Crossed Arrows: Mountain Men (The Mountain Men Book 1)

by Terry Grosz

There was so much motion and commotion it hurt their eyes and ears after so many months of quiet on the trail. Even their horses acted as if this was far more than they had bargained for, if the wild looks in their eyes and jumpiness on their parts meant anything.

  They found a livery stable and paid the liveryman for the keep and care of their horses and security of their equipment. Then with saddlebags heavy with coins thrown over their shoulders and rifles in hand, they walked the wooden sidewalks in wonder. That is, when sidewalks were present in this place called St. Louis.

  Soon they observed hotels, places to eat, a Chinese Joss house—a place of worship, opium den and meeting hall—liveries, and blacksmiths with their ringing hammers and smoke belching from their furnaces filling the air. The scene continued with wagons and teamsters making noisy of their work, riders on horses, gun shops, military personnel parading by in columns of two, and boot cobblers. That was followed by wheelwright shops with large piles of wagon wheels, and butcher shops with animal carcasses covered with flies hanging outside for the buyer to view. And the likes continued greeting them at every turn. It was almost more than a body and their backcountry senses could take. Never had either of them heard so much noise and seen so many people in one place or time in their lives. But the excitement continued as many new things unfolded at every turn in the streets and doorways. Even exotic excitement that included “Ladies of the Night,” the first they had ever seen, added to their wonderment.

  For the next six hours, the two men were lost in the exploration of their new home. Every turn produced more and more sights until their heads were swimming as the day grew long in the tooth. Not wanting to sleep outside with the hordes of mosquitoes another night, they decided they would stay in a place that advertised sleeping quarters for rent.

  Inside a sleeping emporium, for ten cents a night, they were directed to a long room at the back of a clapboard building. There, strongly smelling of sweat, vomit, whiskey and stale cigar smoke, already laid about a dozen men on straw sleeping mats. Some were snoring and others obviously sleeping off a drunk. Still, it was better than having a hovering cloud of hungry mosquitoes buzzing overhead all night in the woods.

  Hungry and still excited over what they were seeing, they decided to eat first and then come back to sleep. Walking down the boardwalk, they stopped in a place advertising: Louie’s Emporium, The Best Meals in St. Louis. They both ordered steak dinners and sat back into real chairs for the first time since their winter stay at the farmer’s barn in Mt. Vernon. They continued watching in awe the happenings around them. There were men in suits and glistening beaver top hats carrying silver-headed canes, and ladies in all manner of clothing that included hats covered with strange bird feather plumes and billowing dresses that rustled softly when they walked. Then there were Celestial men waiting the tables and the tinny clanking of something called a piano in the back room. All of which was accompanied by clouds of cigar smoke, men in muddy clothes, fur trappers in their backcountry garb and more black men waiting on their masters. It seemed that—and everything else—continually challenged their awakening senses.

  When their meals arrived, they discovered the steak was tougher than the old grizzly they had shot back on the trail. However, they were hungry and used their hunting knives to cut off slabs of meat so they could eat it in proper style.

  “The beans are good but not as good as if Margaret had cooked them, but these homemade bread and biscuits are a treat,” Jacob told Martin.

  Martin in the meantime was on his tenth biscuit loaded with a slather of wild honey.

  Later, a fresh homemade apple pie between them and six cups of steaming black coffee finished off their first commercial meal in fine style. One silver fifty-cent piece covered the entire meal for the both of them. They each carried a full gut as they grabbed their gear and headed for their sleeping quarters.

  Arriving, they found the place packed with snoring men, all smelling like a little of Margaret’s homemade lye soap would have done all of them a great deal of good. Locating two straw mats alongside a wall near a window, both men tossed their gear in between their sleeping mats for safety, lay down and soon were fast asleep.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” yelled Jacob as he awoke to find a man leaning over him reaching for his saddlebags. Jacob jerked the man over the top of himself, then slammed the scoundrel face down on the floor between Martin and himself. In an instant, the two friends had a strong grip on the unknown thief.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” screamed the thief in terror.

