Logan stood on the rough planks of the wharf, his feet widespread, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed intently on the boy standing before him. Aside from the moccasins and deerskin trousers, everything else the boy had looked new—his Hawken percussion rifle, the powder horns, pistol, and possibles bag. Jim had sought Logan out, seeking passage on his keelboat for the trip up to Council Bluffs. If he had ever seen a greenhorn, Logan was sure he was looking at one now.
“So you’re looking for passage to Council Bluffs, are you?” He glanced around behind the boy, expecting to see some adults. “You by yourself?”
“Yessir.”
Logan grinned. “Run off from home, did you?”
“Nossir. Ain’t got no home.”
“That so?” Logan stroked his chin thoughtfully while he continued to eyeball the boy. “Look’s like you got yourself outfitted up pretty good. You sure you ain’t in some kind of trouble back home?”
Jim was losing patience with the interrogation. “Mister, the only trouble I got is trying to find out if I can ride upriver on your boat. I can pay for my passage.”
Logan laughed in spite of himself, recalling a day many years before when he left home himself to set out on his own. He wasn’t much older than this lad. “Well, I bet you can. But let me give you a little advice—don’t be telling folks around the river that you got money.”
“I didn’t say I had a lot of money. I just said I had enough to pay for a ride on this boat.” That wasn’t entirely true, for his little poke of gold dust had converted into a sizable fortune. He had enough for his passage plus enough to purchase a couple of good horses when he got to Council Bluffs. Most of it was sewn inside the deerskin shirt he carried in his pack.
“You got folks meeting you at Council Bluffs?” Logan asked. When Jim explained that he didn’t—that he planned to go overland from there up the Platte—Logan thought it over for a few seconds. “All right, what the hell. You can go along. And if you make yourself useful, you can go for half the usual rate.”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”
Logan continued to study the young man standing in front of him for a moment more as if still deciding. “What’s your name, son?”
“Trace. . .” Jim blurted, then checked himself.
“Trace?” Logan replied. “Trace what? Is that your last name?”
Jim had to think fast. It wouldn’t be smart to give his real name in case word had spread about Tyler’s death. He hesitated a moment before adding, “McCall—Trace McCall.” It seemed fitting that he use his father’s last name and his mother’s maiden name.
“All right, then, Trace, you can stow your possibles over there back of those barrels. But you’re gonna have to keep an eye on ’em yourself. If something turns up missing, don’t come blubbering to me.”
Jim thanked him and went to stow his possessions. It was unnecessary for Logan to warn him to watch over his pack. He was a different young man returning to the mountains than the one who had journeyed down to St. Louis with the sorrowful message for his mother. There was something about killing a man that leached the boyhood right out of a body. Jim knew his weapons and the beaver traps he had purchased from Mr. Trotter would make the difference in his living or dying in the harsh mountains. He positioned himself behind the long mound of cargo in the middle of the boat while Logan barked out orders to the twenty keelboatmen.
The bowline was cast off, and the square sail was run up the mast. There was only a slight breeze, but it was enough to push the boat away from the wharf. The polemen hustled to pick up their poles from where they had been neatly stacked along the sides of the boat. Once everyone was in place, the sternline was cast off and Jim’s journey up the Missouri was under way.
The gentle breeze served to ease the strain on the polemen as they set their poles in the muddy current, probing for the bottom. They were a sordid collection of river rats, these boatmen, and Trace vowed anew to make sure his belongings never left his sight. Logan kept after his crew, cajoling, then cursing, showing no sympathy for their labor. He was not totally without feeling, however, for he put in to shore early that first afternoon after making barely four miles. It was enough to sweat most of the whiskey out of the men from the previous days in town. Logan didn’t tolerate any liquor on his boat, except that which might be on board as cargo. But he fully expected the men to drink all they could find at each end of the trip.
As soon as the boat was secured, the crew split up into several smaller groups, each around its own fire. Jim was invited to sit down at the fire of the only other paying passenger on board. The man introduced himself as Rufus Dees. A good portion of the cargo was his responsibility, he said. He had a string of six mules waiting in Council Bluffs to transport his goods to Fort Laramie. This sparked Trace’s interest, since Fort Laramie was his planned destination after leaving the boat.
“Settin’ out on yer own, are ye?” Rufus Dees asked as he ground up a handful of green coffee beans.
“Yep,” was all Trace replied, eyeing the round little man carefully. He could see nothing sinister in the man’s eyes, but one could never be sure. He decided Rufus was making polite conversation and nothing more.
