They didn’t stop once they reached the relative safety of the draw, but pushed their horses on up through the ravine toward the rolling hills beyond. Once they had cleared the ravine and realized they were no longer being chased, they slowed their tired horses. They continued on late into the night as the moon climbed up over the eastern mountains, illuminating their path through a rolling plain of treeless mounds. Toward morning, they came back to the mountains.
“Whadaya say, Frank? Rest ’em here before crossing over to strike the Green?” Buck nodded toward a collar of cottonwoods that indicated a stream of some kind.
Frank was of like mind, as he usually was with Buck. The two of them had been together so long that Jim Bridger used to joke that if one of ’em farted, the other one said, “Excuse me.” “Yeah,” Frank said. “We can git the stock outta sight in them trees—maybe git a little rest ourselves.”
With the horses safely out of sight, the three weary souls stretched out on the ground to catch a couple of hours’ sleep. They had ridden hard through the night and felt confident that they could afford the time to rest. At first light, Frank woke up and climbed up the hill behind the stream to take a look around. After studying the trail they had ridden the night before, he decided they had lost the Crows, for the time being at least. When he came back down, Trace and Buck were awake. Trace was busy building a fire, and Buck was applying grease to the wound in his mule’s neck.
“Damned if I don’t believe we lost them Crows,” Frank announced. “There ain’t no sign of nuthin’ clear to the other end of this valley.”
Trace looked up from the solitary flame he was nourishing with dried grass and a few small twigs. “I don’t think they’ll bother chasing us anymore. Red Blanket was already gettin’ nervous about being so far away from our village when we ran up on those Blackfeet shooting at you and Buck.”
“What was he doin’ down this way, anyhow?” Buck asked. “I didn’t expect to see no Crows in this part of the mountains.”
“We were looking for a Snake war party that stole some of our horses,” Trace replied. “We heard those Blackfeet shooting at you and thought we had caught the Snakes.”
“Well, we’ll just cross over the mountains and follow the Green on down to the rendezvous, and let them Crows and Snakes and Blackfoot chase each other. I’m damn tired of being the one they wanna play tag with.”
After they had breakfasted on some jerked venison, they got under way again—this time at a somewhat more leisurely pace. The sun was high in the sky, and there was still no sign of anyone following them. That night they made camp on the Green River.
Frank stretched out beside the fire, his head resting on his saddle. He watched with interest as the tall young man, still dressed in leggings and breechclout sat opposite him cleaning his rifle. Full grown now, Trace was a hell of a sight removed from the boy who had left them after the rendezvous in ’35. He and Buck had often talked about that boy, wondering what had become of him, especially after LaPorte and that Blunt fellow had come asking about him. That was mighty peculiar, and Frank would have liked to hear the story. But it was a common rule among mountain men that a fellow’s business was his own, and what Trace had done back East was nobody’s concern.
As always, the same thoughts Frank had ran through Buck’s mind, too. And Buck, being less concerned about the mountain man’s code of ethics, blurted out the question. “What in tarnation would a skunk like Joe LaPorte be lookin’ fer you fer?”
Trace was surprised. “Joe LaPorte? Who’s Joe LaPorte?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Frank jumped in, since Buck had bluntly provided an opening. “Like Buck said, he’s a lowdown, back-shootin’ polecat, and he was askin’ all around about you a few years back.”
Trace slowly shook his head, trying to remember if he had run across anyone by that name. “I don’t know him.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “Was anyone else asking about me?”
“Feller by the name of Blunt,” Buck replied.
Trace stiffened. He didn’t say anything, but it was obvious to Buck that he had hit a nerve. There was a long moment of silence while both trappers fixed their attention on him, waiting for his reply. “When?” Trace finally asked.
“Hell, every year, I reckon. This Blunt feller, he shows up at Laramie every summer with a string of mules packed with trade goods, most of it whiskey, from what I been told. He don’t trade at the fort, though—turns his goods over to LaPorte and LaPorte traipses off with ’em up-country somewhere. Blackfoot country, I expect. But this Blunt feller, he always asks around if anybody seen that young boy that trapped with us, summer of ’35.” Buck paused to scratch his whiskers. Looking at Frank, he said, “Come to think of it, though, I don’t believe he asked about the boy this past summer, did he, Frank? Maybe he give up lookin’ fer you.”
Still, Trace offered no illumination on the puzzle, but it was plain to see he was giving it plenty of thought. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Buck continued to press. “This here Blunt feller, he’s kin of your’n?”
“Hell, no,” Trace quickly replied.
Buck’s patience gave in to his curiosity. “Well, what’s he lookin’ fer you fer?”
“I killed his brother.”
“Oh,” was all Buck said—one of the rare times when Frank could ever remember his longtime partner being at a loss for words. Trace then related the story of his unfortunate encounter with Tyler Blunt, and his mother’s marriage to Tyler’s older brother.
“You mean this Blunt feller that comes out to Laramie every year is your stepdaddy?” Frank asked.
