“Ol’t enough ye ought’n know better!” and Jack swung out with his leg, catching Bass at the ankles, sweeping Scratch’s feet cleanly off the ground, toppling him right beside Hatcher. “Damn, if it ain’t good to see ye!” Jack bawled, slugging a fist into Scratch’s shoulder.
“We had you figgered for gone under!” Rufus declared as he dropped to his knee nearby.
Isaac lunged up, saying, “You see’d hair or hide of McAfferty?”
“Naw,” Scratch answered as he slowly got to his feet, dusting off his leggings. “Heard of him—from Bridger’s bunch. Said they saw him last fall.”
“Up to Three Forks?” Solomon asked.
“On north of there a good ways Asa run onto ’em.”
Hatcher whistled low. “That’s hair-liftin’ country, ever there was one.”
“Told us he was going there,” Caleb explained.
“I don’t figger him to make it to Willow Valley,” Isaac said.
“Hard for a man to come through a hull winter and spring that far into Blackfoot country,” Hatcher stated. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you again, Scratch.”
He looked round at those six faces. “It’s damned good to lay these ol’ eyes on you boys too.”
“Bet you’ve got some lies to tell, don’cha?” Elbridge asked.
“Me?” he replied with mock indignation. “Ever’thing I’m gonna tell you fellers tonight at the fire gonna be the God’s truth.”
“You hear that, Jack?” Caleb roared.
“Let’s see: I wrassled with ol’ Ephraim … aw, hell—I awready told you boys about that,” Scratch grumped. “And I damn near got killed by some greaser soldiers—”
“You and McAfferty done tol’t us about that too,” Rufus interrupted.
So Hatcher lazily looped an arm over Bass’s shoulder. “Just what the hell you done with yourself since we saw you last summer over on the Wind River?”
After fetching up his animals and turning them out to graze with those of Hatcher’s bunch, Scratch told them about his journey far north to the Judith, where he returned to the site of his bear mauling, regaling them with the story of his long walk to track the Crow horse thieves, finishing with his spring trapping on some tributaries of the Bighorn, his stop to soak aching bones at the tar springs before pushing on to the Wind River, climbing over South Pass to make his way to the Sandy—where he first spotted their dust cloud.
“You ain’t a very cautious bunch,” Bass told them, wagging his head with mock criticism.
“Just what the hell ye mean?” Hatcher growled. “We knowed we didn’t have to be careful when it was only a bone-headed horse’s ass named Titus Bass following us!”
“You owe me a drink for smearing my name in such a way, Jack Hatcher,” he grumbled, and held his cup up for more coffee as Rufus brought the pot around the fire. “And I don’t mean none of your bad coffee neither.”
“Gladly, Titus Bass! We’ll all have us more’n one round of Billy Sublette’s whiskey when we reach Willow Valley!”
But they wouldn’t drink any whiskey that year. And the mountain men sure as hell wouldn’t have their rendezvous hurraw in the Willow Valley either.*
As it turned out, after crossing to the west bank of the Green the next morning and setting out for the day, they ran onto a small group of free trappers heading east.
“Where you bound?” their leader asked as Bass and Hatcher’s bunch hailed the strangers, and both groups came to a noisy halt.
“For ronnyvoo in Willow Valley!” Jack cried exuberantly. “Ain’cha going?”
“Not to be no ronnyvoo in the Willow,” their leader replied. “We was coming south from the lower Snake country where we trapped this past spring.”
“Near Sweet Lake, we was,” interrupted another of the strangers.
The first man continued, “When we come across some of Bridger’s men, he sent out to pass the word.”
“Pass what word?” Caleb demanded.
“Rocky Mountain Fur wants all free men to meet ’em on the Green, up near what they call Horse Creek.”
“Horse Creek, no shit?” Hatcher echoed.
Pointing his arm north, the leader explained, “A ways yonder, up the Green.”
And with that, Scratch shuddered. “Heard that’s damned cold country come winter.”
“Heard that myself,” the leader replied, looking over the rest of Hatcher’s free men. “You care to throw in with us for the trip to ronnyvoo?”
Quickly Jack turned to the rest, seeing them nod. He looked back to the stranger. “Name’s Hatcher,” and he held out his hand as he continued. “I figger we might as well all ride up the Green together.”
As each of the free trapper bands reached the growing encampment nestled down in the fertile, grassy bottoms along the Green near the mouth of Horse Creek, one or another of the company booshways made a point to come over to explain this change of site.
“Fitz didn’t get off for St. Lou early as we’d planned for him to,” Bridger declared to the group who rode in with Hatcher. “What with Willow Valley being a far piece to the west, me and the partners figgered to move ronnyvoo some to the east so Fitz and Billy Sublette could reach us quicker when they come out from St. Lou.”
Titus asked, “What’s ronnyvoo got to do with Fitzpatrick making it back to St. Louie?”
Bridger cleared his throat. “When we bought out Smith, Jackson, and Sublette last year, we promised ’em we’d have a man back to St. Lou arranging for supplies afore March each spring, when a mule train’s got to make its start west. Just like it was when Sublette hisself went back. Trouble was, we didn’t get Fitz away from the mouth of the Powder this spring as soon as we wanted to.”
Bass felt concern taking root within him. “Jim, you don’t figger there won’t be no trader this year, do you?”
The younger booshway shook his head and smiled. “Fitz ain’t the sort to cache hisself, boys. He’ll make it back just fine. ’Sides—Smith, Jackson, and Sublette are savvy fellers: they know we’re all needing supplies to make out the next year.”
“That’s right,” Titus worked to convince himself. “Sublette and the rest gotta know every man out here needs provisions, year in, year out.”
Jack bellowed like a bull with its bangers caught on cat-claw brush, “We’ll damn well go under we don’t get powder and lead—”
“Whiskey and tobacco!” Rufus whimpered.
Bass agreed and echoed, “Whiskey and tobacco, some coffee and sugar too. Why, hell—how’s a man to winter up ’thout the trader’s supplies less’n he’s got a band of friendlies to hunker in with, or he points his nose south for the greaser diggings?”
Bridger nodded, shoving his floppy felt hat back onto his head. “I know how you feel, boys. Just ’member: we all suffer the same in this. Seems we just have to wait together and keep our eyes peeled for Broken Hand.”
They did keep their eyes locked on the eastern horizon for Tom Fitzpatrick, William Sublette, and those vagons every man was sure the trader was bound to bring back for a second trip to the mountains. Day, after day, after day they kept up their vigil … while July grew old and August loomed close.
Even the unflappably gruff Henry Fraeb finally grew concerned enough to seek out the services of an aging shaman traveling with a small band of Crow who had come in to trade with the white men.
“Frapp said he told the ol’ boy he’d give him some tobacco and coffee if he’d do his medicine and figger out what happened to Fitz. He’s figgering Broken Hand went under—never made it back to St. Louie,” Scratch explained to the others late one afternoon when he returned to the spot where he was camped with Hatcher’s men.