by Win Blevins
Another one, his elbow against a wagon, mimicked in Pennsylvania Dutch, “Aye, and a kisch for two bitsch, mine beauty.”
Hairy sized him up for a moment, there off to the left of the others, then reached leisurely behind his belt and whipped his arm toward the mimicker.
The knife whacked into the wagon snug against the man’s elbow, its handle quivering.
“Ah, ye can keep the knife, lad,” rumbled Hairy. “It throws a mite low.” He smiled his ogre smile, huge and mean.
“You sumbitch,” the man snarled.
“Shut up, pantywaist.” The words came from the Irish lilter. Tal couldn’t figure it.
“Vas?” growled Pennsylvania Dutch.
Hairy was just grinning like a polecat.
“You dress like Little Lord Fauntleroy, and your sis does too,” sang Irish. Except that his mouth didn’t move, and he looked bewildered. Pennsylvania Dutch moved toward him, Hairy’s knife held low.
Hairy picked up the saddle and slipped off. Tal followed close behind.
Tal could hear the other men interfering, stopping the fight. “That’s a trick of Shakespeare’s,” someone hollered. “He didn’t insult ye, Dutch.”
Others were calling out words like “crazy” and “half-wit.”
“How’d you do it, Hairy?”
“A bit of the actor’s craft, lad.” He sang this sentence in an uncanny imitation of the Irish lilter—not just the accent, but voice itself. “Ve showed zem, didn’t ve?” This was Dutch, right down to the rasp. “Mimicry plus ventriloquism.” Tal noticed his mouth didn’t move at all. Incredible.
Hairy took Tal’s arm and kept him walking, on the quick.
“Wagh!” said Tal. That was the kind of crazy Tal liked.
Next morning Hairy brought it up to Tal. He’d been chatting up the two squaws for about an hour when he suddenly cantered back to Tal, his chestnut locks bouncing and a big smile on his face.
“The real statuesque one,” said Hairy, pointing. “Name is Iron Kettle.”
Bound to be trouble, thought Tal. “The bony one?” The older, homelier squaw who was always talking so fast with tongue and hands at once. “She belongs to Louie.”
“Naw, she don’t. I found out about her. She was sharing blankets with a coon back to Taos, been with him since last summer, and took a notion. Likely he lodgepoled her, or beat her when he was drunk, or some such.” Hairy’s British accent seemed to come and go more now.
“Anyhow, she left him and rode this way with Louie on account of he said the brigade might go on to the Stinking Water. Her people will be there in the fall. Maybe she wants her buck back. Or just wants home cooking.”
Tal regarded her. She looked old as river rock, and too worn for anyone to want, in his opinion.
“So what’s the object?”
“Hoss, this child ain’t whole-hog comfortable in this place.”
“And?”
“Her folks would think mighty well of the beavers what brought her home. Mighty well. Several horses well.”
It dawned on Tal. “You mean escort her?” He pondered it. It sounded appealing, but dangerous.
“Where’s the Stinking Water?”
“Well, hoss, ain’t so far. Over that divide to the north, and down the Big Horn.”
The country to the north was flat sagebrush plain, dry, hot, and hellish in August. Beyond it high peaks rose, some with eternal snow.
“How many sleeps?” Tal meant to be careful where he stepped.
“Not so many, lad. She’ll know. Iron Kettle will know. Not so many.”
Tal made a skeptical face. On second thought, it would be nuts to strike out alone. As Hairy was nuts, generally.
Besides…
“Naw, Hairy, I can’t.” He shook his head decisively. “I got to go to rendezvous. I got to find out…”
Shouts. Guns firing.
Somewhere ahead.
Tal pulled Rosie out and spotted Cap’n Fitz at the head of the column. Cap’n was holding up an arm, but taking no action.
Tal looked to his priming. He waited—and waiting hurt.
In two or three minutes men came sliding on horseback down the sand hills toward the brigade. They were whooping and shooting in the air. White men. Friends.
Quickly the word came back. Frapp’s brigade was just ahead. Rendezvous had come to them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
bewitched with the rogue’s company
—Henry IV, Part 1, II. ii
The partners, Fitzpatrick and Frapp, sat long and traded news. Fitz told why he had to go to Santa Fe and so was late. Frapp told about the difficult spring trapping season, about how he and Gabe and Milton and Gervais had struggled, about everyone waiting for Fitz to show up at rendezvous, and about hiring a medicine man to tell the partners where Fitz was.
