by Terry Grosz
Still mindful of the fact that the four of them were deep in Gros Ventre country trailing a large and valuable herd of horses, the men stayed to the river and creek bottoms for cover, as they traveled back along the Missouri and then northward along the Poplar River. As they did, Iron Hand had to smile. Their pack string now carried an extra eight rifles, five pistols, two full kegs of rum, 40 beaver and 24 wolf traps, and one small keg of a high-grade French powder, all retrieved from the dead horse thieves, not to mention an additional eight riding and two fine packhorses plus all their gear and provisions.
That also suited Old Potts just fine, as he remembered all the packs of furs they had back at their cabin and the additional ones they would soon be harvesting come spring after ice out. As such, he had often wondered how they would get all their packs of furs back to Fort Union, seeing that they had more packs than their original herd of horses could carry. Now that issue of concern over having more packs of plus than their original herd of horses could carry had been solved with the welcome addition of ten more horses previously belonging to their now-dead horse thieves. Then he had to smile broadly once again. Had to smile, because for the last two years when they had returned to Fort Union, they had arrived with more valuable horses than they had left with. Now, if they kept their hair and were not discovered by the horse-stealing Gros Ventre, they would be going back to Fort Union a third time with more horses that they had started out with! That would surely make McKenzie smile over his four Free Trappers’ successes once again, he thought with another even broader heavily whiskered smile...
Arriving back at their cabin, the men found it undisturbed and unloaded all their gear plus their previously stolen traps. Then it was back to work as normal. There was wood to cut up from their winter woodpile for their fireplace; buffalo to hunt for their meals; wolves to trap, skin, flesh and dress out; meals to cook; and an enlarged horse herd to look out for after they had been turned out onto the nearby prairie to graze on a daily basis.
Finally came a welcome spring and the much-awaited first day of beaver trapping for the four trappers. For the two days previous to that ‘jump-off’ date, the four trappers made ready for what awaited them. Firearms were checked, horse gear gone over and those items time-worn or torn were repaired, the traps were smoked to reduce the man smells, shoes on the horses were checked to make sure none were loose, a small mountain of rifle and pistol balls were cast, and all the men’s knives were sharpened. To date, the men had 20 bound and ready to go beaver packs, 18 wolf pelts, 16 of river otter, 20 deerskins, 64 muskrat pelts, and four black bear rugs. That represented a small fortune in furs, plus they still had the spring beaver trapping before them before the animals went out of prime.
Once again, it was decided all the men would go forth initially and trap beaver for the safety in numbers it offered until they got behind on the skinning, fleshing and hooping. Then they would split up, leaving Iron Hand and Crooked Hand to do all the trapping and Old Potts and Big Foot to do all the fur processing and watching over the remaining horseflesh left back at their cabin.
Come the day decided upon to begin spring beaver trapping, the men were eagerly up before the crack of dawn and as the horses and pack animals were made ready, Iron Hand was hard at work making a hearty breakfast of venison steak, Dutch oven biscuits, a Dutch oven pie made from the last of their dried apples and raisins, and the usual ‘thick as beaver pond mud’ and as strong as an angry mule’s kick, loaded with the last of their sugar, trapper’s coffee.
Finishing breakfast and heading out, found the trappers’ string of horses and pack animals loaded for ‘bear’. Each of the two pack animals carried two panniers full of beaver traps, axes, a shovel, two extra rifles mounted on the pack saddles and two additional pistols loaded with buck and ball just in case they had unwanted company, all riding side-saddle in holsters on each horse for quick retrieval.
Since he was to do all of the actual trapping, Iron Hand led the string of horses and trappers from their cabin as they headed for their usual trapping area along the Poplar River, its tributaries and adjacent marsh lands. Behind him came Big Foot, leading a packhorse and behind him came Old Potts doing the same. Last but not least rode Crooked Hand, along with his excellent shooting eye and steady hand, in case someone came along and wanted to try and ‘ruin’ the trappers’ first day of spring trapping...
