Just Yarnin' Chapter 1: The Meeting
“Parfleche” Bill Tucker took a swing with his steel striker. Sparks sprang into the air as it collided with the shard of flint in his hand. As predicted, one landed on the char Parfleche had been aiming for, and an ember began to glow. He carefully picked it up and dropped the ember in the shredded cottonwood bark he had prepared. His bushy gray-streaked mustache danced as he blew air into the tinder to coax the ember hotter and hotter. Soon, smoke was rolling from the tinder bundle and Parfleche held it high in the air. Cool evening air was whistling through the valley and the increased air supply caused the bundle to erupt into flames. Sparks and smoke were carried away by the wind as he held the burning bundle in his hands.
Satisfied, Parfleche gently tucked the burning bundle under the small pile of twigs he had constructed. Within just a few minutes the dead aspen sticks had caught and his small smokeless fire was ready to enjoy. After years in the mountains, Parfleche Bill Tucker had made many a fire such as these.
Achingly he rested back against the small rock behind him. He closed his eyes for a moment and just embraced the opportunity for rest. It hadn’t been a hard ride today, just 15 miles, but if he had a dollar for every mile he had ridden these past 40 years he’d need a few extra pack mules just to carry it all. Fortunately for him, a little lead, a few percussion caps, a sharp knife, and a center-shooting rifle was about all he ever wanted; except maybe some tobacco from time to time.
Tobacco. The thought brought his mind back to the present. He reached in his neck pouch, dug out his carrot, and withdrew the clay pipe from his hatband. After stuffing a bit of the black bacca’ in the bowl he drew out a hot burning stick from the fire and held it down in the pipe. A few puffs later the pipe was smoking and now Parfleche could finally relax.
After a few minutes of lying back contented, he spied movement down among the willows near the creek. A rider emerged mounted on a stout looking pinto followed by a pack mule as black as a new moon night. With keen interest, Parfleche squinted his green eyes hard trying to identify the tribe of the rider. As it was, old Parfleche’s eyes weren’t so good these days, and the rider was a bit fuzzy around the edges. The buckskin-clad rider reined his saddle horse in Parfleche’s direction and ambled toward his camp.
His heart quickened just a bit and he reached instinctively for his rifle that seldom lay out of reach. Just who was this rider anyways? He’d be too far south for Blackfoot, and too far south for Crow for that matter. Maybe Yewtah or Snake? Hard as he tried he still couldn’t make him out.
Just then the rider raised a hand in the air and shouted in his direction. With the wind blowing down the valley Parfleche couldn’t quite make out what the rider was saying. His hearing wasn’t quite what it used to be either. Unsure of what to do, Tucker just raised a hand and shouted back, “Hold up thar’. What business do ye’ want in’ this har’ camp?”
Again the rider shouted in his direction, but Parfleche couldn’t make out a single word. Still, the rider kept on a beeline for his camp.
Tucker noticed the rifle across the rider’s lap was unlashed. It could mean trouble. Quickly he pulled his gun to his shoulder and laid his eye down the barrel. As sternly as he could he shouted, “Now hold up! I ain’t runnin’ a friendly camp and ye’ jist as well draw rein. I’ll empty that saddle ifn’ ye’ take one more step!”
The rider drew rein and once again shouted. This time Parfleche could just make out a bit of what was being said. He couldn’t be sure since the cursed wind was blowing away the words, but he thought he heard the man say, “…fleche…Harris ….ol’ coon…too blind….my saddle!”
It almost sounded like he said my name, Parfleche thought.
Surprised, Parfleche popped his head up from the gunstock and demanded, “Who are ye’ and what do ya want?”
The rider slid down from his pinto and dropped the lead. As he started toward Parfleche the wind was whipping his buckskin fringe all around his body. Keenly, Parfleche kept an intent eye on the traveler as he drew closer. Still, he couldn’t make out just what tribe this rider was from. Just to be safe he once again dropped his cheek down against the stock.
The rider stopped and shouted in his direction, “Parfleche…fool…ye deaf now too?”
Huh?
Parfleche peaked up again like a prairie dog looking to see if the hawk had left. Again the man took steps towards him. Parfleche squinted hard. As he drew closer Parfleche’s old eyes were just starting to make out some of the details. Gray hair shoulder length. Sandy hat. Buckskin from head to toe. A fine-looking rifle. Then it dawned on him.
Propping himself up with his gun Parfleche shouted across the wind, “Hey thar Harris! Good ta’ see ya and welcome ta camp!”
Dick “Solitaire” Harris continued to march straight toward him without saying a word. When he had covered all but the last few feet his blue eyes shot a piercing glance from beneath his hat. When he got within a few steps he stopped and rested on his rifle glaring at Parfleche all the while.
Unsure of what to do, Parfleche spoke up. “Hey, Solitaire didn’t knowed you was in the country. Seen any buffler?”
Silence.
Although the blue eyes were set deep in the white-whiskered face they showed the same tenacity of the young man Parfleche had once known.
“Whel, what do ya know ya ol’ coon?” Parfleche stammered.
Silence.
Then Solitaire Harris shifted his weight just a bit.
“I already asked ye’ once, Parfleche,” Harris said sternly. “Are ye still jist blind or ya’ deaf now too?”
Parfleche got his bristles up. His green eyes returned the hard stare just as gruffly. “Jist a dern minute now, Harris! I mistook ye’ fer an injun! An’ old bull eater like you ought ta’ know to show some sign when ye’ come ta’ camp. Tell a feller with yer hand when it’s too windy fer talkin. How is I supposed ta know who you wuz?”
“I told ya’ who I was three times!” Harris barked. “Sides, ifn’ ye didn’t want no company ye’ shouldn’t be building a fire every young buck huntin’ scalps could see.”
“My fires jist fine,” Parfleche responded in kind. “I been buildin’ fire out here while you wuz still wearin’ brogans back east. Surprised a tenderfoot like you has made it this long anyhow!”
The pair stood in the aspen grove with their jaws tightly set.
Then Harris spoke up, his white beard revealing a mischievous smile. “Parfleche, ye’ old coon. If it ain’t a surprise both of us still have our hair I don’t know what is.”
“Ha!” Parfleche swiped his battered brown hat from his head revealing the sun-chapped baldness on top. “Ifn’ a scalp huntin’ brave hangs this one on his lodge he’ll have a harder time getting’ squaws than he already do!”
Both men laughed heartily. Harris closed the space between them and extended his hand. Parfleche grasped it and smiled. “Good ta’ see ya, old coon.”
“Likewise,” Solitaire responded.
“Why, don’t ye picket yer’ hosses and come enjoy the fire?” Parfleche offered.
“Shore,” Harris responded. “Let me pitch my camp an’ I’ll be up quiker’n a Crow will steal yer’ best hoss.”
Parfleche nodded affirmation and turned back to tend his fire.
It did feel good to have some company.