Hart the Regulator 10

by John B. Harvey

  But he’d stuck and when it was over (for then: if it would ever be over) and the men were shouting and bragging and drinking, he’d felt different. Sure, they blasted all hell out of the painted bastards! Sure, they’d stood together an’ seen every charge come to nothing. Hadn’t they gone through that timber like an army, driving out everything in sight?

  No, they hadn’t: a rumor that another eight hundred Blackfeet were approaching had been enough to make the trappers withdraw and at that point the Indians had slipped away and the battle had faded to an inconclusive end.

  No one was saying that, not during the celebrations. There were hunks of cow meat to eat, sizzling hot and still tasting of blood. Any amount of raw corn whiskey to drink. One of the men broke out his fiddle and another found a three-string banjo and pretty soon a few of the men who came from the Appalachians were step-dancing while the rest whooped and hollered. A big, red-haired, red-faced man went weaving and swaying in between the dancers, whirling a Blackfoot scalp round his head and shouting: ‘I tickled this bastard’s fleece but good!’

  Thinking back on it now, sitting there under his shelter of skins, Aram knew the foolishness of it. Blind stupidity. At the time he had been sucked in and likely would be again if it ever happened. Now, though, the big companies no longer kept armies of trappers working the rivers. Now it had gone back to a clutch of men working alone, selling what they caught for themselves and getting little enough for their labors. One half-year rendezvous after another there were less of the old boys there; more and more the meeting at Fort Bent or Fort Laramie was a telling of tales of them as had passed on. And each time Aram looked around for the youngsters who were coming to the life as he had done: and each time they were not there.

  He felt old and strange, almost extinct. Like the buffalo. Like the beaver. Something he recognized as civilization was spreading fast and wiping them all out.

  It was what his brother had always said, but what he knew of Jedediah, the way of life he’d made for himself, was little improvement upon what Aram had up on the Platte. Build a place and stock it with a wife and children, cattle and hogs.

  There was a moment, drawing hard on his clay pipe, when Aram felt a loss of what he’d never had: his own flesh and blood. As he felt that the memory of Rebecca rushed back to him like the fall of water down a mountain cliff in sunlight. The child, no higher than his knee, running towards him, black hair spraying around her face, arms reaching out till he caught her and swung her high in his arms.

  Aram could feel her tiny, bird-bone body, the warmth of her breath on his face and neck, the scream of fear and excitement as he whirled her around and around.

  He set down his pipe and stood up.

  Old fool that he was, sitting there and making himself homesick for what was never his home. Feeling regret for kids he’d never had. Never wanted. Just a stupid old fool!

  Aram looked around his camp sight, then up at the sky. The clouds were getting that much lower every day, dull and gray and heavy like they was laden with snow. He looked west beyond the Laramie River and the fort that of course he couldn’t see – the tops of the Rocky Mountains were white and getting whiter. Pretty soon South Pass would close and there’d be no one else journeying through from the Colorado River, the Great Salt Lake. All the old rendezvous were out there, scattered beneath those snow-topped peaks: Henry’s Fork, Bear Lake, Cache Valley, Green River, Pierre’s Hole, Popo Agie River – Aram swung his head slowly from the south-west round to the north, remembering.

  To Hell with it!

  There was work to be done before the snow came. One of his snowshoes wanted mending; the sewing on the birch bark canoe needed resealing with pine pitch; his leggings were beginning to split at the seams. Let him get to it and enough of this foolish day dreaming. Let him get to it now!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fort Laramie had begun life as a way station in the eighteen thirties. Originally it had been used by the Rocky Mountain Fur Company for their caravans of wagon and pack mules and later it was used by the American Fur Company for the same purpose. The original building had been fashioned from timber, a log stockade which provided protection for those inside its surrounds. This was replaced in the early forties by a thick adobe wall, which was extended when the Army took over the fort in forty-nine. Inside the walls was a fair-sized barracks, cabins for the officers and their families, a warehouse and armory, a double corral, a billiard room and two bars and several trading rooms.

