Winter Rain

by Terry C. Johnston

  Straining to see the unseeable, Bass glanced overhead to search for the moon in that wide canopy stretching across the treetops. Moonset already come and gone. Nothing left but some puny starshine. As he blinked a third time, his groggy brain finally remembered that his vision wasn’t what it had been. For weeks now that milky cloud covering his left eye was forcing his right to work all the harder.

  Then his nose suddenly captured something new on the nightwind. A smell musky and feral—an odor not all that familiar, just foreign enough that he strained his recollections to put a finger on it.

  Then off to the side of camp his ears heard the padding of the dog’s big feet as Zeke moved stealthily through the stands of aspen that nearly surrounded this tiny pocket in the foothills he had found for them late yesterday afternoon.

  And from farther in the darkness came another low, menacing growl—

  Titus practically jumped out of his skin when she touched him, laying her fingers against his bare arm. He turned to peer back, swallowing hard, that lone eye finding Waits by the Water in what dim light seeped over them there beneath the big square of oiled Russian sheeting he had lashed between the trees should the summer sky decide to rain on them through the night.

  He could hear Zeke moving again, not near so quietly this time, angling farther out from camp.

  Bass laid a long finger against her lips, hoping it would tell her enough. Waits nodded slightly and kissed the finger just before he pulled it away and rocked forward onto his knees, slowly standing. Smelling. Listening.

  Sure enough the old dog was in motion, growling off to his right—not where he had heard Zeke a moment before. Yonder, toward the horses at the edge of the gently sloping meadow.

  Had someone, red or white, stumbled upon them camped here? he wondered as he took a first barefooted step, then listened some more. Snake country, this was—them Shoshone—though Crow were known to plunge this far south, Arapaho push in too. Had some hunting party found their tracks and followed them here against the bluff?

  Every night of their journey north from Taos Bass had damn well exercised caution. They would stop late in the lengthening afternoons and water their horses, then let them graze a bit while he gathered wood for a small fire he always built directly beneath the wide overhang of some branches to disperse the smoke. Waits nursed the baby and when her tummy was full Bass’s Crow wife passed the child to him. If his daughter was awake after her supper, the trapper cuddled the babe across his arm or bounced her gently in his lap while Waits cooked their supper. But most evenings the tiny one fell asleep as the warm milk filled her tummy.

  So the man sat quietly with the child sleeping against him, watching his wife kneel at the fire, listening to the twilight advancing upon them, his nostrils taking in the feral innocence of this land carried on every breeze. With all the scars, the slashes of knife, those pucker holes from bullets and iron-tipped arrows too, with the frequent visits of pain on his old joints and the dim sight left him in that one eye … even with all those infirmities, this trapper fondly named Scratch nonetheless believed Dame Fortune had embraced him more times than she had shunned him.

  Every morning for the past twenty-five days they loaded up their two packhorses and the new mule he had come to call Samantha, dividing up what furs Josiah Paddock had refused to take for himself, what necessaries of coffee, sugar, powder, lead, and foofaraw he figured the three of them would need, what with leaving Taos behind for the high country once more. By the reckoning of most, he hadn’t taken much. A few beaver plews to trade with Sublette at the coming rendezvous on Ham’s Fork where he would buy a few girlews and geegaws to pack off to Rotten Belly up in Absaroka, Crow country. When Bass returned Waits by the Water to the land of her people for the coming winter.

  Josiah. Each time he thought on the one who had been his young partner, thought too on that ex-slave Esau they had stumbled across out in Pawnee country,* on the others he left behind in the Mexican settlements … it brought a hard lump to Scratch’s throat.

  For those first few days after bidding them that difficult farewell, Titus would look down their back-trail, fully expecting to find one or more of them hurrying to catch up, to again try convincing him to remain where it was safe, maybe even to announce that they were throwing in with him once more. After some two weeks he eventually put aside such notions, realizing he and Josiah had truly had their time together as the best of friends, realizing too that their time lay in the past.

  Time now for a man to ride into the rest of his tomorrows with his family.

