by Terry Grosz
***
Swinging over the last rolling hill into Fort Bridger, the brothers stopped and quietly studied the sights before them. The fort had seen better days, and the air surrounding it was full of dust from a nearby herd of horses and mules nervously milling about. A short distance from the herd were fourteen gleaming white wagons drawn up in a defensive circle a few yards from the main gate They heard barking dogs and could faintly smell the evening dinners being prepared. Looking over at each other, the brothers grinned and headed their heavily loaded pack and travois string toward the fort’s welcoming open gate.
“Welcome back, you two,” said Jim Bridger, now more grizzled and stoop-shouldered, as the men came through the gate.
“Glad to be back, you old varmint,” said Martin as he jumped down from his saddle, not showing any stiffness from his long hours in the saddle.
Jacob lifted more stiffly from his saddle but dropped to the ground easily. Then he stood beside his horse holding on to the saddle horn until the life came back into his sore knees and still painful leg from the earlier moose wreck back in what is today Colorado.
“You old he-grizzly, I see you still have your hair and a grin to match,” Jacob said with a smile as he forgot his pains. He walked over to the old man and gave him a bear hug out of deep respect.
“Where be you two from now, and where you heading next?” Jim asked with a twinkle in his eyes, knowing the two boys had one hell of a wanderlust ever since their families had been laid waste by the Indians.
“We be here for a spell to trade, resupply, and then head for that big salty pond called the Pacific Ocean to the west, if Martin has his say,” Jacob replied with a grin.
“Yeah,” added Martin. “That is, if we can hitch a ride with a wagon train a-goin’ in that direction for the protection the extra shooters would offer and the company it bears.”
“Well, if that be your choice, ye be in luck. See that wagon train out yonder by the grove of cottonwoods? They be a-splittin’ up. They lost their wagon master to a horse wreck and it now seems many of the folks have had enough of the dust, distance, Indians, bad grub, alkali water, and never-endin’ routine of slow travelin’ every day to a land beyond their lookin’,” replied Bridger.
Both boys looked in the direction Bridger pointed and saw a small wagon train comprising only fourteen wagons. They were drawn up into a tight, well-formed circle, and the wagons for the most part looked none the worse for the wear. They were dusty from the many miles of traveling but appeared at first glance to be soundly built and well maintained. Maybe that was because of the man mountain who appeared to be a blacksmith, who was currently tending to one of the rear wheels on a wagon. Jacob observed the man’s industry, which gave him the feeling of a well-managed wagon train. To have such a person along was certainly a boon, he thought as he continued looking over the group appraisingly. Turning, he said with a smile, “That be well and good, but for now we have business with you and yours, Jim. We have a load of good furs and hides we need to be rid of and figured you’d be just the man to fix that itch.”
“If that be the case, let’s get crackin’,” replied Bridger, never the man to turn down a good deal, especially in the fur and hide business.
With that, the men and pack strings made their way into the central portion of the fort as Bridger led the way.
“Casey, Jonathan,” Bridger yelled at two men lounging by a set of corrals, “pull the furs from this here pack string, grade them fairly because they be friends of mine, and give me a tally. The three of us will be in the store taking the miles of dust off our tongues and firing up our bellies with some old trapper’s top-knot remover.”
Inside the cool of the trading post, Jacob and Martin glanced at each other, realizing that not much had changed since the time they had been there with their fathers just before their first buffalo hunt. The moment also brought back sad memories of what they had discovered upon their return to their homesites.
Jim, sensing their sadness, interrupted their thoughts. “Here, this ought to cut the dust and cure what ails the two of you.” With that, he pulled the familiar earthen jug from under the counter and handed it to Martin for a pull.
Taking a long swig of the intense liquid, Martin almost choked. Coughing back the urge to spit out the fire sliding down his throat, he grinned in embarrassment at Jacob as he handed him the jug. Jacob, realizing it had been some time since the two of them had tasted really strong whiskey, took a gingerly sip, and he too almost coughed up the contents.
