Miles upstream on the far side of the rocky outcrop, he found the tree that had several high, thick branches. Titus dismounted below its rustling leaves touched with a gentle breath of breeze every now and then. He shuddered once at a chill gust, pulling the flaps of the old, stained blanket capote together. This was always the time of day when it was coldest, just as the sun was deciding to raise its head into this gray world of little color and contrast. Sitting there, still and silent except for the occasional snort of the pony, or the creak of cold saddle leather beneath him, Bass listened to the wind sough through the leaves of that tree—wondering why the wind blew now, this holy breath of the First Maker … wondering why that life-giving breath of the All Spirit had not entered his son’s mouth.
Damn, but he didn’t want to grow bitter. Not here and now holding this boy’s tiny body. Not when it came time for a father to do the only thing a father could for his stillborn son. He did not want to get hard and crossways with the First Maker, not now because in the last handful of years he had been sensing more and more that spirit breath move through him as it never had before. Maybe only because he was getting older. Maybe most everything he’d cared about before just didn’t matter anymore, while some things meant more than they ever had in his life.
No, he did not want to become embittered, even though he so convinced himself that he possessed the power of that spirit in his own lungs that he could breathe its wind from his body into the lungs of his infant son, giving the stillborn babe a breath of his own spirit wind. But he had found himself helpless in the face of death. Every bit as helpless as he was in understanding why the First Maker had refused to save the baby. And Lucas too. Why had young life been snuffed out in its innocence … when men like Brigham Young and their evil flourished?
But, that wasn’t for him to know, was it? Not … just yet.
Titus kicked his right foot free, gripped the round saddlehorn, and slid down from the horse’s back. A gust of wind tugged at his long, gray hair, nudging that single, narrow braid he always wore—and carried a moan to his ear. An eerie, melancholy sound strangely like the final sigh a man makes as the last air in his lungs comes whispering out in a death rattle. Drawn by that moan’s direction, he turned slightly, made to look at the high slope of loose talus that had torn itself away from the foot of the rocky cliff. Jagged seams and fissures streaked down from the top of that ridge.
One of them would be the most fitting place for the tiny bundle.
Turning back to his pony, he untied the short length of buffalo-hair rope looped at the front of his saddle, laid the shroud on the ground, and quickly knotted together a sling so that he could carry his son on his back. He stood and studied the slope covered with sage and juniper, scattered with loose rock and talus shale, knowing he would have to use both hands to make the climb if he was ever going to reach the crack he had selected, that fissure where the wind would enter at the top of the ridge, moan down the entire length of the crack, then whisper out at the bottom, making the sound of some language he did not understand. But a sound that continued to call to him nonetheless.
Planting his foot for that first step, he immediately slid back down. Clawing with his hands, he managed to hold on for the most part, but as he made a little ground, he always seemed to slide back, losing more than half of what he had gained. Eventually he found that if he kept himself low, digging in with his toes and crabbing up on his knees, he didn’t lose so much. The sun was beginning to warm the air, and he had begun to sweat inside the blanket coat by the time he reached the bottom of the narrow fissure. There on a ledge less than six inches wide he set a knee, dug in the heel of the other moccasin, and balanced himself as he turned slightly, slowly slipping his arms free of the rope loops.
For a long, long time he cradled the body against him and let the tears flow as the sobs wracked his body with spasms. As the sun emerged from hiding, he eventually blinked to clear his eyes and turned to peer over his shoulder at the coming sun. The very top of that bright, glowing orb was spraying the horizon with a luminous, orange iridescence. Scratch turned back, pivoting on that one knee, and raised the bundle toward the crack in the rocks.
Turning the tiny body sideways, he managed to get the infant back more than a foot, as deep as his elbow. When it would go no farther, he quit nudging and pulled the arm out of the fissure. As his left hand clutched a fingerhold in a nearby seam, Titus leaned over and grabbed hold of the first of the loose rocks around him, one no bigger than his own hand. He stuffed it into the fissure. Then another. Again and again he shoved loose rocks in after the burlap shroud, pounding each one in with the succeeding rock so they wouldn’t easily come loose with freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing across untold seasons. Finally he had all the rocks the fissure could hold.
