At first it was an odd sensation, rubbing the river bottom grit from chin to toe, but soon enough it became a right pleasant feeling. In fact, his skin began to tingle and glow the more he scrubbed.
“That ’bout does it for me,” Beckwith announced as he rose out of the water, turned, and long-legged it onto the riverbank to stand dripping among the foxsedge.
“I’m done too,” Potts agreed as he stood with a splash.
Bass watched in amusement as the two trembled and quaked, shaking what they could of the water from their flesh just like a hound. Then, as the evening breezes cooled, they quickly stepped into their clothing, despite still being a little damp. Potts pulled on leather britches and a ragged, dirty calico shirt. Beneath his linen shirt Beckwith wore a pair of leggings and a breechclout, same as Bass.
As Titus emerged from the water, shivering in the gentle movement of a cool wind, the other two plopped to the ground and began pulling on their moccasins.
“Dang if it ain’t time to fill up my meatbag,” Potts declared. “Been a long stretch since breakfast.”
“C’mon, now—don’t dally,” Beckwith urged Bass. “Unless you hurry, there won’t be a thing left for us to eat.”
“He’s right.” Potts smacked with relish. “Them others can eat a horse by themselves—and all we got us is half a elk!”
Titus leaped into his clothes, suddenly discovering he was himself immensely hungry after the long day’s ride, followed by that invigorating bath. As the trio neared the fire lighting the ring of deeply tanned faces, Fitzpatrick stood, wiping his greasy fingers in his hair as he called out.
“That you, Potts?”
They strode into the corona of firelight as Daniel announced, “It’s me.”
“You got Beckwith?”
“I’m here,” the mulatto replied, coming into the light.
All three stopped near the fire ring. Potts was the first to yank his knife from his belt and bend down over one of the two roasting elk quarters. He sliced himself a long, narrow slab of the pink meat still dripping juice and blood into the flames below—each drop landing with a merry hiss.
“Just wanted to tell you what I reminded the rest here,” Fitzpatrick declared. “When you roll out in the morning, see to it you trim off that beard of your’n.”
Potts eyed the brigade leader. “All of it?”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “You too, Beckwith.”
Scratching at the side of his face, the mulatto said, “A shame, Fitz. I been growing real particular to it since winter.”
Sporting his own brown beard, Fitzpatrick replied, “If you don’t wanna stay working for Ashley long, then a man can keep his beard, boys. Otherwise—you know the general’s rule. He don’t ’llow no beards on his men.”
Titus asked, “Why’s Ashley so all-fired against beards?”
“He’s a trader, mind you,” Fitzpatrick explained, stepping close. “And traders allays deal with them Injuns, don’t they?”
“Yep,” Billy Hooks answered, leaping into the conversation.
With a cursory glance at the mat of facial hair on Hooks, Fitzpatrick went on. “General’s come to know Injuns don’t like beards. They don’t much favor any kind of hair on a man’s face.”
“That’s why they pluck ever’ damn hair out,” Bridger added with a mock shudder. “Even the eyebrows too.”
Fitzpatrick continued. “Few years back Ashley learned him that some Injun bands won’t have nothing to do with a man wearing a beard. They say it hides a feller’s face. And the Injuns is big on reading a man’s face to see that he’s talking straight.”
“Man kin grow him a beard,” Potts declared, “but he dare’st not let the general ever see it.”
“All that fuss over a man’s beard?” Tuttle inquired.
“You free trappers don’t have to worry none over that,” Fitzpatrick explained.
Potts stepped back with a second slice of elk hanging from his knife. “But you free trappers best ’member the general takes care of his own fellas first.”
“An’ if Ashley’s got anythin’ left after he outfits his own for the next year,” a new man spoke up with an accent that reminded Bass of the Spanish and French tongues heard at the mouth of the Mississippi, “then you free trappers might get to pick over the leavin’s.”
Bass studied that speaker for a moment as the older man bit down on one end of a long strip of meat, pulled the strip out from his lips with one hand, then used the knife he clutched in his other hand to slice off a good mouthful. He had long black hair prematurely sprinkled with gray where it hung loosely on either side of his well-wrinkled face, and his beard was starting to show a dusting of iron too, although the man was clearly younger than Titus.
Potts explained, “Louis here don’t cotton much to you free trappers joining in on our ronnyvoos.”
Around a mouthful of the meat, Louis Vasquez spoke up for himself, his dark Spanish eyes glaring at Daniel Potts. “This here’s the general’s doin’s—ronnyvoo is. Them don’t work for the general has no business barterin’ plews for Ashley’s trade goods.”
“’Sides powder and lead, coffee and sugar,” Fitzpatrick said, “the rest of it’s all foofaraw anyway, Vaskiss.”
“Their kind wanna work for Ashley, eh?” Vasquez growled. “Let ’em sign on wit’ Ashley.”
Silas snorted. “An’ fight Blackfeet up there in the devil’s own country like you boys done? No thankee. Pll trap where I wanna trap an’ stay aways from making trouble for myself.”
Then Hooks chimed in, “That means us keeping our noses far from Blackfoot country!”
“Weren’t all that far north of here,” Bridger declared. “Was a good li’l scrap of it. Show ’em what I mean, fellas.”
Five of the others brandished scalps they had hanging from their belts.
“That’s five Blackfoot what ain’t ever gonna raise my hair!” Bridger exclaimed.
“’Nother’n was shot up bad—but the rest rode off with his carcass,” Fitzpatrick said. “Couldn’t raise his scalp.”
“Makes six Blackfeet what won’t devil none of us no more,” Fraeb emphasized.
“Much trouble as them niggers are, the trapping’s some up in them parts,” Fitzpatrick said.
Titus asked, “Some?”
Potts turned to look at Bass. “Means it’s just ’bout the best there is, child.”
“Blanket beaver,” Bridger added with an approving cluck. “And the rivers is so thick with ’em, all a man has to do is walk down to the water and club ’em over the head.”
“Sounds like some crock of bald-faced to me!” Cooper spouted, a disbelieving grin creasing his dark beard.
The dour Fraeb scratched at his nose with the black crescent of a dirty fingernail. “Haps you free trappers ought just go on up there to that Blackfoot country and see for yourselves.”
“No thankee,” Cooper replied, eyes dancing with mirth as he winked at Hooks. “I favor my skelp to stay locked right where it is!”
Billy tore the fur cap from his head and grabbed a handful of his own long, greasy hair. “Ain’t the red nigger born what can take this from me, Silas!”
Then Tuttle observed, “For balls’ sake—only way you Ashley boys can poke your noses up there in that Blackfoot country at all is to travel in a hull bunch like you done.”
“Yessirreebob!” Hooks added, spreading his arms wide. “And there ain’t but four of us!”
Potts leaned close to Bass and asked under his breath, “You still so sartin sure you don’t wanna throw in with us come ronnyvoos?”
For a few moments Titus looked over Fitzpatrick’s bunch, then eyed what the ten had themselves in the way of fur. As much as there was, man for man, the Ashley trappers didn’t have a thing on Cooper’s bunch—despite having trapped that spring in the beaver-rich country haunted by the bloodthirsty Blackfoot.