“Why would you sleep with a gun in your lap, Popo?” Magpie asked as she urged her pony closer.
Instead Waits answered, “To frighten off all the young men who will be strutting around you like noisy mosquitoes on a summer evening.”
The girl’s eyes went to her father’s face. “Do you … you really think the young men will find me … pretty?”
How he laughed at that, his face raised to the sky as he roared, “Magpie! You are as pretty as any woman I have ever seen, in either world I have lived in. Why—you are as pretty as your mother was when she was your age and her own father had to start beating the boys away from their lodge door with a long coup stick!”
“We will be safe here?” Waits asked, the sound of her words more solemn.
His eyes crinkled with reassurance when he recognized the worry on her face. “Yes, we will be safe here. The only reason there was danger here so many winters ago was that I came looking for it.”
“These horses are tired, Popo,” his oldest son reminded. “And they need water too.”
“We’ll take them down to the river and let them drink their fill,” Titus suggested. “Then I’ll take my family into the trader’s mud lodge.”
At the north bank of the Arkansas while Waits-by-the-Water sat with the other children, Scratch and Flea clambered out of their saddles and trudged to the river’s edge with their short-handled camp axes. Together they chopped a long slot in the ice while Magpie and her mother dismounted and started the animals toward the bank.
As the horses drank, Titus laid his arm across his wife’s shoulder and turned her to look at the distant golden walls. Softly he said, “It will be a good thing to get these children out of the cold for the night.”
She gazed up at him, then laid her cheek against his chest as the noisy horses nuzzled the water behind them. “For these children of ours, this little cold does not bother them, Ti-tuzz. I have never heard them complain.”
“You are right,” he whispered with his chin resting atop her blanket hood. “The winter is much, much colder in our home country far to the north.”
“But a fire will feel very good to my feet,” Flea said as he brought their three Cheyenne packhorses up the bank to where his parents stood.
“Yes. It is time you show us this big mud lodge that shines red as a prairie paintbrush flower here at sunset!” Magpie goaded him with giddy excitement.
“You too, Jackrabbit?” Titus asked of his four-year-old son still sitting his saddle, his short legs swaddled inside a buffalo robe that was tucked under his arms.
“Go with Popo,” the boy answered, a smile brightening his whole face. “My belly wants to eat!”
Squeezing his wife’s shoulder, Bass turned to his red horse and said, “Woman, we best go feed this boy before he starts gnawing on my moccasins!”
He loved how their eyes widened the closer they got to the tall mud walls. Approaching from the southwest they reined for the circular bastion that stood more than twenty-some feet above the snowy plain. Extending to the right of that bastion stood two of the three corral walls, the top of all bristling with thorny cactus. Try as he might to squeeze his mind down on it right now, Titus could not remember this corral connected to the fort on his first trip here in the spring of ’34, and he couldn’t claim he’d paid all that much attention to its presence back in the autumn of ’42 when he had traded off most of his Mexican horses for more than a thousandweight of jangly foofaraw and shiny girlews.
“Where is the door to this lodge?” Flea asked, a little perplexed as they continued to plod north along the west wall.
“Soon you will see, my son.”
As they turned their horses at the far corner, he spotted a nesting of some three dozen lodges erected back among the riverbank cottonwood several hundred yards from the fort. More than two hundred ponies pawed at the frozen ground between the camp and the mud walls—
Suddenly an iron bell began to clang inside the fort, and a head appeared over the top above them. The man’s face disappeared as quickly.
“The Mexicans are here too?” Waits asked him. “This bell rings for their holy meetings?”
He knew she was referring to how the Taosenos followed the dictates of the great iron bell rung in its tall church steeple. He said, “I don’t figger we’ll find many greasers here now.”
“No holy meeting?” she repeated.
Wagging his head, Scratch said, “That bell rings only to announce the evening.”
“Why, Popo?” Flea inquired. “I can look at the sun falling, and know for myself that it is evening!”
Halfway on down the mud wall three men suddenly belched from the wide gate and halted as soon as they spotted Bass’s party. One of them waved an arm to the others, ordering the two on toward the small wheeled cannon while he stayed in place, shading his eyes as he inspected the new arrivals, calling out, “Howdy, stranger!”