Approaching the initial starting point of their old trap line, Iron Hand noticed that there seemed to be less beaver in their regular watered areas than they had seen in previous years. Additionally, a goodly number of the old dams seemed to be in disrepair, as well as did a number of the old beaver houses. Those were not good signs, as Iron Hand quietly figured maybe disease or the winter had been so hard and the ice so thick, that a lot of the animals had starved and died. Those suspicions were confirmed when Iron Hand rode up on two feeding beaver on shore that were thin and their fur looked rough and poorly kept, which was unusual for any normally healthy animal. All were signs indicating a possible winter die-off due to starvation as a possible culprit in the beaver’s reduced numbers and their overall physical condition.
However, Iron Hand pushed on and began setting out his traps for about four miles up the waterways on their old familiar trapping grounds. When finished with the setting out of 40 beaver traps, the trappers rode another four miles up along the waterways looking for newer and better trapping grounds. They were disappointed in what they saw. All along the way, they discovered beaver dams in disrepair, few swimming animals and those seen were in poor body and fur conditions. Even worse, no young beaver were seen swimming in the waters and Iron Hand did not see one immature beaver track in the mud next to his sets or along the usual slides.
On the way back in the afternoon, as was usual because beaver are so territorial, they checked and discovered ten curious beaver already in their traps. Those beaver had smelled the unfamiliar-smelling castoreum used on the bait sticks, came over to investigate the new arrival’s scent and had been trapped. Upon closer inspection, all the beaver were found to be thin and their fur poorly kept and of low grade in quality. All of which was a sure sign of a major winter kill beaver die-off situation on their old trapping grounds, possibly because of the trapping area’s shallower waters.
Then Crooked Hand gave Iron Hand a low warning whistle and looking in the direction in which he was pointing, the trappers saw two Indians riding by on a far hilltop. Not wanting to be discovered, the men slipped off into a grove of aspens, dismounted and watched the two Indians as they rode along the ridge line, seemingly unaware of the trappers working their trap line far below. The men waited until the Indians had disappeared off into the distant foothills. Satisfied they had not been seen, they finished riding their trap line, removing four more beaver in the process.
Then the men scouted out another tributary on the Poplar and discovered a number of deeper beaver ponds, numerous well-kept houses and evidence of currently used slides and fresh cuttings in the nearby aspen and willow patches. Heartened over what they were seeing, the men returned to their old trap line, removed a dozen previously set traps and brought them over to the new beaver area just discovered. There Iron Hand set the 12 new traps in likely looking places and then the men headed back to their cabin to flesh out and hoop the few beaver they had caught earlier in the day.
On the way back to their cabin, Crooked Hand killed a fat cow buffalo and the men feasted on warm, bile-covered, raw buffalo liver right out of the animal. Then they cut out the hump ribs, back straps and one hindquarter, loaded up their pack animals and headed for their cabin.
Walking their pack string and riding horses into the cabin site, the men dismounted and then Old Potts noticed that their cabin door was ajar! Then Big Foot noticed the number of horses in their corral seemed to be a little light in number! A quick head count by Iron Hand who had noticed the same lessened numbers of animals, showed that there were eight horses missing! Jumping off his horse, Iron Hand ran over to the corral
gate and noticed that a different kind of knot in the gate rope had been tied other than the one he had tied earlier that morning... Looking down at the ground, Iron Hand noticed one set of moccasins footprints!
Then he heard Old Potts shout. “Those damn devils not only made off with eight of our horses, but 16 packs of our beaver plus we had ready for transport to Fort Union! Plus they helped themselves to our few precious brown sugar cones we had left, eating most of them,” he yelled in a ‘badger’-mad tone of voice!
