Rendezvous (8 page)

“You could have that life as a free trapper for us. I'll arrange it. I can set things right with the company. If by any chance it puts you in danger, I'll be the first to let you know. You impress me. That's all I can say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ogden. I'm an Englishman and always will be. But I'm a man without a country now.”

That sufficed for an answer, and Ogden knew his options had reduced to two: let him go, or watch him die because the man would not be taken alive.

Chapter 10

Skye liked Peter Ogden but didn't trust him. He would know in the morning what Ogden's intentions were. At that time, the fur brigade would load its horses and head toward Fort Vancouver. And Skye, if he were left alone, would continue east.

Would they seize him at the last minute? He had no way of knowing. He had done what he could: told Ogden, with utmost seriousness, that they would never take him back alive. And he meant it. He would keep his liberty or perish.

He dozed restlessly that night, awakening with a start at the slightest shift of the rhythms of the night. He kept his larger kitchen knife at hand and would use it if he had to. But the night passed quietly, and even before dawn the camp tenders and the country wives, as the trappers called their Indian mates, were building cookfires.

It seemed a good time to go. Most of the trappers still lay in their bedrolls, although some were collecting horses in the gray dawn and throwing packframes over them. Skye rolled up his sailcloth and stuffed it in his warbag, gathered his bow and arrows, and returned his kitchen knife to a crude sheath at his belt. He would miss breakfast, but liberty was worth more than food.

“Mister Skye.”

He whirled to find Ogden standing behind him, grinning.

“Stay and eat. You're a free man and you'll stay a free man. Shake on it.”

Reluctantly, his mind swarming with suspicions, he shook Ogden's outstretched hand.

“I'm going to repay you for the meat. We've some jerky. I'll give you the rest of our tea. The Creoles don't care about it. They aren't Englishmen.”

Skye nodded. “Obliged,” he said. “I'm looking for some other things. I have one thing to trade—a heavy wool pea jacket—and don't know what it'll bring. I need a rifle or musket and powder and balls, a trap, fishing lures and line, hatchet or ax, a fishing net, blankets, horse…”

Ogden considered. “There's things the company can't do, such as take a contraband jacket in trade. And we're desperately short of arms. Five trappers lack firearms. Lost, broken, stolen. Then again, there's things the company can do. It can lose a trap. I've a Nez Perce fishnet I traded for some gunpowder. The company's short of horses, but most of the Creoles have their own. Maybe one or another will decide a warm coat's worth a plug horse.”

The prospect gladdened Skye. He followed Ogden over to the cookfires, where two camp tenders were hustling up some grub. Ogden raided some panniers and supplied Skye with a canister of tea and several pounds of jerky. Then he headed toward another pile of gear and rummaged through panniers.

“Trade stuff. Most of it gone. Here.” He handed Skye an iron hatchet blade, oddly made.

“War hatchet, the kind they like. You'll have to whittle a haft and wedge it in. That's about as much as I can get away with, Mister Skye. It's a trade for the meat.”

Skye hefted the iron hatchet head as if it were gold, and then examined the trap.

“Here, let me explain a few things,” Ogden said. “This is an American trap we picked up on the Malade. It's not even in my HBC inventory. It'll catch beaver, but you can use it for small animals as well. If you're going for beaver, you'll need castorum for bait, and you'll need to learn a few things.”

Skye listened quietly while Ogden demonstrated how to set the trap, how to chain it in place, how to bait it, how to look for beaver grounds, how to check the trap. Ogden described how to cook and eat beaver tail, how to gut the beaver, flesh the hide, stretch it on a hoop and let it dry that way into a presentable plew. It all seemed too much to master, but Skye absorbed all he could, listening carefully. Ogden gave Skye a small, stoppered bone flask of castorum as a final gesture, and then led Skye to the cookfires. The fare that morning was salmon. The brigade, at the end of its trapping season, had little else.

The sun was rising by the time the cookfires were extinguished, and Skye knew he had only minutes to strike a trade. He pulled out his pea jacket and approached a Creole.

“Ah, you are Monsieur Skye,” the man said. “I have the great honor. You gave us meat. I am your humble servant, Bordeau.”

“I'm interested in a trade, Mr. Bordeau. How about this wool coat? Does it interest you?”

“Ah, such a warm coat always interests Bordeau.”

“Try it on. It looks about right.”

“Ah, but what is it that you wish to trade for? I am only a trapper, owing HBC all that I make.”

“A horse and bridle and saddle.”

“Ah,
non,
that is not possible. My two horses must carry me and my equipage, and I have none to spare. A pity. I would give two wives and a daughter for such a fine coat. Too much do I freeze my bones in these wilds.”

Skye approached the other free trappers, one by one, with the same result. They all had their reasons, but it came clear to Skye that none of them considered the coat worth a horse and bridle, and so they had politely declined to trade. Skye caught Ogden grinning. Skye's efforts had become this morning's spectacle.

Skye considered trading for other things. A good warm coat should fetch him all sorts of items: moccasins, knives, things to trade to the Indians, gloves, leggings, spoons, forks, a frying pan. But time had run out. Ogden was putting his brigade on the road. The beaver packs were back on the gaunt, hard-wintered horses, the camp gear stowed, the trappers standing about, scratching under their buckskins for greybacks, or off in the bushes.

Ogden approached. “No luck, eh?”

“Mr. Ogden, I'm a lucky man. I'm free, and I'm outfitted, and I have you to thank.”

Ogden smiled, mischief dancing in his eyes. “See that log? You sit on one side and I'll sit on the other. We'll arm wrestle. You lose, and I take you with me. I lose, and you get a horse.”

Skye darkened swiftly. “Mr. Ogden, I'll arm wrestle, but not on those terms. No bet. Nothing, no one, takes me back—alive.”

Ogden gestured Skye toward the log and sat himself on the far side of it. The trappers congregated.
Très bien,
what a morning! Skye settled himself on the other side, and dug his boots into the clay. The bourgeois looked to be slightly shorter but powerfully built.

Skye had done this before with many seamen, and he knew the tricks. So he was ready when Ogden clasped his hand and went for a victory with one violent lurch. Skye had intended to do the same, and the result was a brutal standoff. Skye felt his sweat rise and the muscles of his arm strain and hurt. He dug in and threw his weight into a victory plunge, only to lose ground. Much to his astonishment he found himself twisted the wrong way, his hand only six inches from defeat.

He felt the tremors as he twisted his arm upward an inch, then two. Now it was Ogden's turn to sweat. The dance in Ogden's eyes told Skye the bourgeois was enjoying himself. Two more sallies yielded nothing to either man. Then Ogden laughed, gathered his resolve, slammed Skye's hand onto the log, and kept it there long enough for the trappers to hoot. Then he let go.

Ogden danced to his feet, saying nothing, his face alive with delight. Men hoorahed and slapped his back. He shrugged them off and helped Skye to his feet.

“I let you go,” he said.

“No,” said Skye, “you let me live.”

Ogden slapped Skye on the back, found a stick, and led Skye to some sandy soil, where he drew a map. “You'll follow the Columbia another forty or fifty miles pretty much east. Then the Columbia swings north, like this. Near there you'll reach the Walla Walla River and Fort Nez Perces at the confluence. Visit it or not, as you choose. You can follow the Walla Walla into the Blue Mountains and over to the drainage of the Snake, like this. But most of the country south of the Snake's unexplored. Or you can go up the Columbia until you reach the Snake, and follow it east, like this. It loops north and then dips south in a big arc. It's rough country and the trail will take you miles south of the river where it cuts through a long canyon. I don't recommend that route.

“You'll likely run into two tribes—Nez Perces and then the Snakes, or Shoshones. I can't say what they'll do to a lone man. They're friendly enough to a fur brigade with things to trade, but they're likely to steal anything they can get from you, so be on your guard. Watch out for Blackfeet—plains Indians, well dressed in gaudy clothes, good horses. They'll butcher any lone white man they can find.”

“Is there a way to befriend the Snakes and Nez Perces?”

“A white man never knows. They live by their own rules. But they're likely to be friendly, especially if you give 'em a gift or two and smoke the pipe with the elders. If they ask you to smoke, do it. Just follow their routine exactly. It's a peace ceremony.”

“Where'll the Snake River take me?”

