Winter Rain

“I take it you’re a man what knows his dogs?” Titus asked as he neared the bare-chested white trapper who had stepped out from the trees and willows that lined the south side of Ham’s Fork of the Green River where every shady, cloistered spot was littered with canvas tents, lean-tos, and bowers made of blankets and oiled sheeting.

Awful quiet here for a rendezvous, Titus had been thinking ever since their tiny procession marched off the bluff and made their way into the gently meandering valley. But after all, it was the middle of a summer afternoon and a smart man laid out that hottest time of day.

The stranger whistled to the dog and knelt. “He your’n?”

Bass reined to a halt as Waits came up beside him. “Zeke’s his name.”

Patting and scratching the big dog’s head, the man observed, “He been in a scrap of recent, ain’t he?”

“Perfecting our camp from a pack of wolves.”

The man cupped Zeke’s jaw in a hand and peered into the dog’s eyes. “Had me a dog not too different’n this’un back in the States when I was a growing lad.” Then he sighed. “Likely he’s gone under by now. Be real old if he ain’t.”

“My name’s Bass. Titus Bass,” and Scratch held down his hand to the stranger.

“You’re a free man I take it?” the stranger asked as they shook.

“Trap on my own hook,” he replied.

“Then you’re likely the Bass a feller was lookin’ for, asking if you’d come in when they arrived a week or so back.”

His eyes warily squinted as he searched the nearby groves of trees and canvas. “Someone asking after me?”

“Big feller, English-tongued he was—”

“By damn, them Britishers here again this summer?”

“They are for sure.”

“Where’s their camp?”

“Off yonder,” and he pointed. “My name’s Nels Dixon. Ride with Drips.”

“He that booshway with American Fur?”

Dixon threw a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Him and Font’nelle. That’s us over there.”

“Good to know you,” Bass replied. “Where the free men camped?”

“Some here and some there. Rocky Mountain Fur settled in on upstream ’bout eight miles or so. Sublette come in with his goods to trade, with ’nother feller too.” Then after he glanced quickly at the woman and the child she had lashed inside that Flathead cradleboard swinging from the tall pommel at the front of her saddle, Dixon asked, “How long you been out here to the mountains?”

Scratch smiled. “Come out spring of twenty-five.”

“Damn—you mean to tell me you was a Ashley man for that first ronnyvoo?”

Wagging his head, Bass replied, “Didn’t see my first ronnyvoo till twenty-six. But I made ever’ one since.”

“That makes nine of ’em, Bass.”

Drawing himself up, Scratch sighed, “Time was, I didn’t figure I’d ever see near this many ronnyvooz, Dixon. S’pose it’s nigh onto time for us to make camp.”

“That sure is a handsome woman,” the man declared backing one step to grab himself a last admiring look at Waits by the Water. “I take it she yours.”

“My wife. Crow. They arc a handsome people. We been together for more’n a year now,” then he nudged his heels into the buffalo runner’s ribs.

“Handsome woman, Titus Bass,” Dixon repeated. “But, like I said, that sure is one ugly dog!”

“Thankee kindly,” Scratch replied with a wide, brown-toothed grin. “Thankee on both counts!”

As the infant suckled at her breast, Waits by the Water watched her husband call the dog over and have it lay beside him as he squatted at their small fire. She studied how the man scratched its torn ears, the scarred snout, that thick neck the wolf tried vainly to crush—seeing how gently her husband’s hands treated the big dog, recalling how his hands ignited a fire in her.

Her husband loved his animals, the buffalo pony and mule, and now this dog too. Almost as much as she knew he loved her and their daughter.

“Have you decided upon a name?” she asked.

He stared at the flames awhile. The only sound besides the crackling of their fire were the shouts and laughter from down the valley where the many white men camped and celebrated. How the white man could celebrate!

“No,” he finally admitted, not taking his eyes off the fire. “This is so important, I do not want to make a mistake.”

“Who do you want to name her if you don’t?” she asked.

Her husband turned to look at her. “Isn’t it the father who gives a name among your people?”

“It is one of the father’s family.”

Wagging his head, Bass peered back at the flames. “Besides the two of you, I don’t have any family out here. I might as well not have any family left back there anyway. So there is no one to name our daughter but me.”

“Arapooesh calls you his brother.”

Nodding, Bass replied, “Yes, Rotten Belly is like a brother.”

“Perhaps he can help us when we return to my people for the winter, chil’ee, my husband.” She sighed and gently pulled her wet nipple from the babe’s slack mouth. Waits laid the sleeping infant beside her and pulled the corner of a blanket over the child.

“I am anxious to see Rotten Belly,” Scratch admitted. “It will be two winters since we have talked and smoked together.”