Pike paused at this news. He seemed genuinely interested. Here was this twenty-six-year-old with dimples and a St. Louis accent, out in the wilds of North America, saying he was a brigade leader and company owner. The Hudson’s Bay Company was a model of order, organization, and regulation. No captain would receive a command before spending at least five years in the mountains, and usually much longer. The belief among the British was that the incapacity of the Americans to work cohesively would result in the land reverting to the British. But Smith was seen as an exception. His Rocky Mountain Fur Company had trapped successfully for three seasons, competing and even out-trapping the British.
“And who are you?”
“Henry Layton,” Layton said, reaching down. “Pleased to meet you.”
Pike ignored his hand. “I know your father.”
“Glad to hear it,” Layton said.
“It was not my pleasure. I had a shipping dispute with him five years ago. You are the admirable son who was bringing such joy to his life at the time, now here to brighten my day. Thank you for visiting.”
Pike turned abruptly and started back for his camp. Smith motioned for us to withdraw, but Layton could not help himself.
“We have returned three natives who were stranded on the slopes of our drainages, encouraged by you no doubt to poach on our lands.”
“The Crow lands are hardly your drainages,” Pike said, turning back.
“They are for these months.”
“Because, against all treaties and agreements, you have armed them with long guns that even my lieutenants cannot afford.”
“You arm your own allies. We have armed ours.”
“We arm our allies with Northwest Trade guns. Muskets.
Not long guns. And in accordance with long-standing custom.”
“It is your habit to believe any of your own actions are sanctioned by custom and any of ours are egregious. Captain Smith is a gentleman and an honorable man and would have returned the natives for the cost of twenty pelts.”
“An acceptable sum.”
“I am not a gentleman when the agreements are all to the advantage of my enemies who are poaching on my land and hide behind custom to try to steal my furs. These natives were stealing from us. Despite that fact, we rescued them and returned them to safety. It is not my custom to help my enemies steal from me. Yet we saved their lives. I am waiting for our thanks.”
Smith, Branch, and I all stifled laughter. Pike turned white with anger.
“Your aid was hardly worth half a season’s returns.”
“That was the negotiated price for guiding them back.”
“Three Snake natives who were born in these hills hardly need guiding from a St. Louis dandy out on a wander. It was extortion and theft.”
“It was the price of their survival,” Layton said. “Perhaps it is not worth the cost to you, though I imagine it was to them. Good day.”
Pike reached for his hip and I found my pistol pointing at Pike’s chest. I had followed the argument with growing admiration for Layton. He could be an impatient, ill-tempered dandy, as we all had witnessed, and he undoubtedly had a poisonous tongue in his worst moments, but he was wonderfully energetic when it came to defending his position, and he had said openly what we all believed about the British brigades but had never dared say in their hearing: that under the guise of custom, and with the implicit threat of their government-funded forts and giant brigades, the British had muscled their way into our territory, and when confronted with their encroachment had fallen back on what they called protocol or custom. I resented this encroachment, as all American trappers did, but we were cowed by their numbers. Layton was never cowed by anyone. And in that moment we all admired him.
Immediately after I drew my pistol to protect Layton at least eighty of Pike’s trappers swung their rifles toward me. Layton, Smith, and Branch all pulled out their pistols. Only Grignon held his hands up.
“Lower your weapons,” Smith said from behind me, very calmly. “No need to have a massacre over two packs. You see my men here. They are armed and will gladly pull their triggers.”
“I see five men who will be dead within the minute if we battle,” Pike said.
“We will all die, as you will, and more to the point, London and Washington will hear of this. It will be good for neither of us, but particularly not for you, as you will perish. You know this,” Smith said, his eyes scanning the eighty rifles pointed at us. “Your interests are to not incite a battle that will echo through Washington and London and disrupt the Treaty of 1818. Lower your weapons. And we will lower ours.”
“Your man must lower his first,” Pike said, motioning to me.
“His name’s Wyeth. He is a free trapper and part owner of the company.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
Pike’s eyes moved to me for a moment, then to Ferris on the hilltop, who had a bead on him. Slowly Pike took his hand from his holster. I lowered my gun. Pike’s men lowered their weapons, though with some grumbling.
Grignon pretended he was lowering his weapon, though he had never raised it.
The entire camp was watching this confrontation, including the natives, among whom I noticed Red Elk, the Blackfoot chieftain whom I had first seen at the surround a year ago, and who was the reason the Crow had agreed to the treaty with us. I had heard he was scouting for the HBC. I saw now that it was true. I felt him watching me, and after a moment, seeing that Pike would not release his men to fire, the native chieftain turned away, disdainful that the Americans had gotten the better of Pike in his own encampment.
“You cannot be a willing party to this,” Pike said to Smith.
“And he wasn’t,” Layton answered for him. “Captain Smith argued for your men not because of the rightness of their cause but because of the personal generosity shown to him in the past. I judged against it because of the pervasive encroachment of your brigade and many like it. If you are looking for someone to blame, blame me.”
