by Win Blevins
“He came to help when I got into trouble. Blackfeet were chasing me. He got a little wound, an arrow in the foot. It turned black and went bad. He thought about letting it carry him over, but …”
Sam told how he had taken the leg off at the knee, with many sharp knives, the help of Clyman, and great dread. Told how Gideon afterward wanted to die and dived into gloominess. How he finally got a better attitude when Flat Dog and Beckwourth made him a peg leg. There was more to the story, but there were also more stories to tell.
“And I got Blue Medicine Horse killed.” Sam related how they ran off a whole Sioux village’s horses, himself, Blue Horse, Flat Dog, and Gideon. How, during their getaway, they rode smack into another Sioux band. How he saw an arrow go into Blue Horse’s chest and the tip stick out the other side. “Meadowlark’s brother, and it’s me that got him killed.”
He told, too, briefly, underplaying it, how he escaped the torture of those same Sioux and got back to Meadowlark’s village. “That hair ornament you gave me saved my life.”
With some wonder he told how he gave a sun dance and got strength from it, and went against the Sioux with just Flat Dog and avenged Blue Horse’s death.
How Meadowlark’s parents wouldn’t let them marry, but they ran off together.
How her relatives stole her back.
How she left her village and rode into the last rendezvous with her brother and made herself Sam’s wife.
Then, for a long while, he couldn’t speak.
He could still feel Hannibal’s attention, open, piercing.
“She died in California,” Sam said.
Then he shot out of his blankets and walked away. He couldn’t be in that spot, couldn’t breathe the air where those words hung. He walked down to the shore of the lake, Coy trailing. He didn’t think anything, especially not words. He looked at the waters, and watched the half-moon rise, its face jostled by the waves.
Finally, Sam went back to the brush hut and laid down. Hannibal was asleep. As Sam was going to the same place, a thought came to him: What did I forget to tell?
He’d said nothing of his misery in the desert, and how he let himself be buried nearly to the neck, and waited for death. Nor anything of how water came like manna and saved him.
But something else …
His last conscious thought was, Esperanza. Oh, my God, I forgot Esperanza.
Twenty-one
A Battle
The next morning, and every morning during the rendezvous, they worked with Ellie, Virginia, and Paladin. Hannibal said that it wasn’t quite fair, what they were asking of the animals. Normally, liberty horses were trained to respond to signals without a rider, and different mounts trained to lope while a rider did what Hannibal called acrobat routines on their backs.
“Since we don’t have a stable of talented horses, though …”
They worked on the liberty part first, training Paladin to do more tricks to signals of hand and voice.
Hannibal said that these tricks were actually useful. His business, when he was working, was trading with the Indians who lived near the Missouri. The unusual part of it was that he traveled alone, always, and somehow over a decade of trading had befriended all the tribes of the area. Sam didn’t know another man who could ride the entire lower Missouri country alone in safety.
While they worked, Hannibal told the story of the first time he’d ever run into the Pawnees. They were far east of their usual country, and Hannibal stumbled onto them. While they were considering what to do with him, he said he would show them his powerful medicine with horses.
The Indians stood in a circle and Hannibal put Ellie through his paces. The Pawnees gasped in awe. Hannibal made a deal with them. If they would trade with him, he would spend half a moon teaching a few young men his medicine, and would come back the next summer and do it again.
He’d been welcome in Pawnee camps ever since.
After an hour or so of liberty work, they switched to what Sam thought of as stunt riding. He was catching on to that handstand. The bare back of the horse was slick, and the balance was tricky, but he could get in the air on his hands and stay for a while.
Hannibal spoke, Paladin moved, and Sam slammed into the dust on his face.
Paladin cantered nicely around the ring, and reversed direction when instructed. Hannibal was laughing.
Sam glared at him.
“That’s what we work on tomorrow,” said Hannibal. “Doing it on a moving horse.”
Coy led Sam and Hannibal through the ring of men. The coyote always liked to sit and listen to music and watch the dancers.