  Despite the fact that the Army maintained a company of men stationed there, the fort was to some degree open to civilians and a large amount of the trading that went on within its walls was conducted by folk whose connection with the military was simply that of money or goods.

  When Wes Hart rode through the tall gates under the watchful eye of the sentries, there was nothing out of the ordinary about his arrival. He had his Indian blanket draped over one shoulder and spread wide to cover as much of his chest and back as possible; a scarf was tied over his hat and under his chin, pulling the brim tight to his ears; scuffed leather gloves retained some feeling in his fingers. The mare’s breath went before her like furls of silver-gray. He didn’t seem any different from any other lone rider seeking warmth and something warm for his stomach, maybe someone to talk to, a place to throw down his blanket and feed his horse.

  It wasn’t long before he was standing with his back to the stove in the suttler’s store, enjoying the warmth that was slowly coursing back through his body. All the way from South Pass the wind had threatened strong and there’d been more than a hint of snow in the way the clouds hung low over the peaks to either side of his trail. If he was going to get Aram Batt out of there before the weather closed them in, he didn’t figure he had more than a couple of weeks, three at the most. There should have been longer, the trapping season had more than twice that time to go but no one had bothered to tell that to the sky.

  Course, he could put up at the fort and wait for Aram to come slowly in, pack mules laden with furs behind him. Thing was, if he did that they’d be forced to winter where they were and there’d be little chance of getting back to Fallon before the spring thaw.

  Hart had spent his time with the army and he wasn’t about to volunteer for more. He didn’t think the hardtack that passed for food in winter would have garnered any more taste or become any less stale. He could still remember the sergeant down in Apache country who splintered his two front teeth right across biting down through the day’s chow.

  No, he wanted to find Aram and argue him out. He’d even considered taking him out at gunpoint if the trapper refused to see reason - though if he did that the chances of his getting a rake-off from the proceeds of the will were less than healthy.

  Not for the first time, he wondered why he’d taken the job at all. Some girl with strange staring eyes and her brother who’d shot and killed a sheriff when he was drunk and would just as happily do the same to Hart if he ever got a gun in his hands. He wasn’t even getting paid for certain; he’d financed the trip on the promise of what he was due for capturing Cherokee Dave Speedmore and his buddy, Thomas. Zack Moses had been pleased enough to trust him for that.

  Not for the first time, he asked himself what there was in Rebecca Batt’s eyes that reminded him of Kathy. The way he’d seen her accusing him in his dream. Dark eyes boring and burning. The letter that had finally caught up with him and that he’d torn apart and never read. He hadn’t helped her, hadn’t even bothered to find out what she’d wanted, and now he was helping Rebecca instead.

  Hart clapped his hands together behind his back and rubbed at the fingers. He’d been standing long enough; it was time get to work, ask questions. He bought himself a regulation tot of liquor to warm his insides and set to it.

  One man passed him to another and eventually he was sitting on a molasses barrel across from a gnarled-faced old timer who went by the name of Wolf. Called that, one of the others had said, on account of he ain’t never had enough to e
at - if that was the truth, Wolfs skinny frame hardly bore it out. Under the worn and greasy hide leggings and fringed buckskin jacket, he didn’t seem a lot more than skin over bones. His face had sunken in at the cheeks and the hairs of his scrappy beard were almost pure white save where they were stained with tobacco juice and spittle. His eyes had faded almost away.

  ‘Aram Batt, you say. What you waitin’ that old buzzard for?’

  ‘D’s that matter?’

  ‘Sure enough does. Young feller like you, wearin’ a gun like that you got there. Maybe Aram’ be best off if you never find him.’ He chuckled a little and a line of saliva started to run from one corner of his mouth. ‘Never took to other folk much at the best o’times, did Aram.’

  Hart shrugged. Outside he could hear the orders being barked out on the cold air as the wood patrol set out. ‘Got news for him. Message from kin.’

