. Blue Water ignored him, turning her back and apparently falling quickly asleep. When Buck looked over he encountered the wide-open eyes of the boy, staring at him. He winked and the boy smiled, then turned over and went to sleep.
Early the next morning, Buck awoke and looked around the tipi. Everyone else was still asleep, so he roused himself as quietly as he could and tiptoed outside. He walked down by the creek to relieve himself and to sprinkle a few drops of water on his face to chase the sleep from his eyes before returning to get his possibles packed to leave.
“You are Trace’s friend?”
“Damn!” Buck uttered involuntarily. The woman’s voice had come from the willows directly beside the path to the creek, startling him so much that he jumped. Damn Injuns, he thought, embarrassed to have been unaware of Blue Water’s presence before she spoke. When his heart settled down again, he answered her. “Yessum, I’m Trace’s friend. I was wonderin’ if you was ever gonna recognize me.” Then, seeing her puzzled expression, he repeated his words in her tongue.
She nodded excitedly. “Is he well?”
“As far as I know, he is,” Buck answered. “I haven’t seen him in many moons now. He lives alone in the mountains.” Buck had some curiosities of his own to satisfy, so he questioned her. “I don’t mean to offend you by talking about the dead, but Broken Arm said your husband was killed. Is that true?” She nodded, then dropped her eyes to look at the ground. He reached out and gently raised her chin, looking into her eyes. “That boy, he’s Trace McCall’s son, right?”
She nodded slowly. “I was carrying Trace’s child when I was wed to Eagle Claw. He was a good man, and accepted the child as his own. Now the boy has no father, but my own father has taken him under his wing.”
Buck had figured it right all along, and he didn’t have to think too hard to realize why Blue Water had given no sign of recognition in Broken Arm’s presence. Old Broken Arm may have been friendly toward a few white men—Buck himself and Jim Bridger in particular—but he wasn’t too fond of white men in general. He didn’t trust most of them, and Buck could understand that the old chief would have been pretty upset to learn that his daughter had borne a white man’s child.
“You must not tell my father that we spoke of this,” Blue Water cautioned.
“I know,” Buck replied.
“Does Trace ever talk of me?” she asked, her dark eyes searching his.
“Oh, yessum, he does,” Buck quickly responded. “He was quite taken with you—talks about you a lot.” Then, realizing he had slipped back into English again, he answered her question with a simple “Yes.” Buck had no knowledge of whether or not Trace ever thought about the pretty Indian girl. He never talked about her, but Trace never let on to anyone what he was thinking, anyway.
His simple answer seemed to please her, for a soft smile appeared upon her face. “Tell him that his son is strong and smart and will be a fine yo
ung warrior some day.” She gave Buck’s arm a little squeeze, then turned and was gone.
So ol’ Trace McCall’s a daddy. Ain’t that somethin’? Then Buck wondered if he should tell him or not. It might be best if Trace didn’t know about the boy. On the other hand, Trace had a right to know. Maybe I’ll tell him—if I ever see him again. I’ll think about it and decide later.
When Buck returned to Broken Arm’s tipi, Blue Water and the two older women were busy preparing food for him. Blue Water, as she had done the night before, did not look directly at him as she busied herself with her chores, then retreated to the tipi until he left. Buck said his good-byes, took his leave of Broken Arm’s camp, and set out for Promise Valley.
* * *
Trace McCall knelt in the tall grass on the hillside, watching the seemingly endless herd of buffalo as it spilled out of the shallow draw and spread across the open prairie. Like a dark, rolling carpet, they covered the uneven ground as they bobbed and bumped along, all following one lead bull. Trace was in no hurry to make his kill. He would wait until the lead bull turned the herd toward the stream below him. Then he would work his way down the slope to a point where he would be close enough to use his bow. There had been a great deal of Indian sign in the Yellowstone country lately, too much to risk using his rifle. He suspected that a Sioux hunting party was waiting to ambush this same herd, probably no more than half a day’s ride ahead of him. He had seen their scouts the day before as they followed the herd to make sure the massive beasts had not altered their pattern. Trace knew the Sioux would be near the river where the bluffs were steep, waiting to drive the confused animals over a cliff. It was late in the season, and the tribe wanted a large kill so they could store enough meat and skins for the coming winter. Trace’s needs were on a much smaller scale. He required only one good-sized cow to replenish his meat supply and fashion a new robe for protection against the winter cold.
He tested the wind again to make sure it had not shifted. Satisfied, he pulled the wolf pelt over his shoulders and, crouching as he ran, moved quickly down along the slope. Buffalo have keen eyesight and miss very little around them. But Trace knew they were accustomed to seeing wolves following their flanks, and as long as the herd was bunched together, the buffalo would not be bothered by a single wolf.
Just as he figured, the herd turned and headed for the stream. As the lead animals thundered past the foot of the hill, Trace positioned himself on a knoll that afforded him an almost point-blank shot from above. His arrows ready, he set himself ready for the shot, waiting for the right animal. He soon spotted a cow the right size, but he waited, his bowstring drawn, the ground trembling beneath him as the sea of buffalo rumbled by him. She had a calf following her—good-sized, yet probably a spring calf and not old enough to fend for itself—so he spared the little one’s mama. There were buffalo as far as the eye could see. He could afford to be selective. No need to make the little fellow an orphan.