Fiddlin’ Red was perched on a low boulder, tuning up. He would twist a peg, play a couple of notes, twist a peg, scrape out a fragment of a tune, and twist a peg again.
In a big, open space several trappers had paired up with other men and stood, waiting to start dancing. Shoshone and Utah women mingled with the crowd, and when asked, they would swing into the dance arena for a couple of tunes and then slip away with their partners for another kind of sport.
Just then Robert Evans burst through the circle, leading Silas Gobel by the arm. Sam grinned, supposing they were going to make a mismatched dancing pair. But why were both naked to the waist?
“Hear ye, hear ye!” cried Evans. “Hold the music!”
Fiddlin’ Red scraped out a phrase.
“I say, hold the music!”
Out in the middle, still holding Gobel’s arm, Evans turned the two of them around and around to show themselves to the crowd. Gobel made two of Evans. “Silas Gobel and I,” Evans called, “have agreed to provide for this splendid audience a fine demonstration of the refined art of fisticuffs.”
The crowd laughed.
“Brawling, you might better call it,” shouted Evans.
One man cackled loudly.
Evans advanced upon him. “Laugh if you will, young man, but let me warn you, never bet against an Irishman in a brawl.”
More people cackled.
Evans backed up to Gobel. As he walked, he weaved a little. Sam recognized that gait—Evans had been applying himself to the whiskey, or vice versa. And Gobel had stayed drunk since he got to rendezvous.
“The contest is best two out of three falls. If a man is knocked down, ’tis one fall, and one more to his doom.”
“Keep your eyes sharp,” roared Gobel, “I’ll throw the little bastard in less time than it takes to blink.”
“Who will volunteer to referee our fine exhibition?” asked Evans. “Who?”
Tom Fitzpatrick stepped forward. “I will,” he said quietly.
“They’re both stewed,” said Hannibal, “and Gobel is mad.”
“All the worse for Evans.”
Hannibal shrugged.
“Now,” cried Evans, circling the crowd, “I will not wager on meself. It is not fitting. My code is that a man should fight for the beauty of the thing, and not take advantage of his own prowess.”
A nearby trapper fell down laughing.
Plenty of men in the crowd took the hint, giving and taking odds. Near Sam and Hannibal two men reached a quick agreement, an entire twist of tobacco against a pipeful. The man who put a pipeful on Evans did it jauntily, like it was too little to matter.
After Evans and Gobel had huddled with Fitzpatrick, Evans announced, “We have agreed upon certain rules. No weapons, no eye-gouging. All else goes. Best two out of three falls.”
Now Gobel appealed to the crowd. “Let every man know that I ain’t huntin’ for this fight. The runt here done goaded me into it.”
Sam hadn’t seen Gobel drunk enough to issue that many words all in a row before.
Gobel swaggered a few steps, leapt into the air, spun around, landed facing backward, and let out a huge roar.
“He’s agile,” said Hannibal.
“He’s a warrior,” said Sam. “I’m scared for Evans.”
“Howsomever,” continued Gobel, “I promise to go easy on Runt and return him to his friends
in such condition that he can be put back together.”
“Bravo!” cried Evans. “A generous spirit.”
Then, with a sudden darkening of tone, he said, “Ready, Mr. Gobel?”
Silas nodded. Gobel took an ape position, letting his arms swing, looking for an opening.
Evans charged.
A couple of steps away from Gobel, who looked bewildered, Evans launched himself into the air feet first. He kicked both feet into Gobel’s chest, as hard as a horse kicks.
Evans fell on his back in the dust.
Gobel rocked only one step backward. Then the big man laughed, looked down at Evans. “The first fall is mine!” he shouted.
Evans gathered himself up and backed away.
“It must be you, Gobel, that throws him down,” said Fitzpatrick, “not himself. No fall.”
Gobel grumbled.
Now the two men circled. Evans did an exaggerated ape hunch, mocking Gobel. A few men laughed.
The brawlers sidestepped almost halfway around the circle. “Get to it,” someone yelled.
Gobel let out an enormous roar and charged, head down.
At the last instant Evans threw himself onto the ground sideways and shot his feet toward Gobel’s legs.
