by Terry Grosz
That ‘quiet’ however did not relate to their beaver trapping successes. The men discovered that they were catching around 20 beaver a day in their traps! As it turned out, way more beaver were being caught than the four men could keep up with when it came to the skinning, fleshing and hooping the skins at the end of each day of trapping. Finally, tiring of just getting only several hours of sleep before the next day’s run of the traps occurred after all the beaver hides had been processed, a drastic change in their work efforts was becoming apparent, even in the face of the ever-present Gros Ventre danger always at hand.
Finally, one evening after an exhausting day of running the trap line, followed by the hide processing requiring all the trappers working into the wee morning hours, Old Potts put his foot down. “We need to change our operation. We are all wearing down, working from just before sunup until late the following morning every day. There is no way we all can keep up this hectic pace. Even in light of the high quality ‘blanket-sized’ beaver we are catching,” said Old Potts, as he wiped beaver fat from his fleshing knife against the side of his pant leg by the light of their outside campfire.
“What I am about to suggest is a mite dangerous. But I don’t see any other way clear, short of just up and leaving this here beaver-rich country. We kain’t watch constantly over our shoulders for them damn Gros Ventre and do all the work required when it comes to processing this mountain of beaver we are a-trapping,” he continued.
“I suggest that we pair up and split the trapping and processing duties. I think if I had a say in this matter, I would pair up Iron Hand and Crooked Hand and have them do all the beaver trapping. I say it that-a-way ’cause them two is the best shooters among us. They could load their packhorses heavy with extra firepower, and chance running into some of those damn murdering Gros Ventre devils being the good shooters they are and still survive. If they did with all that firepower and their damn good shooting eyes, they would make them Gros Ventre think twice afore trying to close in on them and ‘lift their hair’. Plus, with only two trappers working the beaver grounds, they would sure leave a damn sight fewer white man-shod horse tracks for them murdering devils to discover and then follow them back to this here cabin.”
“Then, that would leave just Old Potts and Big Foot to do all the fleshing and hooping on all the beaver taken the day before. Since we are the poorest shooters among the four of us that would be best, especially if we were a-doing the trapping and got caught out in the open by them murdering savages. That a-way by splitting up all the duties, we could all get more sleep, the beaver trapping numbers would stay the same, and we would be ahead of all the caring for all of our plus. Plus, that would leave the two of us back at the cabin to watch over the rest of our valuable horse herd,” continued Old Potts, obviously happy with the workings of his new idea.
For the next few minutes, all the men quietly mulled Old Potts’s idea over, especially the touchy issue of the trappers being separated deep in Indian country. Then Iron Hand spoke up by saying, “I say if those ideas suit the rest of you men, they suit me just fine as well. I think that Crooked Hand and me, if given just half a chance, could make it a rough go for any Gros Ventre who took us on fair and square. Course if they did not fight fair and came at us like a hundred of them at a time, then them prairie wolves would eat good for a couple of days on a pair of mangy old trappers and a passel of dead Indians once all the smoke had cleared.”
“Well, it would get us a little more shut-eye than we been a-getting,” said Crooked Hand, as he was obviously mulling over Old Potts’s idea from his side of the fence as well.
“Now with that plan out in the open, think about this. We are catching far more beaver than an ordinary trapper by catching about 20 of them critters per day. Soon at that rate, we will have hundreds of plus. Additionally, a great number of them are ‘blanket size’ and that will bring us a pretty penny back at Fort Union...if we live that long that is,” said Big Foot quietly. “But if we do and can get out of here with our hair, I say we do it. Do it because with our catch numbers, we will soon have all the plus we can carry on our horses, and that would allow the four of us to head back to Fort Union maybe weeks earlier than normal...that is once again, if we can keep our hair... Now that I think about it, who the hell would want any of our mops, except for Iron Hands’ that is. I can see many an Indian wanting to lop off his mop of hair so he can use it for a horse blanket or a robe in the winter time for him and all of his kids,” he said with a large smile over the funny he had just pulled on his larger than life-sized friend...