He had buried his son within the folds of the earth, here in these free mountains.
Sweating with the heat of the rising sun, Bass pulled one arm, then the other, free of the coat, and flung it down the slope. It made him too damn hot and, besides, he might trip himself on its long tails as he slowly inched his way back down the treacherous slope of loose talus.
Sighing, he turned and closed his eyes, letting himself feel the warmth of the sun as it pressed its light against his face. A feeling came over him as the wind moved through his hair. But he regretted that he didn’t have a whistle. Not a whistle carved from the wingbone of an eagle and wrapped with colorful porcupine quillwork the likes of the one he had taken off that dead Blackfoot warrior, then hung around the neck of the dead man’s younger brother. No matter, he thought.
Wetting his parched lips with his tongue, Scratch began to whistle—doing his best to imitate the shrill cry of a diving hawk on the wing. Then making his best rendition of a sound he had heard ten thousand times in these mountains: the harsh call of the golden eagle. A war cry. A high, sliding screech that he laid upon the wind as his offering for this stillborn child. Nothing more than his lips, and his prayers.
That’s all he could offer the boy now. Prayers for a child who would never learn to crawl or toddle, for a boy who would never learn to run and ride, for the man who would never hunt or fight enemies alongside his old man. This child who would never become a warrior, protecting his woman and their children …
And that made him sob all the harder, making it nearly impossible for him to raise that whistle as an offering to the wind.
Then he swallowed down the pain, shoving it as far into his belly as he could so he could whistle loudly as the sun baked him and the insects began to whir in the brush below at the base of the slope. Each time he raised the shrill cry, he felt a little better … until he fell silent and dried his eyes.
Titus turned and faced the fissure once more, kissed his fingertips, then laid his hand on those rocks he had hammered in upon the tiny body. That last good-bye said, the father began to slide down the slope, yard by yard, reaching the blanket capote and dragging it with him as he descended to the brush and dry grass. Rolling up the coat as he stepped over to the pony, Scratch tied it behind his saddle, stuffed a foot in the stirrup, and swung up for the ride back to the gutted, half-burned ruins of Fort Bridger and his wife.
She would likely be about as empty as Gabe’s plundered post. Waits needed him. He needed her. Together they would have to sort through the why of this.
What to do now, and where to go … and how would he convince Waits to go on?
She was waiting for him when he came out of the trees at the edge of the far meadow. His wife was sitting against a section of the corral wall the Mormons hadn’t burned down. He knew it was her, the way Jackrabbit sat on one side of his mother, little Crane in her mother’s lap. And standing guard over them all was his eldest son, Flea. The tall, sinewy young man waited with his shoulders back, his pony’s reins in one hand, Scratch’s long flintlock in the other—watching his father approach from the southwest across the open ground.
The summer wind moved through Flea’s unbound hair, whippi
ng it across his face, as the youth turned to the side and his mouth moved. Titus could not hear the words at this distance, but in a moment Bridger appeared at the sundered gate. Behind him came Shadrach and their families. With them the last of Bridger’s ferry workers came to stand. They all waited in silence as Flea and Gabe helped Waits-by-the-Water to her feet. No one moved as Scratch drew near, reined back, and let his eyes touch each face.
Gazing down at his wife, he said, “It’s done.”
Bridger said, “I’m goin’ to Laramie, Scratch.”
His eyes moved to Gabe’s face. “What you decided on doin’?”
“Maybeso them soldiers will help,” Jim sighed.
“Help you do what?”
“Go after them Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.”
Titus wagged his head. “I told you I’d ride with you, Gabe. But them soldiers ain’t gonna be wuth a red piss to us.”
“What you think I ought’n do?”
“Do what folks in these mountains allays done,” Titus said as he slid from the saddle. “You gather round you them what you can count on—then go to right the wrong what’s been done to you.”