One foot jammed between the knees. Gobel tripped and plunged forward. He hit the ground on his great belly and bounced.
The crowd roared with laughter.
Tom Fitzpatrick stepped up and stood between the fighters. When the crowd had quieted and both men were on their feet, Fitz declared, “First fall to Robert Evans.”
Cheers and boos from the crowd.
“He’s on the ground too,” complained Gobel.
“But you didn’t put him there,” said Fitzpatrick. “First round to Evans.”
Again in his ape hunch Gobel started stalking Evans. Evans backed away, but Gobel followed until Evans was up against the crowd. They circled.
Gobel’s charge came so fast Sam didn’t see the start. He came head down, bawling out a war cry.
Evans dodged to the side, but Gobel just as nimbly changed direction.
On Evans’s second hop Gobel caught his calf and jerked it ferociously into the air.
Evans whumped to the ground and lay there gasping for breath.
Fitzpatrick stepped between the two. Otherwise, Sam thought, Gobel might have flopped full weight on Evans and pummeled him.
“Second fall,” Fitzpatrick called, “to blacksmith Gobel.”
“They’re both athletes,” said Hannibal.
“If Gobel gets his hands on him,” said Sam, “it’s over.”
As the brawlers began to circle once more, the murmur of the crowd grew agitated, boiling.
Circling, circling, circling.
Evans jumped onto the boulder where Fiddlin’ Red was sitting. Red leapt into the crowd.
Gobel approached suspiciously, arms out like a lobster.
Evans feinted a kick at Gobel’s head.
Gobel nearly caught the foot with a hand.
Gobel crept closer, still circling.
Sam thought, What the hell does Evans think he can do from the top of that boulder?
Gobel lunged and got both of Evans’s ankles in his fierce grip.
Evans launched himself forward in a somersault down the big man’s back. His legs bent Gobel’s arms back severely until Evans tore loose, landing on his feet.
The crowd gasped.
“Nothing either way,” called Fitzpatrick.
“The smarter man will win,” said Hannibal.
When Gobel got past astonishment, he ran at Evans bellowing. He sounded like a thousand barbaric Scots charging.
Evans ran. Ran all the way around the circle, tantalizing Gobel by staying just ahead. Finally Evans jumped back up onto the boulder.
Gobel approached warily this time, a look of cunning on his face. He crept closer.
Evans feinted with a foot.
Gobel jerked back, then resumed his position, arms open and ready. Sam thought he was about to dive at Evans’s legs.
Evans hurled himself at Gobel headfirst.
His skull bashed Gobel square in the face.
Blood gushed from the big man’s nose.
Evans landed on his feet, staggered forward, and kept his balance.
Gobel wobbled. He let go of Evans. His eyes rolled back in his head.
With one delicate finger Evans pushed him over.
Gobel shook the earth when he hit.
Pandemonium!
The crowd cheered. Men slapped each other’s backs until some fell down. The Utah and Shoshone women trilled their tongues for the winner. The losers, paying off, were almost as happy as the winners.
Fitzpatrick held up Evans’s hand. Fiddlin’ Red sounded out a victory call.
“Evans can have his choice of squaws tonight,” said Hannibal. “Maybe we’d best check on Gobel.”
“Yeah, I got my nose broke, so I know how to fix one.”
As they bent over the fallen man, they were still chuckling.
Like every other trapper, Sam had to do some trading. This time Hannibal had no trade goods. Sublette had insisted, in return for giving him an escort from St. Louis to rendezvous, that Hannibal sell Sublette his trade goods and work for wages. Hannibal thought that deal was fair enough, for the moment.
Since he could read and write, Fitzpatrick was running the trade blanket. He checked the company ledger. Sam’s wages had been paid by Jedediah in California, but he had some credit for the plews he’d trapped. Even though they were all back on the other side of Mount Joseph, Jedediah had listed them as received by the company. Sam started picking up things he needed.
Clyman walked up and studied the list of prices that Fitz had posted. He read it out loud to Sam, and both men twisted their mouths. Prices were a lot higher than they’d been at the first rendezvous two years ago.