  Wolf chuckled again and wiped at the spittle with the back of his hand, smearing it through his beard. ‘Mister, you sure ain’t Wells Fargo!’

  ‘Never said I was.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You know him good?’

  ‘Trapped with him maybe seven, eight seasons. Run them blasted savages out o’ Pierre’s Hole when we was both wet an’ slippery back of the ears. Yeah, I know him.’

  ‘Okay then. He had a brother, Jedediah, settled over to the west of here. Family. Eldest son called Jacob. They sent me after him.’

  ‘You said he had a brother?’

  ‘That’s right. Died an’ left Aram money. All he’s got to do is ride back with me to collect.’

  Wolf allowed himself another laugh and scratched at something that was biting at his scrawny leg under his leggings. The patrol wagons trundled towards the gate, dogs running after them across the parade ground and yelping.

  ‘Don’t know how much money it is, mister. But it’s got to be a whole lot before Aram’s gonna ride anywhere with you. I’ll tell you that.’

  Hart shrugged: ‘That’s up to him. All I’m paid to do is tell him what’s his due. Rest is up to him.’

  Wolf looked at Hart through his weakened eyes like he was trying to get a better idea of whether he was likely to be telling the truth. He didn’t want to set his old friend up for some kind of trap; then again, if this feller was telling the truth, he didn’t want to stop Aram from getting enough money to pack in his trappings and live the rest of his life in comfort. Not that Aram would thank him for that though - hell, he wouldn’t have done so himself until a couple of years back when he was forced to admit that his body just couldn’t cope with the life any more. Now he was grateful for whatever came his way.

  He looked at Hart and sniffed loudly. ‘Got a plug of tobacco?’

  ‘I’ll get you one.’

  Wolf nodded, looking embarrassed. ‘Price of a drink?’

  Hart stood up. ‘Whiskey do you?’

  Wolf grinned, gap-toothed and more saliva escaped into his beard. Hart headed towards the bar and pretty soon after he’d come back, the old man was telling him two or three places which Aram favored for his fall season. Hart pulled out a piece of paper and borrowed a stub of thick pencil and, with Wolfs help, drew a map of the area between the North Platte and the Sweetwater rivers. There was an abundance of creeks and most of the area was thick with untouched forest, save for where the army had started making inroads in its searches for winter fuel. There were Blackfeet still there, though their numbers were falling off with each year. Those who remained were living off their wits more than ever and fighting the trappers who still worked the region for whatever was worth catching.

  It sounded like two dying breeds fighting a rearguard action against the inevitable.

  Hart wondered how much persuasion it would take to get Aram Batt to see things that way.

  Aram pushed another piece of wood into the bole of the fire and wriggled it around, watching the heart of it redden and expand as the flames grew stronger and the scent of pine hissed upwards. He squatted back on his haunches and rubbed the tops of his thighs, desperate to rid them of the cold. Hauling traps out of freezing water was something he’d done as a matter of course almost since he could remember. He seen and heard of others going down with attacks of rheumatism so bad they were good as crippled. Amos Jennings one time dragged himself close on three miles with half a dozen beaver on a line behind him, legs so bad he could no more walk than fly.

  He shook his head from side to side and cursed the water and his fool limbs for being so damned weak. Old and weak. That’s what he was.

  ‘That’s what I am, God damn it to hell!’ Aram was standing, trying to ignore the pain in his legs, brandishing a fist above the tree tops. ‘Old an’ weak like.’

  Something came low through the flat sound of his own voice and he stopped short. A few seconds to listen carefully and then he was back in the shantee, lifting the tomahawk from the ground and sliding the haft down into the loop of his belt; knife and pistol were already at his belt. His cold hands gripped the cold barrel of the Hawken and he turned back to the fire. The rheumatism in his legs was forgotten. No point in trying to extinguish the blaze, not now. With a final glance around his camp, Aram slipped out of sight between the tall lines of timber.