He didn’t have to wait more than a few seconds. He released his arrow, and it found its mark behind the lunging beast’s front leg. She dropped like a stone. He waited for a few seconds while the river of animals veered away from the fallen cow. Then he placed another arrow in the wounded animal’s side. She did not attempt to get to her feet but lay still, her heavy breathing and glazed eyes the only indication that she was not dead. In a few minutes the dark, rolling sea flowed past the foot of the hill and swept over the next rise, leaving Trace alone with his kill. She was done for, but still dangerous, so he moved to end her misery quickly and with caution—one toss of that massive head could throw a horse ten feet in the air.
After retrieving his horses, Trace worked quickly to skin the buffalo and take the cuts of meat he wanted. He did not want to linger in this open country any longer than necessary. As he butchered the cow and packed the meat on his horse, he was reminded of Buck Ransom and the time many years before when his old friend had shown him how to butcher his first buffalo. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Thoughts of Buck naturally led to thoughts of Jordan Thrash and his daughter, Jamie. Trace paused for a moment while he formed a picture of the young girl in his mind. He knew that Jamie would have married him if he had asked, and on occasion he had allowed the notion to wander across his mind. Although he admitted to having strong feelings for the girl, he could not honestly say he loved her enough to tie up her life. When it came right down to the gristle of the matter, the call of the mountains was too strong to allow him to think about settling down with a wife. It left his mind in quite a quandary because he could not really say he had a strong desire to see her again. He was aware of her feelings for him, but he found it difficult to think of her in the same way.
Then he thought about the feeling of desperation that swept over him when he had first seen the cultivated land around Jordan Thrash’s cabin in the little valley they had named Promise. The sight of groomed earth almost always caused him to feel a sickness in his stomach and renewed his craving for the mountains. He paused once more and took a long look around him to make sure he was still alone on the prairie before permitting his thoughts to wander again to the folks in Promise Valley.
A dozen families, most of them from the wagon train, had settled in Promise Valley. To Trace’s surprise, even Buck had staked out a piece of the valley for himself next to Jordan’s. Reverend Longstreet, who had captained the wagon train, cut out a piece across the river from Jordan. Farther up the valley, Travis and Nettie Bowen had settled, and next to them an old trapper named Slim Wooten had decided to try his hand at farming. Trace smiled when he thought of Slim—ol’ Slim had spent too many years roaming the mountains to be content tied down in one place. Reverend Longstreet was determined, with help from the Good Lord, to build a town in Promise. Maybe so, Trace thought, but there’s a helluva lot of Injuns thereabouts that might not be looking for neighbors.
Still, if folks were determined enough, they could stick, no matter how serious the threat of Indian trouble might be. Promise was settled mostly by hardworking, God-fearing folks who might not be experienced fighters. But they had good leadership in Reverend Longstreet and experienced Indian fighters in Buck Ransom and Slim Wooten.
Trace pictured the valley in his mind with thirty or forty more families settled there. It was not an image he particularly liked. Then the face of Jamie Thrash formed in his mind and he dwelled upon it for a moment. Jamie’s face gradually changed, taking on a darker, more rounded image. Her light-brown hair turned to midnight-black, parted in the center with braids down to her shoulders—and he realized he was thinking of a young Indian girl of the Yahuskin people, known to the trappers as Snakes.
Blue Water was her name, and he had to admit she might be another reason he felt hesitant about settling down in Promise Valley. Theirs had been a brief encounter, but one that would bind them together for as long as he had memory. Old Broken Arm, her father, had taken her away during the night, fearing a union between his daughter and a white man—but not before the two young lovers had come to know each other’s passion.
Trace often thought about Blue Water and that night of magic on the banks of the Green River. Sometimes when seated before his lonely campfire at night, he could recall the soft, smoky scent of her dark hair and the warmth of her young body. As he thought about that time, years ago, he unconsciously fingered the otter-skin bow case and quiver she had made for him. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be married now if Blue Water had not disappeared in the night. He was young, and she had taken him to a place he had only dreamed about before. Sometimes the knowledge of that made him sad, for he had always thought that she could have come to him if she’d really wanted to. Then his thoughts flashed back to Jamie, and he once again contemplated the prospect of settling down in one place. He didn’t spend more than a moment’s thought on it before concluding that he was not ready to leave the mountains—and wouldn’t be for a hell of a long time.
CHAPTER 4
Jamie Thrash stare
d critically at her image in the small looking glass, one of the few things she had saved that had belonged to her mother. Holding the mirror’s mother-of-pearl handle in her right hand, she moved the glass up and back, to each side, turning her face at first one angle and then another. She was not entirely satisfied with the reflection she saw, although she knew she was far from homely. Her father, and even Buck Ransom, constantly told her she was pretty. Still, it would have pleased her had she not inherited her mother’s button nose. She unconsciously placed her left hand on the tip of her nose, grasping it gently with her thumb and forefinger and pulling on it as if to make it longer. When she saw how ridiculous she looked in the mirror, she made a face and stuck out her tongue. “That’s for you, Trace McCall,” she said, then immediately wondered why she had said that.
Trace McCall. It had been several days since she had brought that name to mind. When she and her father had first reached Promise Valley, not a day passed that she didn’t think about Trace, wondering where he was and what he was doing—and when he might come back. She had gotten better about pushing thoughts of the tall, sandy-haired young man out of her mind, telling herself that it was foolish to pine for someone who was carrying on a love affair with a bunch of mountains. She felt her face flush in a fit of momentary anger. To hell with him! I’m not waiting around for him to come to his senses. He can marry one of his damn mountains. Now she glared at the image in the mirror as if daring it to contradict her. But she knew inside that she would probably wait around for Trace to marry her until she was too old to care—and that made her mad, too.
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