  One of the ponies snorted in that language he recognized as nervousness edging into fear. Whoever it was no longer was staying downwind of the critters.

  Kneeling, Bass swept up one of the pistols from where he laid them when he settled down to sleep. After stuffing it in the belt that held up his leggings and breechclout, Scratch scooped up a second pistol and poked it beneath the belt with the first.

  Gazing down at the look of apprehension on the woman’s face, he whispered in Crow, “Our daughter needs a name.”

  He stood before Waits could utter a reply and pushed into the dark.

  The babe needed a name. For weeks now his wife said it was for the girl’s father to decide. Never before could he remember being given so grave a task—this naming of another. A responsibility so important not only to the Crow people, but important to him as well. The proper name would set a tone for her life, put the child’s feet on a certain path like no other name could. Now that his daughter was almost a month old, he suddenly realized he could no longer put this matter aside, dealing each day with other affairs, his mind grown all the more wary and watchful now that there were these two women to think of, to care for, to protect.

  More than his own hide to look after, there were others counting on him.

  No one was going to slink on in and drive off their horses—

  Suddenly Zeke emitted more than a low rumble. Now it became an ominous growl.

  One of the ponies began to snort, another whinnying of a sudden. And he could hear their hooves slam the earth.

  Where was that goddamned dog? Zeke was bound to get himself hurt or killed mixing with them what had come to steal their horses. In his gut it felt good, real good, to know that he wasn’t going into this alone. The dog was there with him. Bass quickened his pace.

  As that strong, feral odor struck him full in the face Scratch stepped close enough to the far side of the meadow to see their shadows rearing. The struggling ponies were frightened, crying out, straining at the end of their picket-pins right where he had tied them to graze their full until morning.

  He stopped, half-crouching, searching the dark for the intruders, those horse-thieves come to run off with his stock—

  A dim yellow-gray blur burst from the treeline. His teeth bared, Zeke pounced, colliding noisily with one of the thieves just beyond the ponies.

  There had to be more, Scratch knew—his finger itchy along the trigger. With Zeke’s roar the thieves had to expect the owner of the horses to be coming.

  But as Bass looked left and right he couldn’t spot any others. Perhaps only one had stolen in alone.

  Then in the midst of that growling and snapping Scratch suddenly realized the dog hadn’t pounced on a horse-thief at all. It was another four-legged. A predator. A goddamned wolf.

  “Zeke!” he roared as he bolted forward toward the contest. Remembering that dog fight Zeke was slowly losing in front of the waterfront tippling house back in St. Louis when Scratch stepped in and saved the animal’s life.

  The damned bone-headed dog didn’t know when he was getting the worst of a whipping.

  Three of the ponies whipped this way and that, kicking and snorting at the ends of their picket ropes where he had secured them. Dodging side to side Bass rushed into their midst, ready to club the wolf off Zeke when the battle-scarred dog tumbled toward him under the legs of a pack horse, fighting off two of them.

  Two goddamned wolves!


  At that moment Samantha set up a plaintive bawl, jerking him around as if he were tied to her by a strip of latigo.

  Again and again she thrashed her hind legs, flailing at a third wolf that slinked this way and that, attempting to get in close enough to hamstring her.

  He’d fought these damned critters before, big ones too, high in the mountains and on the prairies.

  Taking a step back as Samantha connected against her attacker with a small hoof, Scratch jammed the rifle against his shoulder, staring down the long, octagonal barrel to find the target. Then set the back trigger.

  As the predator clambered back to all fours and began to slink toward the mule once more, he shut both eyes and pulled the front trigger. With a roar the powder in the pan ignited and a blinding muzzle-flash jetted into the black of night.

  On opening his eyes, Titus heard the .54-caliber lead ball strike the wolf, saw it bowl the creature over.

  Whipping to his left the trapper up-ended the rifle, gripping the muzzle in both hands as he started for the mass of jaws and legs and yelps where Zeke was embroiled with two lanky-limbed wolves, getting the worst of it. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder and preparing to swing the buttstock at one of the dog’s attackers, a fragment of the starlit night tore itself loose and flickered into the side of his vision.