Tom Fitzpatrick, Henry Fraeb (pronounced Frapp), Gabe Bridger, Milton Sublette, and Jean Gervais were the partners of Rocky Mountain Fur Company, which had bought out ’Diah Smith’s outfit.
Before long it was all over camp how Fitz was mad at the way his partners had squandered company money to find Fitzpatrick.
“You hired a what?” Fitz spat.
“A Crow man great of medicine,” answered Frapp. Frapp was a German, and sometimes his English was twisted. “When you ware late, ve vas werry vorried. ’Fraid maybe you ware gone under.”
“How many company horses did you pay for this nonsense?” Fitz himself was an unbeliever. It was his opinion and observation that those who subscribed to the Christian superstition slipped easily into Indian superstition.
“Yah, vell, this fellow he conjure much.”
All the mountain men knew how it worked. The old fellow would screech and dance and mesmerize himself with the beat of the drum until he passed out—that might take days—and then call his fevered dreams a vision. Some of the old hands told the newcomers this story with superior glances. It had worked, hadn’t it? Fitz’s lot had been on the wrong road.
While the partners made their plans, their men ate, smoked, and gossiped. Tal was excited by these fellows, these authentic men of the Shining Mountains in a fire-hardened brigade of several dozen, complete with Indian wives and children. Some of them looked half Indian themselves, dressed in breechcloths and leggings, shod in mocassins, their hair down past their shoulders. A tough lot, Tal thought, seasoned men of sanguine disposition, worthy to be among:
Scots, what hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
Tal looked forward to hearing these men tell of titanic battles with Indians, of fierce struggles against the elements, of miracles and miseries, of comrades lost and saved. He longed to be one of these comrades himself, and felt pride in anticipation.
Over pemmican and coffee Louie announced the partners’ plan. There would be no rendezvous this year—it was too late. Frapp would turn back to the mountains with the supplies Cap’n Fitzpatrick had brought and distribute them as other brigades were encountered. Fitz would head to St. Louis now with last year’s peltries, sell them, and return to supply next year’s rendezvous.
Some of Fitzpatrick’s men would be hired for the mountains—some would go back—those wanting the mountains could talk to the clerk. “Meanwhile, for right now,” said Louie with a slow grin, “Cap’n Fitzpatrick is tapping a keg. Bring your cups.”
And the evening air filled with hurrahs.
“You’ll have to check with the cap’n,” said the clerk. “He listed ye bound back to the States.”
So Tal said he’d stroll through the cool night air and find Fitzpatrick. Hairy allowed that he’d get a cupful and keep Tal company. “Wagh, lad,” he said, “I’ll not sign on, though. This child means to stay a free trapper.”
“How’s that, Hairy?”
“Well, if’n ye sign on, they fit ye out with traps and other possibles and put ye on wages. That’s good, that’s real good,” Hairy
said.
Tal prompted him. “What’s bad about it?”
“It’s a boon to ride in a troop, ’cause there be safety in numbers in Injun country. And ye learn the country that way, some,” Hairy allowed.
“Come on, Hairy.”
“Wagh! Lad, this child likes being his own man. A free trapper rides with the troop when he likes, rides as he will when he doesn’t. Sells his plews where he wants, and when. Traps when he pleases, dallies when he don’t. There be more things in the world, lad, than catching big, hairy water rats.” Hairy gave his fierce grin.
Tal figured he’d sign on anyway. “It’s good for newcomers,” Hairy agreed. “I’ll trail along with ye, unofficial, for the nonce.”
“Nay,” said Fitzpatrick. “It’s the States and no argument.” Even over the boisterousness of drinking men, the captain’s soft voice sounded authoritative.
Tal took a swig of whisky for show and looked across the fire at the two partners. “Captain,” said Tal in his firmest voice, “I have to go to rendezvous. That’s what I signed on for.”
“There’ll be no rendezvous this year.”
“To the mountains, then.”
“Why, Jones?”
Tal scuffed his feet. Hairy was hanging way back, sipping his whisky and watching. Frapp was watching too, curiously.
