Good men, the best friends a man deserved—even those the likes of Asa McAfferty, who went bad for reasons he had never sorted out, a compañero who, in the end, asked one final act of faithfulness from an old friend. Better it would be, Titus had come to believe after years of mind-numbing consternation, for a man to be killed at the hand of a friend than by the hate of an enemy.
Good men, the best friends a man could ever have. So many of the best gone now. Gone to where those mortals still walking the earth could only suppose. Gone where no man alive knew for certain. These good men, gone to where Titus could only pray he would see them again at last on some far-off, faraway day. Like the bullet holes in his flesh, the arrow puckers and knife wounds too, the losing of each of those good friends carved its scar upon his heart. Perhaps even deeper, unto the marrow of his very soul. Such loss was all but unbearable, one by one wounding its own piece of his being.
So he did take friends unto his bosom, the few and the most trusted he had embraced, and made a home for these in his wounded, broken-in heart. Likely he could survive, live out the rest of his days with two or three of the old ones at his side, men like Sweete and Bridger. Save for his family, Titus Bass needed little more. But, his need of Waits-by-the-Water was a different animal altogether. She left behind everything she had ever known to come and be with him. In those first seasons they were together, Waits found a new friend in Josiah’s wife. Later, Mathew Kinkead’s too. But both were a far cry from the friends who had surrounded her before he took her away from Crow country. She needed friends much more than he.
Titus could do with the few who easily moved in and out of his life, as easily as he could do with being a loner. But it near destroyed him when he was apart from her. If he had to live with but one friend for the rest of his days, it could be no other but her. Yet, he had come to realize she was different. Waits thrived and bloomed with her woman friends. She needed that companionship far more than he ever would. Watching how she fluttered near Shell Woman, her bravest and most cheerful reaction to knowing Shadrach was taking his family far away for a time, if not forever, gave Scratch a sense of remorse for his wife.
Yesterday, before the others awoke, he sought out Bridger.
Jim listened, then asked in exasperation, “You too?”
“Time’s come for me to stretch my legs a little,” Titus had explained as Jim poured them coffee from that first brew of the morning.
“Your family goin’?”
“If I go, they’ll likely wanna come too.”
Bridger had wagged his head. “Won’t be the same ’thout you, Scratch. Won’t be the same not hearing that anvil ring from first light till suppertime.”
“We’ll be back long afore winter comes hard, Shad an’ me.”
“You ain’t ever spent a winter in country cold as this here gets,” Jim warned. “Best you get turned around from Hallee as soon as you niggers can.”
“How far you make the journey?”
“I’d make it ten, twelve days on horse,” Bridger estimated. “But these sodbusters with their wagons. Gonna be double, no … triple that. A month at the outside, you don’t keep ’em moving hard.”
“Hell, we’ll be back well afore the first snowflake lands on that ugly nose o’ your’n. Three weeks at the most getting there, an’ we’ll be less time coming back. All of us on horses then—won’t nothing hold us up.”
“That’s if you two bring a pilot to bait for this bunch of corncrackers.”
Dread of that had worried Titus into sleeplessness that first still night after his daughter’s family trudged back to the wagon meadow and the others had carried sleepy children off to their beds. How, Scratch despaired, could he just drop this weighty matter into Shadrach’s lap once they reached Fort Hall, and pay no mind to the looming potential for failure once the train was beyond the horizon and out of sight?
And if he finally decided he could do nothing less than go along to Fort Hall himself—what would he do, Titus brooded, if he and Shad failed to scratch up a pilot who could be trusted? In the final dusting he admitted to no one but himself that this whole dilemma might well come down to what Roman Burwell and the other hickory-headed settlers would decide to do when they were confronted with that impossible choice of staying out the winter near Fort Hall, or pushing on without a pilot because their feet had grown far too itchy with every mile they put behind them. Exactly what happened when these emigrants reached the Snake would likely turn not only on events Titus Bass could not foresee but also turn on folks Titus Bass had no control over.
And that powerlessness was just the sort of thing that had nettled him no end since eighteen and twenty-five when he fled to the Rocky Mountains, seeking to finally seize hold of his own life, wrenching it away from the control of others. This was another of those crucial, pivotal decisions in a man’s life that offered no good choice versus the bad options. In the two paths he saw left for him, there was no solidly good choice. Only a matter of what choice appeared to come with less risk … what path came with an acceptable, manageable level of danger or the possibility of failure. Time and again in his life among these mountains, he had been confronted with less than ideal options. Only trouble now was that the safety of so many of those he cared for rested on what choices he made from here on out—beginning with the choice he had to make that very morning.
The sun was only hinting at just how hot the day would be when the three families gathered in the open square of Fort Bridger. Jim had thrown some wood on the embers and poked life back into those flames that cast their reflections as those who were departing embraced each and every one of those who were staying behind. Tears shared between the two women and Gabe’s three children, hugs between all the youngsters who had been able to play and frolic despite the language barriers. Off to the side two men said farewell to an old friend in much the same way this breed once bid farewell to their comrades when the luster of summer rendezvous had faded and the brigades were stringing out in a half dozen different directions for the high-country hunt.
“Watch your topknot, Gabe!” Titus cried as he rose to the saddle, a sour ball caught in his throat, eyes stinging in the early light.
Blinking his own misty eyes, Bridger pounded Sweete on the back one last time, then let the big man go to his horse. Finally they were all mounted and turning from the timbered stockade, with Jim trudging along beside them, like a man who had one last thing to say before parting … but could not remember what he wanted to say for the life of him. In the end, he looked up at Titus with those imploring eyes.
And said, “Countin’ on you. Bring ’em back, Titus Bass. Bring ’em all back soon as you can.”
With Magpie and Flea riding the left flank among the packhorses, it was Jackrabbit, along with little Bull Hump and Pipe Woman, who giggled and shrieked with excitement as the party set off to the southwest for the meadow where the Hargrove train had put in more than two whole days of rest, recruitment, and repairs. The women chattered, their hands busy as they always were when people of different tongues wanted desperately to communicate. But there was really no need to understand Crow or Cheyenne to recognize the joy on their copper-skinned faces, the excitement in sharing this new adventure with friends. Out in the lead rode the two old comrades, as they had done countless mornings before.
One last time they both turned and gazed back at Jim’s double stockade, then waved a final farewell to Bridger’s shrinking figure before Bass held out his left hand to Sweete. Shad nudged his horse closer and took Scratch’s wrist in his right hand. Gazing into one another’s eyes with that long-buried smile of great anticipation, they squeezed hard before freeing their grip. Exactly as they had done many, many times before when setting out on a trail they knew not where it would carry them.