the critters had ’em their supper on your outfit!”
“Lookit all they chewed, Jack,” Simms clucked, wagging his head sympathetically.
“Bass ain’t got him near nothing left what don’t need some fixin’,” Rufus Graham declared.
“In a bad way too,” Titus grumped as he sat there in the midst of what debris remained of his leather tack and gear.
Hatcher knelt beside him. “Where’s yer pouch?”
“Jehoshaphat!” Bass swore as he whirled in a crouch, lunging for the tight roll of his extra blanket where he had secured his rifle and shooting bag before they had strolled over to the supper fires—for no other reason than to guard them from a quick-moving thunderstorm while they were gone from their camp. Yanking at the edges of the blanket, he rolled the weapon free, quickly inspecting the strap and bag, the narrow thongs securing the two powder horns to the strap, finding no damage.
“Ye’re a lucky man,” Hatcher intoned.
“Ain’t that the solemn truth,” Kinkead whimpered. “Look how they got to mine.” He held up what little remained of his bag, spare balls and a ball screw, his bullet mold spilling from the huge, ragged hole gaping in what Matthew had left of his chewed pouch.
“My only pair of spare mocs are gone,” Simms groaned as he picked through his few belongings.
Graham held up his old smoothbore, showing the othersthose vivid teeth marks deeply scored up and down the shrunken, translucent rawhide wrap where in a time past he had repaired the cracked, weakened wood along the wrist of the stock. “They even tried eatin’ on this here. Just ’cause it’s leather.”
“Shit,” Bass said as he gazed round at the wolf pack’s destruction the others held up for view. “Maybeso this means we ought’n have a man stay in camp all the time, Jack.”
“Hell,” the outfit’s leader snorted, “come ronnyvoo, I don’t know a single man jack of these here yahoos be willing to stay ahin’t while the rest of us go traipsin’ off to have us whiskey, women, and song!”
“Not me!” Wood bellowed. “You ain’t leavin’ me behin’t!”
“Not me neither!” Rowland said. “You each watch over your own outfits!”
Hatcher turned back to Bass. “See. Any other time of the year, a man be willing to stay back to camp for the rest. Be it trapping time, fall or spring—a man don’t mind taking his turn hanging back at a trappin’ camp.”
“Maybeso we ought’n go cross the creek there,” Titus said, pointing. “Go yonder there with them company boys and put our camp with them. That way we ain’t gotta worry ’bout—”
“We don’t have to move camp,” Hatcher interrupted.
Bass couldn’t believe what he had heard. Did these lean and experienced trappers mean to tell him they were willing to take the chances of wild creatures slipping into their abandoned camp, to chew on anything and everything made of leather again in the future?
“S-so you’re telling me we sit and wait for these here wolves to come back and ruin some more?”
As straight-faced as he could say it, Jack stepped up to Scratch and declared, “No … we pee.”
Titus wasn’t sure he’d heard Hatcher clearly. “Did you say … p-pee?”
“Pee. Piss. Spray. Same thing, Scratch.”
“P-pee?” Bass noticed most of the others smiling,some with hands over their mouths, trying to suppress their guffaws.
“Eegod!” Jack roared. “So I gotta show ye how to pee now?”
Hatcher whirled on his heel and stepped away, raising the tail of his long cotton shirt and tugging aside the blanket breechclout as he went purposefully to the bushes at the north end of their camp. Titus stood rooted to the spot, unsure just what he was to do.
“G’won,” Caleb instructed, flinging a hand in Jack’s direction. “Rest of us be right behin’t you.”
Suspicious that he was having his leg pulled but good, Scratch reluctantly followed in Hatcher’s steps, stopping nearby as the outfit’s leader
“Lookit all they chewed, Jack,” Simms clucked, wagging his head sympathetically.
“Bass ain’t got him near nothing left what don’t need some fixin’,” Rufus Graham declared.
“In a bad way too,” Titus grumped as he sat there in the midst of what debris remained of his leather tack and gear.
Hatcher knelt beside him. “Where’s yer pouch?”
“Jehoshaphat!” Bass swore as he whirled in a crouch, lunging for the tight roll of his extra blanket where he had secured his rifle and shooting bag before they had strolled over to the supper fires—for no other reason than to guard them from a quick-moving thunderstorm while they were gone from their camp. Yanking at the edges of the blanket, he rolled the weapon free, quickly inspecting the strap and bag, the narrow thongs securing the two powder horns to the strap, finding no damage.
“Ye’re a lucky man,” Hatcher intoned.
“Ain’t that the solemn truth,” Kinkead whimpered. “Look how they got to mine.” He held up what little remained of his bag, spare balls and a ball screw, his bullet mold spilling from the huge, ragged hole gaping in what Matthew had left of his chewed pouch.
“My only pair of spare mocs are gone,” Simms groaned as he picked through his few belongings.
Graham held up his old smoothbore, showing the othersthose vivid teeth marks deeply scored up and down the shrunken, translucent rawhide wrap where in a time past he had repaired the cracked, weakened wood along the wrist of the stock. “They even tried eatin’ on this here. Just ’cause it’s leather.”
“Shit,” Bass said as he gazed round at the wolf pack’s destruction the others held up for view. “Maybeso this means we ought’n have a man stay in camp all the time, Jack.”
“Hell,” the outfit’s leader snorted, “come ronnyvoo, I don’t know a single man jack of these here yahoos be willing to stay ahin’t while the rest of us go traipsin’ off to have us whiskey, women, and song!”
“Not me!” Wood bellowed. “You ain’t leavin’ me behin’t!”
“Not me neither!” Rowland said. “You each watch over your own outfits!”
Hatcher turned back to Bass. “See. Any other time of the year, a man be willing to stay back to camp for the rest. Be it trapping time, fall or spring—a man don’t mind taking his turn hanging back at a trappin’ camp.”
“Maybeso we ought’n go cross the creek there,” Titus said, pointing. “Go yonder there with them company boys and put our camp with them. That way we ain’t gotta worry ’bout—”
“We don’t have to move camp,” Hatcher interrupted.
Bass couldn’t believe what he had heard. Did these lean and experienced trappers mean to tell him they were willing to take the chances of wild creatures slipping into their abandoned camp, to chew on anything and everything made of leather again in the future?
“S-so you’re telling me we sit and wait for these here wolves to come back and ruin some more?”
As straight-faced as he could say it, Jack stepped up to Scratch and declared, “No … we pee.”
Titus wasn’t sure he’d heard Hatcher clearly. “Did you say … p-pee?”
“Pee. Piss. Spray. Same thing, Scratch.”
“P-pee?” Bass noticed most of the others smiling,some with hands over their mouths, trying to suppress their guffaws.
“Eegod!” Jack roared. “So I gotta show ye how to pee now?”
Hatcher whirled on his heel and stepped away, raising the tail of his long cotton shirt and tugging aside the blanket breechclout as he went purposefully to the bushes at the north end of their camp. Titus stood rooted to the spot, unsure just what he was to do.
“G’won,” Caleb instructed, flinging a hand in Jack’s direction. “Rest of us be right behin’t you.”
Suspicious that he was having his leg pulled but good, Scratch reluctantly followed in Hatcher’s steps, stopping nearby as the outfit’s leader
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