“Ho, your own self!”
“What Injuns you brung with you, mister?”
“My family—wife and young’uns.”
That man turned away and trudged over to the cannon the other two had begun tugging back toward the wall. As he helped pushing on one of the huge wheels, he inquired, “You folks fixing on staying inside for the night?”
Bass cleared his throat. “I reckon—if’n there’s room.”
“Just barely,” he replied. “Got us more’n two dozen sick soldiers getting nursed.”
Titus brought his horse to a halt as the man stopped pushing the cannon. Together they watched the other two heave the weapon on through the open portal toward the inner plaza.
“Who’s nursin’ them soldiers?” Titus inquired as his family halted their horses around him. “Charlotte Green her own self?”
The man twisted suddenly and squinted up at Bass. “How you know Charlotte?”
“I been here years ago,” he confessed, quickly glancing at his pair of dogs sniffing along the base of the mud walls for interesting scent. “Meeted her and husband Dick back then. Good folks. Bought these here two dogs off Charlotte—back when they was wee pups. That was just afore I got skinned by Savary. He here—Savary?”
“Naw,” the man explained. “St. Vrain’s been off to Santa Fe—gone last fall. I figger he’s in the thick of things in Taos by now.”
“Who’s trader here?”
“Goddamn Murray. You hear of him?”
“Hell if I ain’t!” Bass replied. “Did a piece of business with him that fall I come in here with some Mex horses from Californy. He’s a square man.”
“You was with the bunch what come in with Bill Williams back in forty-two?” the man asked, stepping right over to Scratch’s knee to peer up at the white-bearded man, the old trapper’s ruddy face all but hidden beneath the coyote fur cap.
“That was a time,” Bass sighed. “Mex soldiers chased us down to the desert, then the Diggers up and spooked our whole herd.”*
“Story was you fellas lost more’n half them horses on the way here.”
Titus glanced at his wife, then grinned down at the stranger. “The things a man won’t do when he’s young and full of vinegar.”
“My name’s Haney Rankin,” and he held his hand up. “I’m Murray’s segundo while most of the fort hands are off with Bransford—gone to fight the greasers in Taos. You can head ’round to the east wall. You remember that corral over there?”
“I do recollect. There a gate on that side?”
Rankin nodded. “Bring your family on inside that small corral. Sun’s down so we’re bolting these here gates for the night. I’ll meet you over to the corral.”
“You don’t s’pect trouble from them Injuns camped down in them trees?” he asked as Rankin followed the cannon through the darkened entry way.
“Naw. That’s Gray Thunder’s band,” Rankin’s voice echoed through the low, shadowy entry way. “They come in a week or so back—soon as they heard Charlie Bent was kill’t by the Mexicans. Offered to go kill greasers if
William wanted ’em to.”
Bass waited till the three were swallowed by shadows, then reined his horse away. “C’mon, woman,” he said in English to his Crow wife. “We’ll settle in for the night. Come morning, I’m fixin’ to pay a call on that Cheyenne camp. Maybeso scratch up some news ’bout a old friend of ours.”
“I will stay behind with the children when you go,” Waits spoke emphatically. “Cheyenne are not so much friends with my people.”
“Better I go down there by myself anyway,” he agreed. “See what sort of mood them Cheyenne are in afore I go asking up about that ol’ friend.”
“Who is this?”
“You ’member the one about as tall a man as you ever seen?”
She thought a moment as they brought their ponies to a halt outside the narrow east gate. Then a grin crossed her face ruddied by the cold. “Shad-rach,” she said slowly, deliberately, in her husband’s tongue.
“Shadrach Sweete,” he repeated as the gate was drawn back against the icy snow and Rankin was there with a candle lantern spilling its yellow patch on the snow around his feet.
“So where’s this Titus Bass?” a loud, deep voice boomed in the dark behind Rankin.
“Who’s asking?” Scratch demanded as he dropped from the saddle onto the snow and started his horse through the corral gate.
