by Terry Grosz
“Sure smells like it,” said Crooked Hand, as he once again was trying to regain control of his very skittish and now ‘crow-hopping’ horse as they approached the entrance to their home site.
“Damn,” said Old Potts, as he tried keeping his normally very mild-mannered riding horse under control. “Any of you boys see that damn old stinking dead thing anywhere? If you do, someone needs to throw a loop around its head and drag it far away from here so we can get back to living in a place that is fit for us humans,” bellowed Old Potts.
“It can only be a dead and rotten buffalo,” said Crooked Hand, as he reined in his now almost totally out of control riding horse and pack string just in front of their cave’s entrance.
“URRRGH!” ROARED A HUGE GRIZZLY BEAR, AS IT CHARGED OUT FROM THE CAVE IT HAD BEEN LIVING IN EVER SINCE THE TRAPPERS HAD LEFT FOR FORT UNION EARLIER IN THE SUMMER! In a second, the great bear had swarmed all over Crooked Hand’s horse and him all in the same motion, mauling, biting and snapping its savage teeth, jaws and six-inch claws every which way onto anything that was soft and moving! When the bear had exploded in its surprised and angry charge from the mouth of the cave, every terrified, madly bucking horse and desperately trying to remain in their saddles, riders, were scattered like loose grouse feathers in a howling prairie wind!
Old Potts was bucked clean off his now ‘sun-fishing’ horse in an instant, and was promptly deposited back-first onto a pile of boulders left behind by the retreating glaciers! When he was tossed, he landed hard on the rockpile with a savage and body-rendering sounding “THUMP”!
Iron Hand’s horse ‘exploded’ under him with such force, that he was thrown into a nearby aspen and his flying weight and velocity snapped a six-inch-thick aspen tree right off at its base!
As for Big Foot and his last position in the string of trailing horses, he was simply bucked off, fell underneath their flashing hooves and was stomped among the stampeding-the-hell-out-of-there, pack-animals’ flying feet!
Recovering from his collision with the aspen, Iron Hand fortunately had been unhorsed with his Hawken rifle in hand. Realizing the danger at hand and quickly staggering back into the fight for survival, Iron Hand charged into the savage fury of a much-surprised and violently angry boar grizzly bear! As he did, his actions were accompanied by the terrified screams of pain, as Crooked Hand was being savagely mauled along with the terrifying sounds his horse was making, as it was being torn asunder into smaller pieces while still living!
Running right up to the grizzly as it was savagely occupied with mauling Crooked Hand and his horse, Iron Hand jammed the end of his rifle barrel into the front shoulder of the bear and touched it off! BOOOM! went the heavy rifle and in an instant after it had been fired, the bear with its paw swiped Iron Hand across his left shoulder so hard, that he flew over backwards and landed in the rocks in their nearby creek with a hard “CRUNCH”! Iron Hand had hit so hard, that for a moment he could not get his wind and all he saw were bright flashes of light running in streams across the backs of his eyes! But he could still hear Crooked Hand screaming in terrible pain and his horse making the sounds of abject terror, as it was being torn to pieces by the now, out of its mind in pain, wounded grizzly bear, as a result of Iron Hand’s close at hand, heavy caliber rifle’s blast into the shoulder of the bear!
Crawling out from the creek with his left shoulder not wanting to work because of the bear’s savage swipe with his massive paw, Iron Hand ran back to the ten-foot-tall grizzly bear now standing on its hind legs and roaring out in pain! Bloody-white foam was now spewing from the bear’s open and gaping mouth as a result of his rifle-shot damaged lungs and his eyes appeared to Iron Hand to be almost devil-red in color!
Once again, running on the internal fury he had felt when first attacked by the Blackfoot once he got his iron-strong hands around the Indian’s necks, Iron Hand ran right up to the maddened standing beast, thrust his horse pistol into its gaping open mouth hoping it would still fire after being immersed in the creek and pulled the trigger. “POOOFF” went the pistol as it misfired and was instantly knocked from Iron Hand’s right hand by the bear’s paw! By now, Iron Hand’s left shoulder was coming back to life after the powerful swipe from the bear it had taken moments earlier and removing his second pistol from his belt, thrust the barrel of that pistol right into the bear’s mouth as he had done the first time with the pistol that had just misfired. Iron Hand felt the bear’s jaws quickly snap shut on the pistol’s barrel just as he pulled the trigger on his last loaded weapon. BOOOM! went his recently purchased, heavy caliber pistol and with that explosion, the bear instantly dropped like a stone, DIRECTLY ON TOP OF IRON HAND, who had now just fallen backwards flat onto his back!
