W
ith the arrival of a son everything changed. Something new was burning in Skye's bosom. He wanted to give this boy every chance to make his life whatever he wanted it to be. Skye knew, in his very marrow, that soon the tribes he lived among would be facing a strange new life, probably as farmers or ranchers, and that this flesh of his flesh would need to find a path of his own, a path that might not be the path of his parents.
This son of Barnaby Skye would learn to read and write and do his numbers. This boy would master a vocation. This lad would be schooled in a college. This youth would have every advantage that life had stolen from Skye long before, when a press gang on the cobbled streets of East London had plucked him at age thirteen from his family and stuffed him aboard one of His Majesty's warships where he was a powder monkey and a surgeon's assistant when he wasn't in the ship's brig for insubordination.
This boy would know comforts and a home with a roof. This boy would not be condemned to a desperate life as an
exile. This boy ⦠this Dirk, this North Star, the Star That Never Moves ⦠this firstborn son who arrived so late in Skye's life, would carry Skye's blood and vision into the future.
So this birth clawed at Skye. He needed money. He didn't know how long the roving life of the tribes would last, but he knew that each spring, thousands of wagons rolled west from the frontier settlements, Yankees plunging into the new lands across the continent, heading for gold out in California or rich, moist farmland in Oregon where a man scarcely needed to scratch the soil to bring up a bumper crop of anything a man chose to raise.
They were coming. They would forever alter the life he had known. He wondered how much Mary and Victoria fathomed all that. Victoria, at least, had been East with him once and had seen a world she had scarcely imagined and it had darkened her. She clung fiercely to the old and hallowed ways of her people and studied the Yankees coldly.
He knew the West. He couldn't stop the Yankees but he could be a guide, and maybe keep peace between Indians and whites. He could earn good money, and maybe do some good for his wives' people.
The next May, when the baby was strong and prospering, he took Mary and Victoria and Dirk to Fort Laramie, there to await the great annual migration, and there to offer his services to those Yanks plunging into the unknown West. Mary was reluctant to leave her village close to the mighty Wind River Mountains. Washakie's people had been generous with her, and North Star rode in a handsome cradleboard, quilled with bright images that would bring him luck and fortune. He was a placid boy, and Mary was a strong mother who
shouldered the board or held it across her lap as Skye and his wives migrated eastward, their world compressed by snowtopped mountains, while tender shoots of new grass carpeted the valleys.
They traveled alone, a man and two women on horseback, along with three packhorses and an Appaloosa pony that pulled a travois with the lodge cover anchored to it. Skye wasn't really expecting trouble, but he rode with his old Hawken across his lap. Now he had a son to protect as well as his wives.
They tarried now and then, never according to a schedule or white-man's clock, sometimes to permit Mary to clean away the urine-soaked moss in the cradleboard and pack fresh moss around the little boy's bottom. The nights remained chill and sometimes mean, but the land reveled in the warmth of the new summer, and erupted in pasqueflowers and wood lilies and gentian, and evening stars, lady's slipper, columbine, cinquefoil, and pestemon, pink and yellow and white and purple and blue, which embroidered wide slopes and made the whole world a receiving blanket for his boy.
They descended arid stepped canyons until they reached the mighty North Platte, where the well-worn trail would take them straight into Fort Laramie. But no one was traveling it this early, and they let their ponies fatten on the tender spring grasses at every wayside. Even Jawbone, whose energies outran his appetite, steadily put on weight, which only made him all the uglier.
One day they ran into a blue-bloused patrol from the fort, and Skye visited with the commanding lieutenant, a man he knew slightly.
“We're hearing there'll be record numbers passing through,” the lieutenant said. “Some have already checked through Fort Kearney.”
“That's good news for me. I'm a guide,” Skye said.
“You're Skye. Hardly an officer in the corps doesn't know you by reputation. It's that hat, Skye.”
“Mister Skye, sir.”
“That too. You're the man to get your clients where they're going.”
“I've been lucky, sir,” Skye said.
“There's trouble brewing this year, Mister Skye. If Mister Buchanan gives the word, the army's marching for Great Salt Lake City. He's fed up with the Saints. They're, what's the word? In breach of law. They're cooking up some insurrection. That's the word coming out of the telegraph wires. A little homegrown rebellion. Polygamy and all that.”
“How might that affect me?” Skye asked.
“There'll be a lot of California trains passing through Utah Territory, sir. And there may be trouble. The Saints are not in a peaceful mood.”
“I'll watch out for it, then, Lieutenant. But I'd be more concerned about keeping oxen away from loco weed, or making sure waterâ²s good.”
The cavalryman eyed Skye speculatively. “This year may be different,” he said. “It's been my pleasure.”
He raised an arm. The troopers spurred their mounts and trotted upriver in the benign spring sun, a platoon of blue-bellies who eyed Victoria and Mary with hooded thoughts.
