There were several small groups of wagons, one headed south and one west, upstream, in the same direction as the Mennonites. Here and there in the far distance, Zeb could see the outlines of homes, and he heard the occasional guttural calls of cattle, none of which had been there nine years ago.
Evening was closing fast on the day as he followed the river as it sliced through the ponderosa, fir and granite of Pine Ridge. Distant glimpses of the broad gold of the plains swathed in sunset pink and purple began to flash through the canyon.
The next morning, he broke into the scattered timber of the last of the foothills above the flat lands. Buildings and ranch houses had begun to get more plentiful. He began to see one or two every hour. He stayed on higher ground to keep better vantage. By midday, he could make out the faint outlines of far-off clusters of buildings and tents. He reined in Buck, astounded. Though still a half day’s ride away, he could see at least a hundred distant plumes of smoke rising from chimneys and campfires.
Hours later indigo was creeping into the eastern horizon, and the dark cobalt blue of twilight had begun to steal across the undulations of the plains that stretched eastward. Zeb was just a few miles out from the first cluster of buildings to the northeast. He could make out a camp of Arapahoe lodges, and a large village of Cheyenne tipis further north, their tips rising at the confluence of the South Platte and Cherry Creek. The Indians did not bother him but Zeb wasn’t keen on a ride into that many white people at night.
“It’s a damn city,” he complained to Buck. Maybe I should just head down to the Arkansas. Taking out his tobacco pouch, he crossed one leg over the saddle horn and pondered the matter as he slowly rolled a smoke, careful to shelter the loose tobacco leaves from the wind with his hand.
With the cigarette lit, Zeb leaned down and stroked Buck’s shoulder. “Well, fella, we’ve come this far. Might as well ride the last bit in the morning. Besides, we need those fixins.”
He made his fireless camp along some hogbacks, spreading his bedroll on the thin, eroded, red soil and gray, fractured shale between scattered sage, bitter brush and prickly pear cactus.
*****
Morning warmth from a blazing spring sun bathed the settlement as Zeb, Buck and the laden mules cautiously entered the cluster of various types of structures. The changes over the nine years since his last visit were momentous. There were still tents, and disorganized, forlorn wooden structures but two mud tracks had evolved into two, short, dirt streets flanked by several wood buildings hazy with fine low-hanging dust from the bustle of carriages, wagons, horses and people. Several ladies dressed in finery with parasols strolled along wooden sidewalks in front of a brief line of shops and pointed to the windows. There was an air of excitement and energy and a continual stream of human noise that made Zeb uncomfortable, and Buck and the mules jittery. “Like too many squirrels in a tree,” he muttered to himself.
“Hey there, honey,” a shrill voice called out to him from above. “You look like you’ve been out a long, long time. I like mustaches. Need some company?” Zeb glanced up at a pretty, young girl who leaned from the second-story window of a saloon. Clad only in a low-cut bright scarlet bodice, the white swells of the top half of her breasts bulged above the tight fabric. Laughing, she waved and blew him a kiss. Even from that distance, Zeb could see the heavy rouge on her cheeks. “Y’all come back and see me when you sell them pelts, trapper man.” Fixing his eyes back down the street, he grumbled to
Buck, “Womenfolk. I prefer bears.”
Leaning over, he asked a man in a brown silk suit with a matching string tie and top hat, “Ya know Gart’s Mercantile? It’s a tradin’ place that used to be around here somewhere.” Looking up without a word or a break in stride, he pointed his arm down the street, and crossed in front of Buck.
“Friendly fella, ain’t he?” Zeb asked Buck. The mustang shook his head and snorted.
He reined in Buck at the next corner. Another lean, tall, buckskin-clad figure but with a bushy beard, was leaning against one of the uprights supporting the roof over the walkway. Pale blue eyes looked up squinting in recognition. A deep baritone voice boomed out. “Damn, it’s been a coon’s age.”
Zeb smiled. “Jim? Jim Bridger?”
“Damned if I am. Still got that scalp under that coonskin?”
Zeb chuckled. “I ain’t parted with it yet.”
“Looks like ya learned what me and Pierre taught ya when you was a pup, pilgrim. Headed down to get rid of those skins?”