  By now the whole sleeping area was an uproar of yelling men. Grabbing a lit sleeping candle off an overhead shelf, Martin held it over the face of their thief for a better look.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” he yelled. “Let me go!”

  Jacob stood up and dragged the terrified man to his feet. The Kentuckian looked about and saw that he had caught the man before anything was taken. He tossed him like a rag doll against the wall with a resounding, bone-rattling thump.

  “Get out of here or I will cut you from ear to ear,” snarled Jacob.

  With that, the man bolted out the nearest open door. Thereafter, Jacob and Martin slept with one eye open and their hands on their horse pistols the rest of the night.

  Come dawn the next day, the two men went back at the eatery from the night before. Once again, both men were boggled at the humanity they observed coming and going. For breakfast, both had huge stacks of griddlecakes with wild honey, slabs of salty cured ham and cups of scalding hot black coffee. Fifty cents once again paid for both of their meals.

  They gathered up their gear and slowly walked back to the livery stable, taking in the sights. Walking under the windows of a two-story building, Jacob almost had the contents from a foul-smelling chamber pot sloshed onto his head. Only the sharp eye of his friend and Jacob’s quick reflexes kept him from smelling rather poorly the rest of the day. However, it didn’t take long for a nearby hog running loose to discover the contents of the chamber pot and make quick work of its delightful lumpy contents.

  Back at the livery, they gathered up the rifles taken from the band of outlaws who had tried to rob and kill them earlier back on the trail. They also picked up the ones belonging to Jacob’s father and Martin’s old broken one with the blood and dried brains still on the remnants of the stock. They also collected their old pan-and-flint-style horse pistols. The two of them walked down Laurel Street to where Jacob had seen the gunsmith sign, still taking in the sights, smells and sounds of a “civilization” still very much foreign to their senses and comprehension.

  Jacob and Samuel Hawken read the top part of the sign. Gunsmiths & Gun Repair. Pistols, Knives, Axes and Rifles for Sale or Trade continued the wording on the bottom of the sign.

  Jacob looked at Martin with a “Let’s try here” look. They both entered the store. The air inside the store smelled of stale cigar smoke, gun oil, wood smoke from a leaking stove in the comer, and coffee from a pot that had boiled far too long.

  “May I help you?” asked an older man from behind a counter who was carefully filing down the comb on a maple rifle stock.

  “Yes, you may,” replied Jacob. “My friend and I plan on moving out onto the plains come this fall and doing some hunting and trapping.”

  “Who isn’t?” replied the gunsmith with a timeworn grin.

  Jacob, caught unawares by that salty response, hesitated and then continued. “We would like to trade in some older rifles and purchase several modern rifles of a heavier caliber if they be available. Maybe even purchase some good pistols if you have any of those as well,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Well, that we have, lad, and you fellows came to the right place. What kind of hunting you plan on doin’?” asked the gunsmith.

  “We are looking at trapping some beaver and in the interim, taking some buffalo for meat and hides, plus defending ourselves if necessary.”

  “Oh, you will find it necessary to defend yourselves alright. The count
ry you are talking about is full of cutthroats, white and red, wanting to steal your plews and horses or lift your hair. Between the mean-assed river men and the hair-lifting Lakota, Cheyenne and Blackfoot Indians further north, you had better be armed, and I mean well armed! In fact, from the looks of that fresh scar on your face, I’d say you already know what I’m talking about.” The man spoke in a rather straightforward manner as he looked at Jacob’s scarred face.

  Jacob ignored the gunsmith’s comment about the ugly scar on his cheek and said, “Would you show us what you have that would meet our needs, please?”

  They laid their multitude of rifles and pistols down on a front counter, then followed the gunsmith into a side room full of rifles hanging on wooden pegs along one wall. Underneath and off to one side of the wall of rifles, a glass-topped showcase full of pistols, knives, steel-bladed hand axes and tomahawks sparkled as well.

  “Where do you want to start?” asked the gunsmith.