“What the devil you got in this here jug?” he whispered through clenched teeth, with still watering eyes and a seared throat.
“Ain’t that stuff a beaut? It’s uncut whiskey I got from the wagon train that is calling it quits. It came clear from Kain-tucky, and I was lucky to buy all five barrels they had to offer. Seems it is as high a proof as one can make and is made for cutting with branch water before one sells it. However, I have developed a hankering for the strong brew, and man, it sure cuts the dust or whatever else ails a body!” Bridger replied with a grin. “Care for another swig?”
Both men, although almost gagging on the intense liquid, kind of liked the smooth aftertaste, so they took another long pull. By now their guts were reeling from the brew, and they figured two swallows were enough! Especially if they were to dicker over the price of their furs and trade goods on the shelves in Jim’s store in good thinking order.
Jacob and Martin were surprised at the large amount their mountain of furs and hides was worth. Looking over at a grinning Jim Bridger, anxious to trade now that he realized the base he had to operate from, Jacob brought him up short.
“Jim, instead of settling up just now, I think we best hold off a spell. If Martin and I are to go west, we will need a wagon to haul our goods. That means we will need something to trade for a wagon if one is available from that group going back East. Bottom line, if we trade some of our credit for your supplies to anyone willing to sell their wagon, that will give us a wagon and the seller the necessary supplies to make it back to civilization,” said Jacob. “What do you think, Martin?”
“That be damn good thinkin’ to my way of figurin’,” Martin slowly replied, looking intently at Jacob. “That way we won’t have to go into our gold stash to buy the wagon and create a ruckus based on the greed the sight of that metal brings to most everyone.”
“You boys still carryin’ around all them damn cursed golden ingots?” asked Jim.
“Not only that, Jim, but numerous pouches of gold nuggets we discovered in a creek many miles back by Fort Vasquez,” Martin replied, knowing Jim would keep their secret.
“That be good figurin’,” replied Jim. “Ain’t no use creatin’ a ruckus unless one has to, and that usually ends in a blood-lettin’ when the sight of that metal is involved.”
“Then we will go meet them folks and see who wants to go and who wants to stay,” Martin said. “We will approach those wantin’ to go back and see if we can buy one of their wagons in exchange for goods from Jim’s store or the last of our coin. If anyone is willin’ to double up with their neighbors who also want to return, then we will have a deal,”
Martin looked at his brother, who nodded in agreement. “Sounds like you boys have a plan as strong as a beaver dam,” Jim replied with a smile that registered even on his weathered face. “Your folks, God rest their souls, would be a damn sight proud of how you two turned out.”
With those words, another long pull on the jug was in order. The three men shook on the trade credit issue, and then Jacob and Martin strode out into the bright sunlight of the fort’s stockade. Leaving their livestock and gold in Jim’s care, they headed over to the wagon train he had identified as the one caving in at the seams with those who wanted no more of what the West had to offer. As they approached, they noticed a number of men gathered around a central campfire with many downcast faces and not much talk.
Walking into the ring of circled wagons, Jacob said, “Hello, the ca
mpfire. Care if my brother and I join you?”
The men looked around in surprise at the two approaching massive and heavily bearded strangers, then rose in unison, as was the custom of the day when greeting strangers. There were handshakes all around as the men made room for Jacob and Martin to sit among them on some logs pulled up next to the fire. Soon cups of hot coffee were thrust into the two brothers’ hands, and much small talk was made about the weather as Jacob and Martin waited for the right opening.
Jacob spoke first after the moment of politeness had passed. “Folks, I am Jacob, and this is my kid brother, Martin. Our parents and our stepparents were killed some time back by Indians, so the two of us up to now have made our way as fur trappers and buffalo hunters. Life has been good to us, and we have seen and experienced many beautiful and some not-so-wonderful things in our travels. In our minds, however, it is now time to move farther west. My brother and I wish to see this place called California, the Pacific Ocean, and any other sights that neck of the woods has to offer. Then we would like to settle down on a ranch in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and raise a passel of kids. We just came in from our latest trapping sashay in the lands to the south and met with Jim Bridger. We told him of our desire to go west in a wagon train, and he mentioned you folks were thinking of breaking up, with some going on and some returning home. If that be the case, my brother and I have something to offer you good folks wanting to proceed. We can carry our own share. We are experienced frontiersmen and excellent shots, and, having come from families of fur trappers, we know ‘the way’ of many tribes of Indians we might run across. We would like to join the group that is going westward. With our knowledge of the land in that direction, for a ways, anyway, and that of some of the tribes of Indians, we feel we can add to the group and its chances for success.”