“Jones, I signed you on because Sublette said you were a hunter, young as you are. And it’s true, you got the gift. You can feed us going home.” Fitzpatrick kept shifting his eyes from Tal to Hairy, waiting for something.
“I got to go on, Cap’n.”
Fitzpatrick took a moment to light a pipe. “Better speak up, lad.”
“My dad ran off to the mountains, sir.”
“I heard.”
“I want to find him, sir.”
“David Dylan Jones, his name is. I checked it out. Came out with Sublette two years ago. The company doesn’t know where he is now, son. Probably went straight back. Like you.
“No, sir, he didn’t come back,” Tal said, making an effort to sound sure.
“What’s zis man look like?” put in Frapp.
Tal pictured his father the preacher, a willowy sort of man with buck teeth and a wonderful childish smile. He put words to the picture gingerly, trying to sound factual.
Fitz and Frapp nodded at each other.
“Man with a way with a story,” Frapp said.
Tal nodded, his throat lumping. Yes, Dad’s a miracle with a story.
“Likeable fellow, none so practical,” Frapp muttered to Fitzpatrick. “I remember him. Maybe he was the one with ’Diah who went…No, is probably wrong man.”
“He’s not with the company now,” said Fitzpatrick. “I checked. Likely he’s gone under or gone home,” said the captain bluntly. “And the Rocky Mountains are too big a haystack to rummage through, lad.”
Tal wasn’t hearing Fitzpatrick, he was hearing Dad, Dad sounding out the words of a hymn, looking shy and boyishly simple at the pulpit raising hosannas unto the Lord.
“I got to go, Cap’n.”
“And I can’t hire you on, son,” Fitzpatrick said regretfully. “You’re a good hand for a lad, but you’re still a lad. Can’t do it.”
“Shakespeare will see me through,” Tal said bravely.
“I will that, Tal Jones,” Hairy rumbled from behind.
“That doesn’t help, son,” said Fitzpatrick. “Makes it worse.” He hesitated. “Found out some about your friend this evening.”
“I remember zis fellow,” said Frapp, eyeing Hairy shrewdly. “Shakespeare. Come with Provo. Used to been actor.” Frapp shook his head, cocked an eye at Hairy, shook his head emphatically.
“Better speak out,” said Fitz.
“I hear he vorks alone on account of his partners ditched him. Acts too crazy. Ditched him for true. And…No damn good.”
Tal didn’t stop it. He felt unfaithful—unfaithful to Hairy, or to Dad. “Be particular,” said Fitzpatrick.
Hairy was glaring theatrically at Frapp.
Frapp made a little face. “He cleaned his partners out. Won it all at three-card monte. Then like fool shows them trick so they can cheat Injuns too. Is charlatan.”
Hairy turned conspicuously to stare off into space, his missing ear facing everyone. Tal could have hit him.
“That so, Hairy?” Tal rasped.
“Legerdemain, lad. Prestidigitation. One of the actor’s stocks in trade.”
“If you were going to stay in the mountains, Jones,” Fitzpatrick added gently, “you couldn’t choose…”
“He’s my partner,” Tal interrupted. It sounded like a dare.
All three heads jerked toward Tal. Silence.
“Jones,” said Fitz gently, “you’re a beginner.”
“He’s my partner,” Tal said, his words like a wall.
“Son,” began Fitz…
Tal lifted a hand at the cap’n. The hand was trembling.
“He’s my friend.”
Tal was tongue-tied. He felt words would come out sobs. “Know what he did up in the Hills?” Tal blurted. “A griz attacked him and he killed it with his tomahawk.” Now he was babbling. “See those scratches? Those are from the griz. Shakespeare stood up to it with just his ’hawk. And killed the sumbuck. I saw it.”
It was a child’s voice, pleading. He had to make them understand.
“When some Injuns were about to steal our horses, he burned them out and made them hightail it.”
Fitz and Frapp eyed each other.
“He’s my friend. My partner.” Said defiantly.
Fitz stood up. “I can’t do it, son,” said Fitz softly. “I’m sorry.”
Dismissed, Tal and Hairy walked slowly into the dark. Tal had never felt such a roil of…of everything, like all the songs he’d ever known jumbled and clashing. He blinked, and tears ran down his cheeks.
