Wind Walker

TWENTY-SEVEN

Those nights during the great peace council in the valley of the North Platte were given over to feasting and dancing. One hell of a feast and a lot of nonstop dancing.

Because no buffalo roamed anywhere close to that great overland road by the end of a busy, bustling emigrant season, the tribal bands had depleted their supplies of fresh meat days ago. In fact, to Titus Bass’s way of thinking, it stood to reason that this sad business with the great buffalo herd having been split in two by the white tide sweeping west to the shining sea had to be the sorest spot for these nomadic Indians of the plains. Not only did the shaggy beasts refuse to wander close to the Oregon and Mormon trails, but most of the abundant game in the region had either been killed off or driven away, miles and miles to the north or the south of this great migration highway. Too, there wasn’t much for the ponies of those wandering bands of brown-skinned hunters to graze on either—not after the oxen, mules, and horses of the white sojourners had cropped every edible shoot right down to the ground, starting with the first train through in early spring and running right on through until the last wagons had rattled through late in the summer.

For white and red alike, a glorious era had come and gone by that autumn of 1851. There were now, and forever would be, two great buffalo herds. But even put together their numbers came nowhere near the infinite black multitude that had once blanketed this endless and incomprehensible buffalo palace.

It wasn’t long before the bands ran out of their supply of dried meat and they took to making a dent in the dog population. Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho all had long favored the canine—the younger the pup, the better. So too was dog a delicacy with the Crow delegates. But not among the Shoshone. They did not eat dog. Instead, Washakie’s Snake representatives sacrificed one of their fine young ponies each day. With tens of thousands of horses grazing the bottomland and hillsides, no one was about to go hungry as the Laramie peace council crawled toward a final agreement.

Just as each day’s parley had begun, that final morning Superintendent D. D. Mitchell had the cannon fired promptly at 9:00 a.m., his signal for the delegates to assemble at the treaty grounds. Again the Sioux made a grand and showy entrance when they crossed the river. In the lead rode an ancient warrior. Tied to a long staff carried above his head fluttered a faded and worn American flag.

“That ol’ fella claims he got that flag from the redheaded chief, Clark,” Thomas Fitzpatrick explained to Scratch.

“St. Louie’s William Clark?” Titus asked.

“Him and Lewis took the Corps of Discovery all the way to the Pacific Ocean back in 1804, thereabouts.”

That had shaken loose a little memory for him. “I ’member him from St. Louie. Injun agent for some time after his outfit come back from the far salt ocean—agent while I lived there.”

While each delegation approached the site in a grand procession, the proud horsemen—who had tied up the manes and tails of their ponies, coloring the animals with earth paints and dyes—all pounded on handheld drums and sang their noisiest national songs, doing their best to outsing every other throat. Every delegate wore his finest, draping himself with all the colorful trappings he owned. But none of the delegates who entered the treaty grounds could bring a weapon. Superintendent Mitchell held fast to his edict that no man would be allowed a role in the peace talks if he carried a means of making war. Following the horsemen came the great throngs of women and children on foot, streaming across the river and up the banks, all of them painted fiercely and wearing their showiest ceremonial clothing for these auspicious talks of peace on the High Plains. At the end of each day, many of the government officials and reporters, who had come west for this treaty council, remarked on their surprise at the courteous and peaceful conduct of the children throughout the lengthy speeches and formal ceremonies in the late-summer heat.

Since Mitchell himself was an old beaver man, he knew how important was the giving of presents to these red delegates. So every evening he hosted a dinner at his camp, during which the superintendent handed out little packets of vermilion and twists of tobacco, until he had no more to give. In every village the young men paraded about, expecting to be noticed by the young women. But those girls did their very best to attract the warriors: greasing their hair, coloring the part with vermilion, draping themselves with the gaudiest bead- or quillwork, wrapping their arms and wrists with coils of brass wire, looping every finger with a bright ring, all to catch the eye of a particular young man.

