“These here friends o’ your’n,” Titus began, wagging the muzzle of his rifle at one, then the other, of those horsemen arrayed on either side of the wagon master. “You figger they very good at killing a man? Maybe good for killin’ two of us?”
“I’m certain they—”
“I ain’t,” Bass interrupted. “This coon’d lay down good money none of your gun-toters ever kill’t a man.”
Sweete had his hat off and was wiping the sticky moisture off the sweatband as he said, “Hargrove, I want you to look at that rifle my friend is holding on you. See them brass tacks he pounded into the stock, up an’ down the forearm too?”
“What business is it of—”
“Ever’ one of ’em is a dead man he’s kill’t.”
Titus watched how that caused all three of them to train their attention on his rifle, where it was propped atop the saddle.
“Near as I know, he ain’t added the last two tacks he should,” Shadrach continued. “Pair of Frenchie fellas who thought they was gonna run off with the man’s half-blood daughter—figgered a half-wild white man wasn’t gonna care ’bout his family an’ all.”
Hargrove’s eyes grinned mirthlessly and he said, “Sometimes justice can indeed be swift out here on the frontier.”
Shadrach added, “But I doubt any of your hired men done more’n rough up some poor folks they had outnumbered. They don’t appear to have the stomach for killin’—just for making you look bigger’n you are to sodbusters and settlement folk.”
From his right side, out of the corner of his good eye, Titus watched three of his grandchildren poke their heads beneath the wagon. Then a fourth shadow: little Lucas, plopping onto his belly and squeezing his way between Lemuel and Annie. All of them intently listened in on the conversation between the menfolk and that talk of the brass tacks on his rifle, talk of his life of killing. It wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted his grandchildren to know about him.
Hargrove was already starting a sentence with something about the council he would call when they had reached that night’s campground to decide the matter—
But Titus interrupted, “You best keep your boys away from our camp.”
“They were hired by me to patrol the line of march every day,” Hargrove huffed. “And they stand their rotation of watch every night, just like the rest of the men. As long as I’m captain, there can never be anywhere that is off-limits to my men.”
“I warned you once, Hargrove. Won’t waste my breath again,” he declared, then turned a quick glance at those four grandchildren of his, wide eyes peering out from under the possum belly slung beneath the wagon, every one of them getting a real earful. “But, I’m sure men like you an’ me don’t want no trouble with the other. Do we now?”
“This is my train, Burwell,” Hargrove fumed as he turned to gaze at the farmer. “You signed on with your family—but these … these others didn’t.”
“We ain’t part of your train,” Titus said. “We’ll ride with this family. Keep to ourselves. Ain’t gonna cause no trouble … but we ain’t backin’ off from trouble if it comes neither. Be sure to tell all your boys that. Don’t want none of ’em crossing tracks with me or mine here on out.”
The wagon master sputtered, “I can’t have my train providing for you—”
“We take care of ourselves,” Shad declared. “Don’t we, Scratch?”
“We ain’t taking nothing from another’s mouth, Hargrove. We’ll hunt for what we eat,” Titus explained. “An’ we’ll camp off from the rest of your farmers.”
Pulling himself up to full height again in the saddle, Phineas Hargrove took a moment to sneer down his long, patrician nose at the poorly dressed farmer and his two friends arrayed in greasy buckskins and faded calico. “Enjoy your day on the trail with these new companions of yours while you can, Burwell. After our council meeting tonight, the men and their families will have no choice but to turn back come morning.”
Scratch watched the three ride off. First one, then the other hired man twisted round in the saddle or looked back over his shoulder. Only Hargrove refused to give the newcomers another glance.
“Better we gave ’em that warning right off,” Shad explained as he stepped over.
Roman declared, “I don’t believe we’ll be troubled by them after that council meeting tonight.”
Wagging his head, Titus felt weary, deep-down bone weary. As he turned to gaze down at those four young faces peering out at him from the early-morning shadows beneath the wagon box, he grumbled, “Way I read the sign—our trouble with that Hargrove an’ his bunch o’ bullies only gonna turn uglier from here on out.”
THIRTEEN
Two hours after crossing the gentle loop of Muddy Creek some eight miles north of Fort Bridger, a pair of Hargrove’s hired men came loping back along that path the scattered emigrant wagons were plying. As they huffed past on their dusty horses, the men bellowed their orders to one and all.
“Making camp ahead! Form up for camp! Form up!”
Titus Bass quickly regarded the rocky ground and reminded himself he would have to warn these woodland emigrants, especially his grandchildren, to be vigilant for the rattlers that grew numerous and bold in this high, arid country. The very thought of a white-skinned little one getting bit put a sour, queasy ball in Bass’s stomach.
A little off to his left, Scratch saw Amanda stick her head around the front bow of the canvas top on their long wagon as her eyes searched for him and the family. The faded red gingham of that poke bonnet, which shaded her eyes and much of her face from most of the sun’s cruel burn, was unmistakable even at this distance.
Right from the start, he and Shadrach had chosen to ride their families on the far right flank of the train rather than spend that hot morning, and even hotter afternoon, chewing on the tons of dust spun into the air by the four wheels of every one of those sixty-seven wagons. Where they could, most of the farmers gradually worked themselves into a wide formation rather than suffering the stifling dust in rigid single file. By this point in their journey, these sodbusters-turned-teamsters had learned that some, duties on this overland journey, like guard rotation, required military precision. But this did not. When the land became wrinkled and the coulees sank deep, the procession slowed as one team after another slowly dragged their wagons into line behind the others, a process of crossing each gully one at a time that made for agonizing delays. But when the next mile or so ahead foretold easy going, the emigrants gradually loosened their tight formation and spread across a broad front.
Many were the times that first morning when Scratch and Sweete had stopped their group on a low rise to wait for the train to catch up, or even to allow most of the wagons to pass on by. No matter how fast they could travel on horseback, it made no sense to outstrip the plodding pace of the train. Excruciatingly slow, those teams of oxen preferred by most farmers managed to set one hoof in front of the other with a steadiness that saw that first day waste away by the time they had reached the south bank of Muddy Creek. Far in the advance, Titus watched Moses Harris ride to the east along the bank, then back to the west aways, before the pilot found the approach he most desired and led Hargrove’s first wagon down to the ford of the shallow stream. This time of the year, Bass thought as he watched one after another begin the slow, but noisy, descent down the sharp slope and make the crossing, there wasn’t water enough to worry a man in this narrow creekbed. Yet it was the bottom on these shallow western creeks that should give a man pause: sands shifting almost by the hour—what was solid footing beneath the first wagons, could, by the time the last few teams entered the creek, have turned itself into no more than a bowl of mushy grits beneath the two-inch bands of iron welded around every wagon wheel.