Skye didn't much care for the Yankee cavalry and had an Indian's wariness of them. And yet he lived with them, and they left each other alone. He watched them trot west, the hooves of their well-shod mounts leaving prints in the soft spring soil.
Already some Yank wagon trains were at Fort Kearney. It wouldn't be long, then, unless rain mired them. And there
would be ample hire for Skye. The westering Yanks wanted experienced men to lead them. He usually needed only one fee to see him through the year, but this year he wanted two or three hires if he could get them. He had a son to think about. He wanted to put money aside with Colonel Bullock, the sutler at the post, who kept Skye's accounts. This year, Skye intended to work until the snows stopped him. This year he would begin to build whatever was needed to educate his boy. This year â¦
“Why do they all wear the same color?” Victoria asked.
“Why does each tribe have its own way of making moccasins?” Skye replied.
It was the response of a man without a country. He remembered his days and months and years in the Royal Navy, where there was a uniform of sorts, but a seaman could virtually create his own uniform out of what was at hand, including ship's sailcloth. Only the officers were dressed like copycats.
The uniforms made a cohort, a small nation of brothers aboard the warships floating slowly over the lonely seas. But here he was, traversing a two-rut artery across a wild continent, belonging to no cohort other than his own family.
They rode through increasingly rough country as the North Platte sliced through pine-darkened slopes, and finally raised Fort Laramie in the middle of a cloudy spring afternoon. It lay sleepily in a vise of piney hills, not yet disturbed by the deluge of settlers heading west. Smoke drifted from a few chimneys. Outbuildings spread from the original fortified adobe post. Skye and his family paused. This was the only presence of Yank power for hundreds of miles, and manned by only a handful of troops, many of them raw recruits, some of them straight off immigrant ships.
Victoria had never liked being there, and now she gazed stonily, her lips compressed. But Mary, filled with wonder, studied the fort eagerly.
He steered his family toward the sutler's store, operated by his old friend Colonel Bullock. There, Skye outfitted each year, and there, the retired Colonel Bullock, the Virginian who operated the store, acted as Skye's agent, steering travelers who needed guiding or protection to Skye. There, Bullock kept accounts for Skye, advanced him goods when he couldn't afford them, kept Skye afloat in an uncertain and perilous world.
Skye loved the place, not only because of the colonel's warmth and hospitality, but because it contained everything a border man might need. There were unbleached cotton sacks of sugar and flour, cases and crates of hardtack and sweets, well-greased rifles and revolvers, shelves groaning with bullets, lead, molds, powder, caps, flints, knives, blankets, kettles, beads, awls, dyes, molasses, and of course crockery jugs of Kentucky's finest.
Victoria loved the store if not the rest of the post, and would soon be digging through fragrant bolts of calico or gingham or flannel, looking for a few yards of this or that, along with needles and thread, buttons and bows. This year, with Mary along, Skye knew he would be buying whole bolts of clothâif he could.
He slid off Jawbone at the hitch rail but did not tie him. The horse could not abide being tied to anything and would tear everything apart. The women slipped off their mares and tied them, along with the pack animals. On the sutler's broad veranda were hewn-log chairs, and on these sprawled several strangers, hawkish Yanks with a squint etched permanently in their weathered flesh.
“Good afternoon, gents,” Skye said.
They nodded but did not reply. He felt their gaze on him and his wives as he plunged into the cool and shadowed store, with its burlap sacks and crammed shelves and casks and barrels. He made his way to the office cubicle at the rear, lit by a real-glass window, and there found the trim graying Virginian at his ledgers.
“Mistah Skye!” Bullock roared, bounding to his feet.
The handshake was as firm and warm as any on earth.
“Colonel, this is my new wife, Mary, of Chief Washakie's people ⦠and here ⦔ Skye gently lifted the cradleboard from Mary's shoulders.
“A pleasure, madam. You've made a noble match. And greetings to you, Victoria. Yoah family's expanding by leaps and bounds. My land, Mistah Skye, you've whelped a child!”
“We have a boy. Among Mary's people he is North Star, or the Star That Never Moves. And among the English, he's Dirk.”
“Dirk? As in dagger?”
“As in my fatherâ²s name.”
“And what will he be to a displaced Virginian late in federal service, suh?”
“He will be the inspiration that will fatten your accounts, Colonel. For I mean to give him a schooling. And schools cost money, and money is what I will be grubbing from now on.”
“A fine fat child,” Bullock said. “Those are your eyes, and your unmistakable beak. That beak will stamp any child of yours, Mistah Skye. It's the envy of every man who's ever met you. I don't own the half of that beak. That and your two gorgeous ladies. And those bold cheekbones and the child's warm flesh are those of your lovely lady. And I imagine the hair will be too, dark and silky, unlike your unruly mop!”
