Crack in the Sky tb-3

by Terry C. Johnston

  Goddamned Bannocks. Who the hell did they think they was, anyway? He’d been run down by the best of ’em—riding day and night with the Apache breathing down on his ass. No way these here Bannocks ever come close to measuring up to Apache.

  He stopped there in the shadows of the man-sized willow that bordered the coulee and sniffed again. Woodsmoke.

  His mouth went dry.

  That weren’t no summer thunderstorm grass fire. No, that was a smell altogether different. This was wood-smoke. Even had the smell of broiling meat braided around the edges of that stronger scent.

  And that made his dry mouth water.

  Then Bass remembered that he was slipping up on some thieving red bastards, scolding himself that he’d better forget his feed bag for now.

  After checking the priming in both the rifle and pistol for the fifth or sixth time, Titus angled down the side of the coulee toward the river valley, hanging with the cover offered him by the thick, leafy brush.

  Less than a half hour later, he stopped suddenly—his nose greeted by horse sweat wafted on that cooling breeze nuzzling its way down the riverbank. Another twenty yards and … he heard them.

  Parting the willow with the rifle’s muzzle, Titus spotted the horses. Son of a bitch if that wasn’t a white man’s tack on that piebald! Not no braided buffalo-hair hackamore.

  And that roan! Hell if he hadn’t seen it before!

  One of the horses on the far side of the bunch whinnied low as a figure stepped out of the tree shadows and headed for the piebald. Scratch’s heart stopped then and there in his chest—

  “Rufus Graham!”

  The figure wheeled at the call of his name, yanking on the pistol he had stuffed into the wide, colorful sash at his waist.

  “Don’t shoot me, Rufus!”

  As Bass rose to his feet there in the thick willow, he watched the horses part, listened to the ground reverberate with running feet. At the far side of the clearing where a wary Rufus Graham stood frozen, there suddenly appeared the other five.

  Titus didn’t know when their ugly, hairy faces had ever looked prettier!

  “Eegod, boys!” Jack Hatcher yelped as he stepped closer, a wide slash of a grin splitting the lower half of his bearded face. “If it ain’t Titus Bass his own self … riz right up from the dead!”

  25

  The six of them had near pounded him to black-and-blue there in that little clearing as the horses snorted around them.

  “Lookee here, boys!” Hatcher roared as he grabbed hold of the front of Bass’s shirt—cocking his head this way, then that, looking at Scratch from different angles. “If this nigger ain’t graying up like a ol’ barn owl!”

  “Ain’t he now!” Solomon agreed, yanking the wide-brimmed hat off Scratch’s head. He held up that narrow braid of hair hanging there in front of Bass’s left ear.

  Titus nabbed it away from Fish, his eyes crossing as he focused on it. “Gray?”

  “See what I tol’t you!” Elbridge roared. “Hell, Jack-Titus Bass rode with Asa McAfferty too long awready!”

  Caleb asked, “You mean he’s getting white-headed like that ol’ preacher?”

  “My hair ain’t white!” he protested.

  Jack rocked back on his heels, grinning like a house cat put out to the barn where all the mice are at play. “Sure are getting ol’t, Scratch. Maybeso ye ain’t had nothing scare yer hair to white … but this here’s certain sign ye’re getting ol’t!”

  Bass lunged for him suddenly, sweeping low beneath Hatcher’s right arm to hoist the surprised man onto his shoulders as he straightened, raising Jack right off the ground and flipping him right on across his back so that Hatcher flopped into the waist-high grass. The other five roared, holding their bellies as they guffawed at the stunned Hatcher, some pounding their knees, bent over in a laughing fit.

  “Tell me now just how ol’t I am, Jack Hatcher!” Scratch bellowed like a wounded bull, standing over the man sprawled on the ground, balling his fists on his hips, just daring Hatcher to get back to his feet again.

  “Ol’t enough ye ought’n know better!” and Jack swung out with his leg, catching Bass at the ankles, sweeping Scratch’s feet cleanly off the ground, toppling him right beside Hatcher. “Damn, if it ain’t good to see ye!” Jack bawled, slugging a fist into Scratch’s shoulder.

  “We had you figgered for gone under!” Rufus declared as he dropped to his knee nearby.

