The Snake River by Win Blevins Read Free Book Online Page B

up the Sweetwater to South Pass with good water, good grass all the way, no troubles. At Pacific Spring they celebrated their crossing of the continental divide. Miss Jewel and Miss Upping made lemonade from crystallized lemon they’d brought all the way from St. Louis. Flare had a yen to celebrate the crossing the way he usually did, whiskied up, but he drank the lemonade, without sugar, sour, like Miss Upping’s personality. He told himself it made him a new man.
    It was Flare’s pride that it was an uneventful trip. The better he did his job, the less eventful it would be.
    He rode out looking for Indian sign morning, noon, and night. Dan Full went along for a while, and learned something. Then Dr. Full decided he didn’t like his stepson aping a barbarian, and made the lad stay in camp.
    At the Big Sandy Flare himself caused an event: He decided to try the short way to Fort Hall. It would save days—straight west to the Green, up LaBarge Creek and down John Grey’s River and through the mountains onto the Snake River. They might get to the fort by the time the Bay outfit took the furs down the Snake to Walla Walla.
    If that happened, they could travel in safety. Maybe they would even be willing to travel without Michael Devin O’Flaherty, who was getting weary of pork-eaters, and felt his summer’s case of itchy feet coming on. And another itch, too, fleshly.
    The only trouble was the forty miles between the Big Sandy and the Siskadee—no water. He told them how they would do it. Stay all day at the Big Sandy, get the people, horses, and mules well watered and fresh. Fill every keg, can, and bottle with liquid. Set out in the cool of the evening, ride through the night, get to the river before the heat of the day.
    He watched them as they rode. The danger was the mind, not the body. You thought about the two or three hours until you could rest and sip out of a keg. Not long—the body could wait two or three hours easily. Did wait, when you knew water was plenty. Didn’t want to wait when you knew it wasn’t.
    If you got to fretting, you made a problem. Went stiff in the saddle. Made your mount work harder. Made yourself work harder. Used up more energy. Sweated. Needed more water.
    It could get worse. You looked out across the sagebrush flats and saw no end. Desert, you told yourself. Your mind tried not to remember the scare stories you’d heard about desert, desperate men, horrible deaths. You got panicky. Sang that to the horse right through your body, made him edgy. Burned horse and rider up.
    Not that it was fantasy, entirely. Deserts were dangerous, you bet. Once, Flare had killed a horse to drink its blood. He’d heard stories of men who did that to their compañeros, but he didn’t believe them.
    He needed to help the fantasies of the fearful. So Flare stopped and let people behind catch up, then rode ahead, stopped again, checking, chatting with each person, helping all relax.
    He flirted with the women, all but Annie Lee Full, who was too sober-sided to enjoy it. He told the men jokes. He told one about ye olde sod several times.
    An Irish rebel sneaked up on an English camp one dawn, looking for a shot. He saw the British general come out of his tent. The rebel drew a bead. But the general was admiring God’s dawn, and the rebel couldn’t shoot even a Brit at such a moment. The general walked toward the creek. The rebel drew a bead. But then the general dropped his drawers, and the rebel couldn’t shoot even a Brit at such a vulnerable moment. The general relieved himself. He stood, pulled his pants up. The rebel shot him dead. Bugger insulted ye olde sod.
    They rested, drank, watered the animals. Went on.
    Flare sang Irish songs to keep them easy:
    ’Tis the last rose of summer
    Left blooming alone;
    All her lovely companions
    Are faded and gone;
    No flow’r of her kindred,
    No rosebud is nigh,
    To reflect back her blushes
    Or give sigh for sigh.
    I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
    To