But when Mitchell had called the council to order each morning, the clamoring hubbub fell silent and an air of solemn dignity descended upon the valley of Horse Creek that September of 1851. Only the chiefs and their important counselors moved forward to sit in the council arena itself. Since the Sioux were the most numerous tribe present for the talks, their headmen filled both the north and west sides of the treaty ground. The Cheyenne were assigned to sit next to them on the south side of the circle, while the Arapaho were situated beside them. The enemy peoples, both Shoshone and Crow, completed the eastern side of the great open circle.

The morning after Robert Meldrum arrived with his Crow, September 11, the ceremonies were largely consumed with welcoming these thirty-eight delegates from the north. As Chief Pretty On Top and Takes Horse rode up, the last to arrive so they could make a showy entrance, an eastern reporter named B. Gratz Brown found himself so impressed with their grand entrance that he came over to kneel beside Agent Fitzpatrick, who was seated on a robe.

“That is the finest delegation of Indians we have seen!” Brown gushed his praise to the other white men as the Crow approached and dismounted. “Look at them! They make a most splendid appearance with their beautiful mounts and trappings. From everything I can see, these Crow ride better, hold their seats more gracefully, and are dressed much more lavishly—but with finer taste—than any of these others who are here!”

That evening of the eleventh, Alexander Culbertson, trader for the American Fur Company and agent at Fort Union on the high Missouri, had arrived with Father Pierre DeSmet and a mixed delegation of thirty-two Assiniboine, Crow, Minnetaree, and Arikara chiefs. The appearance of the much respected black-robe caused quite a stir among the camps, and was warmly welcomed by longtime friends Fitzpatrick, Bridger, and Robert Campbell—now a wealthy St. Louis merchant—three old fur men who had met DeSmet years ago in the heyday of the beaver trade. Starting out from St. Louis immediately after plans for the treaty council had been laid, DeSmet took a steamboat up the Missouri to Fort Union, where he joined Culbertson, who had been given the honorary title of “colonel” on the northern prairies, along with those Indians the trader had chosen to make the journey south with them. Taking a circuitous route on horseback, the party made its way overland almost to Independence Rock before striking the Oregon Trail, then marched east to Fort Laramie.

With other details of the treaty finally put to rest, September 12 was devoted to intense discussions of tribal boundaries the white man wanted demarcated on those large maps Mitchell unfurled across his tables. Trouble was, as Scratch saw right from the first speeches that Friday morning, every one of these tribes boldly and unashamedly claimed more land than their neighbors wanted to allow. Even worse for the commissioners’ plans, none of these warrior bands cared a whit for fixed boundaries. From ancient times their traditional and nomadic way of life was itself completely antithetical to what the white men were now asking of them. A warrior culture had always wandered in the hunt of buffalo or the taking of horses, captives, and spoils, wherever they dared to go, no matter what tribe might claim that country.

That same evening of the twelfth, Agent Fitzpatrick and his wife, Margaret, presented their half-breed infant son, Andrew Jackson Fitzpatrick, to Father DeSmet for baptism by firelight. And the rest of that night proved to be no different from any other during the great council: Scratch found it hard to fall asleep, and if he did, to stay asleep, what with the drums and singing, yelps and shrieks coming from every camp. On the thirteenth followed another day of heated debate on the matter of tribal boundaries, but all matters of business were suspended for September 14—a “powerful medicine day,” as the white men explained to the Indians. DeSmet made use of the vacated council arbor that Sunday, calling to him all those who wished to attend a special religious service he conducted at midday. At the end of the mass, eight more half-breed children were brought forward for baptism, along with five adults who also wished to receive this holiest of blessings from the renowned black-robe.

