Kelly’s men relax, and some disperse, though just as many step forward to engage in some trading of their own. A few ask me to interpret for them, and I do, easing the negotiations back and forth. I motion for Wyatt to bring me my packs, but when I try to conduct an exchange for myself, Washakie shakes his head. He points at the furs and the buffalo meat I have set aside. The meat is enough to feed the May boys for a month.
“For Hanabi,” Washakie says. “No trade, John Lowry. Gift.” And he will not even look at what I try to give him in return.
When he rides away, his ponies and packs laden with new provisions, Vasquez is still beside me, though Captain Kelly has withdrawn with his men.
“Louis Vasquez,” he says, sticking out his hand, since we have not been formally introduced.
“So I heard,” I say. “You are a bit of a legend where I come from.” He laughs, but he’s enough of a dandy that he is pleased.
“My father sold you a mule a decade ago. He never let me forget it,” I add. “And my father isn’t impressed by much.”
“John Lowry,” he says, nodding. “I remember it well. I thought there might be a connection when I heard your name. I still have that mule your father sold me. Ten years now. Never given me a moment’s grief, never quit on me.”
“When I write home, I’ll tell him. He’ll be happy to hear it.”
“This is my wife, Narcissa,” Vasquez says, introducing the woman in the deep-blue dress who has just joined us. She ducks under Vasquez’s arm, confident in her place. She’s small and well made and at least two decades younger than he is, but when she smiles, I see how she managed to convince a man like Vasquez to stay put—if he had to be convinced.
“Hello, Mr. Lowry,” she says, setting her hand in mine. “You have saved the day. Where in the world did you come from?”
“Uh . . . well,” I stammer, not knowing quite how to respond. “I’m with a wagon train. They’re still a day out. I came ahead to do some business.”
“Those your animals?” Vasquez asks, eyeing the animals Wyatt is still guarding nearby.
“Yes, sir.”
He moves toward them, Narcissa beside him, and he shakes Wyatt’s hand over Samson’s long back.
“You sellin’？” Vasquez asks me.
“No, sir. Not if I can help it. I have to get to California, and I’m going to need them to pull my wagon.”
“Too bad. I’m interested in buying if you’re interested in selling. I owe you one, Lowry. You calmed that whole situation, and I’m indebted to you. I don’t speak Shoshoni—not like that—and Captain Kelly even less so.”
“The fort isn’t . . . what I expected,” I say, shifting the subject to my immediate concern.
“It was not what I expected either, Mr. Lowry,” Narcissa says, darting a good-natured look at her husband.
Vasquez rubs his face and sighs. “Bridger and I can’t stay put long enough to make it prosper. Fur trade is changing—we’ve got more emigrants coming through here than trappers anymore, though most of them are heading to the Salt Lake Valley. And the Mormons don’t like how we run things.”
“I can see that.”
“Prices too high and the pickings are too small.”
“I can see that too,” I say, my voice as neutral as I can make it. I don’t think it’s right to gouge desperate folks, and he sighs again, hearing what I don’t say.
“It’s expensive getting goods out here. But the grass is plentiful, and the water is mountain fresh and cold. And we don’t charge for any of that,” he says. “Still . . . I’m thinking of just letting the Mormons have it.” Vasquez sighs, and Narcissa gives him a look that speaks of long, private conversations.
“Has there been trouble?” I ask.
“Between Bridger and the Mormons? Yeah. And they’re right. The US government looks down on selling spirits to the locals. God knows the whiskey trade has destroyed the tribes in the East. The Sioux won’t touch it.”
“Smart, the Sioux,” Narcissa interjects.
“Still . . . you try telling a band of Utes or Blackfeet you won’t trade with them.” Vasquez snorts. “If they want whiskey and they have the robes and the pelts—we trade. Jim says he’s not interested in being a wet nurse to the local tribes.”
“The Utes and the Blackfeet?”
“They aren’t all like Washakie. He gets along. You can’t push him around, but he gets along. He trades with us, trades with the Mormons too. That’s why it’s surprising they gave him any trouble. The Utes and the Blackfeet—the Blackfeet around Fort Hall are nothing but trouble—don’t have much use for any of us.”
“And the attack on the patrol the captain was talking about?” I ask.
“I don’t know anything about it. That kind of thing is rare, and more often than not, the settlers get scared and shoot first.”
“More often than not,” Narcissa agrees.
“Captain Kelly isn’t a bad man, and he’s got no quarrel with Washakie, despite what it may have looked like,” Vasquez says. “His quarrel is with Bridger, and I’m tired of the whole business. I’m thinking I should sell out. Get my money and go. Maybe start a store in the valley—maybe go back to Missouri.”
“And now you have all the sordid details,” Narcissa Vasquez says, smiling at me and looping her hand through her husband’s arm as if to buoy him up. “But what can we help you with, Mr. Lowry? To show our thanks.”
“We’re in need of a wagon, ma’am,” Wyatt blurts, inserting himself into the conversation.
Vasquez whistles, low and soft. “We get wagons through here. But all of them are full of settlers. They’re abandoned along the way, but if they roll in here, they roll out.”
“Jefferson might be able to help,” Narcissa says. “But why a wagon now, gentlemen, when you are this far along in your journey?”
Wyatt looks at me, expectant.
“There’s a . . . woman . . . I’d like to marry in the company coming in. She’s got family ties and responsibilities, and that means staying with the train.”
“Ah. I see,” Narcissa says, nodding with understanding.
“I told her we’d marry when we reached Fort Bridger.”
“And you thought you would find something akin to Fort Laramie, where some comfort and privacy might be enjoyed. Louis and I were married at Fort Laramie by Father de Smet. It was very exciting. Have you heard of him? He is quite famous in church circles.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Narcissa, I doubt the man’s Catholic,” Vasquez grumbles.
“No, sir,” I say.
“Do you have someone who can perform the marriage?” Narcissa asks.
“I do.”
“Then you must marry in our home. In the parlor. I insist. And you will have my room for the evening. I cannot help you with a wagon, but I can help you with this.”
Vasquez seems surprised, but his wife continues without pause.
“Louis is leaving in the morning for the Great Salt Lake Valley with Captain Kelly. I think we’ve convinced him Mr. Bridger isn’t returning anytime soon, if at all. I will sleep with the children. I often do when Louis is gone.”