“Hell no!” Trace spat. The sound of the term reviled him. He had never given any thought to the idea that Hamilton Blunt was now, in fact, kin. “I imagine that if one of the Blunts comes out in this part of the country, it would be Morgan. His brother, Hamilton Blunt, he’s the one who married my ma. He wouldn’t dirty his fancy britches riding a horse all the way out here.”
“So that’s why you sorta disappeared for so long,” Buck said, “hidin’ out with a band of Crows.”
“I reckon,” Trace replied. “It just sorta worked out that way. When I left St. Louis, I was on the run, but I reckon I really had in mind finding you and Frank.”
“Well, I’ll swear. . .” Buck started, letting the thought trail off. “But if it all happened the way you say, you was just defending yourself. You ought not have no worry about the law.”
Trace shook his head slowly. He had thought this over many times, wondering what his fate might have been had he gone to the sheriff and told his side of the story. He always came to the same conclusion—that he did the right thing when he ran. “Who’s the sheriff gonna believe? Me or Hamilton Blunt? I’m sure Hamilton Blunt wishes I was dead. He damn sure looked disappointed when I showed up alive back in St. Louis.”
Frank shifted his chew of tobacco to the other side of his mouth and spat into the fire. After waiting to hear it sizzle, he said, “I believe you’re right, Jim. I don’t think this Blunt feller is sending the likes of Joe LaPorte lookin’ fer ya just to tell ya all’s forgiven and to come on home.”
“I reckon you ought to know I don’t go by Jim Tracey no more. I’m going by Trace McCall now,” Trace told them.
There was a brief moment of silence while Buck and Frank considered this. Then Frank said, “All right, Trace it is. You stick with Buck and me and you’ll be all right. ’Sides, I don’t figure anybody’d recognize you now. You’ve sure changed a helluva lot.”
* * *
The three partners started out to find the rendezvous the next morning, following the river until they came upon the meeting place of the annual event. They found it just about two miles north of the mouth of Horse Creek. Trace recalled the rendezvous he had been to four years before. This camp seemed far less rowdy. Indians—Snakes, Nez Perces, and Flatheads—were still there to trade for powder and balls, blankets and trinkets. Their tipis were set up on one side of the river, spreading out for about a mile on the grassy bottom.
As they rode through the sprawling camp looking for a place to unroll their packs of beaver plews, Buck and Frank were met with shouts of welcome here and there from old trappers dressed in buckskins worn shiny and black from long seasons in the mountains. After promising to come back later to visit and swap lies, they rode on. “Mighty poor-lookin’ plews,” Frank commented to Buck. “I thought our lot was skimpy, but I swear, this is the worst-lookin’ harvest I’ve ever seen.”
Buck didn’t answer for a moment, distracted by two Nez Perce women riding by on their ponies, dressed in their finest fringed buckskin dresses, with bright silk handkerchiefs tied in their hair. Their friendly smiles held him captive until, laughing shyly, they suddenly bolted toward the lower end of the camp. Tearing his gaze away from the two departing beauties, Buck turned back to Frank. “Yessir, they’s poor-lookin’, all right. I reckon you could say we done pretty good compared to most. There’s too dang many of us going after the same few beaver that’s left. But beaver’ll shine agin.”
After a few days in camp, Buck would wonder about his hopeful prediction. The price of beaver was down from the year before, and the price of goods that the beaver would buy was as high as ever. Buck and Frank were able to trade their plews, but the money was pitifully shy of what they had hoped for. As a result, there was very little left over for fun and frolic after essentials were bought. It was the same for the entire encampment. Trace was disappointed to find that the horse racing, and gambling, the drinking and wild celebration of the first rendezvous he had attended were almost nonexistent now. There was some drinking, however, and some friendly Indian girls—and the opportunity to relax and sleep without one eye open for possible attack.
Trace was little more than a spectator in this camp, having no pelts to trade. He was in need of some things—his supply of ammunition was critically low, even though he had used his rifle as sparingly as possible since his last visit to Fort Cass with Buffalo Shield and Black Wing. For most of his hunting, he had relied on the horn bow that Buffalo Shield had made for him. Now that Trace had returned to the white man’s world, Buck insisted that he needed some britches and a shirt, so he arranged for a Snake woman to make them. Trace didn’t like the idea of having to accept charity, but Buck assured him he would take payment for the buckskins in some way later on. Uncomfortable with owing any debt for any period of time, Trace rode out from camp to hunt. In two days’ time he had replaced the hides that had been used for his clothes as well as providing fresh deer meat for the camp.
One week after they arrived at the rendezvous, a large, powerfully built man rode into the upper end of the camp. His face hidden behind a bushy black beard that was crusted in places with dried tobacco spray, he dwarfed the small Indian pony he rode. His eyes darted from side to side as he made his way through the groups of old Indians sitting under the trees, smoking their pipes. He leered at the women busily scraping hides or carrying wood. The people he passed returned his gaze with notable lack of welcome. For, in truth, this man had no friends in this camp of trappers.
From their campfire near the bend in the river, Frank spotted the latecomer to the rendezvous. “LaPorte,” he mumbled.
Hearing him, Buck roused himself from his position stretched out under a tree and sat up to see for himself. After a moment, he said, “It’s him, all right.” He glanced over at Trace, who was a dozen yards away, kneeling by the water with a fishing line he had rigged up. “Trace,” Buck called, “come on over here a minute.” When Trace looked around, Buck motioned with his hand.
