Free Crack in the Sky by Terry C. Johnston

of attacking Indians, Scratch lifted his fullstock Derringer flintlock and yanked back first on the rear set trigger, then barely touched the front trigger. The rifle went off—a universal sign of peace for those who traveled the early far west. To empty one’s gun upon approaching a camp was the surest way to show one’s peaceful intentions.
    “Boys, let’s keep these here horses of our’n from mixing in with theirs,” Hatcher hollered to his men as they approached the figures that had emerged from the groves of shady trees. Just beyond that camp dotted with canvas pyramid tents and blanket arbors grazed a herd of horses and mules.
    “What say we cross the crik and raise our own camp yonder?” Titus asked, pointing off to the west.
    For a moment Hatcher stood in the stirrups, gazing this way, then that. When he plopped back down in the saddle, he agreed, “Follow Scratch, boys! Yonder—cross the crik!”
    In a matter of seconds the others were bellowing and screaming, slapping coils of buffalo-hair ropes to turn their herd of horses, whistling and calling to the animals,shouting at one another, congratulating their companions on surviving another year, every last man among them busting his buttons to have made it through to another rendezvous with his hair.
    On came those who rushed afoot to welcome the new arrivals, some loping through the tall grass, others strolling more casually, most every one of them stripped to the waist in the midsummer heat, their flesh about as white as white men could be—save for the oak-browned tan of their hands from the wrists down, the same leathery look from the base of the neck up. Their leather flap-front trousers and pantaloons were blackened with seasons of grease and blood, smoked by countless fires. At the end of their arms they waved their low-crowned, big-brimmed wool hats, many of which were nearly shapeless after countless soakings by rain and snow. A few had red-and-blue bandannas tied about their heads, while some had tied the popular black silk handkerchiefs to keep their long hair from spilling into their eyes. Even a handful had their tresses braided or wrapped with strips of fur in the fashion of Indian warriors.
    “Where from you bound?” cried one of the closest ones who plunged right into the creek, approaching Bass as Hatcher’s men urged their animals off the east bank, crossing to the far side.
    Hatcher shouted back, “Up to Blackfoot country for the spring hunt!”
    “That bunch of motherless sons chased us right on out!” Bass added.
    The squat, powerful stranger cried, “Har—with your tails atween your legs I’ll wager!”
    Rising immediately in his stirrups, Scratch looked behind him in mock surprise as he patted his own rump with a hand. “I’ll be damned, Jack! Them Blackfoot bastards done bit my tail off!”
    They all roared with lusty laughter as the greeters loping up on foot splashed out of the creek right alongside those on horseback, their leather and nankeen britches soaked above their knees.
    The short trapper trotted up to Bass’s side, holding uphis hand, grinning like a house cat caught with feathers still tangled in its whiskers.
    “Name’s Porter,” he announced. “Nathan Porter.”
    “Who you with?” Caleb Wood called out.
    “Smith, Jackson, and Sublette,” the man answered, holding a hand at his brow to shade his eyes in looking up at the arriving horsemen.
    Wood asked, “You was one of Ashley’s men, eh?”
    “Till two year ago.”
    “Trader ain’t in yet?” Jack inquired.
    “Hell—Ashley sent his supply train out early,” Porter explained as Hatcher’s horsemen came to a halt and some began to drop to the ground. “Why, Billy Sublette and Davy Jackson brung us out our necessaries last winter, fellers.”
    “L-last
winter!”
squeaked Elbridge Gray.
    Graham lunged in closer. “Summer’s nigh the time for ronnyvoo!”
    Porter drew back a step as the others closed in menacingly. “You fellers ain’t