Jacob paused and waited for a response. For a long time none of the men from the group spoke. They just looked at each other with enormous surprise. The explanation for such looks of surprise on the men’s faces was soon forthcoming as they interrupted Jacob’s words in a FAR different manner than he had meant.
Then one man rose and, looking intently at Jacob and Martin, said, “I am Chris Grosz. I am traveling with my wife, Lisa, our daughter, Laurel, and son, Gabriel. We set out from Kentucky because our farmland had given out, and it appeared the open lands to the west were our salvation. Now we are at a crossroads. This here wagon train is intent on splitting up and reducing the chances of folks like myself to realize our dreams. My wife is a crack shot, as am I, and we wish to continue on to California. I am a blacksmith by trade and a gunsmith by avocation. As such, I can add those skills to a wagon train if we are to go on.”
With that, the man sat back down on his log. Jacob looked long and hard at the man who had just spoken. He was a huge man, probably six feet tall, weighed at least three hundred pounds, and had arms as thick as most men’s thighs! He also had a look in his eyes that was as kind as any he had seen. But Jacob also recognized in those eyes a fire that told him here was a real man who could be depended upon come hell or high water.
An older man rose from the logs around the campfire, and looked at all the other men and then at Jacob and Martin. Finally he said, “My name is Daniel, and these men at my side are my sons, Zeke and Jeremiah. We are from Salt Lick, Kentucky, and are here today because our farms have also played out. I am here with my wife, Betsy. Zeke is here with his wife, Margaret, and Jeremiah is here with his wife, Constance, and their sons, Bill and Lemuel, and daughter, Sarah. We come with three wagons, are well stocked in livestock, and are outfitted with provisions. If we had our druthers, we are all for pushing on to California and seeing what life there will bring.”
He sat back down. Jacob thought from the looks in his eyes and those of his sons, here were three tough families, born in adversity and ready for what the frontier further west had to offer.
Then all of a sudden Jacob realized that the men who had spoken so far were looking at him as they would a wagon master, as if they expected him to lead them west because of his frontier experience. His heart almost skipped a beat. Neither he nor Martin knew the way to California, the best feed grounds along the way for the stock, or where to find good water and firewood. Most importantly, neither he nor his brother knew the nature or even names of many of the Indian tribes along the way, especially those further to the west.
Holy cow! he thought. This was not what he’d had in mind when he and Martin had approached the men around the campfire to see if they could join those choosing to carry on the westward journey.
Before Jacob could fully mull over his dilemma, a stocky man rose and said, “My name is Otis Barnes, and me and my kin are from Tennessee. My lands were being overrun by Southern rabble seeking to support slavery. I am not for enslaving any human being. My wife, Alberta, and I wish to continue to California with our daughter, Nancy. Count us in if there is to be a train going west. I bring good livestock as well as a wife who is the best cook going, and I can shoot with any man.” With that, the quiet man, as Jacob came to judge him, sat back down.
Another, older man rose and quietly faced Jacob and Martin. “My name is Martin Jones, and I am a full-blooded Delaware Indian. I am the neighbor of Daniel’s clan from Salt Lick, Kentucky, and like his lands, mine have played out. My kin came from Ohio but were driven off their lands by crooked land speculators, and because of that, we moved to Salt Lick, where a man could be free. I bring three sons, their wives and children, and a Celestial woman I won in a shoot-off. We too wish to continue to the lands farther west. My family is very woodswise. We are great hunters and fear no man. My only problem is that three of our mules have gone bad lame, and I have not been able to replace them so that we can continue on as a family. There are good mules here at the fort, but the price is more than we can afford. So we are stuck in limbo unless we abandon one of our wagons and double up in those remaining.”