“Yep, plan to trade off these pelts. Need some supplies but don’t plan to stay long.”
Chuckling, Jim reached into his leather shirt and pulled out a suede pouch that hung from his neck, took out a wad of chew, bit off a hearty chunk and offered it to Zeb. “Got in yesterday myself. And I’m leaving early morning. Headed toward the Northwest Territories. These mountains are gittin’ way too crowded.”
Zeb nodded. “I heard you found that new trail that bypasses South Pass on the Oregon Trail. Saves sixty-one miles, I’m told.” Laughing, he added, “and there’s talk they’re fixing to name the new route Bridger Pass. You’re getting to be right famous.”
Leaning over, Jim spit down into the dust. “Them papers back East just love writin’ up stories but I reckon there’s a few folks that’s heard of me.”
“Did you sell pelts since you been down?”
“Yep, just yesterday. Sold the mules too. Seems it’s been a hell of a good year for beaver. Damn skins stacked higher than a tall corral down at Gart’s. I wasn’t none too pleased with the price. But I got all the basics I need for the drift north, so no use crying. Want to have a shot of whiskey with me before I head out? We can catch up a tad. Did ya hear Pierre got kilt?”
Zeb absorbed the news for a moment. He had spent four seasons with the stocky, jovial Frenchman, Pierre. He’d been a good man and quiet too, which had suited Zeb.
“You don’t say. How’d he go?”
“Damn fool Frenchie went out on the grasslands northeast of here. Convinced himself there were bigger beaver. Pawnee got him. That trapper LaBonte found him on his way up to the Laramie’s.”
“Well, I guess we all die someday.”
Jim’s head and shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “Yep.”
Zeb looked down the street. “I best get to going. Maybe the price of these pelts has gone up since yesterday.”
“Not likely. But I wish you luck. I plan on makin’ camp outside of town tonight, mebbe over where Cherry Creek comes out of those cottonwoods east of here.”
“Sounds better than a saloon.”
“Well then, probably see ya round dark. Give a whistle when you come in. I’ll be on the trail early mornin’.”
Zeb smiled, “Yep,” and continued down the street. Finding himself in front of a square, partial brick, two-story building with a newly painted sign, “Gart’s Trading Company and Mercantile” over the front door, he let out a low whistle. Nine years before, the trading post had been tents and a lowly, rambling, wooden structure in danger of collapse. Now just a portion of the old wood building and tent structure remained to one side.
Dismounting, he threw two loops of Buck’s reins around the hitching post, waited for several people to scurry in and out of the door and then made his way into the mercantile. The interior was buzzing with activity. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the odor of new oiled leather, freshly milled tools and implements, gunpowder, candy and solvents. One of the few things I do like about town. Walking over to a long counter on one side of the store his eyes were drawn by newer .44 and .45 caliber Colt Navy, Dragoon, Army and London revolvers in a display case. Brand new Sharps, Springfield and Enfield rifles and muskets were displayed on pegs set into the wall. Kegs of powder, trays of paper cartridges for breechloaders like his, shot and Minié balls filled shelves. Two harried clerks tried their best to accommodate six customers. Zeb lingered by the pistols. They were all percussion, and, depending on the model, had cylinders that held either five or
six shells. He had only seen them twice and had been astounded at how quickly they could fire. He looked down at the two old single shot powder and ball Enfield pistols tucked in his belt, and sighed. Well, we’ll see what we get for them pelts. I’d sure like to have me one of these.
At the opposite end of the counter, a burly red-haired man with a beard barked out orders with an Irish brogue. Walking over to him, the mountain man tapped him on the shoulder.
The man turned, a big smile flashing between the bushy red of his mustache and curly beard. “Zeb, I figured you were dead. It’s been more than…” he thought for a minute “…five years?”
“Closer to ten, Randy. Where’s that brother of yours?”
Randy slapped Zeb on the back, almost staggering him. “That damn scoundrel Mac is now our wagon master. He brings groups of fools west that want to trade decent living for this godforsaken dust and dirt. Getting to be more and more folks.”
“Wagon trains? Where do they set out from?”
“St. Louis. How long’s it been since you been back there?”