“Where be ye a’headin’?” He hardly took his eyes off the beans he had rolled in a cloth as he pounded them on a rock. When Trace didn’t answer, Rufus looked up and smiled. “I don’t aim to be nosy, boy. Where you’re headin’ is your own business.”
Trace flushed slightly. He had hesitated, wondering if this seemingly harmless little man was already scheming to relieve him of his new rifle. “No, sir,” he quickly replied. “I was just wondering myself where I was going. I figured I might go to Fort Laramie—see if I can hear something about some friends of mine.”
“Laramie, eh? Well, like I said, I’m takin’ supplies up there.” Rufus put his coffee on the fire to boil, and took a slab of salt pork from his pack. He liked what he saw in the quiet lad, and he was of a mind to ask him if he wanted to go overland to Laramie with him. Six mules were a handful on the trail. Though Rufus could handle them alone—he’d done it many a time—it sure made life easier if you had a little help. Besides, if the boy could hit anything with that new Hawken that never seemed to leave his hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have another rifle along. He decided he’d watch him for a few days before making up his mind—see how the boy handled himself. “You got anything to eat?”
Trace nodded. “I got some jerked meat.”
“Jerked meat?” Rufus snorted. “You’d best eat with me. Jerky is what a man eats when they ain’t nuthin’ else. I hope you got more in that pack than jerky. We’re liable to be on this boat for a month and a half or more.”
“I aim to hunt,” Trace replied. “I brought some coffee and a few staples. This ain’t the first time I’ve been to the mountains.”
Rufus went to his pack again. “I got some potatoes I’m fixing to fry up. The missus give ’em to me. Figured I could eat ’em for a few days, but it looks like they’re already goin’ rotten. We might as well cook ’em up tonight and have us a feast.”
Trace was grateful for Rufus Dees’s hospitality and happily helped him dispose of his little sack of potatoes. Their bellies full, they made their beds by the fire. Trace went to sleep propped up on his pack, his rifle clutched securely in his arms, listening to the low murmur of the boatmen as they talked around their fires.
The next day saw them twelve miles farther up the river. At day’s end, Logan picked a spot to camp near a heavily wooded slope. After Trace helped secure the boat, he took to the woods to see if he could find something for supper. Rufus had the fire blazing and the coffee ready when Trace returned to camp with three fat rabbits to repay Rufus for the potatoes. Rufus was to find in the following days that the young man with his Hawken never failed to bring back something to cook. Before the trip was over, they had formed an unspoken partnership. Trace provided the meat, Rufus did the cooking.
Riverboat travel was not an easy means of transportation for Logan and his crew. The river was not as wild in late summer as it was in the spring, but still there were snags and sandbars to negotiate, as well as periodic Indian attacks, which usually proved to be more of a harassment than a full-scale assault. Of greater aggravation were the insects and the river itself. It seemed that too often, the river was too deep for the poles and the current too swift for the oars, leaving no means to propel the craft except by hauling it along by ropes from the shore. On these days, they sometimes made little more than three or four miles.
Trace was beginning to wonder if they were going to make it to Council Bluffs before winter. Not content to sit idly by as his new friend Rufus did, Trace pitched in and helped the crew pull the boat along. Sweating in the late-summer sun, he would sometimes wonder about the purpose of the huge square sail, lufting on the mast in the continuous absence of any wind. As fall approached, however, he saw more days when a breeze would attempt to fill the sail. Still, it never seemed to help a great deal in propelling the heavily laden craft.
From the first day after leaving St. Louis, Trace had noticed that the boat rode bow-high in the water. It appeared to him that the boat would ride more level if most of the cargo hadn’t been loaded toward the stern. One day, while the men were working hard to pull the boat around some snags, Trace questioned Logan about it, saying that if some of the cargo was shifted toward the bow, it might make their job a little easier. Logan replied that the boat was loaded that way for a reason. “If you load her bow-heavy, and run up on a sandbar, you’d never get her off until you unloaded the damn cargo.”
* * *
Morgan Blunt rode in silence, his solid frame rocking in the saddle in rhythm with the gait of his late brother’s horse. He had always admired the big gray, and had once tried to trade it away from Tyler. Tyler wouldn’t part with the horse for anything. He had often joked about it, saying, “I’ll leave him to you in my will. You can have him when I die.” Well, brother, it looks like I didn’t have to wait as long as you thought.