For another two days those territorial debates raged on, until three of the old fur men stepped in to prove their worth in this weighty process. In their youth they had crossed most every river and stream, mountain range and pass, in those trackless regions claimed by one tribe or another. Fitzpatrick, Bridger, and Robert Campbell too talked and wheedled and argued their position nonstop, until by the evening of the sixteenth the tribes had relented and Superintendent Mitchell could finally ink the lines across his great maps, tribal divisions and territories that the mighty warrior bands had agreed to. The following morning, the seventeenth, the delegates gathered to watch Mitchell, then Fitzpatrick, sign the historic document. That done, they began the most solemn process of all, as the chiefs and headmen of each band came forward in small groups to affix their marks, each one a crude cross, inscribed beside their names printed on the white man’s treaty. When all the Indians had completed the ceremony, the remaining government officials gathered to add their signatures as witnesses to the compact.

“I reckon you ought’n sign too,” Fitzpatrick whispered to Bass as Robert Meldrum got to his feet and joined the other white dignitaries at the table.

Shaking his head, Titus declared, “Been so long, I don’t know if I’d ’member how to write my name, Tom. ’Sides that, this here’s a day for others to shine. I ain’t done nothin’ to make this treaty, not the way you an’ Bridger worked. It’s your day to stand in the sun, Tom Fitzpatrick!”

“We still got one matter to attend to,” the white-haired agent announced as the last of the witnesses stepped back from the table.

Mitchell inquired, “What’s that, Major Fitzpatrick?”

“This business between the Cheyennes and the Snakes.”

Staring down at his treaty for a long moment, the superintendent asked, “Do those killings really matter now that both tribes have signed this document?”

Fitzpatrick leaned on the table with both hands, glaring at Mitchell, and said with firmness, “That there paper ain’t worth spit … if these tribes don’t make things right in their hearts for one another.”

After a long sigh, Mitchell asked, “How do you suggest we call for a reconciliation between them after the Cheyennes wantonly killed two of Washakie’s delegates?”

“It’s all up to the Cheyennes,” the agent explained. “So I figger John Smith has to be the one to convince them Cheyennes they’ve got to cover the bodies.”

“C-cover the bodies?” Mitchell repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“That’s Injun term for the killers making gifts to the relations of the ones they killed,” Fitzpatrick explained as he waved the Cheyenne squaw-man over to his side. “John, you think you can get them chiefs to understand what they got to do to make things right with the Snakes?”

Smith gnawed on the inside of his cheek a moment, then nodded. “I’ll give it my best try, Fitz.”

By late that afternoon, Smith had convinced the Cheyenne delegates that their best interests lay in settling this grave matter of taking those two Shoshone scalps. Four riders accompanied the white squaw-man to visit Bridger and Washakie in the Snake camp, bringing their invitation to attend a feast. Knowing that the Shoshone did not eat dog, the Cheyenne roasted a pair of young ponies that evening, along with some boiled and crushed corn. On into the night the speeches were made by both tribes, then the pipe was lit and passed around the fire as more than a hundred of the headmen of both bands smoked to their reconciliation. Only then could the presents be brought forth. Cheyenne women were called forward, carrying blankets for the relatives of the two dead Shoshone in way of apology. By accepting the blankets, the Shoshone acknowledged that they accepted this personal expression of regret. And the matter was buried.

All that remained for the more than ten thousand visitors to do on the morning of the eighteenth was to await the long-overdue wagon train that was bringing what Mitchell had promised was a mountain of gifts.

For as far as the eye could see, the grassy hillsides had been cropped all the way down to the prairie. Every step of a hoof or moccasin, every little gust of wind, stirred up clouds of dust. After two weeks in this same location, the human refuse, pony droppings, and offal from all those butchered dogs and ponies made for an unimaginable stench. The first to go were Major Chilton and his soldiers, who struck their tents and moved their camp two miles on down the North Platte to a sweeter-smelling locale. Yet Mitchell and his commissioners held fast.

“We will stay with these Indians,” Mitchell vowed. “We have asked them to believe our word that the presents are coming. The least we can do is to stay here with them till the annuities arrive.”