“Dick Green,” the voice said as a shadow took shape and the huge, muscular man stepped up to the old trapper. He turned to hurl his voice over his shoulder, “As I live an’ breathe—if it ain’t him, Charlotte!” Then he was grinning at the old trapper, yanking on Bass’s arm as he trudged backward into the corral. “C’mon in here, bring them folks all in here now!”
The blacksmith’s big hand quickly seized hold of Bass’s mitten and pumped heartily as Green pounded Scratch on the other shoulder.
“Oh, my! Oh, my!” a high voice squealed as a woman squirted out of the kitchen door, a low rectangle of light behind her. “It is the puppy man! An’ he brung him his fambly, Dick! Lookee if he didn’t bring his fambly—” Suddenly Charlotte Green lumbered to a halt on the ground trampled by moccasins and many a hoof, staring slack-jawed. “Why—is this them two tiny puppies you buyed from me?”
He watched her crumple to her knees in the snow, her ankle-length broomstick skirt fanning out around her as she began to pat the tops of her thighs and whistle as good as any St. Louis wharfside stevedore. “C’mere! C’mon over here, you li’l whelps!”
“This the woman who traded me for the dogs,” Titus explained to Waits as the dogs bounded over to the black cook.
“That is easy to see.” She turned and signaled through the open corral gate for the children to dismount, pointing them off to the right in this triangular-shaped corral strung along the full extent of the easternmost wall.
Watching the dogs lick the cook’s face, Scratch grinned, saying, “They sure as hell remember you!”
“What brung you back here for such a hoo-doo season?” Dick Green asked him as Rankin took the reins from Bass’s hand.
“We was down to Taos when the blood started running in the streets,” he explained in a near whisper. “Got out by the skin of our teeth.”
The big blacksmith wagged his head dolefully. “Figger to lay low here till it blows over, then head south again?”
Titus shook his head as Waits and the children came up beside him. “We’re here for a night, maybeso two at the most, then we push on.”
“Middle of winter the way it is?” Charlotte whimpered as she slowly brought her bulk off the ground and stood. “Surely you can find something to do here to keep these young’uns o’ yours safe till spring when you can leave.”
Titus smiled at her. “By first green we’ll be long on our way to Crow country, Miss Charlotte.”
He then went on to introduce everyone all around. While Dick went to fetch some short sections of rope to tie up the dogs there in the corral, Charlotte shuffled Waits-by-the-Water and the three children inside her warm, glowing kitchen.
“You manage the rest by yourself, Bass?” Rankin asked.
“Be just fine by myself, thankee.”
The trader tugged on his blanket mittens. “We got a few more chores afore Charlotte sits us all down for supper. An’ Goddamn don’t like to be kept waiting on his supper ’cause I’m late getting my chores see’d to.”
“Be off with you then,” Scratch said with a grin as Rankin started away. “And tell Goddamn Murray that the blanket man has come to pay a call.”
Rankin stopped in the snow. “Blanket man?”
“Time I was here last, I took near ever’ blanket Murray had in this here fort—traded off a hull shitteree of horses to him.”
A big smile crossed the clerk’s face. “The blanket man, eh?”
“All them blankets I packed north on Cheyenne horses been keeping the Crows warm for the past few winters.”
“Sounds to me I should ask Murray ’bout you sitting to dinner with us in the main room.”
Titus shrugged. “No need to bother ’bout such foofaraw doin’s.” He gestured at Charlotte and said, “Looks like we’ll be eatin’ just fine with the cook her own self.”
“Just the same—you still want me tell him the blanket man’s come to call?”
“If I don’t run onto him this evenin’, just tell Murray I’ll be round to call at the trade room in the morning.”
It was just growing light when Titus Bass slowly rolled out of the buffalo robes and blankets so as not to disturb his family, pulled on his moccasins and heavy coat, then carefully dragged back the heavy cottonwood door and stepped outside beneath the low awning that ran along this southern side of the courtyard. The wheelwright’s shop, where they had bedded down for the night, was located right beside Dick Green’s forge, with the wagon alley running just behind those small rooms, arranged in a row with the gunsmith’s and carpenter’s shops too. No one was yet stirring in the plaza, where a light snow had dusted the massive fur press. He stepped into the cold air, turned, and dragged the door closed behind him, when off to his right he made out the soft notes of a woman’s hum. Shuffling through the new snow he entered the kitchen, surprised to find it already warm, cozy, inviting.
