blink stung. The dull plod of oxen hooves and the constant moaning of the cattle got on everyone's nerves.
“Stupid, stupid cattle!” Marguerite cried. “What do they need to say all the time? Do they talk about how pretty is the hind end of the cow in front of them?”
At the beginning of the journey, women had sung as they walked; children had laughed and chased butterflies. Now they trudged along like battle-weary soldiers. Babies screamed with diaper rash and mosquito bites. The women's skirts were frayed and tattered at the hems. The dogs were matted with burrs. Every day was alike, except when some catastrophe burst through the numbing torpor. Twice, tornados spun dangerously close. Once, on a perfectly sunny day, a single cloud appeared and pelted them with hailstones the size of plums. Another day, lightning struck and killed one of the German brothers’ prize cows. But most days were just long and dull. Still, they were making good time, twelve, sometimes fifteen miles a day. Another few weeks and they would see the mountains.
“No better place in all the world than the Rocky Mountains,” Jackson said one evening as he scraped the last spoonful of beans off his plate. He was in a good mood, for he liked beans. There was rarely enough fuel or time for the hourlong cooking they needed, but they had been lucky finding buffalo chips that day.
“Going to be a lot of work, hauling all these wagons over,” William Buck grumbled.
“Been done plenty of times now,” Jackson said. “Won't be easy, but you should have seen it twenty years ago! No real trail then. We were still figuring out ways to get through.”
“How long have you been out here anyway, Mr. Jackson?” Aiden asked, taking advantage of the man's rare chatty mood.
“Came out in 1831. Fur trapping. Them was some fine years—beaver everywhere, like mice in a feed bin when the cat's up and died. I brought in near six hundred skins to my first rendezvous, and that was being fresh out of nowhere, not knowing my ass from my elbow.”
“What's a rendezvous?” Aiden asked.
“Grandest party ever there was! Once a year, in July, after the spring hunt, all the trappers would meet up in one place for the companies to buy the pelts.” Jackson stretched back and got himself comfortable. “Lord—you want to know some fine festivities.” He looked at Aiden and smiled big. “Skins went for plenty then—three dollars for the poor ones, six for a good pelt. Trappers came in, got three or four thousand cash money in their hand, then drank and gambled it all away in a week.” Jackson tipped his head back and laughed. “Why, a man could go back east and buy himself a castle if he'd amind to, but instead he'd get stinking drunk and piss it all away.”
“How come?” Aiden asked. “How come you didn't, well, piss just half of it away and save you some?”
“Ah—wouldn't that be a smart thing to do.” Jackson laughed. “But see, boy—I'll tell you some wisdom. People set up how they want their life to be. Sometimes they don't know that's what they's doing, but it is. The rich folk back east, for example, they pile up accumulations to keep them chained down there. And the mountain man, well, he piles up nothing to keep him chained out there—” Jackson waved a hand toward the western sky.
“Why'd you quit, then?” Buck pressed.
“Quit? I didn't quit. Ran out of beaver. We killed ‘em all. I trapped six hundred my first year, not even sixty my last. We killed ‘em all. You'll see. Another month we'll be up there and you'll see. Beaver scarce as dinosaurs.”
“So what'd you do then?” Aiden asked.
“Oh, various type this ‘n’ that employs. Went south and shot me some Mexicans in the war, tried out the gold, did some trade.” Jackson leaned back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Lately I schoolmarmed a bunch of you sorry-ass tenderfoots across the country, which is right now wearin’ me the hell out, so enough of the
“Stupid, stupid cattle!” Marguerite cried. “What do they need to say all the time? Do they talk about how pretty is the hind end of the cow in front of them?”
At the beginning of the journey, women had sung as they walked; children had laughed and chased butterflies. Now they trudged along like battle-weary soldiers. Babies screamed with diaper rash and mosquito bites. The women's skirts were frayed and tattered at the hems. The dogs were matted with burrs. Every day was alike, except when some catastrophe burst through the numbing torpor. Twice, tornados spun dangerously close. Once, on a perfectly sunny day, a single cloud appeared and pelted them with hailstones the size of plums. Another day, lightning struck and killed one of the German brothers’ prize cows. But most days were just long and dull. Still, they were making good time, twelve, sometimes fifteen miles a day. Another few weeks and they would see the mountains.
“No better place in all the world than the Rocky Mountains,” Jackson said one evening as he scraped the last spoonful of beans off his plate. He was in a good mood, for he liked beans. There was rarely enough fuel or time for the hourlong cooking they needed, but they had been lucky finding buffalo chips that day.
“Going to be a lot of work, hauling all these wagons over,” William Buck grumbled.
“Been done plenty of times now,” Jackson said. “Won't be easy, but you should have seen it twenty years ago! No real trail then. We were still figuring out ways to get through.”
“How long have you been out here anyway, Mr. Jackson?” Aiden asked, taking advantage of the man's rare chatty mood.
“Came out in 1831. Fur trapping. Them was some fine years—beaver everywhere, like mice in a feed bin when the cat's up and died. I brought in near six hundred skins to my first rendezvous, and that was being fresh out of nowhere, not knowing my ass from my elbow.”
“What's a rendezvous?” Aiden asked.
“Grandest party ever there was! Once a year, in July, after the spring hunt, all the trappers would meet up in one place for the companies to buy the pelts.” Jackson stretched back and got himself comfortable. “Lord—you want to know some fine festivities.” He looked at Aiden and smiled big. “Skins went for plenty then—three dollars for the poor ones, six for a good pelt. Trappers came in, got three or four thousand cash money in their hand, then drank and gambled it all away in a week.” Jackson tipped his head back and laughed. “Why, a man could go back east and buy himself a castle if he'd amind to, but instead he'd get stinking drunk and piss it all away.”
“How come?” Aiden asked. “How come you didn't, well, piss just half of it away and save you some?”
“Ah—wouldn't that be a smart thing to do.” Jackson laughed. “But see, boy—I'll tell you some wisdom. People set up how they want their life to be. Sometimes they don't know that's what they's doing, but it is. The rich folk back east, for example, they pile up accumulations to keep them chained down there. And the mountain man, well, he piles up nothing to keep him chained out there—” Jackson waved a hand toward the western sky.
“Why'd you quit, then?” Buck pressed.
“Quit? I didn't quit. Ran out of beaver. We killed ‘em all. I trapped six hundred my first year, not even sixty my last. We killed ‘em all. You'll see. Another month we'll be up there and you'll see. Beaver scarce as dinosaurs.”
“So what'd you do then?” Aiden asked.
“Oh, various type this ‘n’ that employs. Went south and shot me some Mexicans in the war, tried out the gold, did some trade.” Jackson leaned back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Lately I schoolmarmed a bunch of you sorry-ass tenderfoots across the country, which is right now wearin’ me the hell out, so enough of the
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