The next morning right at daylight, with Iron Hand in the lead and Crooked Hand trailing two packhorses, the trappers headed for their distant trap line. However, both packhorses sported an extra rifle and two pistols each, with the pistols being fully loaded with buck and ball for any close-in fighting that might occur if they were discovered and surprised by the Gros Ventre...
Arriving at the first of their 40 trap-sets, Iron Hand discovered a giant-sized beaver drowned and hanging lifeless at the end of the trap chain. What was remarkable however, was that the huge beaver weighed at least 100 pounds! “We have another ‘blanket-sized plus’ in that one,” said Iron Hand with a smile on his heavily whiskered and now battle-scarred face, as he waded out to retrieve the drowned animal. Dragging the huge beaver ashore, Crooked Hand, the best skinner of the four trappers, went to work with his flashing but carefully utilized skinning knife, as Iron Hand now stood guard. Somewhat later, the huge skin went into a pannier being carried by one of the packhorses, with the carcass tossed off to one side for the gray wolves and grizzly bears to eat, the trap re-set and then the two men moved on to their next set on their trap line.
At the end of that first day utilizing Old Potts’s plan, the two men had successfully trapped another 23 beaver, with nary an Indian seen. What was even more remarkable was the fact that the beaver numbers along the Poplar River and in the adjacent marshes seemed limitless... Relaxing just a little, the two men took another way back to their cabin, so as not to leave a well-traveled, white man-shod horse trail leading the way.
For the next eight days, the four trappers executed their new plan without anyone having a ‘hitch in their giddy-up’. Come day nine of their new trapping tactic, under a leaden sky portending an early fall storm coming from out of the northwest, found Iron Hand knee deep in icy beaver pond waters and mud, dragging back to shore another very large beaver. “Damn, Crooked Hand, this water gets any colder, I am going to change places with you and let you freeze your butt off instead of keeping it warm in the saddle all day long,” said Iron Hand with a happy to be doing what he was doing grin.
Just as he spoke those words and looking up at Crooked Hand for his reaction to his semi-threatening words, he could see that his partner was intently watching the far northwest horizon intently like a ‘robin would do when looking at a nearby worm’...
“What you looking at, Partner?” asked Iron Hand, as he waded out from the beaver pond he had been walking in.
“Could have sworn I saw four riders way off on the horizon coming this way. But just as I tried to look more closely, something blew into my right eye and by the time I had cleared it out, whatever I was seeing was gone,” said Crooked Hand, as he still intently kept looking to the northwest.
Pausing at the pond’s edge, Iron Hand also looked intently at the far horizon but seeing nothing of interest, laid the dead beaver down by Crooked Hand’s horse saying, “This beaver is all yours. While you are skinning out that one, I need to stamp my feet around a bit to get the feeling back into them and my near frozen legs as well.”
With that, Iron Hand removed his rifle from his horse and took off across the prairie at a slow trot in order to get some life and warm blood back into his near-frozen feet and legs. Moments later after trotting back to where Crooked Hand had almost finished skinning out the beaver, Iron Hand said, “Crooked Hand, did you see anything else of what you saw earlier?”
“
Kinda hard to keep a sharp eye peeled when one is skinning out a beaver,” said Crooked Hand, as he tossed the bloody hide up into an almost full pannier of beaver skins on his packhorse. Then he re-mounted his horse and said, “Let us get going, Iron Hand, we have two more traps to run and then we can get the dickens out of here afore that damn storm a-coming our way is upon us. ’Cause as you damn well know, sitting in a saddle riding a horse in a snowstorm is a damn cold proposition.”
With that, Iron Hand led his horse the 100 yards or so to the next beaver trap in order to try and get some more feeling into his feet and legs before he waded out into any more icy waters to check his traps. However, he was lucky and faced no more cold water that day, because the remaining two traps were empty. With that, Iron Hand mounted his horse and the two trappers turned their ways towards their far distant cabin’s location, just as the first wet snowflake from the oncoming storm flattened out on Crooked Hand’s ‘hawk’s beak’-looking-like nose.
An hour later, riding into the teeth of a full-blown blizzard, the two men and their horses struggled their way towards their cabin. When the flying snow got too heavy to see where they were going, the men gave their horses their heads and let the animals’ instincts lead them back to their corral, a mouthful or two of hay and the comfort of the other familiar horses.