  Landing against Scratch with the force of its leap, a fourth wolf sank its teeth deep into the muscle at the top of his bare left arm. Struggling on the ground beneath the animal as it attempted to whip its head back and forth to tear meat from its prey, Bass yanked a pistol from his belt as the pain became more than he could bear—fearing he was about to lose consciousness at any moment.

  He fought for breath as he rammed the pistol’s muzzle against the attacker’s body and pulled the hammer back with his thumb, dragging back the trigger an instant later. The roar was muffled beneath the furry attacker’s body, nonetheless searing the man’s bare flesh with powderburns as the big round ball slammed through the wolf and blew a huge, fist-sized hole out the attacker’s back in a spray of blood.

  Pitching the empty pistol aside, Scratch pried at the jaws death-locked onto his torn shoulder, savagely tearing the wolfs teeth from his flesh. He rolled onto his knees shakily, blood streaming down the left arm, finding Zeke struggling valiantly beneath his two attackers, clearly growing weary. Bass pulled the second pistol from his belt and clambered to his feet. Lunging closer he aimed at the two darker forms as they swarmed over their prey, praying he would not miss.

  The moment the bullet struck, the wolf yelped and rolled off the dog, all four of its legs galloping sidelong for a moment before they stilled in death. The last wolf remained resolutely twisted atop Zeke. The dog had one of the attacker’s legs imprisoned in his jaws but the wolf clamped down on Zeke’s throat, thrashing its head side to side in its brutal attempt to tear open its prey, assuring the kill.

  Rocking down onto his hands, Bass frantically searched the grass for the rifle knocked from his grip, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. By Jehoshaphat! That dog was a fighter to the end. He had known it from the start back there in St. Louis when Zeke hadn’t run out of fight, even when he was getting whipped—

  Scratch’s fingers found the rifle, dragged it into both hands as he leaped to his feet, swinging his arms overhead as he rushed forward, yelling a guttural, unintelligible sound that welled up from the pit of him as he lunged toward the wolf and dog.

  The cool air of that summer night fairly hissed as it was sliced with such force—driving the butt of his long fullstock Derringer flintlock rifle against the wolfs backbone. The creature grunted and yelped, but did not relinquish its hold on Zeke. Yellow eyes glared primally at the man.

  “You goddamned sonuvabitch!” he roared as he flung the rifle overhead again.

  Driving it down into the attacker a second time, Bass forced the wolf to release its hold on Zeke. Now it staggered around to face the man on three legs, that fourth still imprisoned in the dog’s jaws. Then with a powerful snap the wolf seized Zeke’s nose in his teeth, clamping down for that moment it took to compel the dog to release the bloody leg.

  Whimpering, Zeke pulled free of this last attacker, freeing the wolf to whirl back around. It crouched, its head slung between its front shoulders, snarling at the man.

  Once more Scratch brought his rifle back behind his head, stretching that torn flesh in the left shoulder.

  He was already swinging the moment the wolf left the ground. The rifle collided with the predator less than an arm-span away. With a high-pitched yelp the wolf tumbled to the ground. Scratch was on him, slamming the rifle’s iron butt-plate down into the predator’s head again, then again.

  Remembering other thieves of the forest, he flushed with his hatred of their kind.

  Over and over he brought the rifle up and hurtled it down savagely. Finally stopping as he realized he had no idea how long he had been beating the beast’s head to pulp.

  “Zeke,” he whispered even before he turned.

  Staggering toward the dog, Bass knelt beside the big gray animal. Weakly the dog raised its head, whimpered a bit, then laid its bloody muzzle in Scratch’s hand. He quickly ran a hand over the animal’s throat, fingers finding warm, sticky blood clotting in the thick hair. Then he dragged his hand over much of the ribcage, the soft underbelly, finding no other wounds to speak of.

  “Can you get up, boy?” he asked in a hopeful whisper. “Can you?”

  Patting the dog on the head, Titus stood shakily himself. “C’mon now, you can get up, cain’t you?”

