by John Legg
“By the stars, boys,” Train shouted, “he’s tellin’ true. Best thing I ever ate.”
“How ’bout ye, Homer?” Squire asked. “Ye be wantin’ a taste?”
“I’ve ate goddamn boudins afore, Nathaniel. Sure have. Finest eatin’, they are. But let the others have a share. They’ve nary had it afore. It can be a goddamn treat for ’em.”
“All right,” Squire chuckled, once again feeling he somehow had known Bellows before. But all he said was “How about ye, Cletus?”
“Sure, Nathaniel, I’ll try it. Can’t be as bad as some of the things I’ve had to eat.”
He tested it gingerly, and Li’l Jim piped up, “Well, pass it over this way, boy. You ain’t the only one here wants to try it.”
And so it went. Most of the young men liked this favorite treat of the mountain men, although some disliked it, and a few gagged on the strong flavor and its accompanying odor.
The men finally slumped back, stomachs bloated. Squire lighted up his small old pipe. He didn’t use it often, but after such a meal, it set him to feeling good. Usually, though, he was content to have a wad of chew in his cheek.
“Aye, that was a fine tastin’ meal now,” he said, puffing with contentment. “And there’ll be plenty more like it. You’ll be eatin’ fat cow from now on.” He neglected to tell them there would be long stretches along the Platte River with no animals to be seen; and he did not tell them that once they were in the mountains with full winter on them they would be lucky to eat at all.
“But I’ll be givin’ ye lads a word of advice.” Squire looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “Ye’ve had it easy since we left out. But that’s gonna end right quick. From now on, no one goes out on his own. There always has to be at least two of ye together. And keep your rifles ready. Ye ne’er know when ye might need ’em, and need ’em fast.”
“Ah think y’all are worryin’ too godawful much, if y’all ask me,” Zeb Willis snorted.
“I ain’t worried at all,” Squire said easily, though he tensed.
“But the rest of ye ought to heed my words. It could be savin’ your life.”
“And if’n Ah don’t?”
“You’ll be answerin’ to me, boy. If’n the Pawnees or Rees or Blackfoot don’t get ye first.”
“Ah’ve met Injuns afore, Squiah. Ain’t none of ’em look too imposin’ to me. ”
“That might be, lad. But don’t go gettin’ too swell-headed about it. Most’ll treat ye fair if’n ye do likewise. Less’n they outnumber ye and be lookin’ for horses or hair. Near any of ’em’ll set on ye if’n they get it into their notional minds to do so. Some be more friendly than others, but ye shouldn’t ne’er put your trust in ’em for nothin’. Ye got to be on your watch e’ery time.”
He shuffled his buttocks to get more comfortable and puffed a few times before saying, “I mind the time me’n my ol’ partner, LeGrande, was up in the Bitterroots one fall. We was pullin’ in plews as fast as we could set our traps. There be so many beaver there, damn, we could’ve just set on the bank of the stream and clubbed ’em as they come round for a looksee.
“Well, anyway, we was there, havin’ ourselves shinin’ times, when all of a sudden, two hundred Blackfoot rose up, seeming like out of nowhere. Now, boys,” he said, stabbing his pipe into the air for emphasis, “I don’t mind tellin’ ye this chil’ was one frightened soul.
“Ol’ LeGrande just shakes his head, and says to me, 'Mon Ami, we are ass deep in trouble, eh?’ Well, there weren’t no call for answerin’ that, so’s I just looked to my primin’. ‘What you do?’ LeGrande asked me. So I says, ‘Gettin’ set to make some Blackfoot buck pay for the deviltry he be up to here.’
“Now LeGrande, ye got to be understandin’, be a mite fou—crazy. But he understands the Injins. He says, ‘Tro’ down your carabine, and face dem like a man, eh. Dey not hurt us none we do dat.’
“‘Not me,’ I says. ‘This chil’ ain’t gonna be a willin’ participant in his own butcherin’.’ Now, by this time, them goddamn Blackfeet was all around us, e’er one of ’em painted. Their horses was painted, too. O1’ LeGrande, he starts tryin’ to talk to ’em, though he don’t know a word of Blackfoot, and we be certain ain’t a one of them knows any French or English. But LeGrande commences to jabberin’ anyway.