Twenty minutes later, Iron Hand heard a sound that made him rein in his horse abruptly! Sitting there tall in his saddle, Iron Hand strained his ears in the face of the flying heavy and wet snowflakes in order to hear the faint mystery sound he had heard just moments earlier. For the longest time, Iron Hand heard nothing but the wind and the soft squishing sounds of the large, wet snowflakes against his huge beard. Then Iron Hand heard Crooked Hand’s horse being ridden up alongside his motionless horse as he sat there still carefully listening.
“What are you listening for, Partner?” said Crooked Hand.
“I don’t know but for the last hour, my ‘sixth sense’ has been running wild with my imagination,” said Iron Hand, as he looked intently into the flying snowflakes as if they held the clue to what was sticking in his craw. “Plus, I hear a strange sound being carried out there in the flying snow and deep timber that I could not put my finger on.”
Both men sat there quietly on their horses listening for any kind of suspicious sounds for about another ten minutes. As they did, all they did was collect more heavy wet snow on their horses and their winter clothing, before Iron Hand finally pushed on once again. After another ten minutes of stumbling through the wind-driven, heavy wet snow, Iron Hand abruptly drew his horse up short. Once again, peering intently into the heavy, wet, wind-driven snow, he heard the mystery sound once again. That time being closer to the sound, he knew exactly what he had been hearing. HORSES! IRON HAND HAD HEARD A HORSE WHINNYING IN THE TIMBER LYING JUST AHEAD OF THE TWO MEN! A PLACE WHERE HORSES SHOULD NOT BE, ESPECIALLY NEAR THEIR CABIN AND IN FOUL WEATHER...
Once again, Crooked Hand rode up alongside Iron Hand with a questioning look in his now near-frozen and snow-encrusted eyes and totally frosted-over beard. However, Iron Hand, all six-foot, seven-inches of his being, was standing as tall as he could in his stirrups, as his dark eyes peered intently into the gloom of the dense coniferous forest lying directly ahead of their route of travel back to their cabin.
Sitting slowly back down in his now wet saddle with a serious look on his frost-covered face and beard, Iron Hand leaned over and whispered to Crooked Hand, “I just heard a horse whinny! I think there are some horses tied off in those trees to our front and when they smelled or heard our horses coming their way, one of them whinnied. My guess is we are not far from our cabin and those sounds are not coming from our horses in the corral back at the cabin! My guess is they are horses from an Indian raiding party who somehow located our cabin, probably from the wood smoke smell coming from our fireplace being blown about in this storm. I think you did see something on the horizon before we left the beaver trapping waters and I will bet what you saw were Gros Ventre. They may have been looking for the eight men we killed, when they somehow stumbled upon our cabin’s secluded location. That being the case, they must have tied their horses off in that grove of trees ahead and since I don’t hear any shooting, I figure they are now sneaking up to the cabin. Or they have already surprised Old Potts and Big Foot in this damn snowstorm, killed them off and are now looting our cabin and getting ready to steal our horses back in the corral...”
Without another word, the men rode into a nearby grove of aspens, tied off their horses and made a ‘beeline’ to where they figured the mystery horses were tied off. Once discovered, Iron Hand’s suspicions were validated upon viewing four Indian horses tied off, with their owners’ sets of moccasin tracks in the fresh snow leading up towards where he suspicioned their cabin was located.
Checking to make sure their rifles and pistols were primed and ready to go, both men began sneaking along those sets of moccasin tracks left by the Indians heading in the direction of the trappers’ cabin. Finally the trappers’ horse corral came into view in the swirling snows and Crooked Hand noticed there were two Gros Ventre hidden in the trees nearby watching the front door of the cabin. Then Iron Hand noticed that two sets of the Indians’ tracks led over to their stack of logs of their winter woodpile. Ensconced behind the log pile where they could also watch the front door of the cabin and not be seen, were two other crouching Indians with their flintlock rifles held at the ready.