  Isaac lunged up, saying, “You see’d hair or hide of McAfferty?”

  “Naw,” Scratch answered as he slowly got to his feet, dusting off his leggings. “Heard of him—from Bridger’s bunch. Said they saw him last fall.”

  “Up to Three Forks?” Solomon asked.

  “On north of there a good ways Asa run onto ’em.”

  Hatcher whistled low. “That’s hair-liftin’ country, ever there was one.”

  “Told us he was going there,” Caleb explained.

  “I don’t figger him to make it to Willow Valley,” Isaac said.

  “Hard for a man to come through a hull winter and spring that far into Blackfoot country,” Hatcher stated. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you again, Scratch.”

  He looked round at those six faces. “It’s damned good to lay these ol’ eyes on you boys too.”

  “Bet you’ve got some lies to tell, don’cha?” Elbridge asked.

  “Me?” he replied with mock indignation. “Ever’thing I’m gonna tell you fellers tonight at the fire gonna be the God’s truth.”

  “You hear that, Jack?” Caleb roared.

  “Let’s see: I wrassled with ol’ Ephraim … aw, hell—I awready told you boys about that,” Scratch grumped. “And I damn near got killed by some greaser soldiers—”

  “You and McAfferty done tol’t us about that too,” Rufus interrupted.

  So Hatcher lazily looped an arm over Bass’s shoulder. “Just what the hell you done with yourself since we saw you last summer over on the Wind River?”

  After fetching up his animals and turning them out to graze with those of Hatcher’s bunch, Scratch told them about his journey far north to the Judith, where he returned to the site of his bear mauling, regaling them with the story of his long walk to track the Crow horse thieves, finishing with his spring trapping on some tributaries of the Bighorn, his stop to soak aching bones at the tar springs before pushing on to the Wind River, climbing over South Pass to make his way to the Sandy—where he first spotted their dust cloud.

  “You ain’t a very cautious bunch,” Bass told them, wagging his head with mock criticism.

  “Just what the hell ye mean?” Hatcher growled. “We knowed we didn’t have to be careful when it was only a bone-headed horse’s ass named Titus Bass following us!”

  “You owe me a drink for smearing my name in such a way, Jack Hatcher,” he grumbled, and held his cup up for more coffee as Rufus brought the pot around the fire. “And I don’t mean none of your bad coffee neither.”

  “Gladly, Titus Bass! We’ll all have us more’n one round of Billy Sublette’s whiskey when we reach Willow Valley!”

  But they wouldn’t drink any whiskey that year. And the mountain men sure as hell wouldn’t have their rendezvous hurraw in the Willow Valley either.*

  As it turned out, after crossing to the west bank of the Green the next morning and setting out for the day, they ran onto a small group of free trappers heading east.

  “Where you bound?” their leader asked as Bass and Hatcher’s bunch hailed the strangers, and both groups came to a noisy halt.

  “For ronnyvoo in Willow Valley!” Jack cried exuberantly. “Ain’cha going?”

  “Not to be no ronnyvoo in the Willow,” their leader replied. “We was coming south from the lower Snake country where we trapped this past spring.”

  “Near Sweet Lake, we was,” interrupted another of the strangers.

  The first man continued, “When we come across some of Bridger’s men, he sent out to pass the word.”

  “Pass what word
?” Caleb demanded.

  “Rocky Mountain Fur wants all free men to meet ’em on the Green, up near what they call Horse Creek.”

  “Horse Creek, no shit?” Hatcher echoed.

  Pointing his arm north, the leader explained, “A ways yonder, up the Green.”

  And with that, Scratch shuddered. “Heard that’s damned cold country come winter.”

  “Heard that myself,” the leader replied, looking over the rest of Hatcher’s free men. “You care to throw in with us for the trip to ronnyvoo?”

  Quickly Jack turned to the rest, seeing them nod. He looked back to the stranger. “Name’s Hatcher,” and he held out his hand as he continued. “I figger we might as well all ride up the Green together.”

  As each of the free trapper bands reached the growing encampment nestled down in the fertile, grassy bottoms along the Green near the mouth of Horse Creek, one or another of the company booshways made a point to come over to explain this change of site.