Smashed flat under the bear’s 800 pounds of dead weight, Iron Hand found himself almost unable to move and finding it difficult to even breathe. Especially when breathing in the great stench from the bear’s open and bloody foam-spewing mouth just inches from his face! Gagging under the bear’s faceful of soured hot breath, bloody foam and now involuntary vomit being emitted up from its foul-smelling stomach, Iron Hand tried desperately to crawl out from under the animal’s great weight...
Finally, with a face and now mouth full of the dying bear’s involuntary vomiting of its acidic vile stomach contents from a meal of a long dead buffalo, Iron Hand managed to drag himself out from under the great weight of the bear and its increasing involuntary spasms of death. Now vomiting himself from the terror of the close encounter and covered with the bear’s own thick oatmeal-like in consistency vomit, Iron Hand vomited the remains from his breakfast all over the front of himself! Still in the emotion of the moment, Iron Hand drew his ten-inch sheath knife and prepared to continue the fight if necessary, vomit, snot and blood-covered or not.
It was then that Iron Hand saw Big Foot, dragging one of his legs behind him, bravely staggering up on the bear with a pistol in hand. Dragging himself right up to the bear’s massive still-thrashing head, Big Foot discharged the pistol directly into the animal’s cranium from just two feet away! With the blast of that heavy horse pistol ringing throughout the aspen grove and the air filling with the acrid smell of black powder smoke, the bear gave one final involuntary shudder and then lay still forever...
Iron Hand then staggered over with his knife in hand to the huge mound of what was once a monster grizzly bear to make sure all danger from the animal was past. Satisfied the terror of the moment was over, Iron Hand turned and made a survey of the damage done to his fellow trappers. In his case, he had a sprained left shoulder from being swiped by the bear’s huge and powerful paw and other than being covered with the bear’s and his own stinking vomit, he was still functional and would live to fight another day.
As for Big Foot, a quick look showed that he had a badly sprained knee after being bucked off his horse and landing awkwardly on his leg. That and a number of large black and blue bruises covered most of his body, as a result of the stomping he had taken after falling under his horse’s hooves and most of those of the scared all to hell pack string he had been leading.
About then, Old Potts came limping into camp, all bent over with an obvious damaged and sprained back when he had been bucked off his horse onto a pile of boulders. He too was black and blue all across his back and the back of his legs, from the hard impact he had suffered when he had landed in a rockpile after being bucked off. But other than being pissed off over the ‘hurrah’ the damn bear had caused, in time he would heal as well without any apparent lasting damage.
As for Crooked Hand, his plight was a ‘horse of another color’. He had ridden right up to their cave’s entrance in order to make offloading all his heavily loaded pack string of horses easier. When he did, the noises of his arrival had suddenly awakened a soundly sleeping grizzly in his day bed in the cave. Coming out from a deep sleep and being surprised as he was, the bear had reacted accordingly as surprised grizzlies are prone to do, namely blowing up and charging what he figured was the source of
his danger! In so doing, the bear had charged right into Crooked Hand, his horse and part of the pack string he had been leading. When he did, the bear had swarmed all over Crooked Hand’s horse, it being the closest and broadside to the charge and then had bitten down on the back of the horse’s neck. That set the horse to bucking frantically, in the process tossing Crooked Hand right over the saddle on top of the head of the grizzly as it was biting down on his horse’s neck. When that happened, the bear, figuring it was under attack from above when the unfortunate trapper had landed on its head, reacted accordingly and bit down on the nearest thing human, which turned out to be Crooked Hand’s previously badly damaged left leg from the year-earlier knife fight with the Blackfeet! Then adding insult to injury, the bear after biting down on Crooked Hand’s left leg, had slung him off into the brush with a mighty head swing!
