Rendezvous

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “The trouble with winter is that the game herds up, and you got to know where they yard,” Beckwourth said.

  That observation didn’t feed anyone. Skye had one more idea. He borrowed a fishhook and line from Tom Fitzpatrick and wondered how to manufacture a fly. The Yellowstone was running low and transparent, and he thought it would yield some trout. He found a bit of frayed leather, odd threads dangling off it, and worked his hook through it. It didn’t look like an insect. It didn’t look like anything.

  Behind him the camp tenders built fires close to the limestone cliff and put up half-shelters because it looked like the weather would turn in the night. Mare’s tails had corrugated the heavens all day. The brigade was in a surly mood, and demanding that Sublette send an express rider to the Crows. Food for some foofaraws, powder, and lead.

  Skye hardly knew one freshwater fish from another and no one had ever described their habits to him. But he thought a mouthful of trout would help, so he rigged a pole, dropped his bizarre thing into the Yellowstone, wiggled it gently while there was daylight enough to attract the denizens of the deeps.

  And felt a hard yank.

  A minute later he beached a fat trout.

  “You damn Brits don’t know what good food is,” said Sublette, eyeing the three-pound silvery fish. Skye grunted, freed his hook, thrust the flopping fish at Sublette, who held it as if it were a hot potato, and dropped his line into the river again.

  In the space of an hour he caught four more, and then the light faded. That came to only a few mouthfuls per man, but they all were fed after a fashion. And the Yanks weren’t making fun of him this time, although they cussed the fishbones and opined that there were good reasons most tribes hated fish.

  “Thank you, Mister Skye,” said William Sublette. “This is the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Royal Navy style. I am coming to admire the British pallet. But you forgot the sauce.”

  “Get out the traps,” said Skye, “and put the fishheads in them, well away from camp. It was something I learned to do on the Columbia.”

  Sublette stared, nodded, and gave the command. Skye thought they might catch breakfast.

  Chapter 43

  The fish-baited traps yielded an otter, raccoon, and fox. William Sublette watched the camp tenders swiftly gut and clean the animals and salvage the meat. There wasn’t enough to feed twenty-seven starving men much, but each man would have a few mouthfuls of gray meat—if he could overcome his queasiness about eating it.

  The cold had returned, but it wasn’t as severe as the spell they had endured in the Three Forks country. A nippy northwind probed at Sublette’s clothing, finding ways to chill his neck and ears and ankles. He ached for summertime, when the mountains glowed and a man had few worries. The hot fires in each of the four messes warmed frontsides but not backsides, and the men were in a foul mood.

  The camp tenders set the meat to roasting over the fierce fires after carefully setting aside the offal, which would be used tonight to bait traps again—if the hunters failed once more. Sublette sometimes thought this brigade was cursed with grief. It had lost too many men, endured too much hardship. And it would have been much worse off without Skye. The Englishman had found ways to feed them more than once. Miserable food, things the free trappers despised—but things that kept them alive. Skye was showing every sign of being a natural mountaineer and a leader.

  Beckwourth was having his usual good time. “I don’t think I’ll eat otter,” he said to Skye. “I prefer roasted camp tender.”

  The men had been bantering with Skye these past weeks, a sure sign that the Englishman had become one of them. Sublette watched Skye work, admiring the man’s industry and resourcefulness.

  Every man got a few bites of meat that morning. Some whined about it but no one refused it. The mean wind sliced into them all—this upper Yellowstone country was famous for its winter winds—and Sublette was eager to get going, put the wind to their backs, and hasten to the Crow villages.

  Once again the brigade packed and loaded their horses. The hunters fanned out, more determined than ever to make meat and lots of it. Their senses and instincts, always keen, had been sharpened this morning by deep hunger that verged on starvation. Sublette thought they would succeed this hard day.

  He waited for Skye to load his gear on his mare and start east once again under a weak winter sun that promised more heat than it gave. He fell in beside Skye, choosing to walk rather than ride, so he could talk with the Englishman.

  “Mister Skye, what are your plans?”

  “The same as always.”

