“Idaho is wild, Smoke,” Preacher told him. “Only a few places settled. We ain’t heard nothin’ by next spring, we’ll strike out for the Hole.”
1867
The pair spent the winter of 1866–67 in an old cabin on the banks of the Colorado River, with the northern slopes of Castle Peak far to the south, but visible on most days. Here, the pair ran traps, hunted, and on the bitter cold days and nights, stayed snug in the cabin built some forty years earlier by a long-dead friend of Preacher’s.
“What happened to the man who built this cabin?”
“He got tied up with a mountain lion one afternoon,” Preacher said. “The puma won.”
In the spring of ’67, they sold their pelts at a post and rode out for the northwest.
“Show you where we used to rendezvous, Smoke. Back ’bout ’30, I think it were. Worst damn place I ever been in my life. We called it Fort Misery. First time I ever et dog. Warn’t too bad as I recall.”
Kirby shuddered. “You’ve eaten dog since?”
“Shore. Many times. And so will you. That’s why Injuns keep so many dogs ’round they camp. Come winter, food gets scarce, they cook up dog. It’s right good.”
Kirby hoped he would never eat dog. “This Brown’s Hole — that where we’re headin’?”
“Yep. On the Utah side of Brown’s Hole, just west of Wild Canyon. Quiet there. I told your Pa ’bout it. Said ifn he could, he’d meet us there — somehow.”
Kirby didn’t like the sound of — somehow.
They had taken their time, riding through the Flat Tops Primitive area past Sleepy Cat Peak, and into the Danforth Hills. They made camp at the confluence of the Little Snake and Yampa Rivers — and they stayed put for three weeks.
“What are we waiting for?” Kirby asked impatiently, the youth in him overriding his near manhood.
“Somebody’ll be along directly.” Preacher calmed him. “They always is. So you just hold your water, Smoke — we got time.”
At the end of the third week, a mountain man rode in. He looked, at least to Kirby, to be as old as God.
“You just as ugly as I ’membered, Preacher,” he said, in a form of greeting.
Kirby had learned that mountain men insulted each other whenever possible. It was their way of showing affection.
“You should talk. Grizzly,” Preacher retorted. “I ’member what Elk Man told you thirty year ago: You could hire out your face to scare little children.”
A pained look crossed the old man’s face. “Hell, Preacher,” he said in mock indignation, “I didn’t ride seventy mile to get insulted.”
‘“Course you did. I’m one of the few that can stand to look at you. Light and sit, we got grub.”
“You cook it?”
“Hell, yes, I cooked it!”
“That’s even a worst insult,” Grizzly said. But he dismounted, dropped the reins on the ground, and filled a plate with food.
After his second helping, piling his plate high with venison, wild potatoes mixed with wild onions, and gravy, the old mountain man wiped his tin plate clean with a piece of Kirby’s panbread, then poured a third cup of coffee. He belched contentedly and patted his stomach. “Bread was good, anyways. Boy must have made that.”
Preacher glared at him. “I’d druther have to buy your traps than feed you for any length of time. You eat like a hog.”
Preacher and Grizzly insulted one another for a full half hour, each one trying to outdo the other. Kirby had never heard such tall tales and wild insults. The men finally agreed it was a draw.
Grizzly said, “Do I talk in front of the boy?”
“He ain’t no boy. He’s a growed man “
Kirby poured himself a cup of coffee and waited.
“Man rode into the Hole ’bout two months ago. All shot up. Had a bad cough. He —”
“Is he still alive?” Kirby blurted.
Grizzly turned cold eyes on the young man. “Don’t never ’rupt a man when he’s a-palaverin’. Tain’t polite. One thing ’bout Injuns, they know manners. They gonna ’low a man to speak his piece without ‘ruptin’. ’Course they might skin you alive the minute you finished, but they ain’t gonna ’rupt you while you’s talkin’.”
“Sorry,” Kirby said.
“’Cepted. No, he’s dead. Strange man. Dug his own grave. Come the time, I buried him. He’s planted on that there little plain on the base of the high peak, east side of the canyon. You ’member it, Preacher?”
Preacher nodded.
Grizzly reached inside his war bag and pulled out a heavy sack. He tossed the sack to Kirby. “This be yourn, from your Pa. Right smart ’mount of gold.” Again, he dipped into the buckskin and beaded bag, pulling out a rawhide-wrapped flat object. “This here is a piece of paper with words on it. Names, your Pa said, of the men who put lead in him. He said you’d know what to do, but for me to tell you don’t do nothin’ rash.” Grizzly rose to his feet. “I done what I gave my word I’d do. Now I’ll be goin’. Thankee both for the grub.”
Without another word, the old mountain man mounted his pony, gathered his pack horses, and rode off east. He did not look back.
“Ain’t no point in movin’ now,” Preacher said. “Be dark in three hours. We’ll pull out at first light.”
At eighteen, Kirby had achieved his full growth: six feet, two inches tall, packing a hundred and eighty pounds of bone and muscle. His shoulders, arms, and hands were powerful, his legs long, his waist lean. His hair was long and ash-blond. His hands and face were deeply tanned. His eyes were an unreadable brown.
The bay his father had given him had not survived the first winter, slipping on ice and breaking a leg, forcing Kirby to shoot the animal. He now rode a tough mountain horse he had traded from an Indian, a huge Appaloosa, much larger than most of that breed. The Indian had ridden away chuckling, thinking he had gotten the better of the deal, for the Appaloosa would allow no one to ride it, refusing to be broken. But Kirby had slow-gentled the animal, bringing it along slowly and carefully, step by step. Now, no one but Kirby could put a saddle on the animal, much less ride him. He was a stallion, and he was mean, his eyes warning any knowledgeable person away. The Appaloosa had, in addition to its distinctive markings, the mottled hide, vertically striped hoofs, and pale eyes, a perfectly shaped seven between his eyes. And that became his name. Seven.
Gone was the McClellan saddle, replaced by a western rig, slightly heavier, but much more comfortable.
Smoke and Seven.
Emmett’s horses had been picketed close to the base of Zenobia Peak. His gear was by his grave, covered with a ground sheet and secured with rocks. There were several more horses than Emmett had left with.
“You read them words on that paper your Pa left you?” Preacher asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll go set up camp at the Hole. I reckon you’ll be along directly.”
“Tomorrow. ’bout noon.”
“See you then.” Preacher headed north. He would cross Vermillion Creek, then cut west into the Hole. Smoke would find him when he felt ready for human company. But for now, the young man needed to be alone with his Pa.
Kirby unsaddled Seven, allowing him to roll. He stripped the gear from the pack animals, setting them grazing. He picketed only the pack animals, for Seven would not stray far from him.
Taking a small hammer and a miner’s spike from his gear, Kirby began the job of chiseling his father’s name into a large, flat rock. He could not remember exactly when his Pa was born, but thought it about 1815.
Headstone in place, secured by heavy rocks, Kirby built his small fire, put coffee on to boil in the blackened pot, then sat down to read the letter from his Pa.
“Son,
I found some of the men who killed your brother, Luke, and stolt the gold that belonged to the Gray. Theys more of them than I first thought. I killed two of the men work for them, but they got led in me and I had to hitail it out. Came here. Not goin to make it. Son, you don’t owe nuttin to the Cause of the Gray. So don’t get it in your mind you do. Make yoursalf a good life and look to my restin’ place if you need help.