Free Rivers West by Louis L’Amour Page A

mountains. I want to trap the cricks that flow down from the high-up hills. I want to ride the Crow country, the Blackfeet country.”
    He had been squatting on his heels, and now he got up. “He’p you with your stock.” He put down his cup. “You say you had a woman with you? A Miss…?”
    â€œMajoribanks.”
    â€œAh?”
    I turned to look at him. “Do you know the name?”
    He shrugged. “Now that’s…an unusual kinda name, ain’t it? English, maybe?”
    â€œMaybe. She’s American though. Old Yankee stock—and acts it.”
    He chuckled. “Heard she was right pert. Stiff-backed and proud. Well, that’s the way a filly should be.”
    There might be two minds about that, I reflected, but we walked outside and to the stable.
    He moved easily, carrying his rifle like an extension of himself, and when he went to work on the stock, he knew what he was about. We put down more feed for them, saddled up, and loaded our gear on the pack horse. He brought his own gear, and as our horse was carrying light, he added it to the pack. He had no horse himself.
    â€œYou’ll not be able to keep up,” I said.
    He gave me a quick, hard glance. “You set your pace. I’ll be along.”
    We led the horses out to the creek for water. It was a still, beautiful morning, and the creek ran cheerfully along, shadowed by overhanging trees. Morning sunlight sparkled on the water wherever it found its way through the leaves. The horses lifted their heads, water dripping from their muzzles. They seemed as pleased with the morning as we were.
    We heard the hoofbeats as we turned from the water. There was a rider coming down the road at a comfortable pace. We led the horses back to the inn yard as the rider approached. It was a woman, and she rode a fine bay gelding—and rode it well.
    She drew up as she entered the yard, her eyes going from me to my companion, then back to me. She was round-faced, pretty, probably on the sunny side of forty. “You must be that impudent young man,” she said, staring at me, smiling a little.
    â€œWell,” I said, “I’m not sure I could claim—”
    â€œI am sure! No man could be so broad-shouldered without attracting attention. Yes, you’ll be the one.” She got down from the saddle without waiting for help, then turned to us.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Abigail Higgs. I’ll be traveling west with you.”
    â€œThat’s a fine horse,” I commented, and she laughed.
    She addressed my companion. “See? It has to be him. He meets a woman for the first time and comments on her horse. No wonder she thinks he’s impudent.” She turned on me. “Are you impudent, young man?”
    â€œDon’t plan to be,” I said.
    She laughed. “I’m for breaking my fast. Let’s go in.”
    I tied her horse, glanced at the hunter, and shrugged. He chuckled. “There’s quite a woman. Be careful, young’un.”
    Macaire was in the room when we went in, and Jambe-de-Bois was coming down the stairs. Macaire glanced at the hunter, and I turned to introduce them, realizing for the first time that I didn’t know his name.
    â€œMr. Macaire, meet—?”
    â€œButlin,” he said, “Calgary Butlin.”
    Macaire shook hands, measuring the man with shrewd, careful eyes. “Are you going west, man?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œHe’ll be traveling with us.” I hesitated, realizing I had asked no one for approval, and so added, “With Jambe and me.”
    â€œHe’s welcome.”
    And then I said, “He’s been up the Missouri and is going back.”
    Macaire turned square around and looked at him again. “I would be speakin’ to you of that,” he said shortly. “I have an interest westward.”
    â€œAye…when you wish.”
    Butlin was an easy-moving man, light on his feet and