“The hell with all this here talkin,’ I says. ‘It be time for some doin’.’ I throw my old Hawken up to my shoulder and draw me a bead on the chil’ I figure be the chief and pull the trigger. Sure enough, that ol’ bastard falls down off’n his horse and lays there deader’n hell.”
“I reckon ye can be guessin’ that them Blackfeet did not take a shine to these doin’s, and they was shoutin’ for blood. Half of ’em wanted to kill us straight off, scalp us and be done with it. The other half wanted to trot us back to their lodges for a little sportin’.”
Squire’s pipe had gone out, so he relighted it with a burning twig.
“Well, what’n hell happened?” Li’l Jim asked anxiously.
Squire grinned, watching the sea of intent faces and eyes glittering in the firelight. “Well, lad, we commenced to fightin’. Hell of a fight it were, too. Arrows and bullets were flyin’ all o’er the place, tomahawks a-swingin’, knives a-flashin’. Hell of a scene it be, I’d be sayin’.”
He paused, puffing, eyes shrouded.
“And . . .?” Train asked, sitting forward.
“Why, we was both killed, of course.” There was a moment of stunned silence before Squire broke into loud guffaws, tears creeping from his eyes in mirth. Within moments most of the other men had joined in.
Squire knocked the dead ashes from his pipe. “Ye’ve had yourselves a long day, lads,” he said. “And tomorrow"—he looked pointedly at Strapp—“we’re gonna start makin’ better time. Ye all been on the trail long enough now that ye ought to be used to it. We got no more time for dallyin’. So I’d be suggestin’ ye get some robe time.”
He pulled out his beautifully tanned buffalo robe. Thick, heavy and large, it was soft to sleep on through the warm nights they still had, and when wrapped completely around him would keep him warm through the harsh mountain winters.
He stretched out and fell asleep to the sound of Bellows giving out his orders for the posting of guards on the animals.
Chapter Twelve
SQUIRE began pushing the men, keeping them in the saddle nearly eighteen hours a day. The men grumbled, but they made good time— twenty miles more often than not, and a few days more than thirty.
They followed the meandering Missouri westward before catching the Kansas River, where the many trees along the banks provided excellent camps. And here they found plenty of buffalo. By the time they had been out three weeks, they were saddle sore, tired and more than a little ill-tempered. All, that is, except Squire, Homer Bellows, Abner Train, Hank Carpenter and, surprisingly, Colonel Melton.
William Strapp led the complaining, backed up by Zeb Willis, who had become Strapp’s inseparable companion. The two were standoffish, keeping to their own company, mingling with the others only when necessary. With the exception of Carpenter, these two were the most unsociable of the group.
Though the men had mostly become used to the life of traveling, many often would express some momentary pangs at losing the comforts, such as they were, of St. Louis or other ports of civilization. These complaints became quite prevalent every time they mucked through a rainstorm, with the wind blowing steady and cold, creating slimy mud that coated everything. Then the men would miss the comforts of a stout log home and a real bed with down pillows and soft straw-filled tick.
Or they would get to missing the benefits of a mother who knew how to cook and had the benefits of a home garden with which to work. Buffalo was tasty, all right, but to some it got monotonous after a while, especially as the supplies packed from St. Louis began to run out—things like cornmeal, flour, sugar and bacon.
With this many men, the vast majority young and far from home
for the first time, Squire had anticipated that arguments would develop. The divergent backgrounds and temperaments made it unavoidable. But so far the fighting amongst the men had been kept to a minimum, as had the damage: two broken noses, a few lost teeth and a heap of cuts and bruises.
The ever-present dysentery gave them more trouble, afflicting at least a quarter of the men at any one time. It was easing now that they were eating buffalo regularly and getting used to life on the trail. The only ones who had not been afflicted with the running sickness were Squire, Bellows, Willis and, to Squire’s astonishment, Carpenter.
The ripening friendship between Strapp and Willis made Squire curious, but he had more important things to worry about.
He was also puzzled by the enigma of Carpenter. The slight youth was a willing and hard worker, which made Squire wonder all the more. A number of hands, including such outgoing ones as Ransom and Li’l Jim, were about Carpenter’s age, and it seemed strange to Squire that Carpenter had not found even one friend among them.
