“Damn right I do!”
The clerk cleared his throat. “Whiskey sells two dollar the pint.”
He squinted again, trying to imagine how much a pint was. “How much is that a gallon?”
“Eight dollars.”
For a moment more Scratch looked around at the other six trappers. “I got enough for three gallons start off with?”
“That’s twenty-four dollars. And you’ll have a little money left over for some more.”
“That’s the way I want it,” Bass said with satisfaction. “Go get a kettle, one of you.”
“I ain’t gotta go anywhere to get a goddanged kettle,” Caleb yelled with glee, leaning over to retrieve the kettle he had purchased from the ground. “Here, mister—put a gallon of that likker right in here.”
The clerk looked at Bass.
At which Scratch roared, “You heard the man. This here’s a free man, master trapper in the Rocky—by God—Mountains. So you better pour us some whiskey in that kettle and give me my trade goods … then step back outta our way, ’cause these here cocks o’ the walk are struttin’ bold and brassy tonight!”
16
He had forgotten just how good an Injun gal could smell, all earthy and fragrant with her own body heat, skin smeared with some bear oil, maybe some crushed sage or flower petals rubbed in her hair.
Quite different from them Mexican gals, who stank of cheap aguardiente and corn-husk cigarillos just like their menfolk. But the Taos whores sure did know how to raise hell and put a chunk under it to entertain a mountain man wintering down their way!
Still, he was glad to be back in the mountains, back to Injun gals what didn’t chatter that much at all like them Mexican whores while they serviced their customers. These Injun women knew what they were about when it came to earning that handful of beads, that cup of Mexican sugar, or that yard of calico he held out to finally entice one of them to follow him back toward a spot he had prepared in the middle of a patch of willow.
She grasped his rigid flesh in the moonlight as he centered himself over her and began to lunge forward hungrily as she half closed her eyes.
Starved as he was, Scratch did his best to go at it slow. Knowing that after having gone so long without, this was bound to be over with all too soon anyway. Best savor it while he could.
Squirming, the woman adjusted herself on the buffalo robe he had spread beneath the wide strip of oiled sheeting Titus had tied up in the event the sky decided to cloud up and rain on them that night. Right at dusk a few clouds had begun to clot at the western rim of the valley, there against the mountains, ominously backlit by the falling sun.
Titus thought he could smell her excitement. Its strong pungency rose to his nostrils on the warm night air. And that stirred him to jab himself into her with all the more urgency.
How long had it been … too damned long to calculate, to wonder about, now. The drought was over. He had bought himself a woman for the night. At least he hoped it was for the night, praying suddenly that she would not get up and leave once he was done in her. Because he realized he would be done all too soon.
It was always that way when he went so long without—
Then he was exploding inside her in great rushing waves of relief, flinging himself against her, almost whimpering that it hadn’t lasted longer.
Slowly, slowly he sank atop her, filled both with regret and immense satisfaction, savoring these few minutes while his breathing slowed and his heart quieted itself, listening to her breathing and the night sounds so close around their crude shelter. When he grew soft, the woman slid out from under him, then scooted back against his body, nestling her head on his shoulder as she reached out for her dress and that blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders when she’d followed him there.
He unfurled her blanket over them both and closed his eyes.
How warm was the night air, despite that hint of a chilling cloudburst carried in from the horizon on an occasional breeze.
After completing his purchases and carrying his supplies back to camp, Scratch and the others had carved up the remains of an elk cow shot two days before and put the steaks over the fire. As the meat sizzled at the end of sharpened appolaz, they eagerly dipped their tin cups into the three kettles, sipping at the amber-colored grain alcohol that burned a man’s goozle raw.
Scratch near choked with that first great gulp.
Sputtering, he found the others guffawed and knee-slapped at his fit of coughing.
“Ain’t smooth as lightning, is it?” Hatcher asked, grinning so widely one could see all of that rotted tooth.
No, it sure wasn’t smooth. Nor had Bass chosen to sweeten the liquor’s raw bite with Mexican brown sugar as he had learned to do with the Taos aguardiente. But soon enough his tongue and gullet grew accustomed to this particular recipe. So with supper out of the way and his head feeling light and easy, Bass cut free enough beads to fill a pint tin cup half the way to the top, sliced himself off an arm’s length of striped cotton cloth with his belt knife, then bid the others farewell for what he hoped would be the rest of the evening.
“Ye be back afore morning?” Hatcher cried.
But before Bass himself could answer, Elbridge yelled, “Shit, Jack! His blankets and robes is gone!”
“Eegod! Ye got yerself a little hidey place picked out, don’t ye?” Jack asked before Scratch could utter a word.
He was really beginning to feel the numbing tingle radiating across his forehead now that he was standing, doing all he could to remain standing. “My night to let the wolf loose, boys!”
“See you tomorry,” Caleb replied with a slur and a wave.
He weaved past their merry fire as some of the rest grabbed their crotches and hooted profanely. An exuberant Hatcher blew him a kiss before Bass turned toward the banks of the Popo Agie.
That’s when he heard the loud voices of men mixing with the lighter giggles from women. Instead of wading on into the creek, Scratch decided to stay with the east bank. After crossing less than fifty yards he came upon an open piece of ground within the willow and cottonwood, where more than two dozen people milled about in the light of the rising half-moon. Trappers sauntered among the warriors and squaws who had come across the Popo Agie with one thought in mind: no two ways about it, there were treasures to be bartered from those white men hungry to lay with their dark-skinned women. Cloth and coffee, beads and bells, knives and awls, vermilion and ribbons.
And all these beaver men wanted was a few minutes’ time to rut with a woman!
Were there no females back in the land of these white men?
For a few minutes Scratch stood shuffle-footed on the fringe of that merry gathering, watching the company men and a handful of free trappers mosey in and out through the group. They circled, appraising, then circled again, stopping now and then to have themselves a close inspection of this or that woman beneath the moonlight. He ought to have himself a look, Titus decided, just so the others wouldn’t pick over all the best there was before he got around to choosing.
The warrior warily watched the white man approach, saying something quietly to his woman from the corner of his mouth. She nodded as she looked Bass up and down. Then smiled faintly. He set down the cup of brown Mexican sugar at his feet and asked How much? in sign, ending with that simple gesture of male readiness: a stiffened index finger on one hand sliding back and forth between the wide-spread Y of the first two fingers on the other hand.
“A knife and some powder too?” he asked when the warrior gave his answer.