A comparison of items sold at both rendezvous:
1827 1825
powder $2.50 per lb. $2.00 per lb.
lead $1.50 per lb. $1.00 per lb.
coffee $2.00 $1.50
beads $5.00 $5.00
pepper $5.00 $1.75
blankets (three-point) $15.00 $9.00
scarlet cloth, $10.00 $6.00
blue cloth, $10.00 $6.00
ribbon, per yard, $0.75 $0.50
“A beaver’s not gonna get rich on beaver,” said Clyman in his soft Virginia drawl.
“Fitz, why’s everything so high?”
“The company isn’t making anything on the beaver. Only profit at all is selling the trade goods.”
Fitz didn’t yet know the total value of the fur brought in. It would be nearly $23,000.
Sam had picked out a bunch of merchandise. Powder and lead were essential. A fellow needed tobacco as gifts for any Indians he came on, and beads and cloth and ribbon to trade. Coffee felt essential. Sam looked at what he had and raised a questioning eyebrow at Fitzpatrick.
“Don’t worry,” said Fitz, “Diah said to carry you on credit.”
Credit? Hell, he’d just started buying, and he was already in the hole? Well, Sam supposed credit was a good thing.
When he was finished, he was in debt to Smith, Jackson & Sublette for $12.15. It didn’t seem too bad. If the brigade had gotten a fall hunt, he would have done better than break even.
Sam was keeping some coin to buy whiskey at this rendezvous. Not that he felt all that riotous.
Clyman bought surprisingly little. Well, he’d said a coon couldn’t get rich on beaver. Looked like he’d been right.
Trading done for the moment, they sat down next to Fitz. “What’s the news?” asked Sam. “Where’s everybody trapping this year?”
“Diah is going back to California,” Fitz said, “has to, and from what I hear, you need to go with him.”
Sam nodded.
“Sublette is going way north to the Nez Perces, Flatheads, and Blackfeet.”
“Blackfeet?”
Fitz nodded. “Strange.
They sent a man to Jackson’s camp about a month ago, asked us to come trade with them.”
“I wish Sublette good luck,” said Sam.
“Jackson will trap the Uintys. Good beaver country.”
Clyman said, “That’s where I’d go.”
“Where are you gonna go, James?”
“Back to the States. I’ve had enough.”
Sam looked at his friend with surprise. Clyman just shrugged.
“What about you, Fitz?”
“I’ll be Sublette’s clerk.”
“Who’s going with you?”
“Bridger, Beckwourth, Harris. We’re taking top men.”
“Watch your hair.”
“You watch yours in California.”
Evans asked Sam to join him and Fiddlin’ Red playing music later that evening.
Sam did an aw-shucks act, “I’m not good enough.”
“Lad,” said Evans, “I have in mind something special.”
They spent the afternoon working it out.
Sam ate with Hannibal, Evans, Clyman, Fitz, and Beckwourth, as usual, thinking about his strange life with these friends. In a couple of weeks he would go to California, Hannibal and Evans to wherever they pleased—neither had told Sam their intentions—Fitz and Beckwourth to Blackfeet country, and Clyman back to the U.S. Maybe they’d see each other this time next year, maybe not.
“It’s time,” said Evans.
Sam was nervous.
Evenings were long on Bear Lake. Because of the mountain on the west, twilight came early. Now, only a couple of weeks past the summer solstice, dark came late. Whiskey flowed freely, the men were woman-hungry, and they danced from dusk to dawn.
Fiddlin’ Red customarily started the dancing off with a Virginia reel, which he insisted was an ancient Irish dance called the rinnce fadha (sounded like ring-kuh fah-duh). As he fiddled out the first go-round and called the turns, half a dozen partners faced each other, one line of men and one of women. (Some Indian women were now practiced enough to follow along.)
“Forward and back,” Red called, “honor your partner.”
One couple at a time did what Red called.
When it came his turn to jump in on the melody, Sam didn’t know if his fingers would find the right notes.
“Forward and turn with the right hand ’round,” called Red.
