At the north bank of the Arkansas while Waits-by-the-Water sat with the other children, Scratch and Flea clambered out of their saddles and trudged to the river’s edge with their short-handled camp axes. Together they chopped a long slot in the ice while Magpie and her mother dismounted and started the animals toward the bank.
As the horses drank, Titus laid his arm across his wife’s shoulder and turned her to look at the distant golden walls. Softly he said, “It will be a good thing to get these children out of the cold for the night.”
She gazed up at him, then laid her cheek against his chest as the noisy horses nuzzled the water behind them. “For these children of ours, this little cold does not bother them, Ti-tuzz. I have never heard them complain.”
“You are right,” he whispered with his chin resting atop her blanket hood. “The winter is much, much colder in our home country far to the north.”
“But a fire will feel very good to my feet,” Flea said as he brought their three Cheyenne packhorses up the bank to where his parents stood.
“Yes. It is time you show us this big mud lodge that shines red as a prairie paintbrush flower here at sunset!” Magpie goaded him with giddy excitement.
“You too, Jackrabbit?” Titus asked of his four-year-old son still sitting his saddle, his short legs swaddled inside a buffalo robe that was tucked under his arms.
“Go with Popo,” the boy answered, a smile brightening his whole face. “My belly wants to eat!”
Squeezing his wife’s shoulder, Bass turned to his red horse and said, “Woman, we best go feed this boy before he starts gnawing on my moccasins!”
He loved how their eyes widened the closer they got to the tall mud walls. Approaching from the southwest they reined for the circular bastion that stood more than twenty-some feet above the snowy plain. Extending to the right of that bastion stood two of the three corral walls, the top of all bristling with thorny cactus. Try as he might to squeeze his mind down on it right now, Titus could not remember this corral connected to the fort on his first trip here in the spring of ’34, and he couldn’t claim he’d paid all that much attention to its presence back in the autumn of ’42 when he had traded off most of his Mexican horses for more than a thousandweight of jangly foofaraw and shiny girlews.
“Where is the door to this lodge?” Flea asked, a little perplexed as they continued to plod north along the west wall.
“Soon you will see, my son.”
As they turned their horses at the far corner, he spotted a nesting of some three dozen lodges erected back among the riverbank cottonwood several hundred yards from the fort. More than two hundred ponies pawed at the frozen ground between the camp and the mud walls—
Suddenly an iron bell began to clang inside the fort, and a head appeared over the top above them. The man’s face disappeared as quickly.
“The Mexicans are here too?” Waits asked him. “This bell rings for their holy meetings?”
He knew she was referring to how the Taosenos followed the dictates of the great iron bell rung in its tall church steeple. He said, “I don’t figger we’ll find many greasers here now.”
“No holy meeting?” she repeated.
Wagging his head, Scratch said, “That bell rings only to announce the evening.”
“Why, Popo?” Flea inquired. “I can look at the sun falling, and know for myself that it is evening!”
Halfway on down the mud wall three men suddenly belched from the wide gate and halted as soon as they spotted Bass’s party. One of them waved an arm to the others, ordering the two on toward the small wheeled cannon while he stayed in place, shading his eyes as he inspected the new arrivals, calling out, “Howdy, stranger!”
“Ho, your own self!”
“What Injuns you brung with you, mister?”
“My family—wife and young’uns.”
That man turned away and trudged over to the cannon the other two had begun tugging back toward the wall. As he helped pushing on one of the huge wheels, he inquired, “You folks fixing on staying inside for the night?”
Bass cleared his throat. “I reckon—if’n there’s room.”
“Just barely,” he replied. “Got us more’n two dozen sick soldiers getting nursed.”
Titus brought his horse to a halt as the man stopped pushing the cannon. Together they watched the other two heave the weapon on through the open portal toward the inner plaza.
“Who’s nursin’ them soldiers?” Titus inquired as his family halted their horses around him. “Charlotte Green her own self?”
The man twisted suddenly and squinted up at Bass. “How you know Charlotte?”
“I been here years ago,” he confessed, quickly glancing at his pair of dogs sniffing along the base of the mud walls for interesting scent. “Meeted her and husband Dick back then. Good folks. Bought these here two dogs off Charlotte—back when they was wee pups. That was just afore I got skinned by Savary. He here—Savary?”
“Naw,” the man explained. “St. Vrain’s been off to Santa Fe—gone last fall. I figger he’s in the thick of things in Taos by now.”
“Who’s trader here?”
“Goddamn Murray. You hear of him?”
“Hell if I ain’t!” Bass replied. “Did a piece of business with him that fall I come in here with some Mex horses from Californy. He’s a square man.”
“You was with the bunch what come in with Bill Williams back in forty-two?” the man asked, stepping right over to Scratch’s knee to peer up at the white-bearded man, the old trapper’s ruddy face all but hidden beneath the coyote fur cap.
“That was a time,” Bass sighed. “Mex soldiers chased us down to the desert, then the Diggers up and spooked our whole herd.”*
“Story was you fellas lost more’n half them horses on the way here.”
Titus glanced at his wife, then grinned down at the stranger. “The things a man won’t do when he’s young and full of vinegar.”
“My name’s Haney Rankin,” and he held his hand up. “I’m Murray’s segundo while most of the fort hands are off with Bransford—gone to fight the greasers in Taos. You can head ’round to the east wall. You remember that corral over there?”
“I do recollect. There a gate on that side?”
Rankin nodded. “Bring your family on inside that small corral. Sun’s down so we’re bolting these here gates for the night. I’ll meet you over to the corral.”
“You don’t s’pect trouble from them Injuns camped down in them trees?” he asked as Rankin followed the cannon through the darkened entry way.
“Naw. That’s Gray Thunder’s band,” Rankin’s voice echoed through the low, shadowy entry way. “They come in a week or so back—soon as they heard Charlie Bent was kill’t by the Mexicans. Offered to go kill greasers if William wanted ’em to.”
Bass waited till the three were swallowed by shadows, then reined his horse away. “C’mon, woman,” he said in English to his Crow wife. “We’ll settle in for the night. Come morning, I’m fixin’ to pay a call on that Cheyenne camp. Maybeso scratch up some news ’bout a old friend of ours.”
“I will stay behind with the children when you go,” Waits spoke emphatically. “Cheyenne are not so much friends with my people.”
“Better I go down there by myself anyway,” he agreed. “See what sort of mood them Cheyenne are in afore I go asking up about that ol’ friend.”
“Who is this?”
“You ’member the one about as tall a man as you ever seen?”
She thought a moment as they brought their ponies to a halt outside the narrow east gate. Then a grin crossed her face ruddied by the cold. “Shad-rach,” she said slowly, deliberately, in her husband’s tongue.
“Shadrach Sweete,” he repeated as the gate was drawn back against the icy snow and Rankin was there with a candle lantern spilling its yellow patch on the snow around his feet.