The assessment of the trapper’s plight over, and satisfied that everyone would live to trap another day, Iron Hand began tending to the wounded, starting with ‘bad luck’ Crooked Hand. Under Big Foot’s tutelage and knowledge of frontier injury remedies, Iron Hand set to work. Removing Crooked Hands bloody and torn buckskins, Iron Hand saw a large gash on the previously damaged, knife-wounded thigh from their earlier fight with the Blackfeet Indians. “Well, Crooked Hand, it appears your bad luck is still holding when it comes to tearing your bad leg all to hell,” said Iron Hand with a smile in his heart, realizing that his good friend was not badly hurt.
“Iron Hand, find the packhorse that is carrying all of our jugs of rum, grab one from the pack and bring it here,” said Big Foot, who was sitting on a log by their old firepit nursing his sprained knee. Iron Hand finally located the pack string carrying the rum among many other items, and brought them into their horse corral for safe keeping. Removing a jug of rum from its pack, Iron Hand took a swig to calm down his still emotion-filled high and then walked back to their firepit in front of a still bear-stinking cave. There as instructed by Big Foot, Iron Hand opened up Crooked Hand’s thigh wound with his fingers, gouged out the now coagulated lumps of blood, daubed the wound dry with a rag and then after a warning, poured some of the 100-proof rum into the open bite wound!
“YEOOOW!” yelled Crooked Hand, as he almost stood up off his sitting log from pain in his open wound in his leg caused by the burning treatment of the high proof rum. “This is for your own darn good, Crooked Hand,” said Iron Hand with a grin. “Next time you get into a scrape, stick your good leg in the way instead of this damned old left one that is ‘gowed’ all to hell,” he continued with a ‘grin’ in the tone and tenor of his sympathetic voice.
Then it was time to check out Big Foot’s injury, which turned out to just be a badly sprained knee, along with one hell of a mess of bruises. Iron Hand, realizing there was nothing he could do for his friend’s bumps and bruises, just took a tin cup from out of their bear-stinking cave, filled it to the rim with strong run and dispensed that as a treatment for Big Foot’s sore knee and ugly black and blue body-looks, which he was all too happy to accept...
Then it was Old Potts’s turn in the ‘frontier doctor’s office’, as Iron Hand carefully seated him upon another sitting log around their old firepit. Removing Old Potts’s buckskin shirt, Iron Hand was greeted with a back that was entirely blue-black in color from all the contusions suffered by the old man when he landed on his back onto a mess of unforgiving boulders after being bucked off his horse when the grizzly charged out from the cave’s entrance... Old Potts also got a tin cup filled to the brim of the high proof rum to help him withstand the pain in his back from ‘meeting’ a mess of boulders at a high rate of speed!
Not to be outdone, Iron Hand helped himself to a full cup of rum as well, before he built a fire for the injured men to sit around, as he began cleaning out all the rank and stinking dead animal refuse and dung the bear had accumulated in their cave during the summer’s absence by the trappers. Then in the light of the fire, Iron Hand brought in the packhorses and unloaded all their heavy packs. Following that, bad shoulder and all, he distributed the valuable supplies into various parts of their cave for safer keeping. Lastly, all the animals were watered and put into the corrals without being allowed to graze that evening because of the lateness of the hour. That was except for Iron Hand’s horse. He was brought back into camp and used to drag off Crooked Hand’s dead horse which Iron Hand had cut into halves to make for the dragging off by his horse easier. Then it came the dead bear’s turn. There Iron Hand removed the best cuts of meat from a very fat animal, staked them over an open fire and while those choice cuts of bear meat cooked away, Iron Hand, with a great deal of difficulty from his skittish horse because of the bear’s smell and its fear of the animal being towed behind it, dragged off the remains and left it with the parts of the dead horse for the scavengers to enjoy.
Iron Hand then laid out each man’s sleeping furs where they had normally slept in their earlier days of occupation in the cave before the bear had taken over. When the tired and sore men went to bed that evening, Iron Hand burned up the pile of offal he had collected that the grizzly bear had accumulated in their cave. It was only then that Iron Hand sat down around the camp’s fire, poured himself another full cup of rum and quietly enjoyed the sounds of night and the friendly crackling sounds of the fire. He did so while off in the distance, he could hear all the ‘eating disagreements’ taking place by a pack of wolves over by the grizzly bear and dead horse dump site out on the prairie a short distance away from their camp...