He felt no remorse for having callous thoughts about his brother’s demise. There had never been any feelings of closeness between the brothers, and Morgan had felt no real sense of sorrow when Tyler was killed. Anger, yes, and a sense of humiliation that one of the powerful Blunt brothers had been murdered by a sniveling brat. Hamilton had been furious when some men brought Tyler’s body to the house. He ordered Morgan to find the boy, no matter how long it took. Being the eldest, Hamilton was always the one who called the shots. More than that, he controlled the money. Blunt Brothers Freight was, in reality, Hamilton Blunt. The brothers’ names were on the company signboard merely because of Hamilton’s largesse. Morgan knew that and accepted it. He and Tyler were there to do Hamilton’s dirty work, just as he was doing on this day.
He glanced behind him at the two riders following him with the packhorses they led. The three of them carried enough guns to discourage any Indian raiding parties they might encounter on their way to find Joe LaPorte. The packhorses carried trade items that LaPorte would use to pay his band of savages—mainly muskets, blankets, whiskey, and gunpowder.
Morgan felt certain that Jim would head west in his flight from St. Louis. So he had checked the docks, asking all the shippers if they had seen a boy of Jim’s description. One had recalled seeing a boy, outfitted with rifle and pack, who had sought passage to Council Bluffs. But his name was not Jim Tracey. According to the boat’s papers, it carried two passengers, named Dees and McCall.
No matter, Morgan thought. Jim would most likely head toward the frontier, and if he did, LaPorte and his Blackfeet would find him. The best place to start looking for LaPorte would be Fort Laramie. When he wasn’t trading or raiding with his savages, he usually liked to hang around Fort Laramie to get away from his Blackfoot wife. Laramie was a busy trading post, with lots of squaws from several tribes—all were welcome, except the Blackfeet, who were constantly at war with most of the other tribes.
* * *
The remaining days of summer dragged slowly by, and the first signs of fall appeared in the trees along the riverbanks. The boiling-hot afternoons gave way reluctantly to cool evenings when Trace could feel comfortable in his deerskin shirt again. By the time Logan confirmed that the settlement beyond the bend was Council Bluffs, the company of boatmen had already seen a light frost.
“Mighty early for first frost,” Rufus observed. “And after a summer as hot as this’un’s been. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we ain’t in fer a hard winter.”
Trace peered up at the sky, looking for signs of winter. Thoughts of mountain beaver streams were racing through his mind, and he felt an urgency to hurry. Trappers would soon be striking out for favorite streams they had scouted out during the summer, looking to trap when the beavers had their winter fur. Rufus could see the excitement in Trace’s eyes when the boy talked about his plans to become a free trapper. He had seen it before, the lure of the far mountains. When it got in a body’s blood, man or boy, there was nothing to do but follow the call.
“I was thinking I might talk you into staying on with me after we git this here load out to Laramie. They’s a heap of folks needin’ supplies out yonder, and they’s more ever’ year. I won’t try to fool you—you ain’t gonna git rich driving mules. But it’ll make you a good living.”
Trace was surprised by the offer. He counted Rufus as a friend by then, but he couldn’t tell him that it might be a little too dangerous for him to be in St. Louis on a regular basis. People were looking for him there, and even if there was not a constant threat from the law and Hamilton Blunt, driving mules was not enough to fill his hunger for the mountains. He expressed his gratitude to Rufus for considering him worthy of partnership, but explained that he had to decline. He had made up his mind to trap, and he had already invested in the equipment necessary for the job.
“I suspected as much,” Rufus said. “You’ve done heared the hawk’s cry, ain’t ye?” He smiled and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I hope you find what you’re a’lookin’ fer. You’re a right smart boy, Trace, and the offer still stands anytime you change your mind.” Rufus didn’t hold out much hope that Trace would change his mind, however. He had seen it before—the lure of the high mountains —and he saw it in this young man’s eyes now. Trace had heard the cry of the mountain hawk, calling out his name, and Rufus knew the boy was bound to answer.
Trace appreciated Rufus’s offer, but he was pretty certain he wouldn’t be changing his mind. He had sorely missed the mountains ever since he left Buck and Frank on the Green River. Maybe he had heard the cry of the hawk, as Rufus put it. Whatever the reason, he knew that the closer to the mountains he got, the faster his heart beat.
As soon as the boat was tied up, they started unloading the cargo. Trace helped Rufus stack his supplies in a big pile by the landing. When it was all on the bank, Rufus left Trace to watch over it while he went to the livery to fetch his mules.
“You better bring more than six mules,” Trace called after him. It looked like an awful lot of supplies when it was stacked up in one pile.