Zeb racked his memory. “More than twenty years, I’ll bet.”
“You ought to see that place now. When you went through there as a cub after…” Randy hesitated, “…after the farm was burned out, it weren’t much more than fifteen thousand folks. Now Mac tells me they got more than a hundred thousand and growing every day. If you think this place is getting busy with three hundred white folk and near one thousand Indians, that’s turned into a real damn city.”
Zeb tried to imagine one hundred thousand people in one place but couldn’t. “Ran into Jim back on the street. He said you were buying pelts.”
Laughing, Randy slapped his leg. “And he told you we weren’t payin’ much either, didn’t he? Come on back here; let me show you somethin’.”
Following Randy’s broad back through aisles of goods, they came to two swinging doors, which Randy pushed open. They were in the long low wooden and tent portion of the original trading post. Every wall was stacked with pelts, almost floor-to-ceiling.
Turning to Zeb, Randy waved one arm around the space. He was suddenly serious. “See what I mean. Never seen this many pelts this early. Mac brings ‘em back East on his return to St. Louis. He’s gonna need some extra wagons this time.”
Looking around, Zeb felt his heart sink. Randy read his mind. “As you can see, we can’t pay too much this go-round. And I’m not even sure we’ll get ‘em all back to St. Louis in just one set of wagons.”
Zeb was silent for a minute, twisting the tip of his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Well, what is your top dollar?”
“If they’re good quality, and I’m quite sure yours are, we’re paying twenty cents for each. But I’ll be honest with you, Zeb, if you invest a couple months and head east, you can probably fetch four or five times that, particularly if you beat Mac back with this load. With the winter they had back there, he’s not going to be here until later this month or thereabouts. Won’t head back East with these ‘til July or August. I figure he’s somewhere in the Nebraska Territory right now headed this way.”
Sweeping off his coonskin hat with one hand, Zeb ran his fingers from his forehead all the way through his hair. He put the hat back on. “Let me ponder it some.”
“You do that, Zeb. If you want to trade ‘em here, I’ll be straight with you. But you can get a heap more money eastward. Told that to Jim, too but he was hellfire for headin’ north.”
*****
Zeb could hear the soft cry of loons and sandhill cranes sifting through the twilight, echoing among the thick textured bark of the cottonwoods. Spotting the lonely, intermittent flicker of Jim’s small campfire, he urged Buck purposely toward it.
He whistled the warbling notes of the whippoorwill. An identical whistle drifted back toward him, muted by the trees. As he approached the fire, he saw Jim stretched out, propped on an elbow, one knee in the air. He moved a small skillet back and forth in the flames and the distinct aroma of fresh coffee wafted from the small tin pot propped at the edge of the flames. Both of Jim’s rifles leaned on his bedroll.
Zeb nodded at the long guns. “Mighty jumpy, ain’t ya?” Looking up from the dinner preparation, his friend smiled. “I’m always jumpy when there’s lotsa folks running around.”
Zeb hobbled Buck, set out string lines between two tree trunks and tied off the mules giving them plenty of room to move up and down the rope and graze. He patted one on the rump. “Sorry fellas, can’t take them saddles off tonight.”
Dinner was two fresh trout and a sizable chunk of venison haunch Jim had evidently roasted on a spit for several hours.
“You know Kit got hurt a few years back,” commented Zeb, taking a sip of coffee. It burned his tongue but it tasted better than anything he had brewed in months. “Damn, you always did make the best coffee in the Rockies—but how do you carry that infernal kettle around?”
Squatting, Jim poured himself another cup of the thick dark brew and looked at Zeb with a somber expression. “I heard about Kit. He was huntin’ with you when that horse spooked, wasn’t he?”
“Sure was. Damned mare rolled over him twice. Stomped him up bad. That was five years ago and he’s not doin’ well yet.”
“Bad luck,” Jim replied. “I don’t demand much, old friend. Good pelts, no people, good meat, my women from time to time,” Jim held up the pot, “and great coffee.” He laughed. “Besides, I keep my loose stuff and valuables in it. Don’t take no extra space. Did you see Randy?”