Mary smiled shyly.
Skye laughed, a giant ripple of pleasure bellying up from his middle.
“A family, Skye! Now I'll have you in debt the rest of your miserable life! A family costs pounds and shillings, dollars and cents! You'll have to work for a living. Work and grub like a farmer. And how's that offensive colt you've brought along?”
“Jawbone's nigh onto an adult now, and getting more and more ornery. If you'll observe, he's not capable of being tied. He also kicks anyone but us, and will let no other mortal approach him.”
“Skye, he's very like you, then. But I imagine Jawbone kicks with greater accuracy.”
They laughed.
“So, then. You're looking for business again, when the rush begins, eh?”
“Not just one this time. I'll take employment until the parade quits for the year, Colonel. A newborn son does that.”
Bullock sighed. “It won't be so easy anymore, Mistah Skye. This year, you face competition. A lot of competition. This year seems to be different in ways I intend to discuss with you as soon as the opportunity arises.”
C
olonel Bullock was a man who measured everything he said, and now he was plainly selecting his words carefully. Mister Skye knew that the sutler was also being tactful.
“Some outstanding trailsmen have shown up here, Mistah Skye. They mean to take over the guide business hereabouts. They believe it'll be a lucrative enterprise. I would expect, sah, that they'll be very competitive.” The colonel dabbed at his gray Vandyke, as if he didn't like to own the words that had filtered through it.
“Who are they?” Skye asked.
“Their head man is Millard Manville. A most pleasant gentleman. I always think highly of anyone with freckles. He's been twice to southern California, and once to Oregon, and says he made all three trips without significant loss to the wagon company and complete satisfaction all around. He was twice a captain clear from Independence, and once was elected midway along, when one wagon train rejected the man leading them.”
“And the others?”
“They all claim to be experienced men, Mistah Skye. Eight in all, I hear, and they've been over the trails and are ready to take others. One's been twice to Sutter's Fort, once over the Sierras in winter. A miraculous trip, I'm told.”
“I see. And why are they here looking for work? Independence is the place where guides hire out.”
“I don't rightly know. It's a riddle. Perhaps it's something you can discover. Sometimes calamity afflicts a wagon train, and its members elect someone else ⦔
The colonel was delicately posing something that Skye would look into. Just who were these guides and how successful had they been? The leader of a wagon train not only had to know wagons and teams, the land, the watering holes, the natives, the safe places and dangerous ones; he had to get along with people and help them through trouble. He needed to win the trust of his company. He needed to solve dilemmas and smooth crises. A successful captain was hard to find and his services brought him a fine wage.
“I think we'll manage,” Skye said. “For a quarter of a century I've roamed the American West, and that will serve me well, I imagine.”
Bullock slowly shook his head. “Normally it would, Mistah Skye.”
That set off some alarms in Skye's head. He would introduce himself to these rivals and form his own judgment. The discreet sutler would reveal little more.
“Well, Colonel, let's see about my credit.”
“It's credit you're depending on, my friend, for at the moment you are, let's see, a bit in arrears.”
That was bad. Much of Skye's next employment would be consumed paying off debt. And that debt would increase this
day because he was in need of powder, lead, tea, sugar, needles, thread, an awl, and sundry other items.
“Ladies,” said the colonel to Skye's women, “you just select what's needed, and I'll put it on the books.”
“I'll clean out your whole damned store,” Victoria said.
The sutler laughed. He always enjoyed Victoria's salty language, which she had picked up from the trappers. The women drifted down dusky aisles filled with treasures brought a vast distance by ox power. For Skye's family, the sutler's store was a magical place.
“Now you've got two and a half to support,” the colonel said. “Which means your expenses will rise by five.” His bright eyes burned cheerfully. It was as close as Colonel Bullock ever got to a joke.
“Colonel, these guides. They're going to be trouble for me?”
“I'd say they'll give you a hard time, sah. But count on me. There's always people rolling through here who want something more than a wagon captain. They want someone who can take'em where no one's walked before. Someone who's been over the western horizon and come back to tell about it. That's you, sah. I'll send you word of any prospects, but you'd be smart to hang around my front porch when the wagons roll in, because that's where this gaggle of guides is going to be.”
“I may have to do it.”
“And there's the other thing. You've a name for yourself. Wherever seasoned border men gather, they talk about Mister Skye. When a man's name's spoken with respect, you can count on business. When travelers in St. Louis or Independence or St. Joseph ask for a man to get them through, your name comes up. You're right there, with the Sublettes and Jim Bridger and Broken Hand Fitzpatrick, right there with
men whose name is carved on the farthest tree of the farthest wild, sir, and that alone ought to bring you all the business a man could want.”
Skye never knew how to handle comments like that, talk about his reputation, as if he had one, as if he were some sort of legend rather than a lost man struggling to stay afloat in a wild land. He lifted his battered silk top hat and smiled and settled it again on those unruly graying locks.