Rufus looked back and laughed. “Oh, I’ll get it all on my mules. Don’t you worry ’bout that.”
A couple of hours later, Rufus returned, riding one mule and leading six others. The two of them set to loading the animals, and when it was done, Trace still marveled that every last bit of the load was securely packed on the six mules. Rufus knew his business. The loads were carefully balanced on each mule, covered with hides, and securely lashed.
There was still the matter of acquiring a couple of horses for Trace, one to ride and one to carry his traps and gear. Rufus took him at his word when he maintained he had the money to purchase his horses. He offered to lend the boy a mule, however, in case Trace might have underestimated the cost. But Trace insisted that he had made provisions for buying his horses, so the best Rufus could do was tell him where he could buy them.
“Now, I’ll tell you who to see. His name’s Gus Kitchel. He owns the stable where I keep my mules. Gus knows horseflesh about as good as anybody in the territory—and I seen some stout-lookin’ stock there this morning. But, mind you, Gus is in it fer the money, same as ever’body else. So keep a sharp eye on him and you’ll be all right. I’d go with ye, ’cept I’d rather a man pick his own horses. I’ll wait here till you get back.”
Trace left Rufus busy making himself a pot of coffee and set out for the stable. It was half an hour’s walk, and along the way Trace ripped the money out of the inside of his deerskin shirt. It was considerably lighter when he put it back on.
Approaching the stables from the corral side, Trace paused to look over the horses before seeking out the owner. After a few minutes, he picked out a couple of spirited mounts that caught his eye. He had just started toward the stable door when it opened and a man walked out to meet him. Trace remembered his mother remarking once that when two people had been married for many years, they often began to look like each other. With that thought in mind, Trace figured that Gus Kitchel must have been dealing with horses all his life. He was a lanky man. A slouch hat was pulled so far down on his head that the brim pushed his ears out to the sides. A face as long as winter featured a prominent nose that ended with a small mouth and no chin to speak of. If there ever was a man with a horse face, Trace was looking at him.
“Hello, young feller,” Gus greeted him. “Rufus said you might be coming by.” He offered his hand and Trace shook it.
“Mr. Kitchel,” Trace acknowledged.
“Rufus said you’d be needin’ a couple of horses.”
“Yessir. I like the look of that bay over there, and maybe that paint.” He looked at Kitchel. “That paint looks like an Injun pony. I don’t reckon he’ll cost as much.”
Gus grinned. “You know good horseflesh when you see it, don’t you, boy? Them’s two good horses, all right. I don’t keep nuthin’ but good stock. I recollect Rufus said you was set on headin’ to the Rockies. Trappin’, he said.”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, then, I think I might have a horse you’d be interested in. Take a look at that blue roan over there. Ain’t that a fine-lookin’ animal?” Trace admitted that it was. “That there’s a mountain horse, trained to work in the mountains. You ride that horse, and you’ll be the envy of ever’ trapper in the territory.”
Gus threw a rope on the roan and led him over to the gate. Trace was no expert on horses by any means, but he looked the horse over as best he could, watching for any obvious flaws. He could find none.
“You won’t have to break him, either. He’s ready to ride.” He pushed his hat back a little and scratched a tuft of sandy-gray hair. “Now, to be honest with you, son, I’d have to ask a little more for that horse than the paint. You was right, the paint is an Injun pony, and this here roan comes from purebred stock. But you’ll thank me for it when you’re climbing them high mountains.”
Trace decided to trust the man’s word, and he made a deal for the blue roan and the bay. Gus, to show his heart was in the right place, threw in a saddle and bridle and a coil of rope. The saddle was old, but Gus had put a new girth strap on it. He picked up the saddle and threw it on the bay. “Best ride the bay a day or two. He ain’t been rode in a while and might need a little smoothin’ out. The roan’ll take the lead line all right.”
Gus held the bridle while Trace climbed aboard. The bay stamped his hooves and sidestepped a few paces, but settled down quickly enough. Trace took the lead line from Gus and headed out the gate, leaving the horse trader to count his money.
The bay felt good underneath Trace. He fell in with the horse’s gait right off, and when he nudged him with his heels, the horse responded without hesitation. Trace was relieved. In hindsight, he knew he should have ridden the horse before he bought him. But now he felt confident and ready to head back to the mountains. He had never owned a horse before, and he couldn’t suppress the pride he felt as he loped along the narrow wagon road. Looking behind him, he felt an added satisfaction at the sight of the blue roan, its head high, tugging at the rope.
