post anywhere near the white-headed Doctor.”
“McLoughlin,” Wyeth said thoughtfully. “Yes. It wouldn’t make a lot of sense, would it?”
“Mayhaps a man with all this plunder to trade”—and Bass swung his free arm in a semicircle to indicate the profusion of goods—“should stake out his own ground.”
“His own ground?”
“Find hisself a spot where he won’t have no one near to bump up again’ him in business.”
Wyeth’s eyes shone wide and bright. “Yes, yes!”
“Someplace where he would plop hisself down and be there with his post and his goods for the trappers what wander by,” Bass explained, seeing that fire of excitement flicker boldly in the Yankee’s eyes. “Someplace where that post of his would bring in the friendlies.”
“The friendlies?” Wyeth drained his cup, setting it aside.
“Tribes what cotton up to the white man.”
“Yes! Like the ones here,” Wyeth cheered. “Flathead, Nez Perce.”
“Snake too.”
“Why, the Shoshone roam that Snake River country.”
“Good place as any for a man to be when he’s got him a passel of trade goods.”
Slapping both palms down on the tops of his thighs, the Yankee vaulted to his feet suddenly. “A good place where I’ll raise my fort—squarely in the middle! Right between the Hudson’s Bay at Vancouver on the Columbia… and the post Sublette and Campbell are raising at the mouth of La Ramee’s Fork! God bless you, Titus Bass! God bless you!”
“W-what the hell you bless me for?” and he found his cup being filled by the exuberant Yankee.
“All is not lost! Don’t you see?” Wyeth swept up his own cup again, pouring some amber fluid into it from a clay jug. “From the other outfits come here to rendezvous, I’ve somehow managed to add another thirty men to my brigade … and now I know where to base my operations! By building my own fort squarely in the western country!”
As for Wyeth, the Yankee did have little choice but to swallow the bone he had been thrown at this turn of life’s trail.
There truly was no recourse against those who had conspired against him, just as he himself admitted in correspondence written to his financial backers in the East over the last few days, “For there is no Law here.”
Fair play and honesty had apparently counted for nothing under the hot summer sun that second of July as the Wyeth brigade set out for the Snake country, escorting Jason Lee’s party of five Protestant missionaries bound for the land of the Nez Perce with what remained of their horned cattle.
A hungover Bass had finished loading up the last of the goods he had traded from Wyeth that morning as the Boston merchant eagerly prepared to pull out for the west, accompanied by a pair of naturalists he had escorted from St. Louis: Thomas Nuttall, a botanist, and John Kirk Townsend, a Philadelphia ornithologist.
Grittily shaking hands with the two partners who had done nothing to stop Sublette’s underhanded scheming, Wyeth grimly prophesied to Fitzpatrick and Bridger, “You will find that you have only bound yourselves over to receive your supplies at such price as may be inflicted on you, and that all that you will ever make in this country will go to pay for your goods. You will be kept as you have been—a mere slave to catch beaver for others.”
Upon marching away from that rendezvous in the valleyof Ham’s Fork, the Yankee tipped his hat and smiled at Sublette and Campbell, those who had done everything in their power to destroy the success of his business enterprises, vicious competitors who out of some species of curiosity had come to see him off.
To them and the remnants of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company partners, Wyeth vowed, “Gentlemen, I will roll a stone into your garden that you will never be able to get out.”
His was a threat that would echo even louder across the years to come.
The unmerciful August sun stung Bass’s eyes with the burn of mud-dauber wasps as he stepped from the
“McLoughlin,” Wyeth said thoughtfully. “Yes. It wouldn’t make a lot of sense, would it?”
“Mayhaps a man with all this plunder to trade”—and Bass swung his free arm in a semicircle to indicate the profusion of goods—“should stake out his own ground.”
“His own ground?”
“Find hisself a spot where he won’t have no one near to bump up again’ him in business.”
Wyeth’s eyes shone wide and bright. “Yes, yes!”
“Someplace where he would plop hisself down and be there with his post and his goods for the trappers what wander by,” Bass explained, seeing that fire of excitement flicker boldly in the Yankee’s eyes. “Someplace where that post of his would bring in the friendlies.”
“The friendlies?” Wyeth drained his cup, setting it aside.
“Tribes what cotton up to the white man.”
“Yes! Like the ones here,” Wyeth cheered. “Flathead, Nez Perce.”
“Snake too.”
“Why, the Shoshone roam that Snake River country.”
“Good place as any for a man to be when he’s got him a passel of trade goods.”
Slapping both palms down on the tops of his thighs, the Yankee vaulted to his feet suddenly. “A good place where I’ll raise my fort—squarely in the middle! Right between the Hudson’s Bay at Vancouver on the Columbia… and the post Sublette and Campbell are raising at the mouth of La Ramee’s Fork! God bless you, Titus Bass! God bless you!”
“W-what the hell you bless me for?” and he found his cup being filled by the exuberant Yankee.
“All is not lost! Don’t you see?” Wyeth swept up his own cup again, pouring some amber fluid into it from a clay jug. “From the other outfits come here to rendezvous, I’ve somehow managed to add another thirty men to my brigade … and now I know where to base my operations! By building my own fort squarely in the western country!”
As for Wyeth, the Yankee did have little choice but to swallow the bone he had been thrown at this turn of life’s trail.
There truly was no recourse against those who had conspired against him, just as he himself admitted in correspondence written to his financial backers in the East over the last few days, “For there is no Law here.”
Fair play and honesty had apparently counted for nothing under the hot summer sun that second of July as the Wyeth brigade set out for the Snake country, escorting Jason Lee’s party of five Protestant missionaries bound for the land of the Nez Perce with what remained of their horned cattle.
A hungover Bass had finished loading up the last of the goods he had traded from Wyeth that morning as the Boston merchant eagerly prepared to pull out for the west, accompanied by a pair of naturalists he had escorted from St. Louis: Thomas Nuttall, a botanist, and John Kirk Townsend, a Philadelphia ornithologist.
Grittily shaking hands with the two partners who had done nothing to stop Sublette’s underhanded scheming, Wyeth grimly prophesied to Fitzpatrick and Bridger, “You will find that you have only bound yourselves over to receive your supplies at such price as may be inflicted on you, and that all that you will ever make in this country will go to pay for your goods. You will be kept as you have been—a mere slave to catch beaver for others.”
Upon marching away from that rendezvous in the valleyof Ham’s Fork, the Yankee tipped his hat and smiled at Sublette and Campbell, those who had done everything in their power to destroy the success of his business enterprises, vicious competitors who out of some species of curiosity had come to see him off.
To them and the remnants of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company partners, Wyeth vowed, “Gentlemen, I will roll a stone into your garden that you will never be able to get out.”
His was a threat that would echo even louder across the years to come.
The unmerciful August sun stung Bass’s eyes with the burn of mud-dauber wasps as he stepped from the
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