For a moment, it appeared Bridger didn’t understand, but he eventually said, “You figger I ought’n find Washakie?”
“Yep. He can put his warriors on the trail behind us, fightin’ men what them Marmons can’t never stop.”
But Bridger stared at the ground for some time before he looked up at Bass again and said, “That means I’d be startin’ a Injun war, Scratch.”
“No, the way I see it, them Marmons started the war on you,” he snarled. “You’d just be finishin’ what they was goddamned fools enough to start by takin’ ever’thing from you but your life an’ your family.”
Gray-faced, Bridger finally said, “I’ll go on over to Laramie. Give them soldiers a chance to help me, or turn me down.”
“An’ when they turn you down,” Titus asked, “what then?”
“We come down to playin’ our hand,” Jim said, then paused. “You an’ me gonna see about makin’ Brigham Young pay for what his Saints done to us an’ our families.”
THIRTY
It was a damned shame, he brooded as an icy snow swirled round them like tiny lance points.
Time was a man knew what he could count on, who to count on. But from those final days at the end of the fur trade when white man first turned on white, things got real murky. Tragedy of it was, the more white men out here, the muddier the water, and the muddier the water, the harder it was for a man to see his way through his troubles. Used to be a man knew the straight way on through to making right of any trouble that came his way. Used to be … hell, Titus thought, everything about his own self was used to be, so it seemed.
A used-to-be man who only belonged in a used-to-be country. But—even that was shrinking smaller and smaller with every season. Folks what didn’t give a damn about things like honor and decency, folks what trampled on the rights of others, folks what claimed they was the chosen ones had come to kill and steal all in the name of their prophet and his god. Titus Bass wondered how folks like Brigham Young and his Mormons could act so self-righteous when they sure as hell hadn’t acted as if they possessed a single shred of honor. How was it that the First Maker could let these false prophets and their followers get away with hurting good folk?
How was it that the Creator could stand idly by while not lifting a hand to help decent men who were willing to right a terrible wrong?
But that’s just the way things turned out when their bunch hurried over to Fort Laramie that fall of ’53, eager to talk with Major Chilton about using his army to retrieve the stock and goods stolen from Bridger’s post.
“I’m sorry, but there’s not anything I can do,” Chilton sighed after Bridger presented his case before the major and some of his officers.
“N-nothin’ you can do?” Titus roared, lunging forward a step before Jim snagged his arm and held him in place.
Gabe said, “What’re you tellin’ us?”
The major ran fingers through his graying goatee. “I haven’t got the authority to take any action against the duly constituted government of Utah Territory.”
So Bass said, “Maybeso we ought’n go ahead on an’ do what Mary Bridger suggested we do in the first place, Major.”
Chilton turned to him with a stony, disapproving gaze. “And start an Indian war?”
Setting his jaw, Scratch snarled, “No Injun war. Just takin’ a li’l revenge on some Marmons—”
“You can’t do that!” Chilton snapped.
Glaring at the officer, Titus said, “It’s Jim’s right. His family’s been hurt. An’ his wife is Washakie’s daughter. Best you soldiers l’arn it’s the way of Injuns to hurt back them what hurt you. Likely them Snakes are north of here right now, huntin’ buffler, makin’ meat for the winter. Jim’s father-in-law could put ten times the warriors on the war trail than you got soldiers here.”
Chilton turned from Bass to Bridger and pleaded, “I haven’t got enough men to stop that sort of bloodshed if you get it started. Nonetheless, my superiors will order me into the field to put down the Indian troubles, which means I will be forced to fight Washakie and you too.”
Bridger appeared to chew on that a long moment. Finally he said, “You’d have brung your soldiers to fight us?”
“Brigham Young is governor of Utah Territory,” Chilton explained. “If he screamed and hollered that Washakie’s warriors were killing and plundering Mormon settlements, the Department of the Army would send me into the fight … against the Shoshone, and against you.”
