The members of the wagon train were up and hustling about their chores when Buck and Trace rode by the next morning on their way back to the fort. The two mountain men could hardly keep from staring. It was the first time they had seen so many white women in quite some time—washing clothes, chasing youngsters, cooking over open fires. It reminded Trace of a carnival. “I swear,” Buck allowed, “I thought Jordan Thrash was daft in the head for thinkin’ there’d be another bunch of folks out here in wagons.”
Seeking to trade their furs, they went in search of Jim Bridger, but Bridger’s man, Bordeaux, told them that Old Gabe was not back yet from his camp in the Cache Valley on Bear River. But Bordeaux was the man in charge of trading, anyway, so Trace and Buck exchanged their cargo for shot and powder and some hard staples.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more credit for them plews, boys. There just ain’t no market fer ’em no more.” Bordeaux scratched his beard thoughtfully as he picked through the furs. “’bout the only thing that shines these days is them buffalo hides there. I can do you a little better on them.”
Buck shook his head sadly, lamenting the passing of a life he loved. “I ’preciate anything you can allow. I swear, I might have to turn Injun if I can’t find some way to make a livin’.” He glanced over at Trace. “You might wanna go back to them Crows you was livin’ with.”
Trace didn’t say anything, but just smiled and shook his head. He thought to himself that if he had to turn Injun, he’d more than likely be looking up in Bitterroot territory for a certain band of Snake Indians and a handsome little Indian maiden.
Bordeaux looked from one of them to the other, sizing them up. Then he made a suggestion. “If you two are really looking for a way to make a living, you ought to go out yonder and talk to them folks in the wagons. That is, of course, if you think you can find your way through the South Pass to Oregon.”
Buck reared back on his heels. “If I can find my way. . .” he sputtered. “Hell, I s’pect I’ve rode that territory as much as any white man in the country—except Jim Bridger—and maybe as much as him.” He snorted as if to clear Bordeaux’s insult from his nostrils. “But what the hell would I want to be a farmer for?”
Bordeaux laughed. “I ain’t talking about joining ’em. They’ve been waiting here for over a week looking for a guide to lead ’em out there. The one they hired was supposed to meet ’em here but he took off with the advance money they give him to buy his supplies with. We’ve had some trouble with Sioux war parries, and I reckon he didn’t figure it was worth risking his hide.”
Buck thought about it for a few seconds. The idea had possibilities, but it wasn’t without considerable risks. Besides, he wasn’t sure a string of wagons could get over the mountains, even without Injun trouble. “I don’t know,” he pondered. “How much would they pay a man to guide ’em out there?”
“I think they were gonna pay that feller four hundred dollars.”
“Four hundred dollars? Who do we have to talk to? I’d lead ’em into hell’s front yard for four hundred dollars.”
“The feller that seems to be in charge is a preacher—name’s Longstreet. Big ol’ feller with a long white beard, drives a team of oxen.”
They thanked Bordeaux and went outside to talk it over. “Whadaya think, Trace?” Buck asked as soon as they set foot on the hard-baked ground of the courtyard. “It don’t sound like it’d be a whole lot of fun being mother hen to a passel of farmers, but leastways we’ll be headin’ back to the mountains.”
Trace considered the possibility for a moment before answering. He had entertained some thoughts about striking out toward the Bitterroots alone. But now that Frank was gone, he felt a sense of responsibility toward Buck. In spite of his feisty attitude, Buck was pushing on in years, although he would flare up madder’n hell if Trace even suggested he was slowing down. “What the hell,” he finally decided. “We can give it a try.”
Reverend Longstreet stood up to stretch his back. In addition to providing spiritual guidance for his flock of settlers, he was also their blacksmith, hauling his forge and bellows in one of the two large freight wagons in his train. The other belonged to Blunt Brothers Freight Company out of St. Louis and would be returning to St. Louis loaded with buffalo hides—that is, if the owner could negotiate a satisfactory trade with Bordeaux. At the moment, as Longstreet understood it, the trading was not going to Mr. Blunt’s satisfaction, for Bordeaux was as hard-nosed a trader as they come.
