Riley stared across the camp in the morning light at the men gathered outside the sisters’ lodge. They weren’t meeting or discussing anything, from what he could tell. Just waiting.
Several large frames with hides stretched on them obscured his view of the lodge the Martelli brothers had vacated to give the Collins sisters a furnished home, but that must be what these men were clustered around. Every half minute or so, a new fellow would approach, swap words with someone already waiting there, then settle in with an expectant gaze turned the same direction as the others.
A knot clenched in his middle. Even having native women at the rendezvous made the trappers extra feisty. But white women among men who likely hadn’t seen that commodity since the missionaries’ wives two years before, well...
These four would be trouble. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where that wouldn’t be true.
Did they plan to stay on here, or was this merely an adventure to see the rendezvous, and they’d be returning East with the supply wagons in a few days? If the former, best they marry up posthaste. Next week, if they knew what was good for them. They needed protection from the rougher portion of this bunch.
But he was not just thinking for the women’s sake, though that was definitely a good reason. Their presence would set off so many skirmishes among the men, people were bound to be hurt. Especially once the whiskey flowed, now that this morning’s trading had commenced. He couldn’t stand the stuff himself, the way it took away a person’s good sense. That was part of the reason he’d joined with Ol’ Henry, Dragoon, and Jeremiah. None of them were given to drunkenness, not even during the rendezvous.
Speaking of, why weren’t all these men lined up at the trade wagons to swap their goods? Maybe that would be a way to run them off so the women could at least poke their heads out of their lodge without being gawked at. Or worse, accosted.
“What you figure they’re doing here?” Dragoon stepped from the lodge behind Riley and crouched by the fire. He speared his knife into a chunk of meat sizzling on the rock they used for cooking. The rest of them had eaten an hour or so earlier, but Dragoon never liked to beat the sun up in the mornings.
“I’d like to know that myself.” Ol’ Henry sat on Riley’s other side, with a cup of dark brew cradled in both hands. The stuff was probably weak enough to taste like sour water, but Ol’ Henry loved his coffee. He rationed his supply more than he rationed his gunpowder all year long. It was said he once sliced off a fellow’s fingers when the man reached for the tin where Henry kept the beans. Legend had it that Ol’ Henry had been returning to the camp when he saw the man with the curious hands. He’d whipped out his knife and flung it across a distance of a dozen strides.
That fellow was lucky it was only two fingers he lost, nothis life from blood poisoning. With no doctors anywhere in these parts, the closest thing to a healer was one of the native shamans. And their ways weren’t very close to what was taught in medical schools in the States.
Dragoon turned to Riley. “Why don’t you mosey over and join that group of fellers waiting for them to peek out? Maybe you can overhear why the women came. ’Sides, you’re of an age to go a’courting. Maybe one of them will take a shine to you.”
Riley snorted. The last thing he needed was a female to keep up with in this wilderness. Especially not a dainty lady, fresh from her fancy parlor. Those four sisters had no business venturing out here without a man—or a whole army—for protection.
Any man who did marry one of these sisters would have to take her back East where she belonged. And a journey like that didn’t figure into any of Riley’s plans. North to Rupert’s Land, sure. Maybe even west of the mountains to see the Pacific Ocean. And one day he might finally manage to trek the backbone up the Rockies like he’d been imagining. But not east. He could breathe far better in this rugged land.
He shook his head. “You won’t find me joining those uncouth skinners. I’ll happily run them all off, but that’s the best I can offer.”
A spark lit Dragoon’s eyes, and the corners of his beard lifted. “Now that might be fun. We could create a diversion. It’s not hard to find something interesting enough to draw the attention of these fellows.”
Wariness prickled Riley’s chest. “I thought you were going to trade your pelts this morning so you could get prime pickings of the supplies.”
Dragoon raised a shoulder, his nonchalance clearly feigned. “You might’ve struck on something when you said to wait a bit until the line dies down. Besides, what I’m thinking won’t take more than a few minutes.”
Riley studied his lodgemate. Dragoon was the rowdiest of the four of them who’d trapped together this spring, though usually that meant he was simply more outspoken during the stories told around the campfire. He wasn’t one of the true disorderlies, like the ones who filled up with whiskey and rode through camp howling and shooting off enough rounds for an entire month’s hunting.
Dragoon had been known to play a prank or two on the rest of them, but it was always innocent fun. Surely that’s all he meant now. Still, better to make sure.
He eyed the man. “You’re not planning to do something that’ll make the situation worse for those women, are you?”
Dragoon’s brows lifted. “’Course not.” His voice held a tone of contempt, either for the men parked in front of their lodge or toward Riley for thinking such a thing of him. He spit a chunk of meat into the fire, and Riley couldn’t help watching the fat sizzle among the leaping flames. He returned his focus to Dragoon.
The man flashed a stained smile. “I’m trying to help them. You can come, too, if you want. Both of you.” With a groan, he pushed up to standing and wiped the grease from his fingers on his buckskin leggings. “Time to get busy.” Then he turned and strode from camp toward the river—the direction opposite the women’s lodge.
Should Riley call after him and find out exactly what Dragoon planned? He slid a look at the wisest man in their little group. “You think he’s about to cause trouble?”
In addition to more stories than a man could hear in a lifetime of evenings around the campfire, Ol’ Henry had also developed an uncanny ability to read people. He’d experienced enough of these mountain men’s shenanigans to know beforehand if something was about to go sideways. Usually.
The lines across Ol’ Henry’s leathery face deepened, though it was hard to tell if the expression was a smile or a grimace. “I don’t reckon he’ll set out to cause trouble. Might better be on hand in case, just in case. If you need help, send up a shout.”
Better be on hand in case of what? Riley had heard stories of bored trappers tying torches to the tails of foxes or rabbits and setting them loose among the lodges to stir up excitement, but Dragoon wouldn’t do anything like that. He had plenty of respect for life and for the belongings that were hard enough to come by in this treacherous land.
In a country where the misstep of a pack mule on a mountain slope could destroy a faithful companion and helpmate—not to mention half a year’s hard work in beaver skins—any mountain man worth his salt knew better than to allow a prank to go too far.
Yet many did, especially when filled with strong drink.
Riley pushed up to his feet. “Guess I’ll go watch in case he brings half the camp down on himself.” In truth, Dragoon could hold his own amongst the rabble, but someone needed to be near in case the women got caught in the fray.
He’d barely rounded the stretched hides when a volley of shots echoed from somewhere to the left. They couldn’t be more than a quarter mile away, though the rock cliffs on either side of the valley made the sounds bounce in every direction.