Even the overtly religious Tobias Whitaker had taken to hanging around with Shanks more and more. Both were fire and brimstone-type men, and their friendship consisted mostly of arguments over Scriptures or the meanings of the Bible. But it was a friendship of a sort.
At least, Squire thought, Carpenter was not a complainer like some of the others.
The harsh pace exhausted the men, and they were beginning to show it. Squire finally ordered a halt, telling the men they would spend a day or two at a pleasant spot under the willows and cottonwoods along the banks of the Kansas River, not far from its confluence with the Blue. They had bypassed Independence more than a week ago, and picked up the Kansas not long after.
Li’l Jim let out a whoop at the news. “That’s the best damned thing I’ve heard since we left St. Louis,” he said happily. “Three straight weeks in a saddle is more’n enough for me in one sittin’. I’m gonna stretch my legs and laze my saddle-sore ass around doin’ nothin’.”
“No ye ain’t, boy,” Bellows said. “Too much goddamn work to be done. Sure is. Lots of it. Ain’t gonna let no goddamn, scrawny, knobby-kneed ol’ woman like you get away without workin’.”
“Damn, Homer, you take the fun out of everything,” Li’l Jim grumbled good-naturedly. Everyone knew that despite his big mouth and occasional lack of judgment, Li’l Jim would do his share and more.
“All right,” Bellows yelled. “Let’s get crackin’, ya bilious boils. Can’t rest till the work’s done. Won’t let ya goddamn lazy bastards. Laziest bunch of boys I ever seen.”
“We heard ya, we heard ya,” Li’l Jim said. “Ya needn’t go on flappin’ your gums the rest of the day about it. ”
The men scattered to their chores while Squire, Strapp and Melton consulted in the shade of a sweeping cottonwood. “How far have we come, Nathaniel?” the Colonel asked.
“Nearabout a fourth of the way, I’d be sayin’.”
“And which is our way from here?”
“North up the Blue, follerin’ the west fork when we be comin’ to it. Eighty, mayhap ninety mile. Till we hit the Platte River. Less’n a week till we get there.
“Then we foller the Platte till it becomes the Sweetwater. By then we’ll be in the foothills of the Rockies. We’ll be decidin’ then just which way we want to be goin’ for the last part. It depends on where we want to be trappin’ and winterin’ up.”
“Why that way?” Strapp demanded. He was tired and his rump was sore from the jolting on the wagon seat. His insides hurt, too, from the rattling they had undergone.
“It be the best, the easiest and the fastest way,” Squire said, holding his temper in check.
“Will there be sufficient water and game throughout?” Melton asked.
“Ought to be, though at this time of the year ye ne’er can be certain. Some of the streams dry up early in the summer, and the Platte kin be mighty sandy this time of year. We’ll hit some places along the Platte where there ain’t much game, but we’ll have some meat made by then, and soon after we hit prime buff’lo country. Don’t ye go frettin’, Colonel. We’ll be makin’ out.”
“This rain should help, no?”
“Aye, Colonel, that it should. We’ve had more’n our share of it already. In fact, I be plumb tired of all the damn mud we been trackin’ through the last fifty mile or so.”
“How much farther do we have to go?”
“Eight hundred miles maybe. Could be a little farther. Depends on where we decide to be winterin’. It’s still a heap of travelin’ we got to be doin’.”
“How long will it take?” Melton asked, nodding at the information.
Squire stretched out his long, muscular legs and stroked his beard. “Hard to be sayin’. We been makin’ good time so far, but this mud’s slowed us down some, and things’ll only be gettin’ worse. There be some tough stretches along the Platte, and once we get into the mountains, we’d be happy to be makin’ what we are now. Plus we got to be makin’ meat for the winter. That takes a heap of time, though with this many hands, it ought to go easier.
“Then there be the time we need for trappin’. Afore we get to the Sweetwater, off’n the Platte, it’ll be prime beaver season. It’ll shine, it will. Means we’ll have to be settin’ aside time for trappin’ as we go.”
“At least a month then?” the Colonel asked hopefully.