Longstreet stood there a few moments longer before returning to the chore of mending a cracked axle. As he gazed back toward the massive tower on the front wall of the fort, he saw the two mountain men coming from the passage that tunneled beneath the tower. He had seen them ride past earlier that morning, leading pack mules. Now it appeared they were heading in his direction, so he continued to bide his time, observing their approach. It was difficult to determine at a distance whether these wild men were Indian or white.
“Good mornin’ to you, neighbors,” Longstreet said. Watching them closely, he waited for them to state their business.
“Morning,” Buck replied as he and Trace dismounted. “Bordeaux said we might oughta talk to you, if your name’s Longstreet.”
“I’m Longstreet. What about?”
“I hear you’re needin’ a guide to git you folks over the mountains.” He nodded toward Trace. “Me and my partner here can git you there if anybody can.”
Reverend Longstreet didn’t reply at once, taking his time to look the two buckskin-clad mountain men over. They were a contrast in human beings, he was thinking—one short and grizzled, with snow-white hair and beard; the other a young man, straight and tall as a lodgepole pine. There were a lot of unprincipled scalawags drifting across the western frontier. How could a man be sure these men were not two more who would take his money and desert his wagons in some forsaken canyon in the Rockies? “It’s a fact we’re looking for a guide to continue our journey,” he said at last. “Have you gentlemen any references?”
“Have we any what?” Buck asked, unsure what to reply.
Trace stepped in when it was obvious that Buck was stumped. “Mr. Bordeaux will vouch for us. He’ll tell you we know the country.”
Longstreet studied Trace’s face. He liked the way the young man’s gaze never wavered when he looked into his eyes. Reverend Longstreet considered himself a fair judge of character, and he sensed honesty in the deep blue of the young man’s eyes. Still, he had erred before, so he did not want to make a hasty decision. He was about to speak when the young man’s attention was distracted by one of the women of the train walking by.
Trace turned to look at the woman, waited until he was sure, scarcely believing his eyes. “Mrs. Bowen?”
Nettie Bowen turned at the sound of her name. Smiling, she looked to see who had called. Noticing the two men in buckskins for the first time, she glanced at the tall young man, then at the stocky older man, without recognizing either. When her gaze shifted back to the young man once more, her smile slowly expanded as her mouth dropped open and she realized who he was. “Jim? Jim Tracey? Is that you?” Bringing her hands up to her cheeks as if to hold her surprise in, she exclaimed, “Merciful Heavens, I can’t believe my eyes!” She rushed to him and ensnared him in her ample embrace, pinning his arms to his sides.
Trapped, he could do nothing but grin and endure. When she released him, she was so excited that she didn’t know where to start. Nettie Bowen was possibly the last person he would ever have expected to see west of the Missouri. As for Nettie, she, along with many people back in St. Louis, had assumed that John and Julia Tracey’s youngest son was long dead—done in by savage Indians or lost in a blizzard. And here he was, big as life—bigger than life, in fact—grown up so straight and tall that all vestiges of the boy were gone, replaced by the wide shoulders and thickened neck of a man. Little wonder she had not recognized him at first.
“You’ve got to come with me and say hello to Travis,” she went on. “
He’s not gonna believe his eyes.” She stepped back to take in the total picture of him, still finding it difficult to believe she was looking at the same skinny boy she had fed in her kitchen back East.
“Yessum,” he said, beaming, feeling embarrassed by the emotion he had generated in his mother’s longtime friend. “As soon as we finish talking to Mr. Longstreet here.”
Longstreet, who had been grinning to himself as he watched the reunion between Nettie and the young mountain man, spoke up. “This young man and his partner say they could lead us to Oregon, Mrs. Bowen. What would you think of that idea?”
Nettie, still smiling brightly, glanced at Buck briefly, then back at Trace. “I don’t know the other gentleman, but if Jim says he knows the way, then I expect he does.”
Longstreet studied Trace’s face for only a moment more before deciding. “Time’s getting by us. Every day we set here waiting is a day lost to the coming winter. I reckon we’ve hired us a couple of guides.” It was apparent, however, that there was still something that bothered him. “One thing puzzles me, though,” he looked Trace straight in the eye, “Mrs. Bowen called you Jim. I thought you said your name was Trace. Which is it?”