So the warrior bands waited out the eighteenth, then the long, hot nineteenth, feasting both nights, since the camps still boasted plenty of dogs. Then on September 20 the long wait was over! With Chilton’s dragoons posted on either side of the long train, the freight wagons finally rumbled into the valley, down to Mitchell’s arbor, and squared themselves into a large corral as some ten thousand Indians cheered, sang, and shouted, all of them eagerly pressing forward, expecting the flow of presents to begin. But the superintendent had his interpreters explain to their wards that he would not be presenting the gifts until the following morning because he had to go through the annuities and separate the goods.

At long last the great day arrived. Again Mitchell had the cannon fired, and the chiefs advanced on the brushy arbor. The crowd waited breathlessly while the most important men in each band were presented with army uniforms. Dealing with rank among the plains and mountain tribes was always an extremely sensitive and touchy affair, something that would have been horribly botched if it weren’t for men like Fitzpatrick and Bridger firmly establishing the order in which the chiefs and their subalterns were called forward for their individual ceremony. To each Mitchell presented a wool coat dripping with braid and ribbon, along with a pair of wool army britches. To the most important of the delegates, Mitchell also presented a sword and a peace medal suspended on a bright blue ribbon.

One after another the chiefs put on their coats, patting the shiny brass epaulettes on their shoulders, running their tawny hands over the gold braid and glittering buttons, strutting before their people with unabashed self-importance. When Pretty On Top and the other headmen returned to the circle with their gifts, britches draped over their arms, Scratch leaned over and whispered to his wife.

“What you figger our chiefs gonna do with them pants?”

“Pants?” she echoed the English word.

He patted his leggings, then pulled up the hem of his cloth shirt and tugged at his belt. “Pants.”

With a grin she said, “They cut off.”

“Cut off?” he asked.

“See how Flat Mouth does now,” she said, pointing at the war chief.

The war leader had dropped to his knees, pulled out his belt knife, and begun cutting both the crotch and the seat out of the light blue army britches until he had a pair of wool leggings. Quickly untying his buckskin leggings from his belt, he cut some pieces of fringe from them and threaded it through the belt loop that remained at the top of each wool tube. Then he stuffed one of his bare appendages down the pants leg and tied it to the outside of his belt. In a few easy steps Flat Mouth had made himself a new pair of fancy leggings, warm for the coming winter.

“I’ll be gusseted for a hog!” Titus exclaimed in a whisper. “If that don’t beat all. I figgered for sure them fellers was gonna throw those white-man pants in the first fire they come to!”

Now the murmurs of the crowd grew to become bedlam as Mitchell called the chiefs forward again, this time to assist in passing out more than $50,000 worth of blankets and beads, kettles and bolts of cloth, along with all the rest of the shiny new trade goods to their respective peoples. Each band impatiently waited their turn through the rest of the morning, into the afternoon, and on till sunset, when Mitchell suspended the presentation of the annuities. But at 9:00 a.m. the following morning, the ceremonies continued. It wasn’t until early afternoon of the twenty-second that everything had been distributed. Rather than waiting until the next morning, some of the bands began tearing down their lodges, gathering their herds, and starting away for the fall hunt.

At sunrise the following day, Robert Meldrum waited with the Crow while Scratch went to fetch Fitzpatrick for some final words before the trader started Pretty On Top’s delegation back for the north country.

“When do you reckon I’ll see your face up near my post again?” Meldrum asked as they watched the white-headed agent shaking hands with each of the three dozen Crow delegates.

Titus shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Late in the season as it is now, we’re likely to lay over the winter with Bridger. Maybeso see what comes next summer when them emigrants start rolling through.”

“It’s for sure Jim can use your help about his place, busy as I hear he is with them folks bound for Oregon.”

Titus gazed at Meldrum, held out his arm to the trader. “Don’t know when I’ll find myself on your doorstep again.”

“Been a long, long time since you ever had to be anywhere.” And Meldrum grabbed Scratch’s arm, shaking it vigorously.