  “You know, you’d have a future with the company if you would stay in the mountains.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Sublette.”

  “You’re a natural. You found food when a brigade full of veteran mountaineers couldn’t find any. You wisely moved camp when you had to, in spite of the serious grousing of a misfit.”

  “I did what I had to. We were out of firewood and feed.”

  “They tell me you dealt with Scott very well—patiently at first, giving him a chance to cool down, and then firmly. Faced with a fight, he caved in.”

  “I lost a man.”

  “No, good riddance. You did what you had to. A good leader does just that. Scott resented you ever since he proved himself a coward in the fight. They all saw it, and they all saw you. After that he was just looking for ways to cause you grief. I was expecting something like that when I put you in charge.”

  “It seems a man’s every act is watched and reported to you.”

  “A brigade is a close-knit outfit, Mister Skye. Reported isn’t quite the word. I have never asked or expected men to report about the conduct of other men in the company. But because this is wilderness, and we’re never far from trouble—starvation, sickness, Indians, thirst, thunderstorms, hail, freezing to death, drowning—these things are chewed over, and rehashed, and chewed over again. It can’t be helped.”

  “It’s the navy all over, mate. When you fight beside men, they look you over and you look them over.”

  Sublette nodded. They hiked along the north bank of the Yellowstone after detouring around a canyon, and now passed through a forest of bare cottonwoods. Rugged white-tipped mountains rose in the north, separate from the great spine of the Stony Mountains that lay south of the river. This was the raw, noble, harsh country the Crows called home, glorious in the summer, vicious in the winter.

  “You may have surmised that I’m leading up to something, Mister Skye. You’ve proven yourself even in the brief time you’ve been with us. Next summer, at rendezvous, I’m going to propose to my partners that you become a brigade leader. There would be a base wage of eight hundred dollars and bonuses based on the number of pelts your brigade brings in. With your skills, you would probably be rich in three or four years.”

  Skye squinted at the distant mountains, which were dazzling in the morning light. His blue eyes, nested in hollows of reddened and weather-chafed flesh, seemed to seek visions in the thin winter air, and concealed from Sublette the thoughts that were crawling through Skye’s mind. “I’ll think about it, sir,” he said at last.

  Sublette wouldn’t be deterred. “Mister Skye, I well know your lifelong vision of educating yourself and going into business. It nursed you through years of grief. And nothing I’m proposing now would keep you from it if you eventually want to pursue it. But you’ve a chance here to establish yourself for the rest of your life. Will you at least think it over?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Gunshot drifted on the wind, faint but unmistakable. The sound gladdened Sublette. It didn’t signify war or trouble; it signified game. “Hear that?” he asked Skye. “That’s meat.”

  Skye smiled.

  An hour later they came to a noble stand of cottonwoods beside the river, and found the hunters waiting there, fires already going. It was only midmorning, but the brigade was about to feast.

  “Fat cow,” said Bridger, who had been out w
ith the hunters. “In fact, three fat cows and one calf, and as many as we want. Two, three miles yonder.” He pointed north.

  Fat cow! Word whipped through the brigade. Fat cow!

  Sublette swiftly dispatched half a dozen camp tenders to help butcher and haul the meat. They would take it all and the hides, too, good gifts for the Crows. Butchering and transporting four buffalo was a major undertaking. They had come only a few miles this day, but so what? Starving men would have fat cow, and the horses could use a rest.

  “Mister Skye, you stay. Unload and picket the horses on whatever grass you can find. We’ll stay the night. This hyar campsite even has a name. Big Timber, named after those noble cottonwoods yonder by Lewis and Clark—actually Clark, coming down the Yellowstone with Sacajewea and a few men, heading east to meet Lewis at the confluence of the Missouri.”

  Skye knew nothing of that, but he nodded and set to work, unloading the horses and picketing them one by one on brown grass where they could make a living. A vicious wind wailed through the naked branches of the cottonwoods, shooting ice into Sublette’s flesh, but he didn’t mind.

  Fat cow!

