As the twenty-eight-year-old Milton struck out down the Popo Agie, which would take his outfit north for the Bighorn and Yellowstone country, Campbell whipped the balky mules south by east for the States* that same morning.
An hour later Bill Sublette himself turned his nose north by west, ascending the Wind River with some free trappers in tow until he crossed over the mountains and dropped down the Buffalo Fork to strike the Snake River in the northern part of what was already widely known as Davy Jackson’s Hole. On the shores of Jackson’s Lake, the booshway allowed his outfit to recruit and recuperate for a few days before he would set off again in his search.
Where was Davy? He sent word that he would meet Sublette on the Snake below the Pilot Knobs!
Trouble was, by the time he reached Jackson’s Hole, the booshway realized there were two sides to that narrow mountain range. And to top off the dilemma—the Snake River tumbled through a valley on both sides of the Tetons.
So when William Sublette struck that river and failed to find any sign of Jackson as he doggedly continued on down the Snake, the booshway came to the conclusion that his only hope lay in crossing the mountains to continue his search on the western slope.
There in what the mountain trappers were just beginning to call Pierre’s Hole … the dead were about to be resurrected.
“Who is that up yonder?”
Those company men at the head of the caravan with Sublette ignited a buzz that shot back the length of their pack train eventually to reach the half-dozen free trappers led by Jack Hatcher.
Bass squinted into the morning light, anxious with alarm—suddenly spying the distant horsemen. “Didn’t bump into a Injun war party, did we?”
A half a mile ahead along the foot of those peaks still snowcapped here late in summer, a force of more than half a hundred was spotted riding their way out of the north, several leaders immediately spurring away from the rest as they put their horses into an easy lope. At two hundred yards Sublette’s men could see that the oncoming riders had hairy faces.
At a hundred yards out, those buckskinned strangers raised their rifles and fired a joyous salute into the air.
Now the company men were roaring in delight up and down the caravan—recognizing old friends of the trail.
“Tom Fitzpatrick says it looks to be Davy Jackson hisself!” came word from one of the excited brigade men as the caravan was whipped into a lope.
Immediately a curious Hatcher and the rest gave heels to their mounts, spurring toward the action.
Caleb Wood roared, “Fitz oughtta know if it’s them—he wintered with Jackson’s men!”
“Davy Jackson’s brigade, by God!” Elbridge cheered as they hammered toward the reunion.
Then, just about the time Sublette, Bridger, and Fitzpatrick all fired their rifles and reined to a halt to greet the overdue Jackson … they had themselves another shock that rattled each man jack of them all right down to the soles of his moccasins.
There beside Davy rode none other than Jedediah Strong Smith his own self! Come back from the land of the dead!
Why, there was more back pounding and hooting, hurrahing, and bear hugging that late morning in the shadow of the Tetons to last any man a lifetime!
Then and there the three reunited partners decided they’d camp and hold themselves a second rendezvous. Even if Billy Sublette didn’t have but a third of his supplies left, there would never be a better reason to hold a celebration in the mountains than when one of your own was come back from the dead!
“Hatcher? Is that you, Jack Hatcher?”
Bass got to his feet as the impressive stranger came to a halt on his horse some five yards away from where the seven were occupied unlashing packs and preparing to make camp themselves.
Hatcher stood, shading his eyes to stare up at the man who had the high sun at his back, his snowy mane radiant in the summer light as it spilled from beneath the wide, rolled-up brim of a crumpled felt hat.
Caleb Wood was the first to utter a sound as he came up on the far side of the stranger. “McAfferty?”
Then Hatcher bellowed, “Th-that really you, Asa?”
As the stranger slid from his saddle, Elbridge turned quickly to Titus and declared, “That’s the preacher fella we tol’t you of—one what kill’t that Ree medicine man.”
Scratch watched alone while the others knotted around McAfferty like acorns around an oak, shaking hands and pounding one another on the shoulder, all laughing and talking and jabbing at the same time in their joyful surprise.
“Didn’t ever figger to see you again!” Rufus confessed.
McAfferty asked, “What? Me rubbed out, Mr. Graham?”
“Nawww!” Jack roared. “I figgered ye give up on the mountains and run back east with yer tail tucked up atween yer legs!”
“Oooch! Mr. Hatcher, you sting me to the quick!” McAfferty shrieked, then started to laugh with an easy, contagious mirth that got the rest of them laughing with him.
Scratch had to admit that this McAfferty did have him an elegant, booming voice the likes of which would have enthralled and captivated far-flung frontier congregations and revival-camp meetings, without a doubt.
“Where in these hills ye been hiding yerself lately?” Jack inquired.
“Been up to Flathead country. Where I run onto Jackson’s men when they was riding south to find Sublette.”
Solomon slapped McAfferty on the back. “From the looks of it you still got all your purty white hair, Asa! And here I thort Flathead land was up there where them Blackfeets get a chance to lift that hair from you!”
Asa nodded, his dark eyes merry in that face starkly tanned against the radiant white beard. Then those eyes landed momentarily on the stranger who stood back from the others, observing the reunion of old friends.
“Up there near troubled land was I, that be God’s truth! ’And I will give peace in the land, and ye shall lie down, and none shall make you afraid.’” McAfferty said, quoting Biblical scripture. Then he looked at Hatcher, saying, “Who this be, Jack?”
They all turned and found Bass standing back, waiting alone.
Hatcher vigorously wagged his arm. “C’mon over here, Scratch. Want ye meet this nigger what use to ride with this bunch.”
“Scratch, he called you?” McAfferty asked as he held out his strong hand.
“Titus Bass,” he explained. “Scratch just the name what got hung on me not long after I come to the mountains.”
Asa winked at Caleb. “I’ll bet there’s a story there to tell, eh, Mr. Bass?”
Titus grinned. “Nothing more’n a bad case of the gray backs I had to get rid of.”
“Wait—” McAfferty said suddenly, his eyes flicking this way and that, the merry smile disappearing. “Where’s … ah, hell—they ain’t gone under, have they? Not Matthew and Johnny Rowland?”
Isaac spoke up, “Them two still kicking!”
Asa cranked his head around the others. “Where have they gone? Off on some errand?”
“Ain’t with us no more,” Hatcher explained.
McAfferty’s eyes narrowed. “Not rubbed out?”
“No,” Caleb remarked. “Both of ’em stayed down to Taos.”
McAfferty asked, “Women?”
“Yeah, women,” Rufus answered with that knowing nod to his head.
His own eyes half-closed, McAfferty pronounced, “This gentler sex: what a curse they be to a man … and what a balm those sweet creatures are to all that ails us! ’For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil.’”
“Asa—we had us some Snake women!” Rufus began. “Back at ronnyvoo in Snake country.”
“There’ll be more fornication here next day or so,” McAfferty declared.