“Onliest place I ever had to be was ronnyvoo!” he said. “I’ll see you again one of these seasons,” Titus promised. “Leastways, that’s what Real Bird promised me.”

“Real Bird? The old seer?”

“That ol’ rattle-shaker said I was gonna leave the Crow two more times, but no more after that,” he explained. By then the Crow were mounting up all around them. “So I figger I still got some travelin’ to get outta my mokersons afore my bones go white and groan in the wind.”

“Stop by the fort when you come back to the Yellowstone, Titus Bass,” Meldrum said with melancholy as he started for his horse. “We’ll share us a drink of that special brandy you don’t like at all, the stuff you still guzzle down like a thirsty man stumblin’ in off the desert!”

He smiled at the trader and tugged down the wide brim of his floppy hat. “Watch your back trail, friend.”

“You watch what you got left of your topknot, Titus.” Meldrum reined his horse around, then suddenly brought it around in a half circle again to stop beside Scratch for one last word as the_ Crow delegates set off. “I like your company, Titus Bass. I like your company a lot. I sure hope the First Maker sees to it we have more time to share together.”

That sentiment brought the hot sting of tears to his eyes. “Me too, Robert Meldrum. I pray you an’ me got a lot more time to share together too.”

While the Crow slogged their ponies through the shallow, muddy waters of the North Platte, Bridger rode up and dismounted. Together with Fitzpatrick, the two old mountain men came over to stand with Bass and his family.

When Titus turned at last to look at the Indian agent, he got tickled looking at the wide grin carved on Fitzpatrick’s face. “Shit, Tom—you look like the barn cat what just ate a nest of swallows!”

“I s’pose it’s bound to show.”

Bridger held out his hand and shook with Fitzpatrick. “You done good here, Tom. You done real good.”

“If this peace holds—I will feel like I done some good,” the agent responded. “All of us tried to make a go of the fur trade, but the big money ripped the beaver out from under little fellas like us. I’ve tried my hand at this and that for the last ten years … so everything I’ve set my mind to now is resting on this treaty.”

“By Jehoshaphat, you done it, Tom!” Bass cheered.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Fitzpatrick replied. “Maybeso, we can count that treaty paper as the promise of a lasting peace here on the High Plains.”

“What’s your plans now, Fitz?” Bridger asked. “Can you come over to the post with us for a visit, maybe do some huntin’ like the old days?”

“You ’member when we cut our way right into Blackfoot country, that brigade you an’ me was leadin’?” Tom replied. “I’d like to do that sometime, come over to your place and have us a good talk about the old days.”

“Ain’t no better time’n now,” Scratch advised.

Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Official duties, fellas. We’re lighting out this morning for Washington.”

“W-Washington?” Scratch echoed. “You an’ who?”

“We’re going east with Mitchell,” Fitzpatrick explained. “Now he’s gotta sell Congress on the treaty terms we wheedled outta these chiefs.”

“Just you an’ him?” Bridger asked.

“No—we convinced eleven chiefs to go with us.”

“All the way east to Washington,” Titus enthused. “That’s a piece of travelin’, Tom.”

“Sioux, Cheyenne, an’ some Arapaho too,” he said, then looked at the ground a moment. “I sure hope them government fellas can hold the promise of what we guaranteed these Injuns over the last few days.”

Bridger laid his hand on Fitzpatrick’s shoulder. “Soon as you get back to the mountains, come on over to Black’s Fork.”

“That’s right,” Bass said, holding out his arm to clasp the agent’s wrist. “No matter what them gussied-up, stuffed-shirt folks do to you an’ your treaty back in Washington … count on me an’ Jim bein’ there to share a jug with you—either to celebrate your treaty, or to cry in mis’ry with you, that too.”

The two of them threw their arms around one another, then Fitzpatrick embraced Bridger. Without another word, the whitehead turned and trudged away for the council grounds.

“Damn,” Titus grumbled in a whisper after the Indian agent was out of earshot.