Hairy didn’t talk. Just looked down, as if moping. Walked right into a giant sagebrush. Fell down.
Tal smiled. He laughed a little, a teary laugh. He could hear Hairy’s big rumbling chuckle, too. Tal stuck a hand down. Hairy took it and pulled Tal down and rolled him over and held his shoulders to the ground, like when Jacob wrestled the angel. Tal could see Hairy’s teeth and eyes gleaming in the dark, inches away.
“Thanks, partner,” hissed Hairy.
“Anything for a partner, partner,” said Tal, faking wryness. He pushed. “Lemme up.”
Hairy jumped up and pulled Tal to his feet.
“I got an idea, partner,” Hairy whispered hugely.
“An idea?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
O brave new world
—The Tempest, V.i
The next morning, in the pre-dawn light, openly and defiantly, Tal and Hairy left the brigade and rode off for the forks of the Stinking Water, the Crow squaw Iron Kettle behind them.
“Besides, lad, it’s adventure,” Hairy cajoled. “It’s a chivalrous deed, it’s the stuff of heroic couplets.”
“What does trapping big, smelly water rats get you, anyway?” quipped Tal.
Tal had the orange and azure handkerchief flying from his wiping stick. Thus the blazon of the House of Jones headed into the land of the Absarokas, the people of the mountain raven.
“Getting killed will be something new,” Tal added.
Tal wished Hairy and Iron Kettle wouldn’t be so noisy about it. Their, uh, mating, that is. He didn’t like that word for it, but he liked the other words less. Love it certainly wasn’t. Love was…not all this braying, whickering, roaring, moaning…
Love meant more like what Tal had felt with Guadalupe in Santa Fe. Guadalupe. He’d watched her all evening. While her companion, perhaps her chaperone, danced with hidalgo and campesino and buckskinned trapper alike, arms bare, bodice daring, and skirts flouncing—while the older woman carried on thus wantonly, Guadalupe stood decorously against the wall and observed. She was slender, pale, and virginally beautiful in a white dress accented by colored silk handkerchiefs in her hair
. When suitors came to ask her to dance, and then left with stiff, courteous smiles, Tal could see she was as tall as most of them. Though men pinched the bottom of her flirting, smiling, teasing companion, by common consent they treated the tall, demure Guadalupe with chivalry.
In the shank of the evening, a boozy shank, Tal turned and saw an hidalgo talking loudly and rudely to Guadalupe. She was casting her eyes about nervously, but the other woman was busy with a flirtation. Tal gulped, squared his shoulders, crossed the room, and wordlessly offered Guadalupe his arm. Without a backward glance she took it and steered Tal toward the musicians. She spoke a few soft words, and in a moment the music changed to a minuet. Guadalupe led Tal to the center of the floor, held his hand high, and began a measured, stately dance. Most of the others backed away to watch. Not knowing the dance, Tal took an occasional step with her, but mostly held her hand aloft while she danced to him. It made him feel honored.
After the dance the chaperone took them both by the arm and hustled them onto the patio. “What a beautiful, young Americano,” she said to Guadalupe, looking into Tal’s eyes playfully, “beautifully innocent.” She squeezed his arm. “I thank you on behalf of my sister, who has little English. That was gallant.” She made a little curtsy, as though taking leave.
“Perhaps the elegante Americano escorts us home,” Guadalupe said haltingly.
“Of course,” murmured Tal.
So the sister performed the introductions—they were Guadalupe and Carlotta Echeverria—and they strolled through the cool summer evening.
Taking leave at the door of their house, the sort of house common frontiersmen were not permitted to enter, Guadalupe reached behind her head, took off the orange and azure handkerchief in her rolled hair, and slipped the comb out. She shook her gleaming black hair onto her shoulders, charmingly disarrayed. Then she kissed the handkerchief and held it against Tal’s cheek. When he covered her hand with his, she slipped hers away, leaving the handkerchief.
Murmuring “Buenas noches,” she slipped inside.
Tal rubbed his cheek with the handkerchief, then held it away to see it. A lady’s colors. A banner to carry. Tal didn’t know what to do. He felt an impulse to serenade beneath her window. But he hadn’t the nerve. Wandering back toward camp, he hummed a minor-key English folk song that had been a favorite of his father’s:
