Tucket's Travels Page 6

  And that finished any talk for another thirty minutes or so, while they ate and drank still more. Francis had thought he was full, but he was fast changing his eating patterns. He was learning that when you can eat, you eat. It might be a couple of days before you got a chance to eat again.

  “Just one question,” Mr. Grimes said around a mouthful of biscuit. “What's the story on the Crows? I spent a week coming across their stomping grounds and didn't see a one. Usually I get shot at at least once.”

  “I don't know,” Spot answered. “But there's been word they found a big herd of buffalo and spent the summer living in back of the herd. I also heard they've broken up a bit—too many war chiefs or something—and that there's a bunch of small bands out, just taking what they can get when they can get it. But you know The Crows: if you see ‘em, more'n likely you're going to have to fight ‘em.” Spot leaned back and sighed. “Enough of that—I think it's time for a game. Or are you scared? I figured you'd probably given up—seeing how bad I whipped you last time.”

  “Whipped me?” snorted Mr. Grimes. “Did you hear that, Mr. Tucket? This old spot-head thinks he whipped me. Waugh! Drag out the plank and we'll see who whips who in this pond.”

  “Stakes?” Spot asked, laughing.

  “One prime pelt—which I haven't got—against three pints of sugar—which you haven't got. Suit you.”

  “Why not? I can always use another pelt.”

  “Ho—you sure are the one for talk. Where's that plank?”

  Spot turned and fetched a flat board from the wall. The board was about two feet long, and at either end a heavy leather thong was lashed. Francis could make neither head nor tail of it, even when Spot put the board down in front of Mr. Grimes and seated himself opposite. The children had been put to bed, but Spot's wife came over from a stool by the fire. She was smiling, and kept smiling while she took their right arms and placed them on the board. When the arms were in such a position that the back of Mr. Grimes's hand was against the back of Spot's, she brought the leather thongs up and around and lashed their elbows in place. Now their arms could move neither forward nor backward, nor up at the elbow.

  The two men, with their hands still back-to-back, hooked thumbs. Mr. Grimes looked at Spot, Spot returned the look, they both nodded, and the woman said, “Go!”

  It didn't seem to be much of a match at first. The object of the contest was to twist your arm and drag your opponent's thumb down to the board by twisting his arm. At the start, Spot got the jump. Mr. Grimes didn't stop him until his thumb was almost mashed into the board, and then only by an effort that made all the cords in his neck stand out.

  They hung like that for a long time, grinning at each other, their breath coming in rasps. Then, ever so slowly, Mr. Grimes started to push Spot's thumb back up. The thumbs stopped again when they were straight up, swung back and forth for a period of ten seconds, then suddenly plunged down until Spot's thumb touched the board.

  “Ahh!” he said. “Where'd you get all that?”

  “Been practicing,” Mr. Grimes answered. “Figuring the way you whipped me last time …”

  “Ha! Woman?” Spot called. “Fetch this badger three pints of brown sugar—not that he earned it, understand, but a deal is a deal.”

  “Seems there's a snake around here somewhere,” Mr. Grimes said, grinning. “I thought you didn't have any sugar?”

  “Nope—said I didn't order any,” Spot answered. “Lots of difference. Besides, you trying to tell me you don't have a single pelt out there in your pack somewheres?”

  “Nope—got three I saved from last year.” Francis stared at them. The betting didn't make any sense. They both bet something they said they didn't have, but which they really did have. He was going to ask about it, but just then Mr. Grimes suggested getting some sleep and Francis, who had been sitting with the warm glow of the fire on his back and an extremely full stomach, realized that if he so much as blinked, he would be asleep.

  He staggered to the warm corner by the fire, where Spot told him to go, and was soon dead to the world.

  MR. GRIMES AND FRANCIS stayed with Spot Johnnie for three days. They had meant to leave sooner, but things kept happening. First there was a joke shooting match between Mr. Grimes and Spot —a joke match because neither of them really tried to win. All they did was trick shooting; kind of show-off stuff, Francis thought. Like Spot throwing a piece of mud in the air, then stooping to pick up his rifle and shooting the mud before it hit the ground. And Mr. Grimes shooting a big rock over five hundred yards away, hitting it three times in a row.

  Then the shooting match led to a wrestling match, and the wrestling match led to a giant dinner and warm sun to lie around in and a swim down in the creek by the stable, and before Francis really thought about it at all, three days had disappeared. On the morning of the fourth day, they rose early, packed the mules, and started out.

  They were about half a mile from the buildings when they saw the wagons. Mr. Grimes saw them first, as usual.

  “Farmers, Mr. Tucket,” he said, pointing back past Spot Johnnie's place. Two wagons were visible coming down into the valley, crawling along. They were a good three miles away, but Francis could make out the men walking alongside the oxen. “It could be your chance—if they're going to Oregon. Most likely they are.”

  Francis didn't understand at first. He wasn't really thinking of himself in connection with wagons. And when he finally caught the mountain man's meaning, somehow it made him feel sad. Still, he nodded. “I guess so—that is, if they wouldn't mind taking a boy along.”

  “I think they'd probably be happy to have that extra gun,” Mr. Grimes said, “especially if Braid's going to do some kicking up.”

  There was a long moment. The morning sun caught the mare's mane and made it look almost blue. And how would you like to slow down to ten miles a day, little mare? Francis found himself thinking. How would you like to eat oxen dust and be tied with other horses at night? He looked again at the wagons. There were five showing now—-five plodding wagons settled into the ruts across the prairie.

  And he didn't want to be with them; not with the dust and the slow wagons and all the people carrying punch bowls. There was more to it now— more than if he were just another train boy. He knew more. He knew Indians, and how to shoot, and how to wrestle—

  “You sure do seem to be in powerful thought, Mr. Tucket,” Mr. Grimes cut in. “A man would tlhnk you're having trouble making up your mind …”

  There was that, too, Francis thought. How can I just keep going with the mountain man? Mr. Grimes has his own way of life. It's a wild and exciting life, but is it the kind of life for me—for the rest of my life?

  Francis shook his head in bewilderment. Then, slowly, he turned toward the wagons.

  “Of course”—Mr. Grimes stopped him— “you've got to figure those people are maybe pretty dumb. They won't make Oregon anyways—at least not this winter. Here it is early fall, and they're only this far. Way I figure it, they'll be spending winter about halfway there—somewhere in the west part of Dakota Country, where it gets cold.”

  Francis looked at him. Was the mountain man telling him to stay? Or was he just ridiculing the “farmers” for being dumb?

  “Now me,” Mr. Grimes continued, his face still blank, “I figure on spending my winter not far from here—where the snow won't get too much higher'n a horse and I don't have to worry about much except a few stray Crows. If I get lucky and fill out on beaver fast, I just might come down here and spend the winter with Spot.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that I'd be better off staying with you through the winter than I would be if I joined that particular wagon train?”

  “No-ah, Mr. Tucket, that isn't quite right. I'm not trying to tell you anything. It's your mind, you make it up …”

  Francis nodded.

  “… but I'd hate to think I plucked you from Braid just so's you could turn out dumb.”

  Francis felt warm all over—-warmer
than the morning sun could have made him feel. He hefted his rifle, turned the little mare once more and almost—but not quite—laughed in relief. The truth was he didn't want to leave and it had been handled for him.

  Mr. Grimes clucked at the sorrel and moved ahead. He didn't look back—not at the wagons or at Francis. He rode straight, his derby and feather aimed dead ahead.

  Francis caught up. He didn't look back at the train either. It might as well not have been there. He felt that he should thank the mountain man, but what could he say? A straight “thank you” would probably only make him snort.

  “The way I figured it, Mr. Grimes,” he said finally, his eyes straight ahead, “if a guy's gotta spend a winter, he might as well spend it the best way he can …”

  The mountain man smiled.

  Two DAYS AWAY from Spot Johnnie's, Mr. Grimes stopped on the edge of a deep canyon.

  “From here on, Mr. Tucket, we'll see no more people—Indians or otherwise.”

  Francis nodded, and believed him. They wound down a narrow trail to the bottom of the canyon. It was a dark place, with sheer walls and a thick forested floor, and in the bottom was a narrow stream. Mr. Grimes put his sorrel in the middle of this, and instructed Francis to do the same with his mare.

  “We go up it awhile,” he said, “and that's how we make sure we don't see any people.”

  That “awhile” proved to be two days long. When they camped at night, Mr. Grimes didn't allow a fire. And in the mornings, when they got ready to leave, he went around brushing out signs of their horses and making The campsite look as though they'd never been there.

  At the end of the second day, they moved away from the stream. The canyon had widened into a valley more than ten miles across, and Mr. Grimes headed toward the right—or northern—edge. The forest was much thicker, the ground softer, but still he allowed no traces of their presence to remain at any campsite. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and he left no trail. Where the horses’ hooves sank into the ground, he painstakingly pushed sticks under the depressions to raise them. When a twig was broken, he rubbed dirt on the broken end to make it look old.

  “It's still pretty plain,” he explained to Francis, standing over a hoof mark that Francis couldn't see even though he knew where it lay. “But in a couple of days, the best Kiowa tracker in the world couldn't find us—and neither will another trapper.”

  “Why are you being so careful?” Francis asked. He was tired of going slow.

  “You heard the reasons just now, Mr. Tucket. One is the trappers. It's not that I'm greedy, at least no more than the next. But there's just enough beaver where we're headed to keep a man going, so long as he doesn't clean ‘em out in one season. I wouldn't clean ‘em out—and neither would another good trapper …”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “Every man who traps beaver isn't all that thoughtful. We come up here and take out a catch, and if somebody follows us who doesn't think about next season, he might clean out the beaver—lock, stock, and prime pelt. So I'm careful. I'm not worried, Mr. Tucket, just careful.”

  “All right, that's one reason. What's the other?”

  “Indians; Crows, to be exact. We're on the edge of their country, and they're kind of unpredictable. We're going to be spread up and down the canyon, traps all over, and if they find out we're up here, they can make it mean for us. So we're careful about them, too. Any other questions, Mr. Tucket?”

  “No, sir.”

  When they finally got where they were going— a shallow meadow about three miles wide and ten miles long, leading away from the canyon—Francis could see the reason for caution. Down the middle of the meadow was a long string of beaver ponds, one joined to the next by a short neck of water. Francis knew nothing of beaver, but he guessed there were probably hundreds of them.

  Mr. Grimes led the way up the meadow, and it took them one whole day of slow riding to get to the northern end, and the sound of the beaver, slapping their tails against the water, stayed ahead of them all the way.

  “Well, Mr. Tucket,” The mountain man said, when they finally stopped, “I make it out to be a pretty fair season for us. What say we make a home?”

  First they had to build a house, and although it wasn't much more than a large lean-to, it seemed like a house by the time the roof was finally finished. Mr. Grimes gave Francis an ax from one of The mule packs, and he cut all the poles for The lean-to while the mountain man did what he called the “count” on the beaver stream. It took Francis the better part of a week to cut enough long timbers for the walls and roof, and during that time, he saw Mr. Grimes only in the evenings and early mornings.

  At first it didn't bother him. There was a job to be done, and Francis, with his two good arms, was better equipped to do it. But by the fourth day he felt irritated because it seemed to him that the mountain man was just taking a vacation while he put up the house. Over morning coffee, he said, “What are you doing out there all day? Not that I really care, understand. But a guy has to learn—”

  Mr. Grimes snorted and then sipped his coffee. “Seems to me you ought to care. I mean, I'm out there just resting on my stomach along the creek while you slave away on our castle. I'm care. But if I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

  “Sure.”

  “I'm counting the grown beaver in each pond, one at a time.”

  Francis didn't laugh, because he didn't understand. “Why are you counting them?” he asked.

  “So when we start taking ‘em, we'll know how many we can take out of each pond widiout ruining it. Of course, trapping all the beaver in the world won't help us if we don't have a house to dry the pelts in …”

  Francis didn't ask any more questions. Instead he got the house up, back in the trees along the meadow, and Mr. Grimes finished his count just in time to help with the last poles on the roof. Then they put up a small pole corral for the horses and mules, and when that was finished, they moved in. Now, Mr. Grimes explained, there was nothing to do but wait.

  “It's like this, Mr. Tucket,” he said. “There are two times to trap beaver. In late fall and early spring. In the fall, you catch them when their coats are turning prime—getting ready for the cold. In the spring, you catch them before they lose their winter pelts. Now I prefer to catch them in the fall —and I'll let you guess why.”

  Francis thought for a minute, then shrugged. “I don't know. Is the market better?”

  “True, but that's not really why. If you take a mother beaver in the spring, you might take her just after she's had young. You not only trap the mother, but kill the young because you take away their milk. If I take her in the fall, her babies—the kits— haven't even started yet and I only kill one beaver—”

  “But what's the difference?” Francis interrupted. “I mean, she's still gone, and she still can't have the kits.”

  “Right. But beaver mate up in the fall, and they mate for life. If I trap a female in the fall, the male that would have mated with her goes on and finds another. It all works out, Mr. Tucket, it all works out.”

  Francis thought about it, nodded, then asked, “When do we get started?”

  “About two weeks after the first cold snap, when their pelts firm up. I figure down here, in the bottorn of this canyon, we ought to see some cold before long.”

  It was true, Francis knew. Most of the aspens had taken on a golden hue, and the scrub oaks were already losing some leaves. The days were still warm but the nights had a way of turning cold, and moving out in the morning from beneath the warm buffalo robe Mr. Grimes had given him got harder each day. Also, the fact that there was little to do made it hard to get up.

  Francis found you either had too much to do, or nothing. When there was nothing, his thoughts turned always to his mother and father, and he wondered how they were doing in Oregon. He missed them, but for some strange reason, he missed Rebecca more. She had always been sort of a nuisance to him, following him when he wanted to be alone, asking him dumb questions�
�this made him smile when he thought of some of the questions he asked Mr. Grimes—and yet he missed her.

  Finally the cold weather came. One morning, Francis crawled out of his buffalo robe and the world was a land of crisp whiteness. Frost covered everything. Mr. Grimes was already up, humming —of all things—while he sharpened his skinning and fleshing knife.

  “To work, Mr. Tucket,” he announced. “Our holiday's over.”

  Now they had just two weeks to cut enough bait sticks—short pieces of green aspen—store them along the stream, plan the trap line, make skin-drying hoops of the same green aspen, and sort and “purify” the traps.

  And with all this work to be done, company arrived. Francis, for a change, saw them first, but only because Mr. Grimes was out cutting bait sticks. Francis was in front of the hut, lashing some drying hoops togedier with thongs of fresh rawhide from a deer that had wandered into their camp. Across the meadow came four horses. Two of them were being led, and two of them were being ridden. They were quite far away, too far to identify the riders as anything but men, too far away to allow any wild guessing. But even so, Francis made a wild guess and decided they were Crows.

  All of this took just five seconds. On the sixth second, he was in the house, looking out through an opening in its side. His cheek lay against the stock of his rifle, the hammer was back, a percussion cap covered the nipple, the barrel was charged, and his finger was on the trigger.

  The two men rode, as though drawn by an invisible cord, straight toward the cabin.

  WHEN THE MEN and horses were still some two hundred yards away, they stopped. One man dismounted and studied the soft ground of the meadow. He turned and said something to the man who was still mounted, and then swung back into his saddle. From the way he dismounted and mounted and the way they rode, Francis now realized that they weren't Indians. More than likely, especially since they had pack horses, they were trappers.