“To the Americans. They're all scoundrels and blackguards, and I shouldn't send you to them, but they'll get you to Boston and maybe outfit you. They rendezvous in July down in Cache Valley—that's Snake country, and the Snakes'll take you there. They go to trade.”

“Rendezvous?”

“A mountain fair. They—Ashley and his partners—send a pack-mule supply outfit from St. Louis and trade with the trappers for beaver pelts, which they take back. Long journey, over a thousand miles. It's your ticket to Boston. Your only ticket. You've got six weeks to get to Cache Valley.”

“How do I tell the Snakes I want to go there? I can't speak their tongue.”

“You won't have to. If you reach 'em before they leave, you'll be taken right along. They'll think that's where you're going anyway.” He stood up. “Write me from Harvard, Mister Skye.”

“I will, Mr. Ogden.”

“And don't linger in British territory. HBC is an arm of the Crown. John McLoughlin's a bulldog. If he wants you, he'll get you sooner or later. Maybe next year, maybe in three or five years. Mark my words. Stay out of any place claimed by Great Britain. And if you stay in the mountains with the Yanks, watch out anyway. HBC has its ways, and if they want you they'll take you—dead or alive, right in front of a crowd.”

“I won't forget.”

Odgen clapped him on the back. “Good. Don't forget.”

The brigade left immediately, and suddenly Skye found himself back in an aching wilderness, more silent and lonely than before. He watched the outfit climb the slope and vanish on the far side. He wanted to run after them.

He was alone again. Nothing stirred, not even so much as a crow. He felt desolated. Once again he realized how badly he needed company. Ogden had helped him. It was the first help he had ever received from anyone during his adult life. No one in the navy had helped him—or cared.

He wondered why Ogden had helped, and no good explanation came to mind. Skye had never thought much about getting along with people or what it took. Maybe that was because he was never free. But in Ogden he had found a friend.

Joyously he examined his new gear. The number four trap was heavy, and so was its chain. His hatchet head was heavy, and so was the small seine net, which had lead weights at the bottom and loops at the top for floats or a long supporting pole. The jerky, wrapped in an ancient piece of oilcloth, was heavy, too. He loaded all these things into his warbag, slipped his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and started east, toward Boston.

Chapter 11

Dourly, Skye examined Fort Nez Perces from across the Walla Walla River, wondering whether to go on in and risk trouble. It was walled by a stockade of upright logs planted in the sandy earth, and bastions loomed at opposite corners. A crimson flag bearing the cross of St. George in an upper corner flapped lazily on a staff. Skye supposed it was the Hudson's Bay ensign. It looked British.

The post stood on the Columbia's shore just above the confluence of the Walla Walla River. The country was so bleak it gave Skye a chill. For miles he had followed the river through arid, rough, treeless country unfit for habitation. Just why the post had been planted in such a locale he couldn't imagine—unless the Walla Walla was a thoroughfare into more bountiful lands. He thought he saw distant mountains in the eastern haze and wondered what they were.

He decided to go in. He needed instructions. He was dressed as a trapper now and his brown beard had sprouted luxuriantly since he had traded his razor. In addition to what he had started with, he was carrying a beaver trap and bow and arrows—hardly the equipment of a seaman. His heroic nose might give him away; it already had. But he would take that risk.

For days he had toiled upriver alone, carrying a heavy duffel now: the trap, seine net, and the rest. The bleakness of this empty land tormented him, awakened a hunger in him for companionship, the sound of voices. He forded the Walla Walla, which ran cold and hard with spring runoff, and climbed the sandy soil to the post, which slumbered in midday sun. He saw not a soul about the fort, although he could see someone hoeing in a distant garden plot that probably provided the post with its vegetables.

He plunged through the open gates and found himself in a yard, with what appeared to be the trading area immediately on his left. There he entered a low, dark, rough-made room with a counter and shelves lined with bolts of bright fabric, gray iron traps, casks and sacks of sugar and coffee and beans, and sundries. The scents of burlap and leather were pleasant in his nostrils.

“I've been watching ye through the glass for nigh twenty minutes,” said an angular, red-haired, fierce-looking man with a voice that grated like sand under a horseshoe. “No living creature passes Fort Nez Perces unknown. Not even an ant.”