“Never heard of him,” Skye said.
“Ah, and Mistah Skye, this year they're not allowing grazing on the military reservation. Grass and hay are short. You'll have to subsist your stock somewhere upstream. Anything downstream will be chewed down to the roots by the wagon trains.”
“Up the Platte?”
The colonel paused. “I hear that's where these new fellows are camping. It's on the trail, and that gives'em a better chance at doing business.”
That's where Skye himself had camped in previous seasons.
“The Laramie River, then,” he said. “I don't know that I want my wives and my boy camped next to those gents.”
“A wise choice, sah.”
“How many trains are coming? Any word?”
“More than ever, I hear. This is getting to be a mighty business. Americans are always pulling up their roots and heading west. Next thing you know, the republic will have states on the Atlantic and Pacific, and territories in the middle. That is, if there's not a war between North and South, which is what I think will befall us one of these times.” The Virginian stared out the window. “It's not something I look forward to.”
Skye left the shopping to his women and drifted to the spacious veranda, where a variety of rough-looking men sat placidly on benches, under a roof, and watched troopers drill on the nearby parade ground.
Skye stood at the door, absorbing these gents. They were tough customers, all right. Some wore Colt Navy revolvers, the current sidearm of choice, at their hips. Most were bearded, and gazed at the world from beneath grimy broad-brimmed slouch hats, well bleached by sun and banded with sweat stain. The odd thought struck him that they didn't look much like captains of wagon trains, though he couldn't say what a captain should look like.
They noticed him now, and some smiled. He sensed no hostility among them, but rather a lively curiosity that matched his own.
“I reckon you're the squaw man we've been hearing about,” said one, rising. He was a big fellow with an open, cheerful face, freckles, and good humor exuding from him. He extended a big, freckled paw. “Millard Manville here.”
“Barnaby Skye, sir.”
“Ah! so it's you. All we hear is Skye, Skye, Skye. You've a reputation that humbles us, Skye.”
“Ah, it's Mister Skye, sir. It's a preference of mine.”
“Mister Skye, is it? Very well, if you claim Mister, then you're Mister.”
“And you, Mister Manville?”
“Misterâ²s the last way to address me. Call me Millard, call me Old Soak, call me Old Goat, call me Sonofabitch. But if you call me Mister, I'll reckon you're jabbering at someone else.”
“Well, I'll call people what they prefer.”
“By God, Skye, you nail a man down fast. Now, we've
been sitting here admiring that horse. We none of us have ever seen a horse like that.”
“That's Jawbone, and he's not known for being handsome.”
“Not known for handsome! Mister Skye, that horse is a grand champion of ugly.”
“I wouldn't dispute it, Mister Manville.”
“Mister is it? We've got to retrain you, that's all there is to it. Now that horse. It stand there untied, and when a body approaches, it clacks its teeth and gets fit to take a piece out of the nearest hide.”
“He won't tie, Millard. And you'd be well advised to stand clear, always.”
“He kicks, does he?”
“No, sir, he kills.”
“Kills! Maybe he's a candidate for a bullet, then. An outlaw like that.”
“No, he's been trained to do what I ask of him.”
“Dangerous horses should be shot.”
“Anyone who harms him will be paid in kind,” Skye said so slowly and distinctly that the words carried across that porch.
Manville stared sharply at Skye, but said nothing. The moment's fun had drained away.
“I imagine I'd better see how my women are doing, before they buy out the store,” Skye said.
“Now, hold on a moment,” Manville said. “I've organized a guide outfit here, and there's no reason for us to compete. You're the man I've heard about for years, the man whose name crosses lips everywhere.”
Skye thought he would at least listen.
“I've got eight men now, and more on their way, and
before the season's high, we'll have twenty men offering guide services. Good seasoned men. Lots of those wagon people, they figure they can get to Laramie all right, but then it gets tricky. They know it and they want help. So this year, we'll have some help to offer.”
“And you want to include me?”
“Why, Skye, you'd be our star attraction. Fifty percent of the proceeds of your guiding, all yours, and we get you the clients.”
“That's it? That's the deal?”
“Oh, there'd be a few conditions, sir. You'd have to leave your squaws behind. We don't want the dusky princesses with us, and most white people would take offense, you with a pair of native ladies. Some white women, they'd take alarm. Some white men, well, for the good of your ladies, sir, you'd want them in some safe place where you can squirrel them away until you return.”
“Sorry, my wives and I are together, and together we move people through dangerous country. When you hire Mister Skye, you get me, my Crow wife Victoria, and my Shoshone wife Mary, and our new boy. I'm afraid not, Mister Manville.”
“I don't suppose it'd help if I asked you to think it over, Mister Skye.”
“No, sir. There are some things I take for sacred, and you've touched one.”