“Come on, Crooked Hand. I bet it was those two damn Indians we saw earlier in the day before we reset our beaver traps in that new tributary, that were our thieves,” said Iron Hand as he leapt back into his saddle and following the hoofprints made in the soft and damp spring soil of the stolen horses, rode off after them. Moments later, the two riders were out of sight as Old Potts and Big Foot surveyed their cabin for anything else that had been taken. When it was all said and done, only the eight horses and 16 packs of valuable beaver plus had been taken. No two ways about it, a major loss, especially in light of the heavy winter kill of beaver in their area and the trappers’ reduced chances to rebuild their plus numbers with their possibly limited spring catches! thought Big Foot.
Daylight the following morning, found Big Foot and Old Potts still alone! Crooked Hand and Iron Hand had not returned from the night before and now the two remaining trappers faced a dilemma. They had two of their number missing and they still had a trap line to run with 40 traps out! Doing what they had to do, Big Foot and Old Potts rode forth and ran the trap line. Bringing back only 13 beaver out of the 40 traps set, the men were concerned. If they didn’t do better in the beaver-catching department, they could not survive in that area as successful trappers. Even more importantly, they were still missing two of their friends! However, they still had work to do, so they set about their fleshing and hooping duties involving the 13 beaver they had caught that morning.
The next morning, Crooked Hand and Iron Hand had yet to return from their chase after the horse and plus thieves! Once again, Big Foot and Old Potts ran their trap line, brought home their catch of 21 beaver, fleshed out and hooped the same. By then, it was deep into the night and still their two friends had yet to return! By then, both trappers figured their friends had run afoul of a larger number of Gros Ventre, been overrun and killed. Figuring that, they also realized if that were the case, it would be a simple matter for their killers to backtrack the two trappers to their cabin and then...
That evening, the two trappers made sure that a rifle and several pistols adorned every shooting port along the inside walls of their cabin. Then as an added precaution, they stacked a dozen packs of furs against the inside of the front door in case a number of hostile Indians decided to make a run at the cabin’s only door during an attack. They figured if attacked, the Indians would not try and burn them out because they would want any valuable plus the trappers had in the cabin, plus there were other goods the white man trappers would have that they would want as well. So the thinking of the two trappers was, if the attacking Indians wanted all of that, they knew where it was, so come and get it...
The next morning before the crack of dawn, Old Potts while lying in his sleeping furs, heard a number of horses approaching their cabin! “Big Foot, get up,” he whispered. “I think those Indians that killed Iron Hand and Crooked Hand have backtracked them and they are now here!” Both men got up and stumbled around in the dark of their cabin, as they hustled over to their firearms and made ready for whatever came there way.
“Don’t you two old bastards start shooting,” yelled Iron Hand. “Open the front door so we will know the two of you are still alright,” he continued in a louder tone of voice, to make identification of the one doing the yelling easy to be identified by those inside the cabin.
With that, the cabin door flew open and there stood Big Foot and Old Potts, naked as jay birds having just jumped out from their sleeping furs and now with their rifles in hand.
“Damn, Iron Hand! Damned good thing you yelled out or we was prepared to blow your miserable butts clear out of them saddles in the dim light,” grumbled a damn happy Old Potts upon seeing his two friends were safe and sound. “Did you get them damn thieving horse and plus-stealing bastards?” he continued in a tone of voice still coming down in the emotion of the moment.
“Can we have some coffee and hot grub and then we can talk? We haven’t eaten in two days and are hungry enough to eat our horses and two more from out of the corral,” said Crooked Hand.
“Well, you two damn knotheads kain’t eat standing out there in the dark and in the middle of our yard. I suggest if you want some grub, you get your tail-ends in here afore we decide to shoot the two of you anyway for making us worry so much,” said Old Potts, now getting the ‘happy’ back into his naked being and tone of voice.
With that, the two tired men dismounted and took care of their horses, while the happy smell of cooking meat now began emanating from inside their cabin and graced their ‘smellers’. Later once inside, the two travelers sat down tiredly and had cups of weak, lukewarm coffee thrust into their happy outstretched hands, as their big pot was just beginning to boil over the fire in their fireplace.
“Well, what the damn hell happened out there? I see that you two did not bring back any of our horses or plus, so there must be a story on what happened somewhere,” said Old Potts.
