“Mr. Tucket.” Mr. Grimes turned again to the building. “Mr. Tucket, come on out here and meet the men you’ve been holding.”

So it was Bridger. Francis felt like an idiot. Still, he couldn’t stay out of sight forever. He stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the horses.

“Why, it’s ain’t nothing but a cub.” Jim Bridger snorted. “Jake, we’ve been sitting here worried about a cub.”

That broke the ice, and the two men dismounted, grinning at Francis.

“Where’d you get him?” Bridger asked.

While Francis made a fire, Mr. Grimes told the two mountain men about him. By the time the explanation was finished, the coffee was ready, and they all sipped it and chewed on venison. After that, the men smoked and Francis sat quietly thinking. There was something bothering him. Finally he could hold it no longer.

“Mr. Bridger,” he asked, “how did you find us?”

“Why, we just followed your trail, boy. Easy as following a herd of buffalo. But don’t worry. We covered tracks coming in—ours and yours.”

Francis looked at Mr. Grimes. He was smiling.

“Ho!” he exclaimed. “You’re feeding Mr. Tucket a nettle. Bad for his liver. The fact is, Mr. Tucket, there’s another meadow like this up a ways that belongs to Mr. Bridger. I found this one last year about the same time he found his. We met coming out, so he knew I’d be here about now. Unless I miss my guess, he’s on his way up there now.”

Bridger nodded. “Caught, cold turkey. Boy, never lie in front of Jason Grimes. You’ll lose every time. Say”—he turned to Mr. Grimes—“how are you and Braid getting on lately?”

That triggered off another round of talk. They covered the Indian tribes—Pawnee, Sioux, and finally, while Francis made another pot of coffee, the Crow.

“You might be extra careful when you go out,” Bridger told Mr. Grimes. “We saw some fresh Crow sign down at the mouth of the valley. Whole tribe—man, woman, child, and dog. Looking for a wintering ground, I reckon, so they probably won’t bother you. But I don’t think they’d pass up a chance at those rifles if they ran across you.”

Mr. Grimes nodded. “The Crows and the weather—you can’t tell about either one. But I think I’d take a blizzard to a Crow any day …”

Francis listened to them intently. His stomach was full of warm coffee and jerky, evening was coming down, the fire felt good, and he was in the company of a living legend—Jim Bridger. What more could he ask? Why think about such unpleasant things as snowstorms or Indians at a time like this? Better just to listen, because someday he would want to tell his family everything about this meeting with the fabulous Jim Bridger.

——— Chapter Sixteen ———