“Most likely two. Mayhap more.”
“And we are facing the weather, are we not?”
“Aye, Colonel. It be near October already, as best I can figure it. It’ll be December afore we know it. That means it’ll be snowin’ reg’lar in the mountains soon. Winter comes early out here on the flats, too.”
Melton looked thoughtful. “How long were you planning to stop here?”
“Two, three days is all. Give the lads a rest.”
“We’ll leave the day after tomorrow, Nathaniel,” Melton said in his best military commander voice. “That’s enough rest for them. These men have a hard winter facing them, and I doubt it wise to pamper them. If they can’t keep up, they can turn back.” Squire’s eyebrows raised, and he took a few moments before speaking to let the anger subside. He liked the Colonel, and respected him. He did not want to say something rash to the man. But still, he would not be ordered about.
“It ain’t pamperin’, Colonel,” he said carefully. “These lads need to save their strength for later, when they’ll need it most. Near e’ery one of ’em has had more’n one bout with the runnin’ sickness. Such doin’s sap a man’s strength right quick.”
“We cannot afford the time, Nathaniel,” Melton said, doubt edging into his voice.
“Aye, we can. Ye push these lads too hard and you’ll end up losin’ half of ’em to the cold or the snow or the mountains or the Injins. And there’ll always be a few who’ll skedaddle, given the chance.
“’Sides, Colonel, we got to be carin’ for the animals. We already lost that mule what run off with its packs, and that horse we had to put under when it snapped its leg in the chuck hole. We got more’n a few that’s been rubbed raw by their loads, and Homer says a couple be gettin’ lame. We’ll have to see about reshoein’ some of ’em, and lettin’ the others rest up a bit.” Melton plucked a piece of grass and chewed on it, thinking.
Chewing the grass was an incongruous act for a man so big and turning to fat as age began to creep up on him. Squire grinned, enjoying the simple pleasure of seeing it. But he turned his head to watch the men working so the Colonel would not think he was making fun of him.
“You’re right, of course, Nathaniel,” Melton said slowly. He was a proud man, and so it was hard to continually admit being wrong as he had had to since meeting Squire. But he was a practical man, too, and one who learned quickly. “And so we will stay three days?”
“Depends, Colonel,” Squire said, relieved. He did not like crossing the Colonel; he was too fine a man and companion for that. Strapp, however, was a different matter. Squire would have gladly taken
the scrawny, prissy little man and broken him in half for the enjoyment of the others. He sighed. “We’ll be seein’ what work needs doin’. Mayhap we can move out day after tomorrow. Mayhap it’ll take a few days more.”
Melton nodded, accepting. But his mind was already on the next problem, and he did not have time to allow for resignation or for feeling badly. “Is there any way we can make better time once we’re back on the trail?”
“Get rid of that goddamn thing.” Squire pointed to Strapp’s wagon, parked beneath another cottonwood nearby. Willis had taken the horses from it and was tending to them.
“No, you cannot,” Strapp brayed. “I won’t allow it, Leander. This is mostly flat land, though I admit rather muddy of late. But it was agreed that I could bring it as far as the mountains.”
“It was not agreed that you could bring it to the mountains,” Melton growled. “It was agreed that you could bring the damned thing until it became a hindrance to this enterprise. It has become that.”
“I won’t part with it,” Strapp said, voice cracking. “I won’t allow it, and if you continue along these lines I’ll eventually make sure that Mary knows of your intolerable behavior. ”
Squire almost grinned at the fury clouding Melton’s face. “I have suffered,” Melton said, each word clipped, “your infernal whining and complaining because you are my wife’s brother. I have allowed myself to be coerced into dragging along that infernal contraption of yours, knowing your ass was too soft to sit a horse proper, because you’re my brother-in-law. I won’t stand for it any longer.”
Still fighting to keep his temper in check, Melton turned to Squire. “You’re right, Mr. Squire. Have been all along. We should never have brought it. You have my apologies, sir. We will take whatever is necessary from it and dump the rest.”
“Aye, Colonel. But we’ll be leavin’ most of what be in there.
I ain’t lettin’ one of the horses or mules go under for the sake of that ass and his foofaraw.”