Gulping down his second cup of now getting hotter and stronger coffee, Iron Hand began their tale of woe. “Well, we stayed hot on the trail of our horse and plus thieves until dark overcame us that first day. It was very obvious by the way and speed in which they were traveling, that they did not wait around to see if we would be mad over what they took that was ours and were hot on their trail. They fair moved out on those stolen horses and never slowed down one wit. Crooked Hand and I slept in an aspen grove along the Poplar River that first night and at first light the next day, we were back on their trail. We found their cold camp about two miles away from where we had bedded down that first evening but they were already long gone when we arrived. It was like they now knew we would be hot on their trail. They just kept pushing those horses hard, as they made for the Missouri. Once there, they turned west and followed the river until the second night. We stayed on their trail until dark overtook us once again and then we bedded down along the Missouri and let our tired horses out to graze. The next day, we were up early once again but they pulled out ahead of us before we got there. I don’t think they even took the time to unpack those horses or even feed them that time, they were in such a hurry. About midday, we caught a glimpse of them just as they rode into a camp along the river that was clear full of Indians. There must have been 10 or 12 of their brothers waiting for them in that camp, so we backed off and hid along the river until dark. Then we staked our horses out of the way so they would not be discovered and then sneaked up to their campsite to look and see what we could do about our furs and horses.”
“Those horse thieves were not fools. They had guards posted all night so Crooked Hand and I could not sneak in, grab our horses and packs and then scoot. There just wasn’t any way of getting back what was ours, without getting our hair lifted in the process if we tried anything. So we backtracked out of there and made our way back here. There was no two ways about it. They were a mess of Indian renegades, apparently sweeping the country for anything and everything from other trappers that they could lay their thieving hands upon. That is about it. We came home by another route so no one could track us if we had been seen. In watching our back trail, it was obvious they did not know we were so close around them. Now, how about some chow before my big guts eat my little ones?” said Iron Hand in his characteristic ‘I am glad to be home and alive’ heavily whiskered grin. Whiskers that had now long since grown back after one of the two young Indian horse thieves had shot off a patch of them in their shoot-out. However, Big Foot had remarked upon their most recent return, that he felt Iron Hand was still not the prett
iest among their lot...
The following day to avoid any ‘horse-stealing event’ repeats, Iron Hand and Crooked Hand commenced with their trapping duties, while Old Potts and Big Foot guarded the remaining plus and horse herd. Still finding beaver trapping on their old trapping grounds somewhat skimpy at best because of the huge winter die-off, the two men shifted their entire trap line over to the newer trapping grounds discovered the day the two Indians had run off with part of their horse herd and 16 packs of plus. As near as the four trappers could figure, those two Indians who had stolen their eight horses only took that many because that was all they could handle at one time and make haste in their escape...
For the next month or so, the trapping remained good on the new trapping grounds and the furs collected were of prime quality. Then when Old Potts and Big Foot, who were doing all of the fur preparations, noticed that some of the beaver trapped were shedding their winter coats, especially their long guard hairs, they advised the team doing all of the trapping, to pull their traps and call it quits.
That first evening as the four men sat around their outside firepit smoking their pipes and swatted at the hordes of mosquitoes, they discussed their plans for the future. It was apparent that they had pretty well trapped out most of the beaver in their neck of the woods along the Poplar River and its waterways. With that realization out in the open, the men looked to Old Potts for some guidance when it came to their future as trappers in the country heavily utilized by numerous bands of the dreaded Gros Ventre.
“Well,” said Old Potts once the future plans as trappers was broached, “I guess we can call her quits, go back to Fort Union with what we have and sell our furs from this season. Then we can head downstream to St. Louis, collect our $40,000 in credit that the American Fur Company owes us from our past successes, split the money and go our ways,” he said slowly, as he expelled a large cloud of pipe smoke into the cooling evening air and momentarily scattering the horde of mosquitoes flying around him.