“Well lookee here, Charlotte!” Dick Green’s voice greeted Titus as the blacksmith stepped around a corner. “Mr. Bass is a early get-upper hisself too.”
Charlotte poked her head around a corner, smears of flour dusting her nose, a cheek, and the side of her bandanna decorated with red Mexican roses. “You ready for some coffee?”
Scratch smiled. “Damn if I ain’t allays ready for coffee!”
“C’mon back here where we got the pot on,” Charlotte offered. “Mr. Green, I could use your help cuttin’ the bacon for me.”
“Be there straightaway,” the blacksmith promised. “You get this man a cup of coffee, then I be right with you.”
The Negro servants had spent a little time talking with the trapper and his family when their chores were done following dinner, at least until young Jackrabbit had fallen asleep in his father’s arms in a toasty spot near Charlotte’s fireplace where they all sat on stools and drank a rich, sweet mixture of Mexican chocolate seasoned with cinnamon. Their bellies filled with such delicious warmth, it wasn’t long before Flea and Magpie began to get drowsy too—their eyelids growing heavy as lead and their heads starting to sag. Titus, and Waits shuffled the sleepy children off to the wheelwright’s room, right next to the residual warmth of the forge. Scratch and Dick Green had settled the family in that shop since the wheelwright himself had marched off to the south with Bill Bransford to exact revenge for the murder of Charles Bent.
“He ain’t gonna be back no time soon,” Green had prodded the trapper, who was reluctant to bed down inside the shop. “You an’ yours stay right here long as you want. Likely he won’t be back for to work again till winter’s fair done.”
“Thankee for the offer,” Bass had replied as they shook out the robes and thick wool blankets across
the narrow clay floor. “Maybeso only two nights, till we push on.”
“Stay longer, why don’cha? Charlotte, she’d love the company—your woman and the chirrun too,” Green pleaded. “There ain’t much wimmins out to these parts, so my Charlotte sure do get the lonelies for a soft face to talk to.”
Titus had straightened and stood beside the pile of blankets. “I know that feelin’ … the lonelies. But, long as Charlotte’s got you, Dick—and you got her, neither of you ever gonna be lonely, no matter where you go.”
“But my Miss Charlotte—she likes to talk to other wimmins.”
“We’ll let ’em gab an’ palaver much as they want for the next two days,” Titus promised.
“That’s right,” Dick had agreed reluctantly. “They can allays talk some more next time you come by this here mud fort.”
Laying his gnarled hand with its painful joints on Green’s shoulder, Scratch had explained, “I lay this’ll be my last trip here, Dick. Don’t see a reason to wander this far south ever again, now that I saw to what I needed to down in Taos.”
“Wh-where you gonna trade, you don’t come south?”
“I s’pose there’ll allays be a trader’s post on the Yellowstone,” he had confessed as they started back to Charlotte’s kitchen last night. “Don’t make much matter to me anyways. I think I’ve figgered out how to get by ’thout needing a hull passel of trade goods. The less I need a trader, the better off I’ll be.”
That morning over coffee as the few fort employees left behind began to stir with activity, and Jackson’s dragoons came and went with steaming cups of Charlotte’s hearty brew and plates of her fluffy, piping-hot corn muffins, Scratch told the Greens tales of that north country where his family belonged. Now, more than ever, as the army, and emigrants, and those religious pilgrims too were all crowding in on what had long been a quiet and ofttimes lonely land. When he could stuff no more in his belly, Scratch got up and moved his stool back against the wall.
“Keep a sharp eye out for them young’uns of mine,” he warned the cook. “When they get around to rolling out, a hungry bunch gonna come runnin’ in here to clean up all your bacon and corn dodgers.”
Wind Walker Page 3
