ol’ man like me s’posed to do but find a likely young’un with big arms like you to wager whiskey on?”
“What you got to wager against a cup of hooch?” Shad inquired.
He thoughtfully scratched at his chin whiskers. “ThatCheyenne skinner hangin’ off your belt sure to grab someone’s attention at the trade counter.”
“My skinner and this sheath Shell Woman worked for me?” he whined in disbelief. “An’ my right arm to boot? You’re just ’bout as slick as year-old snake oil, Titus Bass.”
“Smooth talker, ain’t I?” And he grinned as the rain splattered his face.
“Shit. You can’t get away with nothin’, ol’ friend—you’re so bad at lyin’.”
“Then you’ll buy me a cup of whiskey?” Scratch begged. “Ain’t had none since Dick Green topped off my gourd back down to Bents’ big lodge on the Arkansas.”
“If’n you’ll put up something of your own against two cups of whiskey, then I reckon I can throw in my arm for a match.”
“Shell Woman don’t mind you drinking?”
Turning to peer over at his wife, Sweete ruminated a moment, then said, “I can’t callate as I’ve ever had a drop o’ whiskey since I’ve knowed her.”
“Nary a cup down to that mud fort on the Arkansas?”
He wagged his head. “Nope. Not a drop since I been around Shell Woman an’ her people.”
Titus chuckled softly and said, “Then she ain’t see’d you drunk the way I see’d Shadrach Sweete get in the cups!”
“Nope. Them days belong to another man now, Scratch.”
“You was a wild critter, Shadrach,” Bass commented with fond remembrance. “Good damn thing you never got so drunk we’d had to rope you to a tree till your head dried out. Would’ve took a bunch of us to get you wrassled down and tied up.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever see’d you get bad in the cups neither,” Sweete admitted. “So you figger to tear off the top of your head and howl at the moon tonight?”
“Nope.” And he shook his head dolefully. “Them times is over for me too, lad. I hurt too damn much for days after. Can’t swaller likker like I used to and stay on my feet.”
“We’re just getting old.”
“The hell you say! Speak for your own self!” And he shuddered with a chill that was penetrating him to the bone. “I’m getting damned cold sitting out in this rain, water dripping down my ass what’s gone sore on this here soggy saddle—listening to you spoutin’ off ’bout whiskey,” Titus grumbled. “A few swallers’d sure ’nough warm my belly right about now.”
The fifteen-foot-tall double gate was still much the same as it had been on his last visit to Fort William, but now the arch that extended overhead bore the figure of a horse galloping at full speed, painted red in a primitive design that reminded Scratch of how a horse might be rendered on the side of a Crow or Shoshone lodge. A little distance out, he whistled the dogs close and they all angled away from the mud walls, aiming instead for that flat just below the fort, where the La Ramee Fork dumped itself into the North Platte. Here they would camp close enough to the post to conduct some business, but far enough away that there was little chance of their families being disturbed. After Titus sent Magpie and Flea off through the brush to scratch up what they could of kindling dry enough to hold a flame, he turned to help Shell Woman and Waits-by-the-Water with that small Cheyenne lodge the two women erected only when the weather turned as inhospitable as it had this day.
“Here, I’ll lend a hand,” Shadrach offered as he grabbed an edge of the buffalo-hide lodge cover.
“Not with that arm of yours still mending,” Bass scolded.
“A’most good as new awready.”
Titus shook his head. “G’won and tend to the stock. Three of us raise the lodge while you get our goods off them horses.”
The early spring rain finally let up late in the afternoon, not long after the women and Magpie got Shell
“What you got to wager against a cup of hooch?” Shad inquired.
He thoughtfully scratched at his chin whiskers. “ThatCheyenne skinner hangin’ off your belt sure to grab someone’s attention at the trade counter.”
“My skinner and this sheath Shell Woman worked for me?” he whined in disbelief. “An’ my right arm to boot? You’re just ’bout as slick as year-old snake oil, Titus Bass.”
“Smooth talker, ain’t I?” And he grinned as the rain splattered his face.
“Shit. You can’t get away with nothin’, ol’ friend—you’re so bad at lyin’.”
“Then you’ll buy me a cup of whiskey?” Scratch begged. “Ain’t had none since Dick Green topped off my gourd back down to Bents’ big lodge on the Arkansas.”
“If’n you’ll put up something of your own against two cups of whiskey, then I reckon I can throw in my arm for a match.”
“Shell Woman don’t mind you drinking?”
Turning to peer over at his wife, Sweete ruminated a moment, then said, “I can’t callate as I’ve ever had a drop o’ whiskey since I’ve knowed her.”
“Nary a cup down to that mud fort on the Arkansas?”
He wagged his head. “Nope. Not a drop since I been around Shell Woman an’ her people.”
Titus chuckled softly and said, “Then she ain’t see’d you drunk the way I see’d Shadrach Sweete get in the cups!”
“Nope. Them days belong to another man now, Scratch.”
“You was a wild critter, Shadrach,” Bass commented with fond remembrance. “Good damn thing you never got so drunk we’d had to rope you to a tree till your head dried out. Would’ve took a bunch of us to get you wrassled down and tied up.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever see’d you get bad in the cups neither,” Sweete admitted. “So you figger to tear off the top of your head and howl at the moon tonight?”
“Nope.” And he shook his head dolefully. “Them times is over for me too, lad. I hurt too damn much for days after. Can’t swaller likker like I used to and stay on my feet.”
“We’re just getting old.”
“The hell you say! Speak for your own self!” And he shuddered with a chill that was penetrating him to the bone. “I’m getting damned cold sitting out in this rain, water dripping down my ass what’s gone sore on this here soggy saddle—listening to you spoutin’ off ’bout whiskey,” Titus grumbled. “A few swallers’d sure ’nough warm my belly right about now.”
The fifteen-foot-tall double gate was still much the same as it had been on his last visit to Fort William, but now the arch that extended overhead bore the figure of a horse galloping at full speed, painted red in a primitive design that reminded Scratch of how a horse might be rendered on the side of a Crow or Shoshone lodge. A little distance out, he whistled the dogs close and they all angled away from the mud walls, aiming instead for that flat just below the fort, where the La Ramee Fork dumped itself into the North Platte. Here they would camp close enough to the post to conduct some business, but far enough away that there was little chance of their families being disturbed. After Titus sent Magpie and Flea off through the brush to scratch up what they could of kindling dry enough to hold a flame, he turned to help Shell Woman and Waits-by-the-Water with that small Cheyenne lodge the two women erected only when the weather turned as inhospitable as it had this day.
“Here, I’ll lend a hand,” Shadrach offered as he grabbed an edge of the buffalo-hide lodge cover.
“Not with that arm of yours still mending,” Bass scolded.
“A’most good as new awready.”
Titus shook his head. “G’won and tend to the stock. Three of us raise the lodge while you get our goods off them horses.”
The early spring rain finally let up late in the afternoon, not long after the women and Magpie got Shell
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