Quietly Bridger said, “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“What’s that, Gabe?”

“Fitzpatrick’s treaty don’t stand a ghost of a chance, does it?”

“Nothin’s gonna change, Jim.” He turned to look at his old friend. “Those white men back east ain’t gonna keep givin’ a few presents to these tribes out here … but these warriors ain’t gonna give up their fightin’ for a few beads and blankets. The tribes been makin’ war on each other for longer’n there’s been white men out here to the mountains.”

“No piece of paper ever gonna change that,” Bridger agreed.

Scratch looked at his family gathered nearby, busily rolling up their bedding, as he said, “Only thing what might change one day is them tribes gonna stop makin’ war on each other … an’ they’ll start makin’ bloody war on them white, gussied-up folks made all them tomfool promises to ’em way back when.”

Bigger than life, Shadrach Sweete himself was standing with Bridger’s longtime partner, Louis Vasquez, outside the stockade walls of Fort Bridger, both of them watching the return of the Shoshone delegation. On up the valley from the post stood more than five dozen lodges, pony herds dotting the meadows. Down in the creek bottoms the cottonwood blazed with a golden fire, touched by the late-autumn sun. For the old man known as Titus Bass, this place and this moment had the feel of homecoming.

“Jim Bridger!”

Gabe shouted in glee, “Shadrach Sweete, his own self!”

As Vasquez waved his hat and the tall man started toward the riders, Sweete suddenly stopped, his huge moccasins kicking up dust. “Could that really be Titus Bass?”

“Hell if it ain’t!” he roared back as he reined up, kicked his right leg over and plopped to the ground. “Damn, but you’re back from Oregon!”

All three of them met at once there in front of the open double gates while curious Shoshone men and women came out from camp to shout their greetings to Washakie’s returning delegates.

“You give up on farmin’?” Titus asked as he and Jim gazed up at the face of their old friend.

“Never was much for scratchin’ at the ground,” Sweete admitted.

“Been four year now,” Bridger stated as he pounded a hand on Shad’s shoulder. “What you done with yourself, young’un?”

“Pray tell how’s that daughter of mine—Roman an’ their li’l’uns?” Scratch inquired before Shad could utter a word.

“I spent some time with them, raising a cabin an’ a barn with Roman,” he explained. “At the same time I was helping Esau get a roof over his head for the comin’ winter too.”

Bridger asked, “You have Hudson’s Bay folks lookin’ over your shoulder?”

He nodded and stepped between the two of them, looping an arm over Jim’s shoulder, another thick arm around the bony Titus Bass, as they started moving slowly toward the open gates where Vasquez had disappeared, headed for the trading room. “We never went hungry, my family didn’t. Plenty of folks needed help, an’ they paid us in vittles. Me an’ Esau even lent a hand to Meek a’times.”

“He ever come back to Oregon after them Cayuse troubles?”

“Sure did,” Shad remarked. “Don’t know why he took a southern trail after he got word of the Injun murders back to Washington. But he traipsed on down through Santa Fe.”

“I was wondering where he went,” Jim said. “After him and Squire Ebbert come through late that winter of forty-eight, I ’spected to see ’em come back through again inside of a year.”

Coming to a halt just inside the double gates, Sweete turned to Bridger and said, “That had to be hard on you too, Gabe—losin’ your li’l Mary Ann—”

Grabbing the front of Jim’s cloth shirt, Titus interrupted, “I didn’t know you’d lost your daughter too, Jim.”

“Like Joe lost his li’l Helen, my Mary Ann was carried off by them Cayuse,” he confessed as he stared at the toes of his moccasins. “She was less’n thirteen summers by then. No tellin’ if them bastards killed the girl … or a buck took a shine to her an’ made her his squaw.”

“Vaskiss’s missus told me you took a new wife,” Shad announced as women and children dismounted and kept their horses at a distance from the walls.

“Hell—sounds to be you’ve been here long enough to catch up on all my news!”

