cabins inside the fort.
“Robidoux here?” Bill asked.
“He’s here,” Smith declared as they halted before the gate. “But he’ll be leaving for Taos soon to fetch up more trade goods. Leave off your horses to graze over yonder with ours and bring your gear inside the walls. We been sleeping inside under the stars nights waiting for you.”
“We? Who else you got gonna be a good gun to have along?” Williams inquired.
“Two of them went with us that first year, Bill.”
“Who?”
“Dick … Dick Owens,” Smith declared guardedly, his voice lowering. “And, Thompson too.”
“Philip
Thompson?” Bass echoed in alarm.
Smith pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes knowingly, and nodded. “You two fellers just stay outta each other’s way, and we won’t have us no trouble on this ride.”
Just how in blue blazes could two men keep from stepping on one another’s tails when both of them were going to be following Bill Williams and Thomas L. Smith out to California and back again with several thousand horses?
Maybe he just ought to pack up come morning and light out for the Bent brothers’ Arkansas fort, or one of those posts farther north on the South Platte. Perhaps he could dig up his cache near the mouth of the Popo Agie and trade off a few peltries, managing to end up with what geegaws he wanted for his woman, those things he wanted to give his children. Not everything to be sure. Only a soft-brained idiot wouldn’t admit that the bottom had gone out of beaver and it was going to be some time before the business rehabilitated itself. But in the meantime, Scratch figured he could get a little of this and a little of that, enough to show his family just how much he cared. If a man didn’t bust his ass to make it so his family could have a few good things—what in hell did a man bust his ass for anyway?
Time was, when there were no strings on his heart, Titus worked those freezing months in the high-country streams so he could reward himself with a good time once a year or so at summer rendezvous, maybe afford a new shirt or a pair of those fancy black-silk handkerchiefs, besides his necessaries. But a man didn’t work just to make a living … that made him nothing more than a slave to those who bought the fruits of his labor.
Now there weren’t that many buyers left. And what those few buyers were paying for plew wasn’t near enough to make a good living for any man daring towade around in icy streams. Beaver was gone belly-up. Buffalo hides brought a squaw far more than the labors of any trapper. Buffalo better’n beaver? These mountains sure as hell had gone crazy!
Any man with a tin cup full of beads, a few hanks of silk ribbon, or a dozen packets of vermillion could talk a back-broke squaw out of a buffalo robe … when a man had to work hardscrabble in finding a likely stream with good sign, choose where to make his set, wade out crotch deep to pound in his trap stake, then wait before he would return to learn if his efforts had been rewarded or not.
But with buffalo, all a nigger had to do was trade off a few cheap geegaws for a winter-kill’t robe!
Maybe there was a chance the Bents or other traders on east of the mountains would give him a fair enough price on his beaver that he would not have to return home to Crow country empty-handed come autumn. He sure enough had time to pull out in the morning, tramp south to avoid those low passes still clogged with snow, then swing back north again along the Front Range—getting back home to her in good time before she’d start to fret and worry.
Perhaps when he got back home, he might even trade away some of that foofaraw he bartered off the traders for a few robes from the Crow women up in Absaroka. He could carry those robes over east to Tullock near the mouth of the Tongue—
What a chuckleheaded fool he was! Caught himself scheming how to become a robe trader on his own hook. No sense in sinking that low. A man had his pride
“Robidoux here?” Bill asked.
“He’s here,” Smith declared as they halted before the gate. “But he’ll be leaving for Taos soon to fetch up more trade goods. Leave off your horses to graze over yonder with ours and bring your gear inside the walls. We been sleeping inside under the stars nights waiting for you.”
“We? Who else you got gonna be a good gun to have along?” Williams inquired.
“Two of them went with us that first year, Bill.”
“Who?”
“Dick … Dick Owens,” Smith declared guardedly, his voice lowering. “And, Thompson too.”
“Philip
Thompson?” Bass echoed in alarm.
Smith pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes knowingly, and nodded. “You two fellers just stay outta each other’s way, and we won’t have us no trouble on this ride.”
Just how in blue blazes could two men keep from stepping on one another’s tails when both of them were going to be following Bill Williams and Thomas L. Smith out to California and back again with several thousand horses?
Maybe he just ought to pack up come morning and light out for the Bent brothers’ Arkansas fort, or one of those posts farther north on the South Platte. Perhaps he could dig up his cache near the mouth of the Popo Agie and trade off a few peltries, managing to end up with what geegaws he wanted for his woman, those things he wanted to give his children. Not everything to be sure. Only a soft-brained idiot wouldn’t admit that the bottom had gone out of beaver and it was going to be some time before the business rehabilitated itself. But in the meantime, Scratch figured he could get a little of this and a little of that, enough to show his family just how much he cared. If a man didn’t bust his ass to make it so his family could have a few good things—what in hell did a man bust his ass for anyway?
Time was, when there were no strings on his heart, Titus worked those freezing months in the high-country streams so he could reward himself with a good time once a year or so at summer rendezvous, maybe afford a new shirt or a pair of those fancy black-silk handkerchiefs, besides his necessaries. But a man didn’t work just to make a living … that made him nothing more than a slave to those who bought the fruits of his labor.
Now there weren’t that many buyers left. And what those few buyers were paying for plew wasn’t near enough to make a good living for any man daring towade around in icy streams. Beaver was gone belly-up. Buffalo hides brought a squaw far more than the labors of any trapper. Buffalo better’n beaver? These mountains sure as hell had gone crazy!
Any man with a tin cup full of beads, a few hanks of silk ribbon, or a dozen packets of vermillion could talk a back-broke squaw out of a buffalo robe … when a man had to work hardscrabble in finding a likely stream with good sign, choose where to make his set, wade out crotch deep to pound in his trap stake, then wait before he would return to learn if his efforts had been rewarded or not.
But with buffalo, all a nigger had to do was trade off a few cheap geegaws for a winter-kill’t robe!
Maybe there was a chance the Bents or other traders on east of the mountains would give him a fair enough price on his beaver that he would not have to return home to Crow country empty-handed come autumn. He sure enough had time to pull out in the morning, tramp south to avoid those low passes still clogged with snow, then swing back north again along the Front Range—getting back home to her in good time before she’d start to fret and worry.
Perhaps when he got back home, he might even trade away some of that foofaraw he bartered off the traders for a few robes from the Crow women up in Absaroka. He could carry those robes over east to Tullock near the mouth of the Tongue—
What a chuckleheaded fool he was! Caught himself scheming how to become a robe trader on his own hook. No sense in sinking that low. A man had his pride
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