Picking up a twig, Zeb threw it into the fire. “Yep, I did indeed. Sure enough, he can’t pay anything near what these skins are worth. I got nearly nine months in these bundles.”
“Did he tell you about them higher prices being fetched back East?”
“Yep. But that’s too much ride back and forth. It’s more than a month easy, and partly across Pawnee and Kiowa lands with a string of slowpoke mules. Then I get there and have to put up with a big city, full of greenhorns and people, sounds like to me.”
Jim was quiet. The first crickets of the season had begun their melodic rasps. Mingling with the invisible rushing sound of Cherry Creek, their chirps were carried westward to the dark silhouettes of the Rockies by wisps of eastern air wafting off the plains.
Leaning his head back, Zeb looked up at the sky through the treetops. The gentle wave of their budded branches imparted action to countless pinpoints of stars that hung suspended in an inky void of night sky.
“Well, hellfire,” Jim said. “If you really can get four or five times more, what else ya got to do? Gonna be runoff up high. Trapping won’t be good ‘til August or September anyway. Besides, the way I figure, gittin’ that much money for them pelts would be equal to two or three years trappin’ if ya just sold ‘em here.” Pausing, he stared intently at Zeb. “You can’t run away from that past of yours back there forever, old friend. Sometimes you need to go back, face it and be done with it.”
“Maybe so.” Zeb grew silent, weighing Jim’s words. He looked intently at his friend, “How come you chose a different course?”
Staring into the fire, Jim spread the embers with his knife. “Zeb, we may think alike but we’re different. We both like the high country, don’t much care for people, get along okay with most Indians, and are happy alone, just us and the trees. I guess ya heard the wife died. That’s the second wife I have lost. Got hitched again to Wakalalie’s daughter around 1850, a year after I last saw your ugly scar face. Sent some of the young-uns back East to school. My papooses are gonna be smart and proper.” Jim wiped the blade on the top of his leggings, lay down on his elbow and stretched out. “Tell ya the truth, Zeb, I got anxious feet. I always got to see new places. Those Northwest Territories and what they call Montana and that Oregon place and hell, maybe even that big ocean. I just got to see it. You like space too but you like where you’re at. You built four cabins. I never even built one. I’ve made me a lean-to when I have to—stayed for spells with my wives i
n their tipis—and I drop down low for the winter. We’re just different.”
There was a long silence as Zeb contemplated the other man’s words. “I guess it might be like three years of trapping all rolled into one. Probably wind up with enough supplies to not come down for a good long spell.”
“Maybe, and if you can get them ghosts of yours handled, it just might be you’ll shoot two rabbits with one bullet.”
Lying back into the grass, Zeb clasped his hands behind his neck, and stared at the sky. Turning his head slightly, he watched the dim form of Buck as his muzzle routed tender green grass shoots on the sun side of a big cottonwood. He questioned the gelding silently, Up for a long ride, boy?
Turning back to Jim, he raised himself up on one forearm. “Those’re good thoughts, Jim. I reckon I just might head St. Louis way in the morning.”
Zeb chuckled to himself when there was no response other than a deep snore from his longtime but rarely seen friend.
CHAPTER 4
JUNE 7, 1854
INGA
More than two thousand miles east of the lodge smoke curling from the tipis near Cherry Creek, the first light of the new day was filtering through the sheer silk curtains pulled across the windows in an elegant hotel suite. Muffled by glass and fabric, the sounds of New York City echoed up from the street between urban canyon walls of brick. Inga Bjorne had been awake for hours, staring at the window, her long blonde hair tangled from the night.
She could smell his sweat and their sex on her naked, tall and well-proportioned body. She did not stir for fear of waking the portly form that snored loudly on the opposite side of the bed. Moving her eyes slowly, she took in the room. An expensive great coat and silk top hat hung from a finely crafted coatrack in one corner. Glowing in the morning light, the delicately textured walls blended tastefully into the mahogany trim and baseboard. Mahogany wainscot accented two walls, and a large bear’s paw clawfoot tub sat next to the half-ajar door of the water closet. Inga cast a longing glance at the bath. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath focusing on making her escape without having to endure his touch again. Once was quite enough, thank you.
Threads West, an American Saga Page 4