The following morning, Iron Hand was up early and had their familiar trapper’s coffee boiling away over an open fire, as the remaining bear steaks from the evening before were merrily fat-sizzling away at the edge of the fire’s coals. Moments later, his three stove-up friends stumbled and hobbled out from their cave home, sat down on the sitting logs by the fire and had Iron Hand hand each of them a steaming cup of his brand of strongly brewed coffee. Each sore and stove-up man almost simultaneously took a sip of Iron Hand’s style of coffee and then got big grins on their whiskered faces. Big grins because they all had discovered the coffee fixed for their breakfast that morning had been laced with a generous amount of rum to help patch up what ailed each man...
After breakfast, Iron Hand, at Big Foot’s direction, once again cleaned out Crooked Hand’s thigh injury over lots of howling, then heavily laced it with a generous amount of rum and finally wrapped it up once again. Then Iron Hand hobbled all their livestock and turned them out onto the grassy plains next to their camp so they could put on the ‘feed bag’. Finally, it was back to camp, all the while keeping an eye on the trappers’ horse herd, while he rearranged the packs and their gear in the cave for safer keeping and daily use as they saw fit. Iron Hand also reloaded each man’s pistols and rifles in case trouble came a-brewing and the men needed to protect themselves or their valuable horse herd from those who had a case of ‘light fingers’...
Come the early afternoon, Iron Hand brought in their livestock, placing them into their corral after they had a chance to tank up on the clear and cold spring water running through their aspen grove. Following that, after checking the men who had all gone back to sleep in their cave to help in the healing-up process, Iron Hand saddled up his horse and a packhorse and left camp. One shot from his .50 caliber Hawken and two hours later, Iron Hand returned back to camp with a packhorse carrying a heavy load of fresh buffalo meat. Unloading the hindquarters, hump ribs and backstraps, Iron Hand hung some of the meat in a close at hand aspen and set aside the rest for their meals to come.
As it turned out, it was a good thing that he had killed and brought back to camp such a huge amount of camp meat. When the men emerged from the cave in the afternoon on the second day after their unfortunate run in with the sour-mannered grizzly, they were as hungry as the mean-assed critter they had killed the day before! With boiling coffee, staked buffalo meat and Dutch oven biscuits by the score, the men’s appetites were finally satiated.
For the next two weeks, that beca
me Iron Hand’s daily routine. That was, he found himself tending to the livestock, hauling in drinking water, cooking, killing the occasional buffalo, bringing that meat back to camp, and making coffee and biscuits for his fellow trappers, as they slowly healed up and became more and more mobile with each passing day. At the end of that two-week period, Iron Hand’s sore left shoulder was a distant memory, Old Potts was up and moving around almost like he used to, Big Foot’s bad knee was healing up well, and Crooked Hand’s deep laceration in his thigh was responding well to the daily cleaning and applications of high proof rum used as a disinfectant. Additionally, Iron Hand had been breaking in one of their packhorses to ride as Crooked Hand’s replacement horse for the one the grizzly had taken out in the surprise attack the day of their arrival back at their aspen grove camp.
Things were looking up and it was almost time to begin checking the beaver trapping areas to ascertain what kind of annual production the animals had managed, the overall health of the populations and making a long trip easterly to Lake River, to ascertain the potential trapping waters along the main feeder source for Medicine Lake.
“Today we get off our dead hind ends and hit the beaver trail!” bellowed out Old Potts, as he emerged from his sleeping furs in the cave early one morning. Then he hobbled over to the ever-boiling pot of coffee hanging over the coals of the campfire, poured himself a steaming cup and then thankfully sat down upon a nearby sitting log to rest his weak and still recovering lower back. Then spying several previously cooked buffalo steaks lying on a flat rock near the firepit keeping them warm on a ‘fire-rock’, speared one with his sheath knife and began making a big steak into a little one...
Iron Hand, with a grin over Old Potts’s healing-up behavior, staked several more buffalo steaks on green willow limbs over the fire and within moments, they were sputtering out rivulets of liquefied fat as they began cooking. Moments later, Big Foot and Crooked Hand emerged from within the cave’s confines, as the smells of fresh coffee and cooking meat graced the morning’s air, their nostrils, and ‘made a promise’ to their stomachs of better things to come.