  “Fitz didn’t get off for St. Lou early as we’d planned for him to,” Bridger declared to the group who rode in with Hatcher. “What with Willow Valley being a far piece to the west, me and the partners figgered to move ronnyvoo some to the east so Fitz and Billy Sublette could reach us quicker when they come out from St. Lou.”

  Titus asked, “What’s ronnyvoo got to do with Fitzpatrick making it back to St. Louie?”

  Bridger cleared his throat. “When we bought out Smith, Jackson, and Sublette last year, we promised ’em we’d have a man back to St. Lou arranging for supplies afore March each spring, when a mule train’s got to make its start west. Just like it was when Sublette hisself went back. Trouble was, we didn’t get Fitz away from the mouth of the Powder this spring as soon as we wanted to.”

  Bass felt concern taking root within him. “Jim, you don’t figger there won’t be no trader this year, do you?”

  The younger booshway shook his head and smiled. “Fitz ain’t the sort to cache hisself, boys. He’ll make it back just fine. ’Sides—Smith, Jackson, and Sublette are savvy fellers: they know we’re all needing supplies to make out the next year.”

  “That’s right,” Titus worked to convince himself. “Sublette and the rest gotta know every man out here needs provisions, year in, year out.”

  Jack bellowed like a bull with its bangers caught on cat-claw brush, “We’ll damn well go under we don’t get powder and lead—”

  “Whiskey and tobacco!” Rufus whimpered.

  Bass agreed and echoed, “Whiskey and tobacco, some coffee and sugar too. Why, hell—how’s a man to winter up ’thout the trader’s supplies less’n he’s got a band of friendlies to hunker in with, or he points his nose south for the greaser diggings?”

  Bridger nodded, shoving his floppy felt hat back onto his head. “I know how you feel, boys. Just ’member: we all suffer the same in this. Seems we just have to wait together and keep our eyes peeled for Broken Hand.”

  They did keep their eyes locked on the eastern horizon for Tom Fitzpatrick, William Sublette, and those vagons every man was sure the trader was bound to bring back for a second trip to the mountains. Day, after day, after day they kept up their vigil … while July grew old and August loomed close.

  Even the unflappably gruff Henry Fraeb finally grew concerned enough to seek out the services of an aging shaman traveling with a small band of Crow who had come in to trade with the white men.

  “Frapp said he told the ol’ boy he’d give him some tobacco and coffee if he’d do his medicine and figger out what happened to Fitz. He’s figgering Broken Hand went under—never made it back to St. Louie,” Scratch explained to the others late one afternoon when he returned to the spot where he was camped with Hatcher’s men.

  “That medicine man come up with a answer for us?” Isaac asked.

  Bass nodded as he settled at the fire. “The ol’ goat was at it for more’n a day. Just a while back he come to Frapp and told ’em all that Fitz ain’t dead—”

  “That’s some plumb fine news!” Caleb hooted, stomping a foot.

  Jack shushed the sudden clatter and noise, “But if he ain’t dead, where’s he? And where’s the whiskey?”

  “That old Crow says Fitzpatrick ain’t gone under, but he’s on the wrong trail.”

  “On the wrong trail!” Rufus squeaked.

  “Hell—we ain’t gonna get no whiskey now!” Elbridge groaned as he slapped his forehead and turned away with utter disgust.

  Hatcher flapped his hands again for quiet. “What’s that mean: wrong trail?”

  “Ain’t no one knows,” Scratch answered with a shrug. “So Frapp’s going out in the morning to look for Fitz.”

  Biting on his lower lip, Solomon advised, “There ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell Frapp gonna find Fitz out there to the east.”

  “Not in time for us to have a ronnyvoo!” Graham complained.

  “Shuddup, goddammit!” Hatcher demanded again. “To hell with ronnyvoo!”

  Caleb leaped to his feet, hulking over Hatcher, bristling like a spit-on hen. “To hell with ronnyvoo?”

  Jack glared up at his friend. “Damn right. We got bigger problems, boys.” He waited a minute as Wood turned back to the group and the others settled around the fire to hear what their leader had to say. “For a man to miss ronnyvoo one’s thing … but for a man to figger him out a way to get through the winter in Injun country ’thout supplies—that’s the real fly in this nigger’s ointment.”