  God, how his heart ached—not wanting to lose this dog the way he had lost Hannah, the way he lost so many other good friends—the way he almost lost Josiah.

  “C’mon, boy,” he urged as if it were a desperate prayer.

  With a struggle Zeke dragged his legs under him, thrashed a bit, then lurched upward onto all four. The dog staggered forward a few steps as Bass crouched, welcoming the animal into his arms. Zeke collapsed again, panting, its breath shallow and ragged.

  “Good ol’ boy!” he cried louder now, his face wet with tears. “We got ’em didn’t we? Got ’em all!”

  He needed light to look over the dog’s wounds.

  Gazing east, he figured it was nowhere near getting time for dawn. They could light a fire and he could see to Zeke before packing up and setting out early. Be gone by the time anyone who had spotted their fire could get close.

  For several minutes he knelt there stroking the animal as it laid against him, its breath growing more regular. Then he remembered Waits. She would have heard the shots and could well be near out of her mind with fright by now.

  “We ought’n go back,” he whispered as he bent over, stabbing his arms under the big animal, pulling it against him as he staggered to his feet.

  Its fur was warm and damp against the one arm as he started back toward their shelter in the dark, his bare feet feeling their way through the grass.

  She was standing there against the trees in front of their blankets, holding a rifle ready as he emerged from the gloom. With a tiny shriek she dropped the heavy weapon and dashed toward him, throwing her arms around his neck, clinging against Bass and the dog.

  “He is wounded?” she asked in Crow as she drew back, swiping tears away with both hands.

  “Yes, but I won’t know how bad until I get a fire going.”

  “Your daughter is sleeping,” she said as she began to turn. “I will start the fire. You stay with the dog.”

  • • •

  “That sure as hell is one ugly critter of a dog!”

  From the way the speaker was smiling, Bass could easily see the man meant no harm by his critical judgment.

  “I take it you’re a man what knows his dogs?” Titus asked as he neared the bare-chested white trapper who had stepped out from the trees and willows that lined the south side of Ham’s Fork of the Green River where every shady, cloistered spot was littered with canvas tents, lean-tos, and bowers made
of blankets and oiled sheeting.

  Awful quiet here for a rendezvous, Titus had been thinking ever since their tiny procession marched off the bluff and made their way into the gently meandering valley. But after all, it was the middle of a summer afternoon and a smart man laid out that hottest time of day.

  The stranger whistled to the dog and knelt. “He your’n?”

  Bass reined to a halt as Waits came up beside him. “Zeke’s his name.”

  Patting and scratching the big dog’s head, the man observed, “He been in a scrap of recent, ain’t he?”

  “Perfecting our camp from a pack of wolves.”

  The man cupped Zeke’s jaw in a hand and peered into the dog’s eyes. “Had me a dog not too different’n this’un back in the States when I was a growing lad.” Then he sighed. “Likely he’s gone under by now. Be real old if he ain’t.”

  “My name’s Bass. Titus Bass,” and Scratch held down his hand to the stranger.

  “You’re a free man I take it?” the stranger asked as they shook.

  “Trap on my own hook,” he replied.

  “Then you’re likely the Bass a feller was lookin’ for, asking if you’d come in when they arrived a week or so back.”

  His eyes warily squinted as he searched the nearby groves of trees and canvas. “Someone asking after me?”

  “Big feller, English-tongued he was—”

  “By damn, them Britishers here again this summer?”

  “They are for sure.”

  “Where’s their camp?”

  “Off yonder,” and he pointed. “My name’s Nels Dixon. Ride with Drips.”

  “He that booshway with American Fur?”

  Dixon threw a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Him and Font’nelle. That’s us over there.”

  “Good to know you,” Bass replied. “Where the free men camped?”

  “Some here and some there. Rocky Mountain Fur settled in on upstream ’bout eight miles or so. Sublette come in with his goods to trade, with ’nother feller too.” Then after he glanced quickly at the woman and the child she had lashed inside that Flathead cradleboard swinging from the tall pommel at the front of her saddle, Dixon asked, “How long you been out here to the mountains?”