“Trace,” he immediately replied.
Nettie Bowen showed no hint of the surprise she felt when she heard his answer. Knowing the reason young Jim Tracey had fled St. Louis—but firm in her confidence of the boy’s innocence—she reacted at once and volunteered, “Jim is a boyhood name they used to call him.”
This seemed to satisfy Reverend Longstreet. “Well, then,” he said, looking at Buck, “when can we get started?”
“Well, as I recollect, we ain’t got no appointments,” Buck replied. “As soon as your folks is ready, we’ll git on the trail. It’s already a mite late in the summer to start out. But I reckon if we don’t set on our haunches for too long, we can get over the mountains before the first snow flies.”
Trace left Buck to negotiate the financial settlement with Reverend Longstreet and allowed himself to be pulled off toward Travis Bowen’s wagon. Holding him firmly by the sleeve of his buckskin shirt, as if afraid he might try to get away, Nettie chattered away. “Travis is gonna fall over when he sees you. Where have you been all these years?” Not leaving time for him to answer, she continued, “I reckon you’re mighty surprised to see me and Travis out here. No more surprised than I am to be here, I expect. My, but your mother would be proud to see what a man you’ve grown into.” With that thought, she stopped and turned to look up at him, her smile replaced by a look of concern. “I can pretty much understand why you’re calling yourself by some other name. I reckon you know that the Blunts said you murdered that no-good scoundrel Tyler. I didn’t believe it for a minute—even if it hadda been murder, it a’been a blessing for the world.”
“I didn’t murder Tyler Blunt, Mrs. Bowen. He tried to kill me, and I defended myself.”
“Well then, that’s good enough for me. Your mama didn’t raise no liars.” The smile returned to her face. “What do we call you, anyway?”
“Trace McCall.”
She nodded while she turned it over in her mind. “Good choice,” she said. “Your pa and your brother would appreciate it, God rest their souls.”
They approached a nearly new wagon with sheets already bleached out by the sun. A slightly built man was bending over one of the back wheels with a bucket of grease and a wooden paddle. Nettie called out to him, and he straightened up when he caught sight of the man walking with his wife. Travis Bowen wore a pained expression as he squinted at the young mountain man that Nettie still held by the sleeve.
“Travis,” she said, “I want you to meet somebody.” She pulled Trace right up in front of her husband. “This here is Trace McCall,” she announced grandly and stepped back to watch Travis’s reaction.
Travis nodded and extended his hand, puzzled but patiently awaiting an explanation for the visit. There was something familiar about the tall stranger, but he had no notion at all who he was. When there was no word of explanation, Travis finally asked, “Well, what can I do for you, sir?”
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Bowen.” When it was obvious that Travis Bowen still did not recognize him, Trace said in a quiet voice, “It’s Jim Tracey, sir, only I don’t call myself that anymore.”
Travis stepped back, astonished. “Jim? Jim Tracey? Well I’ll be. . .” He was at a loss for words for a few moments. Then he guffawed out loud and took Trace’s hand again, pumping it vigorously. “My God, I wouldn’ta knowed you from Adam! I swear, what are you doin’ out here?”
“Going to Oregon with you, I reckon,” Trace managed to get in before Travis suddenly shushed him.
Looking furtively from side to side to see if anyone else had taken notice of the reunion, Travis took Trace by the arm that Nettie had just released and pulled him around to the back of the wagon. “Boy, I’m mighty glad to see you. We wondered about you and hoped you was making out all right. But you’ve got to be careful.” With a nod, he pointed out one of the large freight wagons across the circle. “That wagon yonder belongs to Blunt Brothers. Morgan Blunt drove it out here.”
Trace tensed and unconsciously tightened his grip on his rifle. A glance in Nettie’s direction told him that in the excitement of the moment, she had forgotten to tell him that fact herself. He felt Travis Bowen’s hand on his forearm. “Easy, son. I reckon if I couldn’t recognize you, chances are he won’t either. But you best steer clear of him. He’s supposed to pull his wagon out of our train today—he’s only come as far as Laramie with us.”