  Looking over at Martin, Jacob said, “If that is alright with you, let’s start with some heavy-caliber rifles.” Martin nodded in agreement, at which time the gunsmith turned and took down a heavy octagonal-barreled rifle hanging from a set of wooden pegs on the wall.

  “This is the newest of our line and made right here in the shop by my brother and me. It will more than meet any needs you and your friend will have out on the plains. It is a .54-caliber Hawken, which when fully loaded and primed, will shoot a four-hundred-grain bullet clear through a buffalo at two hundred yards. It will also stop a mad-as-a-hornet griz in his tracks if you hit him right. If you notice here, this rifle does not utilize a pan and flint system like your old-style rifles, but utilizes the new percussion cap.”

  “What is this thing called a percussion cap?” asked Martin.

  “Here, let me show you,” replied the gunsmith. He dug out a small round brass tin from under the counter. From it, he produced a small copper cap looking like the upper part of a gentleman’s beaver top hat.

  “You take this cap after you have loaded the rifle and place it on this here nipple of the firearm like this. Then all you have to do is cock the hammer and pull the trigger.” Pop went the cap loudly as the gunsmith pointed the barrel away from the two men and pulled the trigger.

  “With this kind of device, you don’t have to worry so much about misfires like you did with a rifle possessing a flash pan, especially in wet weather. Plus you can load this one on the run and not worry about spilling your powder all over the place trying to prime the pan,” he continued with a look backing his statement.

  He handed the rifle to Martin and took another like rifle off the wall for Jacob to heft and examine. Both men, born of outdoors experience, carefully hefted the new rifles weighing between ten and twelve pounds. They were much heavier than their old flintlocks. They discussed among themselves how stout the rifles were, especially the stocks.

  “This is so unlike our Pennsylvania rifles. A much heavier and sturdier stock,” Jacob said.

  “This rifle has a big bore,” Martin added. “This new primer ignition system is very smart.”

  Both men hefted the rifles to their shoulders and smiled their satisfaction.

  “Martin, feel this balance. Feel how it handles.”

  “Yes. And the stock, being heavier, should take the rough and tumble wild much better than the Pennsylvania flintlocks. The heavier trigger guards will help as well.”

  However, both men were new to a double-set trigger combination that was present on the Hawkens. They required some further explanation from the gunsmith. The gunsmith took the Hawken from Jacob and commenced to show the two men how the new system worked. Then he handed the rifle back to Jacob and watched in pleasure when Jacob set the back trigger. Jacob smiled at the smoothness of the release when he pulled the front trigger.

  Martin did the same and that was followed with a huge smile advising he was more than pleased with the new rifle. “These sights, they are much lower than I am used to,” he said.

  The gunsmith replied, “The low-bladed front sights are designed for the backcountry. By making them lower, they are less likely to break off.”

  “And the barrel,” Jacob said, “is what, only about a yard?”

  “Thirty-five inches in length, son.”

  Jacob laid the new rifle across his thighs, as if to imitate carrying the firearm on a horse’s saddle. “I like that. It’s short but hefty. Good for cutting down on snagging and breaking in the mountains, I would think.”

  “Exactly.” The gunsmith grinned.

  “Well, sir, your Hawken rifles appear to be as advertised and just as bit good as everyone in town’s been sayin’.”

  Jacob looked at Martin and seeing the acceptance in his eyes, said, “We would like four of these rifles in .54 caliber. We will also need powder, lead, bullet molds, extra ramrods and a bunch of those ignition caps. Enough for at least five years in the outback for the two of us.”

  “I can do that but you will also need several sets of nipples because with repeated and heavy use, the nipple stem will eventually deform under the heavy fall of the hammer. You will also need a special wrench so you can change out the nipples. I would also suggest several spare sets of locks, small files and extra flat springs which you will need over time. Last, but not least, you will need a ‘worm’ bullet-puller in case of a misfire for each rifle and some picks so you can clean out the flash hole running through the nipple.”

