Free Rendezvous by Richard S. Wheeler

Skye’s part, but he had been a fourteen-, fifteen-, seventeen-year-old boy through the worst of it. Ogden wasn’t sure but he would have fought just as hard, had he been that boy.
    Skye finished his story and stood up, gazing into a cloudless night. “There’s the north star and dipper, sir. For the rest of my life, no man will ever keep these eyes from seeing those stars. If I cannot leave my house or shelter and see those stars at will, I will cast my life away as a useless thing.”
    â€œYou could have that life as a free trapper for us. I’ll arrange it. I can set things right with the company. If by any chance it puts you in danger, I’ll be the first to let you know. You impress me. That’s all I can say.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Ogden. I’m an Englishman and always will be. But I’m a man without a country now.”
    That sufficed for an answer, and Ogden knew his options had reduced to two: let him go, or watch him die because the man would not be taken alive.

Chapter 10
    Skye liked Peter Ogden but didn’t trust him. He would know in the morning what Ogden’s intentions were. At that time, the fur brigade would load its horses and head toward Fort Vancouver. And Skye, if he were left alone, would continue east.
    Would they seize him at the last minute? He had no way of knowing. He had done what he could: told Ogden, with utmost seriousness, that they would never take him back alive. And he meant it. He would keep his liberty or perish.
    He dozed restlessly that night, awakening with a start at the slightest shift of the rhythms of the night. He kept his larger kitchen knife at hand and would use it if he had to. But the night passed quietly, and even before dawn the camp tenders and the country wives, as the trappers called their Indian mates, were building cookfires.
    It seemed a good time to go. Most of the trappers still lay in their bedrolls, although some were collecting horses in the gray dawn and throwing packframes over them. Skye rolled up his sailcloth and stuffed it in his warbag, gathered his bow and arrows, and returned his kitchen knife to a crude sheath at his belt. He would miss breakfast, but liberty was worth more than food.
    â€œMister Skye.”
    He whirled to find Ogden standing behind him, grinning.
    â€œStay and eat. You’re a free man and you’ll stay a free man. Shake on it.”
    Reluctantly, his mind swarming with suspicions, he shook Ogden’s outstretched hand.
    â€œI’m going to repay you for the meat. We’ve some jerky. I’ll give you the rest of our tea. The Creoles don’t care about it. They aren’t Englishmen.”
    Skye nodded. “Obliged,” he said. “I’m looking for some other things. I have one thing to trade—a heavy wool pea jacket—and don’t know what it’ll bring. I need a rifle or musket and powder and balls, a trap, fishing lures and line, hatchet or ax, a fishing net, blankets, horse…”
    Ogden considered. “There’s things the company can’t do, such as take a contraband jacket in trade. And we’re desperately short of arms. Five trappers lack firearms. Lost, broken, stolen. Then again, there’s things the company can do. It can lose a trap. I’ve a Nez Perce fishnet I traded for some gunpowder. The company’s short of horses, but most of the Creoles have their own. Maybe one or another will decide a warm coat’s worth a plug horse.”
    The prospect gladdened Skye. He followed Ogden over to the cookfires, where two camp tenders were hustling up some grub. Ogden raided some panniers and supplied Skye with a canister of tea and several pounds of jerky. Then he headed toward another pile of gear and rummaged through panniers.
    â€œTrade stuff. Most of it gone. Here.” He handed Skye an iron hatchet blade, oddly made.
    â€œWar hatchet, the kind they like. You’ll have to whittle a haft and wedge it