“You need not worry about that,” Pike said. Then to Smith, “I know better than to appeal to your companion’s better instincts, which I am sure he does not possess. But I appeal to yours.”
“I am only the scout and captain. Not an owner,” Smith said. “Good day.”
“We are camped half a day’s ride south of here,” Layton said. “If you wish to attempt to take back the furs that are now ours, you can come and try. I look forward to your visit.”
“It may come to that someday,” Pike said. “And if we choose to determine the right to take furs solely on who is the strongest, we will see who triumphs.”
“That we will,” Layton said. “In the meantime, I wouldn’t fly a British flag on American soil, which this is.”
“You have aligned yourself with pleasant company,” Pike said to Smith.
“I am beginning to like the company more and more,” Smith said, and by the nodding and grinning of Branch and Grignon I saw that he echoed the sentiments of the entire company. That was Layton’s finest hour.
Layton wheeled his horse and started off. The rest of us followed. As we passed the little hillock, Ferris and Pegleg joined us, grinning broadly.
“Oh, that was pleasing,” Smith said. “Bravo, Layton. I can think of no other man who could have done that. Sebastian Pike’s arrogance has met its match.”
“I will take that as a compliment,” Layton said.
“It is,” Smith said.
Pegleg jostled me, almost knocking me from my horse.
“You had eighty Northwesters pointed at your chest. How’s that feel, Wyeth?”
“Better now that it didn’t come to battling,” I said.
“And that was a swift draw,” Smith said to Grignon. That sent the men jeering, as Grignon had not drawn his pistol at all.
We rode on and reached the original encampment just before dark, where we rested until moonrise, then rode all night until we were back in the high mountains. We did not see the British brigade again t
hat spring, but over the next few weeks we heard the Blackfoot were attacking the Crow at the edges of their stronghold using Northwest Trade guns supplied by the British, and that the Sioux were peppering the American supply lines also using Northwest guns that they had not had before. But that was outside of our protected slopes. In the Wind River Mountains all was calm and the story of Layton’s confrontation with Pike was told again and again, with much exaggeration and pleasure that calmed the distemper of the brigade.
Then it was high summer and we had our mid-season accounting. The year before the average trapping party had gathered ninety-six pelts in the entire year. We had gathered a hundred and forty pelts apiece in half a season.
Late July 1828, and Ferris and I left the Wind River Mountains heading east, riding out through dry runnels and up onto a volcanic ridge that ran like a black spine through the barren plains. We had a pack horse and some jerked meat in case game was scarce and only a vague destination of “mountains to the northeast.”
In the warmest weather the furs were thin and of less value, and Smith and most of the men had gone for supplies at a trapper rendezvous near Bear Lake. Layton had joined a party of Snake and planned to negotiate for the right to trap their drainages the following year. Ferris and I, after half a season of industry and forced companionship, had petitioned to “scout for fertile waterways,” but were really just off on a wander.
Midmorning, and we were six hours from our encampment, the mountains to the north distant gray silhouettes, when Ferris stopped and looked behind us and studied the vast, scrubby, barren land to the south. He started up again. Fifteen minutes later he stopped again and scanned the land behind us.
“You see that dust?” he said.
There was a faint, thin tail of dust rising up.
“Anyone heading north or east’d come this way. Doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said.
“Nope. Doesn’t have to,” he said.
We started up. After half a mile Ferris stopped once again.
“Someone’s coming after us,” he said.
Just to the east there was a jagged black rock shaped like a pyramid, maybe forty feet high. Ferris turned and looked at it.
“There’s forage on the other side of that rock lump. We can rest the horses. Hide in the crags. See who’s coming.”
I held out my powder horn.
“Give them a welcome.”
“Might come to that,” he said.
It was just the two of us and the horses and no one else in sight. We rode across the plain and around the triangular black rock. In the shade on the far side the rocks were covered with green and orange lichens that seemed very bright against the dark surface. There was a seep off the east side and the water gathered in a bowl that looked like it had been cut out with hand tools. Black pollywogs hovered in the depths of the pooled water, which overflowed the bowl and dripped off the edge of the rock through bright green moss and formed into a trickle that meandered in a channel of ferns. We picketed the horses in the shade with the lead ropes long enough for them to forage. Ferris and I filled our gourds and then he grabbed his rifle and I grabbed mine and we climbed up the back end of that rock lump and eased around to the west side. We dropped into a cavity and stood with our elbows resting on the flat surface and our guns in front of us. If Ferris was afraid he did not show it. He had his customary, flat, calm, cheerful manner that had been seen as being naïve and innocent when he had first joined the brigade but later was understood to be something else entirely: love of the wilderness, indifference to danger, willingness to battle if it came to that, and above all, love of the life of a trapper. It gave him a kind of confidence that I believe was simply the result of knowing that he was doing exactly what he wanted.
We waited. Fifteen minutes passed. We could see the rising dust from approaching horses.
“Is it natives?” I asked.
“Look at the way they ride. Spread out. Don’t care who sees. It’s natives.”
“Not a war party.”
“Not yet,” Ferris said.