  Hawken tapped the glass. “Now, how about a set of pistols? Most plainsmen carry at least one pistol and many two because of the Indian threat with the close-in fighting that is so common.” Then the gunsmith looked up abruptly at Martin, then faltered and blushed over what he had just uttered. “Sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean to imply...” His voice dropped off in embarrassment over the “Indian” remark he had just made to a potential Indian customer.

  “That is alright,” replied Martin with a smile. “We have the same problem back home in Kentucky with our Indians.”

  That broke the awkwardness with chuckles all around, and the three of them began arranging for the needed items. In addition to the rifles and needed accessories, they purchased four new pistols of .69 caliber and a twelve-gauge, double-barreled fowling piece. All of those weapons were fitted with the new cap and nipple system as well. With them came all the needed accessories in case something broke down once in the outback. Soon, a small mound of supplies began to stack up on the counters as the weapons, parts and accessories were assembled. With that came five thousand primer caps in waterproof tins, six twenty-five-pound sacks holding bars of soft pig lead, and three small cast-iron lead melting pots in which to melt the pig lead down into a liquid by the campfire so new bullets could be molded. That was followed by four .54-caliber bullet molds, four twenty-five-pound wooden barrels of powder and four twenty-five-pound bags of shot for the fowling piece. The gunsmith also threw in four metal powder horns for free since the men were making such a large purchase, along with a bolt of cloth for gun wadding.

  Then Jacob had the gunsmith look over the rifles, pistols and rifle-specific accessories they had brought into the store as trade items. For the longest time the gunsmith carefully looked over their offerings including Martin’s rifle with the broken stock. Seeing dried blood and brains on that rifle’s stock did not even make the gunsmith show any kind of emotion other than a quick knowing look at the two men; he acted like blood and brains on a rifle stock was an everyday occurrence. “Living on the frontier can be like that at times,” he commented.

  Putting pen to paper, he wrote out some figures as to the values of the firearms offered for trade. Then he wrote out the costs of the new firearms, parts, accessories and supplies that had been selected on another piece of paper.

  “For the items you fellas want to trade, I will give you one hundred and sixty dollars in credit against your new purchases. The new purchases will cost you right at three hundred and sixty-five dollars. With the difference, you owe me two hundred and f
ive dollars,” he said.

  Jacob looked over at Martin and Martin’s look told him that appeared to be fair.

  Jacob turning to the gunsmith said, “You have a deal.”

  Taking the saddlebag off his shoulder, Jacob began counting out two hundred and five dollars in U.S. and Spanish gold and silver coins. The gunsmith smiled largely at the wonder of coins spilling over his counter in shiny profusion. So many times, even in St. Louis, deals depended on the barter system because of the scarcity of the coin of the realm. Hence his look of pleasurable disbelief at the coins stacking up on the counter.

  “We will leave our gear here with you for the moment if you don’t mind, with the exception of the pistols,” said Jacob quietly. “I feel the need for us to carry two of those while we are in town. Would you please show us the proper load and include a leather pouch with a few extra bullets and caps? A small horn of powder would be good to have along as well.”

  The gunsmith, pleased over his huge sale, agreed and headed off into the back room to start supplying the rest of Jacob’s request. Jacob picked up his father’s old Pennsylvania rifle and fingered it lovingly.

  Martin looked on, knowing what Jacob was feeling but said nothing. Out West, firearms would be a necessity and a tool to keep them fed and alive. If a rifle doesn’t do the job, one must get rid of it and acquire another that does. That is just the way it is and both of us know it.

  Reverently taking the old Pennsylvania rifle from Jacob and laying it back down on the counter, Martin helped Jacob break from his “old life.”

  That afternoon, Jacob and Martin looked around in a mercantile that supplied those heading out West with the items they would need for their venture. That included such staples for at least a year on the trail as coffee beans, cones of hard brown sugar, salt, pepper, pinto beans, cornmeal, flour, fire-making steels, iron buckles, fish hooks and line. The two also found sewing needles for clothing repair and sewing minor wounds shut. That was followed with wooden spools of thread, several heavy flannel shirts each, buttons, Hudson’s Bay Company three-point blankets to replace theirs, which had just about worn out, and four square axes.