  Sublette stepped off his horse, unloaded and picketed it, and then cut deadwood from some nearby cottonwoods. It would burn hot and fast. Cottonwood smoke was foul compared to the resinous smoke from pine wood, but it made a good fire. He kept his Hawken rifle at his side, as always. Just when you thought you might be safe from the red devils, that’s when they surprised you. But he had little fear of them now, in the dead of winter, when they would be telling stories in their lodges.

  He noticed that Skye wasn’t armed, and thought to tell the man. There were things Skye needed to learn.

  “Mister Skye, where’s your rifle?”

  “With my gear, sir.”

  “Have it with you. Someday that practice will save your life. And no matter what you’re doing, eye the horizons constantly.”

  Skye nodded, collected his rifle, checked the charge of powder in the pan, and set it close to him while he picketed horses.

  By the time the first of the meat arrived—several huge chunks of haunch laced to the saddle—Skye and Sublette had a camp set up.

  “Shall I start roasting it, sir?” Skye asked.

  Sublette shook his head. “It ain’t hump. Set it aside.”

  Skye looked disappointed but said nothing.

  Together, they pulled the red meat off the packhorse and set it aside. Sublette felt his belly rumble. He and Skye could be cooking this meat right now; he and Skye could be feasting, filling their empty bellies at last while the rest were butchering. But the thought of humpmeat, fatty and tender and laced with flavor, stayed him. Even starving men should wait a while for humpmeat. Or tongue. That was another feast. There was a lesson Skye would learn soon enough.

  Another burdened horse arrived, bearing a green hide with a huge chunk of meat and bone within, along with a tongue. Sublette opened the parcel and eyed the meat happily.

  “Mister Skye, that’s hump. Run a cooking rod through it and start it roasting over a low fire. You’ll see that it’s worth the wait. And then start the tongue cooking.”

  “My stomach doesn’t agree, sir.”

  Sublette laughed. “Damned English don’t know fat cow from poor bull,” he said. “You see how that meat arrived special—all wrapped in a hide? There’s a mountain message in it.”

  Sublette helped Skye rig up the fire and block the wind that was whipping the flame. “I’ve camped here at Big Timber half a dozen times and every time the wind pretty near drove me out,” he grumbled.

  No meat arrived for a long time, and then the whole brigade arrived at once, packhorses loaded, crude travois dragging huge hulks of buffalo.

  “We been samplin’,” said Bridger, whose cheeks were bloodstained. “Best lights I ever bit into.”

  Skye looked appalled.

  “Raw buffler liver, Mister Skye—it’s a mountain man’s sweet. This child’ll show ye next time. And maybe we’ll roast some boudins, too, as long as you’re a pork-eater.”

  “You actually eat raw meat?” Skye asked.

  “Mister Skye, we got vices ye never heard of. We’ll teach ye the whole lot of ’em, one by one,” Bridger said. “Now whar’s that hump we expressed down hyar? I’m plumb sick of yore vittles—raccoon and swamp roots. This child don’t eat coons and roots, you hear me?”

  But Skye was grinning. He pulled the dripping humpmeat off the fire and began sawing down to the bone, sending aromas into the wind that drove Sublette half mad. The meat, blackened on the outside, remained pink at the center and dripped juices. Solemnly, the brigade gathered around the cookfire to observe all this.

  “Ye don’t get any, Mister Skye,” said Bridger. “Ye got to cook the next hump, yonder, and then ye can have our leavings. That’s what ye desarve for feeding us dead fox and marsh roots.”

  “That’s right,” said Tom Fitzpatrick solemnly. “We’ve all decided that you don’t get any. You can stick with your dainty British cookery.”

  Sublette watched Skye redden and then relax, and then bellow. “Mr. Bridger, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he roared, “cook your own bloody meat.”

  Old Gabe Bridger—who was scarcely older than Skye, actually—cocked an eyebrow, grimaced, looked exceedingly pained, and then hoorawed.

  No pork-eater was Skye, Sublette thought. He was a mountaineer now.

  Chapter 44

  “The pale men are coming!”

  Many Quill Woman heard the village crier, Buffalo Hoof, chant his message among the lodges of the Kicked-in-the-Bellies. Swiftly she drew a thick buffalo robe about her and slipped through the low lodge door into a wintry day.