After admiring Trace’s newly acquired horses, Rufus got on his mule and led the string out on the trail. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and Rufus decided they might as well get started. Leading the blue roan, Trace brought up the rear. They rode until dusk before making camp by a small stream.
The next day Trace saddled the roan. Gus had advised riding the bay for a couple of days, but Trace decided the bay wasn’t as rusty as Gus figured. The roan was a handsome horse, broad and muscular, and as gentle as Gus had promised. Trace’s spirits were soaring as he followed the mule train all day. In the late afternoon they reached a wide creek where Rufus said he always camped on his way to Laramie. There was still considerable daylight left, but Rufus said there was no good water for half a day beyond, so they made camp early. Trace, impatient with the slow pace of the mule train, longed to feel the wind in his face with a good gallop. He pulled the roan around the mules and kicked his heels. The horse did not respond right away, and Trace had to kick several times more before the roan made a move. Finally he took off at a hard gallop, Trace yelling and spurring him on. He pulled him up hard at the edge of the creek, and the roan slid to a stop in the soft sand.
Trace dismounted, whooping and laughing, full of the thrill of a fast horse. Then just as quickly, he stopped laughing. Something was wrong with the roan. Trace would almost swear he saw the horse stagger before walking to the edge of the water. Trace watched in shocked confusion as the horse, wanting to drink, could not because it was wheezing too hard for breath. When Rufus came up with the mules, he found Trace puzzling over the animal.
“Well, I’ll be. . .” Rufus started. “That horse’s wind is broke. He’s been rode into the ground.”
Trace stood staring at the tortured animal. “No wonder he wanted me to ride the bay for a couple of days.”
“That damn Gus bamboozled you.” Rufus quickly added, “Could of happened to anybody, Trace. There wasn’t no way to tell, without you riding him hard like that. That damn Gus—probably figured you wouldn’t do more than walk behind them mules.” He shook his head as he walked all around the wheezing horse. “He might be able to walk all the way to the Pacific Ocean. But if you git jumped by any Injuns, you might have to ask them to chase you at a walk.”
Trace felt sick inside. It was hard for him to go to sleep that night, thinking about the money he had thrown away, getting taken for a greenhorn as soon as he set foot off the boat. He had worked hard for that money, and his father had died for it.
The morning air was cool when Rufus threw his blanket back and sat up. There was a soft mist rising from the dark water of the creek that gave the cottonwoods on the far side a veiled, ghostly appearance. He stretched and yawned. “Time to git up, Trace.” There was no answer. He looked across the smoldering campfire and saw that Trace’s blanket was missing. Finding that strange, he got up and looked around. The boy had gone. His pack and his horses were gone as well. Well, I’ll be . . . lit out on me. And I never heard a thing.
* * *
Gus Kitchel pulled his boots on over his long johns and headed for the stable. He paused outside the little one-room shack he called home and broke wind, applying sufficient pressure to obtain the desired resonance. Satisfied, he continued to the stable. He barely glanced toward the corral when something caught his eye. “What the hell. . .” he muttered. The blue roan was quietly standing in the corner of the corral.
Confused, he stood there staring at the horse for a few moments before going into the stable. He pushed the door open wide enough to step through and then turned to close it. When he turned around again, he was met with the barrel of a Hawken rifle only inches from his long nose.
“God a’mighty!” he blurted, his heart in his throat. “Hold on!” He backed up against the closed door. “Now, hold on a minute, son. I didn’t mean to cheat you, I swear. Take any horse you want, just take it easy with that rifle.” Trace did not reply, but continued to hold the rifle on him. “You can have your money back. I won’t even charge you for a different one.”
Trace finally spoke. “I don’t want my money back. “You’re the only thief around here. I’ll pay for my horse.” He stepped back to give the trembling man a little room, the Hawken still leveled at him. “Now go throw a rope on that paint.”
Gus didn’t have to be told twice. He cut the paint out from the other horses and slipped a rope over its head, all the while throwing cautious glances at the determined young man still holding the rifle on him. He nodded toward the bay tied to a post near the barn. “You want me to tie this’un onto the saddle?”
“No, just give me the rope and open the gate,” Trace said.
When he was mounted, he walked the bay toward the gate, where Gus was holding the paint’s lead line. Taking the rope from the terrified man, Trace nudged the bay lightly and rode out the gate. Gus Kitchel stood by the gatepost, shaking his head, thankful to still be alive.
Rufus Dees woke up the next morning to find Trace rolled up in his blanket on the other side of the fire. “Damn,” he mumbled, “I didn’t even hear him come in.”