“Little more’n a week now, I callate,” Sweete said. “Snakes was already camped yonder when I got in. I s’pose they been markin’ time for Washakie and his chiefs to get back from the big talks over to Laramie.”

“Truth be,” Titus whispered, “Gabe’s been married twice’t since you left, Shadrach.”

He stared at Bridger incredulously. “Two wives?”

“Married a Ute gal that next spring after you rode off for Oregon,” he explained. “But she died the followin’ summer givin’ birth to our girl. Forty-nine. Named the baby Virginia Rosalie.”

“That’s a good name,” Shad remarked. “You give ’er that ’cause you was born in Virginia?”

“Takes a friend to remember somethin’ like that!” Bridger replied.

Sweete said, “Mrs. Vaskiss says you married a Shoshone this time.”

“Washakie’s daughter,” he announced with a grin. “Last year. So we ain’t had no young’uns of our own yet.”

While Sweete and Bridger continued catching up on years of news, Bass called Waits over and suggested she pick out a nearby spot to raise their lodge. When his family had started toward the gold-hued cottonwoods, he turned back to his old friends.

Shad was saying, “With Mary Ann disappeared, you only got Cora’s two younger ones around the fort now.”

“Felix, he’s turned ten years now, and li’l Josie, she’s almost six.”

Titus said, “I ’member how you lost your first wife, Cora—not long after she give birth to Josephine.”

“An’ then three years later you lost your Ute wife givin’ birth too,” Sweete said, wagging his head in sympathy.

“That was a patch of rough country there for a while,” he confessed, his eyes gone sad with the remembrance. “After Virginia Rosalie’s mama died, I had my hands full of a new-borned baby an’ no way to feed the poor thing … till this child come up with a idee.”

Bass inquired, “You had a emigrant’s cow, a milker?”

“Had two, an’ both of ’em was dry,” Bridger admitted. “So ever’ mornin’ I rode out to find me a small herd of buffier. Looked ’em over and picked out a likely cow. Dropped her quick with a ball in the lights. After a time, I got real good at cuttin out her udder ’thout spillin’ too much of the milk.”

Scratch beamed with admiration. “That’s how you fed your daughter ever’ day—on buffler milk?”

“You see’d her yourself over to the treaty doin’s at Horse Creek, Titus Bass. An’ on our ride back here—ain’t she a pistol? An’ I owe it all to buffler milk!”

Shadrach looked about. “Which one is she?”

“That’un,” and Bridger pointed to the scampering toddler set down upon the ground by her stepmother. “Blazes, but she’s fat an’ sassy! Just like her mama was. So I still got three young’uns around, but me an’ Mary plan on havin’ a fortful more of ’em on our own!”

Turning to Bass, Sweete asked, “How’s Waits-by-the-Water took to Jim’s Shoshone wife?”

“Hell, they get along slick. Seems that’s the way it is with Injun women. They can make their way with gals from ’nother tribe easy enough,” Scratch mused. “It’s the bucks can’t get along with bucks from ’nother tribe at all.”

Bridger asked, “Why you s’pose that is?”

Titus thought on that puzzlement a moment, then answered, “Maybe the reason they can is their bucks is allays off stealin’ squaws from some other tribe, bringing them squaws back to have more children for the band. I figure because of that the women get used to takin’ to squaws from other tribes like it’s no great shakes.”

“Likely you’re right,” Bridger agreed. “Leastways, the three of us bound to see for ourselves on that ’count. What with us three coons havin’ a Snake, a Cheyenne, an’ a Crow gal too—three unfriendly tribes all mixed up together here at this post.”

Shad snorted a laugh and said, “Why, if the three of ’em didn’t get along, these here ol’ stockade timbers couldn’t hold all the hell those gals’d make!”

Titus jabbed an elbow into Sweete’s ribs and said, “From the looks of Gabe’s new wife, I figger her for the kind what can raise hell way up an’ stuff a chuck under it so hell’ll never come back down!”