We watched as the horsemen came over a small rise and rode past the point where we’d turned off. There were about twenty of them and they were dragging lodges and had at least forty ponies. Dogs weaved among them. They went on along the crest of the ridge and were almost out of sight when the riders stopped and consulted among themselves and then one of the riders turned back along the path they’d made and stopped at the point where we’d turned off. The rider jumped down and looked at the prints and looked off toward the rock where we hid.
“You still think they aren’t following us?” Ferris said.
“I don’t think that one’s a native,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he is.”
He was far enough away that it was hard to tell.
“Like to have that glass in the pack saddle now,” Ferris said.
“Yep,” I said.
Ferris and I waited with our rifles resting on the flat rock.
A few of the other horsemen in the party had turned back and trotted up to where the first horseman had stopped. They all looked off in our direction. We knew they could not see us in the shade of the great rock, but we lowered ourselves and watched them and waited. After a few minutes I said, “It’s Layton.”
“I think it might be, too,” Ferris said. “The way he stands there pontificating. It’s Layton.”
“Why’s he following us?”
“Don’t know. He said he was going with the Snake to ‘negotiate.’ ”
I clambered out of the cavity and down the back end of the flat, angular rock. Ferris followed me. We got back to the seep and I mounted my horse and Ferris mounted his and as soon as we came around that dark rock the horseman held a hand up in greeting and Ferris said, “Yeah, it’s Layton.”
We rode out and met him in the middle of that barren expanse in the midday sun. Behind Layton we could see two of the braves in his party lounging in the dust, smoking a pipe. A squaw on horseback watched us.
Layton said, “I saw some natives with HBC saddle packs to the south. Not far. It was three men. Riding fast. They know I glassed them.”
“Which way?” I asked.
Layton pointed to the south.
“They were heading northeast. Not far from here. Snake said it was Red Elk.”
“You think he’s after us?” I asked.
“I don’t know if he is or if he isn’t but I know the Brits don’t want us here. And Red Elk was in their encampment. You tell me. What else are three Blackfoot doing way out here on British horses?”
Ferris and I glanced at each other and said nothing. Layton took off his deerskin cap and wiped his forehead and replaced the cap on his head. I looked back east. Ferris did, too. It was wide-open land. Vast, desolate, and empty. It was very quiet.
“Hard land to hide in,” I said, finally.
“Hard land to get away in, too,” Layton said.
“What do you think?” Ferris said to Layton.
“I’d rather hunt than be hunted,” Layton said.
“That would be a story to tell in St. Louis,” Ferris said.
Layton got a peevish look. “I’m hardly thinking of that, Ferris.”
“And what would we do if we found them?” I asked.
“See what they want. Fight if it comes to that,” Layton said. “Better to choose the battle than have it chosen for us.”
Dark shadows of clouds moved slowly over the black rock to the south.
“Lot of land,” I said. “Even if they are looking for us.”
“Maybe if you ride off alone they’ll follow you,” Ferris said, grinning. “We can get ’em after they stick a spear in you.”
“It might come to that,” Layton said.
“So why go looking for it?” Ferris said. “Most likely it’s something else.” Layton was quiet. So was I. Ferris added, “We’ll keep our eyes open, take our chances.”
“Wyeth?”
Layton said.
“We’ll take our chances,” I said.
Layton said nothing more but I could tell he wanted us to abandon our plans and ride south with him.
“Just thought you should know they were out there,” he said.
“Thanks,” Ferris said.
“Thanks,” I said.
Layton tipped his hat and rode back to the natives. Something a little dismissive and impatient in his movements.
“He wanted us to invite him with us,” I said, when he was out of earshot.
“I think you’re right,” Ferris said. “We get two weeks without him and he follows us into the desert. Can’t stand that we get away for a minute. Thinks he’s our captain and has to ‘manage’ us.”
I looked back again at the land behind us. That barren rocky table with the sparse grass and the brown path running up the middle and meandering as it went south.
“You think he even saw those savages?” Ferris asked.
“I guess he probably did. Now if it was really Red Elk, and if they’re really after us, that’s another question.”
We scanned the land behind us with the spyglass but saw nothing. It would have been a hard land to move in without being spotted.
We started up again, stopping to look behind us now and then. After an hour we passed Layton’s party. We gave them a wide berth because of the dogs. Layton had taken his deerskin shirt off and was just in the white cloth with his rifle across the pommel. He yelled, “Keep a lookout,” and we said do the same. The squaw rode alongside him, proud and haughty. She turned and glanced at us and then looked away, chin high, showing her profile. She was very pretty.
We rode on all afternoon, Ferris and I, along the crest of that rounded low ridge. Each time we looked back Layton’s party was a little farther behind us. Near the end of the day we slid off the ridge and rode east, down into a river valley that we’d been paralleling all day. We crossed at a sandy bottom with green ferns waving in the current and the water cold and the air cool around it. We rode up the far side through reeds that were as tall as the horses and swished their underbellies. We climbed the bank and were suddenly back in the sparse hills with the sun behind us. The mountains seemed much closer once we were on that side of the valley. The land was greener.
Into the Savage Country Page 14