Then the major leaned forward on his crude desk littered with sheets of foolscap and maps, saying, “Besides, Mr. Bridger, you ought to think about who you would be leading Washakie and his warriors against.”
Jim glowered at the officer, saying, “Mormons: the folks what stole ever’thing from me an’ burned down the rest.”
“No,” Chilton argued. “Those Indians would be murdering and plundering the settlements of innocent farmers and their families. You wouldn’t be taking revenge on the men who robbed you and murdered your employees. You and Washakie would be taking your revenge on innocent folks … folks just as blameless as you claim you are, Mr. Bridger.”
Gabe twitched in anger, “I ain’t to blame for gettin’ robbed of everything—”
“Damn you!” Bass snarled.
Chilton jerked aside to stare at Titus, saying, “Mr. Bridger, maybe I should go ahead to arrest you and your two friends here and now before you incite more trouble than we could ever put a stop to.”
“Trouble with you, Major,” Titus growled, “your preachin’ words about hurtin’ innocent folk only works on the hearts of good men like Jim Bridger here. That’s why I damn you—because one way or ’nother, you know the sort of men you have standin’ afore you right now. We’re men what got a code of honor … honor what wouldn’t ever let us hurt no innocent women an’ children—not even a man innocent of what his leader’s done to Jim.”
“Like havin’ his gunmen murder some of our friends,” Shadrach said as he finally stepped out of the shadows at the corner of the room. “Bastards cut us down without givin’ ary a one of ’em a fighting chance. That’s cold-blooded murder!”
“To my way of thinking, that business at the ferry is an entirely different matter than the one involving how they seized Jim’s fort,” Chilton argued. “But bringing in the actual murderers would be a hopeless task. Who is to say which of those Mormons killed your friends, which of them are to stand trial for murder?”
“You can’t even make a try to bring ’em back here for a trial?” Bridger demanded.
“No,” Chilton said. “Not when those men were acting with what is called duly constituted authority. I would be undertaking a fool’s errand.”
“We’re the damned fools,” Bass growled, “fools for thinkin’ this here army ever gonna help us do what’s right.”
Chilton arose from h
is chair. “Mr. Bridger, it’s far better you worry about what crimes you’ve been accused of.”
Gabe stared at the major in disbelief. “My crimes?”
“From the sound of things,” the major expounded as he inched around the side of his desk, “that posse was operating with a writ to arrest you and bring you back to Salt Lake City for a trial on charges of inciting the Indians against the outlying Mormon settlements.”
“Like hell I did!”
Chilton glared at Bridger, saying, “I’m not so sure of you anymore, Mr. Bridger. You might well have incited those Indians against the Mormons … because you’ve stood right here in front of me and talked about leading Washakie’s warriors against Brigham Young’s Mormons!”
“He claims I armed the Bannocks,” Jim protested. “They was the ones been causing trouble with no help from me—”
“The army can’t help you,” Chilton cut off the debate. “And if you give me any reason to believe you’ll cause problems in the future—any of you—I’ll have you sleeping in the guardhouse until you can whistle a different tune.”
Titus leaned in. “You threatenin’ to arrest us, army boy?”
Chilton wheeled on him. “You’ll be the first, you arrogant, disrespectful scalawag.”
Bridger seized Bass’s arm, but Scratch didn’t move. Instead, he looked at Jim for a moment and said, “That ain’t necessary, Gabe. I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to get throwed in their jail. I may be a scalawag—just like the soldier says—but this here scalawag is smart enough to know this here’s a empty stretch of stream, boys. No beaver comin’ to bait here. I say we go.”
“Go where?” Chilton demanded, his voice surly.
“I say we go back to Fort Bridger,” Scratch suggested.
“Why would you want to do that?” the major asked.
Turning to Gabe, Titus said, “Because that’s where them Marmons gonna go first when they come back lookin’ for Jim Bridger.”
The major asked, “Why are you so sure the Mormons will send another posse to arrest Bridger when they’ve failed once already?”
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