Bridger slapped them both on the back, and they started toward the post store. “I see’d that Louie come up from the Promised Land. You talked with him much since you been here, Shad?”

“He come in couple days after I did,” Sweete said, then held his two hands out in front of his belly. “That’s a man ain’t ever missed a meal!”

“Louie has put on some meat since he’s livin’ so high on the hog,” Jim declared. “He have any news ’bout Brigham Young’s Saints?”

“Vaskiss only said he rode up here to sleep with his wife, since it’d been a long time he’d poked a woman. Down there with all them Mormons, he says he ain’t got a chance of finding a part-time night woman to keep his pecker warm.”

“Why’s Vaskiss makin’ hisself cozy with the Marmons?” Scratch asked, a little concerned about such a relationship.

“Them Saints been comin’ through here ever’ summer since forty-seven, when you an’ me met their high president,” Bridger explained. “Brigham Young sure has been workin’ hard to change folks over to his religion. Hundreds and hundreds of ’em roll through here ever’ summer since you was here last.”

“So Vaskiss went down there to the Salt Lake to become one of Brigham Young’s Marmons his own self?”

Jim chuckled. “No, he ain’t no part of their religion. But as much business as we was doin’ with Brigham Young’s Saints up here, we figgered we could open up a tradin’ store down in Salt Lake City itself.”

“That where Brigham Young ended up planting his promised land?”

“Yep,” Bridger answered. “He didn’t take ’em on south of there, down where I suggested they should go.”

Shad inquired, “So most of the time Vaskiss is mindin’ the store down there with them Mormons, while you’re tendin’ to things up here at the post?”

“That’s the fix of it,” Jim responded. “Vaskiss hired him a couple Mormons to help out down there. Shows we done ever’thing we could to make things good atween them folks an’ us. Hell, two year back—right about the time Louie was settin’ up the store in Salt Lake City, some bad blood got started atween the Bannocks an’ the Mormons.”

“What sort of bad blood?” Titus asked.

Bridger’s eyes flicked around, then he said in a low voice, “’Cause of what’s happened with things down there—sometimes I don’t know if I can trust Louie’s wife no more.”

“So Vaskiss is wrapped up in this bad blood atween the Bannocks and Mormons?” Sweete asked.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Bridger said, “Most times, I don’t know which way Louie’s stick is floatin’ anymore. But when a whisper of troubles started two years back, we heard some Mormon settlers killed a Bannock who was making a brave show of things, trying to order the Mormons off Bannock land.”

“Them Marmons just up an’ killed that Injun?” Titus asked.

Jim nodded. “So that got the fire started in their red bellies. Them Bannocks was makin’ plans for war on them Mormons homesteadin’ outside the Salt Lake Valley. So when we heard ’bout the rumbles of trouble, me an’ Vaskiss thought we ought’n let Brigham Young’s folks know the Bannocks was fixin’ to make raids on ’em. Louie wrote Brigham Young a letter, warnin’ him them Injuns was buyin’ up lead an’ powder an’ talkin’ mean about killin’ off ever’ Mormon they caught.”

“What ever come of it?” Shad asked.

Shrugging again, Jim said, “Never heard nothing more of any troubles. Bannocks never did start them raids … but over the last two years, Vaskiss got closer’n closer to Brigham Young. Real cozy when he’s down there in that City of the Saints.”

“You still trust ’im as your partner?” Scratch asked.

It took a few moments before Bridger would answer. When he finally did, Jim said, “I don’t ever wanna think any man I did ever’thing I could to help would ever jab a knife in my back.”

Titus studied his old friend’s face a long time, then asked, “Who was you talkin’ about, Gabe? Louie Vaskiss … or, was you meanin’ Brigham Young?”

As his eyes narrowed and he peered around to be sure the three of them were alone, Jim Bridger confessed, “Sad thing is, Scratch—my belly tells me I better watch my back for the both of ’em.”