There was no longer any fear in Trace McCall. He had fled when he was a boy only because he was not confident his side of the story would ever be believed and he had no intention of being hung, or rotting in prison, for killing Tyler Blunt. Out here, where a man’s rifle was the prevailing law, he saw no reason to step around Morgan Blunt. He told Travis that it was not in his nature to look for trouble, but he would not hide from Morgan.
“I reckon you know Morgan got hisself appointed deputy sheriff. The only reason was to justify killing you if he got the chance. He convinced the sheriff that you murdered Tyler. He’s still out to get you, Jim.”
“If he is, he’s gonna have to do it himself,” Trace replied calmly. “His man LaPorte ain’t around to do his dirty work anymore.”
Travis’s face showed his deep concern. He was afraid Trace was not as troubled with the threat as he should be. “You watch your back till we get away from Laramie. I’ve never seen a man with such a fire in him to get his revenge.”
Trace was touched to see such anxiety in the faces of his old friends. To ease their worry, he promised to keep a sharp eye out and to avoid contact with Blunt if possible. To change the subject, he expressed his surprise at seeing the two of them in a wagon train bound for Oregon.
Travis explained that he had decided he could not finish out his remaining years in the employ of Hamilton Blunt. With Nettie’s blessing, he had put their little house in St. Louis up for sale and joined Reverend Longstreet’s party. There had been more and more talk about the Oregon country, and he decided it was the best chance for Nettie and him to own any real land. “Hell, we ain’t young anymore, but we’ve got a few more good years. No sense in giving them to Hamilton Blunt.”
As the conversation went on, Trace was puzzled that there was no mention of his mother. He found that strange, since his mother had been possibly Nettie Bowen’s best friend. When he finally asked about her, the question seemed to embarrass Nettie.
“She’s fine, I reckon,” was Nettie’s reluctant response. “I mean, I ain’t talked to your ma in some time now. I saw her once before we left at Mr. Trotter’s store. That’s the last time I talked to her.”
This surprised Trace. “You two used to visit every other day.”
“To tell you the truth, Jim—I mean Trace—I don’t think Hamilton Blunt liked for her to visit with the wife of one of his employees.”
That news was disappointi
ng to Trace. He knew that Nettie Bowen was about the only friend his mother had. Glancing at Travis, he was puzzled by the expression on his father’s old friend’s face. The talk about his mother appeared to distress Travis. Further thought on the matter was interrupted by the arrival of Buck Ransom.
After Trace made the introductions, the talk turned to the journey that would begin the following morning. Buck and Trace tried to paint as realistic a picture of the rough road ahead of them as they could without being completely discouraging. Buck summed it up by saying, “I ain’t never heard of nobody crossing them mountains in a wagon, but we seen tracks over near South Pass—and if anybody can make it, I reckon it’d be us.” After accepting Nettie Bowen’s invitation to return for supper, Buck and Trace left to close up their camp in preparation for an early departure.
* * *
In spite of the caution shown by Travis Bowen, the surprise reunion did not go unobserved. Seated in his freight wagon, taking stock of his inventory, Morgan Blunt felt the blood freeze in his veins when he heard the exclamation from Travis. Jim Tracey! He was certain that was the name he had heard—a name he had been waiting to hear for more than four years. Could he believe his ears?
As soon as he had arrived in Fort Laramie with Longstreet’s wagon train, Morgan was met with disturbing news. Joe LaPorte had been killed at the rendezvous that summer. Morgan’s first reaction to the news had been the anxiety of realizing that his chances of exacting revenge upon the murderer of his brother were fading. It had been years since Jim Tracey put a knife into Tyler’s gut, and Morgan was beginning to fear that even LaPorte would never find him. Without LaPorte, Morgan had no ally with the Indians, and certainly no knowledge of the mountains. And now this stroke of luck. If his ears did not deceive him, Jim Tracey had delivered himself to his executioner.
Wings of the Hawk Page 22
