counting.
Bridger was certain the captain knew nothing about those early days in the Rocky Mountains. How I had to fight off both marauding Indians and Mormon raiders when Brigham Young got it in his head that this big land werenât big enough for both him and Jim Bridger to boot. No, this stupid captain wouldnât know nothing about how the army kept coming back for my help year after year, campaign after campaign.
He studied the balding officer a moment more, then stared off as dawnâs touch of rose faded from the never-summer snows on the Big Horns hulking high above them. This ainât that bad a spot. But why didnât the colonel take me along? Did Carrington want to be shed of my advice? Damn, if army brass ainât too oft like a cantankerous mule aâtimes. Never know which face theyâd turn on a man with next.
Bridger had led the 2nd Battalion of the 18th Infantry north from Fort Laramie with all hope for a peace treaty left in tatters. The old scout himself had seen the guns and kegs of powder lashed on the wild Indian ponies as the Oglalla and Miniconjou turned their own noses north, returning to their hunting ground north of the Crazy Woman Fork.
Still, from time to time, he had to remind Carrington, âThem Bad Faces under Red Cloud ainât about to welcome you with open arms, Colonel. Everything points to war.â
For the first few days out of Laramie, Bridger had wheedled and worked on the colonel, the old scout trying to convince him to use the longer but safer trail north. Back in 1864 Bridger had led emigrants to the Montana goldfields up the western slope of Big Horns. Through Shoshone land. âThe Snakes arenât out to lift white hair,â Bridger had lectured the officers.
âBut John Bozeman evidently didnât think much of your caution, Jim,â the colonel had said, smiling in that administrative way of his. âHe blazed his own road north that makes an easier trip of it than does yours. Saving hundreds of miles. Thatâs why ex-soldiers from the war are scurrying along Bozemanâs road, despite all the talk of danger from the Sioux.â
âSo where the almighty citizen wants to travel ⦠thatâs where the goddamned government will put its road. Duty bound to keep that road open with soldiers, I suppose.â
Carrington had grinned within his dark Vandyke beard. âSounds as if you grasp the government mind, Mr. Bridger.â
âI been round enough army brass in my years to know stinkum when I smell it,â Jim had replied. âCome hell or war, them stiff-necked politicians back East get something in their heads, nothingâs bound to change it. Even good horse sense.â
Bridger had finally joined Carrington in laughing. If the army wanted to keep this Bozeman Road into Montana open, then by God, Jim Bridger would come along for the ride. Might prove damned interesting before the last dance of the ball was called.
âAnd youâre not a man to pass up something interesting, are you, Jim?â
They laughed harder, together. He didnât know what it was, but Jim felt something appealing about the colonel. Bridger might even think he was growing to like Carrington. Still, he couldnât shake that cold, gut-grip feeling that the colonel no more belonged out here commanding soldiers against angry Sioux than a whore belonged in Sunday service.
Atop his flea-bit gray mare of a mule, the old scout had led them across the North Platte and into the desolate moonscape that swallowed the Montana Road for better than a hundred fifty miles. North by northwest they plodded across the many parched creeks, every face caked with dust, throats parched with thirst. Times beyond counting when they did run across water, they found it so laced with alkali that the mules and horses even turned their noses from a taste.
Overhead a relentless summer sun continued to bake man and beast alike. Every eveningâs
Bridger was certain the captain knew nothing about those early days in the Rocky Mountains. How I had to fight off both marauding Indians and Mormon raiders when Brigham Young got it in his head that this big land werenât big enough for both him and Jim Bridger to boot. No, this stupid captain wouldnât know nothing about how the army kept coming back for my help year after year, campaign after campaign.
He studied the balding officer a moment more, then stared off as dawnâs touch of rose faded from the never-summer snows on the Big Horns hulking high above them. This ainât that bad a spot. But why didnât the colonel take me along? Did Carrington want to be shed of my advice? Damn, if army brass ainât too oft like a cantankerous mule aâtimes. Never know which face theyâd turn on a man with next.
Bridger had led the 2nd Battalion of the 18th Infantry north from Fort Laramie with all hope for a peace treaty left in tatters. The old scout himself had seen the guns and kegs of powder lashed on the wild Indian ponies as the Oglalla and Miniconjou turned their own noses north, returning to their hunting ground north of the Crazy Woman Fork.
Still, from time to time, he had to remind Carrington, âThem Bad Faces under Red Cloud ainât about to welcome you with open arms, Colonel. Everything points to war.â
For the first few days out of Laramie, Bridger had wheedled and worked on the colonel, the old scout trying to convince him to use the longer but safer trail north. Back in 1864 Bridger had led emigrants to the Montana goldfields up the western slope of Big Horns. Through Shoshone land. âThe Snakes arenât out to lift white hair,â Bridger had lectured the officers.
âBut John Bozeman evidently didnât think much of your caution, Jim,â the colonel had said, smiling in that administrative way of his. âHe blazed his own road north that makes an easier trip of it than does yours. Saving hundreds of miles. Thatâs why ex-soldiers from the war are scurrying along Bozemanâs road, despite all the talk of danger from the Sioux.â
âSo where the almighty citizen wants to travel ⦠thatâs where the goddamned government will put its road. Duty bound to keep that road open with soldiers, I suppose.â
Carrington had grinned within his dark Vandyke beard. âSounds as if you grasp the government mind, Mr. Bridger.â
âI been round enough army brass in my years to know stinkum when I smell it,â Jim had replied. âCome hell or war, them stiff-necked politicians back East get something in their heads, nothingâs bound to change it. Even good horse sense.â
Bridger had finally joined Carrington in laughing. If the army wanted to keep this Bozeman Road into Montana open, then by God, Jim Bridger would come along for the ride. Might prove damned interesting before the last dance of the ball was called.
âAnd youâre not a man to pass up something interesting, are you, Jim?â
They laughed harder, together. He didnât know what it was, but Jim felt something appealing about the colonel. Bridger might even think he was growing to like Carrington. Still, he couldnât shake that cold, gut-grip feeling that the colonel no more belonged out here commanding soldiers against angry Sioux than a whore belonged in Sunday service.
Atop his flea-bit gray mare of a mule, the old scout had led them across the North Platte and into the desolate moonscape that swallowed the Montana Road for better than a hundred fifty miles. North by northwest they plodded across the many parched creeks, every face caked with dust, throats parched with thirst. Times beyond counting when they did run across water, they found it so laced with alkali that the mules and horses even turned their noses from a taste.
Overhead a relentless summer sun continued to bake man and beast alike. Every eveningâs
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