  ~*~

  Hart was in the third day of his search of the trapping grounds. So far all he’d come up with was a mess of Blackfeet sign and a line of Newhouse traps set back along a narrow creek that he guessed would eventually empty in to the Sweetwater.

  For the best part of an hour now he’d been slowly closing in on the smoke and scent of someone’s camp fire. The mare was hobbled back on’ the tree line and Hart was soft-footing it over ground slippery with fall leaves that had held their coating of frost. Red and yellow-brown fringed with silver: webs flittered between the black branches of trees like silver rain. He wore his Indian blanket over a wool coat, scarf close round his neck.

  The safety thong had been pushed free from the hammer of the Colt at his hip and the Apache knife loosened inside its boot sheath.

  Every few minutes he paused and listened - the crackling of the fire was just audible now, carried on the wind. Nothing more. The undergrowth was thickening and there seemed to be no sign of life within it. Hart pursed his lips, swiveled his head. Nothing. He didn’t like it, didn’t believe it. Carefully setting one foot before the other he snaked his way towards the faint sounds of burning until he could see the orange glow through a haze of crisscrossed branches.

  He wet his bottom lip with his tongue and almost immediately the moisture froze. He worked the fingers of his right hand, making the fingers move independently, then opening and closing them into the palm as fast as the skin of his gloves would allow.

  ‘Okay, Aram,’ he said inside his head. I’m comin’ in to get you.’

  He moved a yard closer, then another, another. A thick trunk blocked the line of his approach and he changed direction left to pass it. A mesh of branches made him duck low, bend almost double. As he began to straighten he smelt something other than the pine of the fire. He …

  An arm whipped tight about his throat like supple iron and he was dragged backwards. The sudden moving flash of steel and a knife blade dived for his throat. Hart threw himself backwards, the knife slashing inches from his neck, passing over a layer of his scarf without catching. He felt it cut into the weave of his blanket and jammed his right elbow back hard. The grip about his neck faltered but didn’t unlock. He knew the blade was trying for his ribs. He threw up his left arm and went for his attacker’s head, at the same time swiveling fast and trying to turn himself inside the man’s grasp. He used his elbow again, elbow and knee, forcing it between the man’s legs and succeeding in ramming it against the muscle of the thigh.

  He’d lost sight of the knife, didn’t know where it was.

  That bothered him.

  Hart managed to free his left arm and he sent the forearm jarring against his attacker’s chin; his right fist punched with all the force he could muster
into the middle of the face and he toppled back against one of the trees. Hart’s own knife was in his hand and its point was close against the wrinkled skin of the man’s Adam’s apple.

  They stared at one another, both breathing hard.

  It was long moments before either spoke.

  Finally Hart said: ‘Had you for an Indian.’

  ‘I’d been an Indian, you’d’ve been dead.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hart spat grudgingly.

  There was another silence.

  ‘Figured you for Blackfeet, too.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t look?’

  ‘Weren’t about to stick my head out an’ let whoever it was see me first.’

  ‘You could’ve killed me.’

  ‘Should’ve. This time last year I would’ve. Last year, hell! Left three braves dead in the creek less’n a few weeks back.

  ‘Guess I should be grateful?’

  ‘For what? Me gettin’ old?’

  Hart shrugged. The point of his knife was still all but resting against Aram’s throat. ‘Happens to all of us.’

  ‘If I’d done like I was supposed to, wouldn’t’ve happened to you an’ that’s a simple fact.’

  ‘Then I’m glad you didn’t.’

  ‘Huh! Maybe you are. Don’t help me none. S’posin’ you was some Indian sneakin’ round my camp to see what he could steal. I wouldn’t be here now. Not alive an’ talkin’ I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then I guess we both got reasons to be grateful.’

  ‘Huh! Maybe.’

  Hart drew back his arm, turned the knife in his hand and slipped it back down inside his boot. The blade with which he’d been attacked was on the ground close by his left boot; he set the boot firmly on it.

  ‘Who are you anyhow?’ said Aram. ‘What fool business you got creepin’ up on a man that way?’