  She saw no trappers, but that was as it should be. Even in winter, the village wolf soldiers had detected the pale men far away, and reported the news to the chief, Arapooish, and the elders and seers. By the time the pale men entered, the village elders would be gathered before the chief’s lodge to receive them.

  Tonight there would be feasts and merriment. The People of the Raven had little to do in winter but tell stories and have good times around the lodge fires.

  She waited impatiently, giving place to the warriors and elders as a young single woman should. Had he come? She would know soon. But she already knew, having seen with inner vision. Even though Skye had talked of going far to the east and the big waters there, he would come. She smiled. Magpie had known more of his future than he himself had. Magpie was a true counselor who saw all things and led Many Quill Woman to her understandings. Magpie didn’t go south in the winter the way other birds did, but stayed right there, making a living even in the cold season.

  Swiftly the lodges emptied themselves as the people dressed against the icy wind and gathered in the harsh sunlight to witness this event. Maybe the liar Beckwourth would be with them again. Beckwourth called himself an Absaroka chief, which amused her people. But he was a brave warrior and had fought beside her brothers in wars against the Siksika, so they would honor Beckwourth and supply him with women. Beckwourth never had enough of them. Many Quill Woman hoped that her father entertained no such notions about her. Let Beckwourth winter with Pine Leaf again. They were made for each other. The thought made her smile. Pine Leaf, the revered warrior woman of her people, didn’t really like Beckwourth either but Beckwourth didn’t know that.

  How handsome was her village this year. They were fat because they had made a fine fall hunt, and had many robes and parfleches full of pemmican and frozen buffalo quarters hanging high above the snapping jaws of dogs. They had traded many beaver pelts at the rendezvous and now the warriors were decked out in crimson or blue, and women were wrapped in thick blankets with black stripes at either end, and had tied their straight hair with ribbons gotten from the traders. Oh, how she loved her village, with smoke curling from its many lodges, and fat horses gathered nearby, safe from the Siksika dogs. Here were great men and seers, the proudest of the Absaroka people, choosing to live in the village of the
great Arapooish, vanquisher of the Siksika, terror of the Lakota, and the only chief in many years who blessed his people with good times.

  She saw the pale men enter the village, and as always they excited curiosity. Where were their women? Why did these men come to the mountains without their wives and children? This thing had baffled her people and none of the elders or seers could explain it. Somewhere, these trappers had hidden their women. Most of the Absaroka had never seen a pale woman. Many Quill Woman had never seen one, and she suspected they must be ugly and mean, so the pale men were ashamed of them. It was said that the pale women were kept in a hot land far to the east because they could not take cold weather, and there the pale men repaired now and then to add to their families. What a strange custom.

  The Goddamns made a great show, riding in procession into the village, escorted by the Kit Fox Society, the young warriors doing the policing of the village this winter. The Goddamns did not sit proudly on their ponies, with backs straight, like any Absaroka man or woman. These pale men slouched, and spat—a terrible insult—and even looked directly at the Absaroka instead of averting their gazes as politeness required. Still, they made a great spectacle, and Many Quill Woman thrilled at the sight of these barbarous men, so empty of manners and so lax in their conduct that they scandalized her people.

  Their terrible beards plumed their faces until one could scarcely see the face hidden by them, as if the beards were masks to conceal these men from the eyes of the seers, who plumbed the depths of all mortals. They wore magnificent hats and headdresses, all of their own design, obviously their secret medicine. Some were made of fox or beaver or otter, some made of buffalo or the material they called felt. They carried their heavy rifles in saddle sheaths, usually fringed and decorated. But not one of them dressed like another, and each was so different that she could hardly say that they were all of one tribe.

  She watched eagerly, awaiting the sight of the one she ached to see, and wondering if she would recognize him behind his beard. She would. She would know his blue eyes and his big nose. She spotted Beckwourth—ah, how he was smiling, his brown eyes dancing with delight. And she spotted others she knew from previous visits, all bristling with beards. Many passed, strange men, and then she saw him near the rear, just as he saw her.