  “Jack’s right,” Bass replied. “Like I said when we come in and Bridger told us the trader wasn’t here yet—man’s got to make one of two choices.”

  As Hatcher looked them over, the rest stared into the fire as afternoon’s shadows grew longer. “So what’s it gonna be, fellers?”

  Elbridge drew himself up and jutted out his proud chin. “Taos. There we’ll find Workman’s lightning and Mex gals.”

  “What ’bout them soldiers?” Graham worried.

  “That is a problem,” Hatcher agreed thoughtfully.

  Scratch grumbled, “Damn, but me and Asa really boogered things good down there, didn’t we?”

  “Weren’t none of yer fault,” Jack scolded. “Any one of us done the same if we was jumped by a greaser soldier.”

  “’Specially when you was jumped same time you was crawling the hump of some Mex whore!” Rufus roared.

  “Maybeso we can slip into Workman’s place one night,” Solomon suggested, holding his hands up for quiet. “Ask him about the lay of the land with the governor’s men.”

  “If things don’t look good,” Bass continued, “you can skedaddle back north.”

  “We?” Jack chimed in. “You mean ye ain’t gonna come to Taos with us for the winter?”

  Scratch shook his head and snorted. “Ain’t gonna be healthy for this child down there for a couple winters yet.”

  “So if we care to slip on down to Taos for the winter and supply-up,” Hatcher commented as he turned on Bass, “what ye gonna do for yer own self?”

  For long moments he stared at the fire, poking a long stick into the flames. When he brought out the fiery end of that dry limb and peered at it, Scratch said, “I got friends back in Crow country. I’ll winter up there.”

  “You’ll be awright ’thout no supplies?”

  “Hell, yes,” Titus answered. “Might run low on ball and powder afore next summer … but I’ll get by. ’Sides, fellers—just think what Sublette’s gonna have to pay us next summer for beaver!”

  “Whoooeee!” Caleb cheered.

  Isaac said, “And ain’t there gonna be a heap of it too come next year?”

  “When you was over visiting Bridger,” Jack inquired, turning to Bass, “you hear any word from the company booshways on where they’ll join up for next ronnyvoo?”

  “Heard talk about Pierre’s Hole,” Bass replied. “But I don’t figger they’ve decided hard on it.”

  That ended up being the best any of those few hundred men gathered on the Green could do—company
trapper or free man: nothing more than talk about and dream on next summer, next rendezvous, next time they’d see Billy Sublette’s trade caravan coming in. But with the way a man planned for, anticipated, and downright lusted after each annual gathering for a whole year … it was all he could do to calmly accept that there would be another autumn, another winter, and another spring of wading knee-deep in icy mountain streams before he would trade some of his furs in for whiskey, for enough foofaraw to get him laid with a bright-eyed squaw gal.

  It was purely painful there in the valley of the upper Green after Henry Fraeb pulled out to look for partner Fitzpatrick as each new day of August came and went.

  When Tom Fitzpatrick did not show up in St. Louis by the agreed-upon date, the partners of Smith, Jackson, and Sublette proceeded with their initial plans of entering the Santa Fe trade. By the time the eastbound Fitzpatrick reached the settlement of Independence, he learned that the three partners had already come through with a caravan bound not for the mountains, but for Mexico. There was little other choice but to gallop after the wagon train. Somewhere in that hot, waterless country of what is today southwestern Kansas, he caught up to the three partners. They told Fitzpatrick he would have to join them all the way to Taos, where they would outfit him with supplies for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.

  By then the caravan had entered the most dangerous and deadly water scrape on the Santa Fe Trail. Far out ahead of the wagons, searching for water in any of the few sandy, dry river bottoms, Jedediah Smith was confronted by some Comanche buffalo hunters. Although his life oozed out on the end of a deadly fourteen-foot buffalo lance, his body was never found.

  Even with Smith missing, Jackson and Sublette proceeded on to Taos, where they disbanded their partnership after turning over some six thousand dollars in supplies to Fitzpatrick. While Jackson headed west to California and his own fortunes, Sublette turned back for St. Louis to begin gathering finances and goods for his 1832 trading venture to the mountains.