From all the sign he could make out in the failing light as summer night surrounded him, Scratch reassured himself they had been there. At least they had come this far—and, like him, had discovered the post to be abandoned, burned, and fallen to ruins. If there had been at least the shell of a cabin left standing, then they likely would have pulled over then and there, spending the night within the shelter of the log stockade, he decided. But instead the three of them had seen no walls rising on that narrow thumb of high ground, and therefore had no reason to stop where they said they would leave him word of their passing.
He stood, anxious, looking this way and that.
So why wouldn’t they leave him some sign—a scrap of old canvas with their marks on it—hanging here? If not at the post site, then why not here? Had they forgotten? he wondered. Or, as he slid closer to fearing, was it just a case of not giving a damn about what they had promised him?
And if they cared so little about the promise of leaving him a message at the mouth of the Bighorn River … then … then could the three have come to care nothing about the other promises made him?
Finally he wagged his head, steadfastly refusing again to take this as evidence of the worst. Better to keep on believing the best. Billy was a simpleminded man, but good enough at heart. And Tuttle was smarter than Hooks, so he’d remember what they’d promised Titus Bass. So it really didn’t matter what he might fear at the core of him about Silas Cooper … because Scratch believed that come hell or high water, in the end Cooper would do exactly as he had promised: trade their furs and return for another winter season in the mountains, and another after that, and another after …
Scratch believed in that strongly because of what he knew he meant to Silas Cooper. There was no two ways of Sunday about it: Titus Bass was the best trapper of the four of them. And as long as Silas was getting his healthy cut of Scratch’s catch, then Cooper would do everything to protect his best trapper.
Wasn’t no way in hell Silas would break his bond with Bass, not by a long chalk!
Sighing, Scratch looked about again as the light faded. He decided he would sleep here and turned back to the saddle horse and Hannah. After securing them for the night near his bed, Titus stretched out and gazed up at the black dome flecked with a wide trail of dusty stars. Wondering if the three of them were looking up at much the same sky right then too.
At least they’d come this far. So chances were good they’d make it from here on down to that Mandan post just above the mouth of the Knife River. Silas, Bud, and Billy had come this far, he reminded himself … and that was good enough to convince Scratch that they would likely make it the rest of the way. Without accident, without attack.
Far, far better was it for him to believe in that—than to go on nursing doubt any longer. Better to hang his hope on the fact they’d been right here, ate and camped and slept right here on this ground … better to hope than allow any misgivings to creep in and ambush him. Always better to trust in someone than to let doubt and uncertainty nibble away at the faith he wanted to have in the three.
Best that he protect what kernel of loyalty remained than to allow something to fester inside him … no matter what.
No matter how long it took.
High summer was daily baking the central Rockies the way his mother had baked her double-sweetened corn bread in the Dutch oven in their river-rock fireplace, scooping hot coals onto the top of the cast-iron kettle.
In the heat he tried now to remember the fragrance of that rising bread, the surface of the cornmeal turning golden. But Titus could not remember.
Instead he rubbed his nose, finding it caked and crusted again with the dry dust of this open, unforgiving country far to the southwest of the low saddle* that took a man to the Pacific side of the great continental spine. The dust stived up with every hoof the horse set down. Dust from all those horses and mules behind him, all those hooves—and when the breeze stirred to temporarily cool the sweat glistening his skin, the breeze might just as soon blow that cloud of alkali dust in his direction.
A far, far different country, this, far different from that up on the Yellowstone in the land of the Apsaalooke. More weeks than he cared to think about since he’d left the mouth of the Yellowstone behind and moved south up the Bighorn. Since there was no longer a Missouri Fur Company post, all this time he had been counting on the three joining up with him far to the south.
That day after finding sign of their riverside camp, he had begun this journey south. Eager most of all to complete his side of the compact made with Silas Cooper and the others. Only way Titus knew for sure that their reunion would ever come to be was that he himself had to be there to meet up with the three when they rode in from Fort Vanderburgh on the Missouri. From there Cooper said he would bring them a little south of west. Unencumbered by all the weight of traps, baggage, camp gear, and what other truck four men required to survive one winter after another out here in the mountains, surely the three could make far better time hurrying toward their rendezvous south of Henry’s Fork and the Green River country east of the Uintah.
Was no doubt in Scratch’s mind that the trio could travel far faster than he had been able to since he had last seen them floating off down the Yellowstone. Considering the number of horses and mules he had to ride herd on … well, while he might not have as far to ride, Bass grew more certain with every day that Silas Cooper’s bunch could likely cover twice the distance he could in every sunup-to-sundown ride. And that’s what kept him pushing on as fast as the animals, and the rugged, broken terrain, and all the terrible storms of early summer allowed him.
The days drifted by as he scooted south along the winding path of the Bighorn, south farther still into the Wind River country and then the high breaks of the Popo Agie, where he crossed that high saddle as a hellish hailstorm battered him and the animals early one afternoon. The icy shards hurt so much, he was driven out of the saddle, dropping to the ground and dragging a thick wool blanket with him as he huddled beneath the belly of the tail-tucked saddle mount to sit out heaven’s attack on this treeless expanse of parched, high sagebrush desert. How all the horses whimpered and the mules snorted in their discomfort and pain until the bombardment moved on east and a cold rain fell. Eventually a band of blue and purple and dusty rose sky emerged along the western horizon, and the last of the storm was finally on its way over him.
Like him, the horses and mules had shuddered and shivered, and reluctantly they moved out with him once more as he urged them in motion. The wind had come up soon after and made for a damp, cold camp that night until he got his fire started. Chilled to the marrow, Scratch clutched his coffee tin close beneath his hairy chin and consoled himself with the fact that he was getting all the nearer to the country where he would await the arrival of his partners.
Partners.
It had been the first time in more than two winters with the trio that he had ever thought of them as partners. At first they had been saviors—arriving as they did just when his last horse had died of black water. Then he had come to think of them as his mentors, teaching him not only trapping but the ways of the mountains and of the brown-skinned natives who likewise called this high country home. And finally he was forced to consider Silas Cooper as his master when Cooper first exacted his tribute for saving Bass’s life, for keeping him alive.
What else would he call it when he had thrown in near everything he owned, certainly everything he had worked the better part of a year to acquire, handed over that fortune of his to join with theirs in that exciting, challenging endeavor of floating their furs downriver? What else would the four of them call themselves … but partners?