By now Jacob was becoming concerned. His eyes met Martin’s, and he saw that his brother now also sensed what was happening—a situation where they might find themselves leading a wagon train filled with families west over lands they themselves had never seen nor visited.
A slightly built man with spectacles, puffing on an old pipe, rose from his seat by the campfire, saying, “My name is Howard Larson, and I am a doctor. I am with my wife, Mary Ann, and daughters, Donna and Linda. I am not a very good shooter, but my livestock are sound, and our supplies are adequate for the trip. I would be obliged if we could continue with the others going west.”
As Howard sat down, Jacob’s head was swimming with the misunderstanding he and his brother were facing. But before he could say anything, another man rose and said, “I am Marvin Clary, and I am a cousin to Otis Barnes. I too was having problems with proslavery groups burning my crops since I wouldn’t allow slaves to work my lands. Facing that kind of violence, and before I ended up shooting those hind ends, I decided to get out while I could. I am with my wife, Lorraine, am accomplished with a rifle or pistol, have good stock, and wish to continue west to California with the others if that comes to pass.”
Jacob started to set the issue straight with the folks around the campfire when one of the tallest and strongest-looking men he had ever seen rose from his seat by the fire, saying, “I am Richard Grosz, brother to Chris, the blacksmith. I too am a farmer and rancher from Salt Lick, Kentucky. I got into a shootout with two brothers who had pushed the limits of their drunk and stolen several of my cattle. Not wanting to rightfully return my stock, they went for their shooting irons when accused, and now they lie under the ground. However, they had a clan of seven brothers and three uncles who were on their way to avenge their deaths, and that was too much for my brother and me to handle in a fair fight. I want to raise my family in safety, so here we are on the way west to start a new life. I too am a crack shot with a rifle and pistol, fear no man in a fair fight, and bring good livestock and supplies to the wagon train. My wife, Carrie, and my older daughters, Amanda
and Katelyn, are excellent shooters and afraid of no man as well. We wish to go to California and start our lives anew and would welcome the chance to go along with that wagon train if there is to be one.”
Before Jacob or Martin could explain, another man rose from his seat around the fire.
“You boys have need for a good wagon?” he asked.
Jacob replied, “Yes, sir. We was hoping to purchase one from someone not continuing on to California who would have no need for it.”
“That be me, I reckon. I not only lost my wife to an accident, but both of my children took sick with consumption, and now they are lying along the trail in unmarked graves. I plan on going back with another couple who lost their kids as well and sharing a wagon. But you can’t have my livestock. We will be taking them with us on the return trip in case any of my friend’s stock turn up lame or stole by them damn thieving Indians,” the man replied softly.
“What will you take for your wagon?” asked Jacob, postponing the wagon-boss issue for the moment.
“I will take $40 in coin or trade if ye be interested,” the man mumbled in obvious resignation.
“You have a deal,” said Jacob, catching approval on Martin’s face as he spoke even though the wagon and its condition were sight unseen.
Then silence reigned around the campfire as the rest of the men stared at the fire in acceptance of the fact they would soon be returning home and never going to see the West.
“By damnit, we are going on too!” another large man said loudly, rising from his seat. “My name is Mark Webb. I am a farmer, and my land played out as well in Virginia. Too many years of planting tobacco, I would guess.”
Mark was a well-built man as Rich Grosz but not as tall. However, he appeared just as determined if the fire in his eyes and stern look on his face meant anything. He continued, “My wife, Kathy, who is with child, my young son, and I wish to be considered if there is a wagon train going west to California. I am still well provisioned, and my stock is in good condition. Plus, we have kin in Sacramento as well as in the gold fields on the Feather River. By gum, we mean to start a new life somewhere out there for our family, hellfire be damned! And like my new friend Rich Grosz there, I fear no man, be he red or white.”