Motioning with his hand, Iron Hand sent Crooked Hand after the two Indians hidden at the end of the trappers’ horse corral, as he began his sneak over towards the winter woodpile of stacked logs hiding the other two Indians of the now-discovered raiding party. Once in place where he wanted to be and out of sight, Iron Hand just waited in the heavily falling wet snow knowing what was soon to come once Crooked Hand got into position near the other two Indians. Iron Hand did not have to wait long... All of a sudden, Iron Hand heard an Indian yell out in discovery and then a quick rifle shot cut short his surprised shouting! That shot was then quickly followed with another of that being a pistol fired and then all was quiet over at the horse corrals, except for those animals’ nervous stamping of their feet and their milling around in confusion in their corral over what had just occurred so close to them.
In that same instant right after Crooked Hand had fired, the cabin door flew open and backlighted in the faint candle light from within, stood Old Potts with his rifle at the ready. When he appeared, one of the Gros Ventre hiding behind the stack of logs, ignoring the shooting heard at the corral, rose up, shouldered his rifle, and then his head exploded throwing a brilliant red, ‘fan-shaped’ bloody ‘spew’ onto the white snow lying in front of him! The second Indian waiting in ambush by the log pile, realizing his partner had just been shot from behind, whirled and seeing Iron Hand standing there, fired a snap shot from the hip with his flintlock rifle, missing the trapper ‘eyeballing’ him by at least ten feet. However, Iron Hand did not miss with his pistol loaded with buck and ball from just ten feet away... When Iron Hand fired, once again the snow was spewed in the front of the man with a bright red smirch!
“What the hell is going on?” yelled Old Potts in surprise at what was occurring in front of the cabin. Then he lowered his rifle, as he saw Iron Hand moving around the woodpile of logs towards the cabin. Old Potts was then even further surprised with the close at hand appearance of Crooked Hand from the horse corral side of their cabin. “What the hell are you two damn fools doing shooting off your guns next to our cabin this time of afternoon? Don’t the two of you realize powder and lead is hard to come by way out here?” yelled Old Potts at his fellow trappers.
Then he spotted Iron Hand reaching down and picking up the dead Indian’s flintlock he had just shot with his pistol and then moving around their log pile to another dead Indian lying on the ground. Once again, without a word being spoken, Iron Hand picked up another rifle from the hands of a head-shot Indian and began walking towards their cabin. Walking up to
a still very surprised Old Potts, Iron Hand handed him both of the Indian’s flintlocks saying, “Here you go, Old Potts, have a couple of rifles, a present from a couple dead Gros Ventre who almost shot the hell out of you standing there backlit in that doorway.”
About then, Crooked Hand approached a still surprised Old Potts and handed him another two flintlock rifles from the Gros Ventre he had just killed over by the corrals. For once, Old Potts had nothing to say as he fumbled with the four rifles and his own all at the same time. “Can we come in now and get warmed up a bit?” said Iron Hand with a semi-frozen-faced grin. “How about me, too?” asked Crooked Hand.
Once inside and standing by the roaring fire in their fireplace, all the while dripping from the now-melting snow off their heavy bearskin coats, Iron Hand and Crooked Hand told Big Foot and Old Potts just how close they came to being wolf bait. For the next few minutes the two trappers related their story of finding the Gros Ventre’s horses tied off in a grove of trees and how they had stalked their four riders to the very edge of their cabin. What events followed were quickly related to the two still very surprised trappers in the cabin, and then Iron Hand and Crooked Hand realized they still had work to do because their day was not yet done.
Moments later, both men exited the cabin and walked back to their still tied-off riding and packhorses down in the far aspen grove. Gathering up those horses, the men then walked over to where the Indians’ horses had been tied off. Leading all eight horses back to their horse corral, they proceeded to unload and unsaddle the mounts and placed them into the getting-crowded corral.
As Crooked Hand struggled over to their cabin with the panniers full of fresh beaver hides, Iron Hand wiped off the snow and secured their saddles, pack saddles and riding gear from the Indians’ horses under the lean-to next to their cabin, built for just such items to get them out of the weather. Then Iron Hand fed all their horses from the hay pile gathered earlier in the summer and then hightailed it for the warmth and dry of their cabin.