He tied his line to a tree root and walked over to the fire. Buck pointed to the dark figure making his way along the riverbank, weaving through the campfires of Indians and trappers. “You recognize that man?”
Trace stared hard at the man pointed out. “No, never saw him before.”
“That’s Joe LaPorte, the thievin’ bastard that’s been askin’ about you.”
Trace studied the huge man carefully.
Frank chimed in. “That there’s Blunt’s man—does all his dirty work for him, I reckon. There ain’t a meaner man in these mountains. He’d just as soon kill ya as look atcha.”
“Well, how come somebody doesn’t stop him?” Trace wondered.
“Cause so far, nobody’s caught him at his devilry, but everybody knows he’s a lowdown murderer, him and his Blackfoot gang. Trace, you’d best just lay low and stay away from that man.”
It was too late, for LaPorte’s dark, ferretlike eyes had already lit upon the tall young man in the new buckskins, and his steely gaze riveted upon the three men. Ahh, Ransom and Brown, he thought to himself and smiled. So the damned Crows didn’t get you after all. He was especially interested in the young stranger with them. It was hard to say at that distance, but he would bet that he was around eighteen years of age, and that would make him about right.
LaPorte’s heartbeat quickened with the thought that his persistence might have finally paid off. Years had passed with no sign of the Tracey boy, but LaPorte knew he would eventually show up. He was ready to collect on the five hundred dollars Morgan Blunt had promised—especially now, since his former Blackfoot allies had said they were done with him. Lame Fox had lost too many of his warriors in the ill-fated attack on the two white trappers and had barely escaped the Crow war party. He and LaPorte parted company the morning after their flight from Red Blanket’s warriors. Lame Fox led what was left of his war party back north of the Yellowstone to lick his wounds. Things didn’t look too promising for LaPorte after that. But now maybe his luck was changing—five hundred dollars’ worth of change.
“Uh-oh,” Buck muttered, “he’s coming this way.” He motioned for Trace to stay back. “You just sit back there and let me do the talkin’.” Frank moved over away from the fire so he could have a clear field of vision. Trace complied with Buck’s instructions, but he felt no fear of the huge man.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Brown and Mr. Ransom,” LaPorte said as he pulled his pony up before them, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Heard you boys had a little trouble over near Wind River.”
“That so?” Buck asked. “Now I wonder who told you that.”
“Word gits around,” LaPorte replied, his gaze searching past the two old trappers to the young man behind them.
“What the hell do you want, LaPorte?” Frank demanded.
“Why, I was just being neighborly.” His evil grin was a thin disguise for the contempt in his heart. “I just stopped to see how you boys was doin’.” His gaze suddenly remained locked on the boy. “And what might your name be?”
“His name might be President Van Buren, but it ain’t none of your business, now is it?”
Trace saw the cold spark in LaPorte’s eye when the big man shifted his gaze back to Buck. “Don’t push your luck with me, old man. I just might decide to eat your gizzard.” The two locked eyeballs for a long moment before LaPorte, noticing that Frank’s hand rested on his pistol, slowly smiled. “I don’t know why you boys is so unfriendly.” He backed his horse away, watching them closely as he did. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said as he turned back toward the main camp. There was a sly gleam in his eye as he gave Trace one last look.
“Damn,” Buck said, when LaPorte had disappeared behind one of the Snake lodges, “why ain’t somebody done shot that man?” He turned to face Trace. “Don’t ever turn your back when that varmint’s around. I don’t like the way he was eyeballin’ you.”
Trace could not deny feeling a quickening of his blood when LaPorte had leered down at him with dark eyes that seemed to penetrate his very soul. If there was such a thing as an evil spirit, and Trace believed that there was, then he was halfway convinced that he had just met the evil one’s messenger. LaPorte was massive, powerfully built with thick neck and shoulder muscles like a bull buffalo. Trace, though young in years, was confident in his own strength and ability, and he would cower before no man or beast. Still, he would take Buck’s advice and avoid LaPorte if possible. Buffalo Shield had taught him that though a man might not fear the great grizzly, he would be foolish to fight him hand to hand.
Several hundred yards away in the Snake camp, Joe LaPorte sat in a circle of braves, watching with an amused smile as they drank from a jug of whiskey the big man had brought. Married to a Blackfoot woman, LaPorte had very little use for the Snakes. And had they known of his alliance with their enemies, the hated Blackfeet, they might have been at his throat instead of gulping the evil firewater he offered.
While his newly made friends finished off the jug of Morgan Blunt’s cheapest whiskey, LaPorte’s eyes were occupied with the comings and goings of the young Snake girls in the camp. One side of his mouth curled into a lopsided grin as he thought of the money he had in his pockets—courtesy of the young couple in the covered wagon who had had the misfortune to cross paths with LaPorte and his Blackfoot savages. That money could buy him a lot in this camp, and his grin broadened when he thought about the young man who had finally showed up after four long years, and all the money that would come when LaPorte delivered his head to St. Louis.