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

by Terry Grosz

  “Hmm,” Martin replied. “Thanks.”

  Later, the two bearded men came by again.

  “Hey!” said the larger of the two.

  “Can I help you?” Jacob asked.

  “Yeah. Howdy. My name’s Bear, at least, that is what they call me, on account I got this here bear-claw necklace.” Bear pulled on a large set of bear claws strung onto a necklace. “You like it?”

  “Mighty impressive.”

  “Well, my pal Wentz and I are kinda bored. We were thinking of playing some cards. I’ll put our buffalo robes up against one of your fancy rifles, make it interesting.” Bear pointed to a nearby pile of buffalo hides.

  Martin shook his head as Jacob said, “No, thanks. Not interested.”

  Bear was not swayed. He asked again, taking the tack of “Be men and show some courage.” To no effect.

  “Do you think we are cheaters?” growled Bear after Jacob and Martin declined the invite to gamble with their new rifles for the second time.

  “No,” replied Jacob not wanting to start a hurrah. “We just want to make sure we have good rifles for the chores ahead.”

  “Well, hell, you have four of them there new Hawkens. Missing one of them won’t cripple you or cause a great deal of gas,” grumbled Bear as he continued to press for a card game.

  “Yeah, why not give your hand a chance at luck,” chimed in his partner Wentz. “You could win this here pile of fine buffalo robes and our rifles,” he continued with a smile that said here was one not to be trusted.

  “Sorry, we are not interested, now or ever,” said Martin as he stretched out on his straw bed watching the far shoreline drift by.

  “Who the hell is talking to you, Injun?” snapped Bear through a vicious snarl.

  Martin slowly rose from his bed of straw, only to be held in check by Jacob’s hand. Martin was a fury when aroused, and Jacob sure didn’t want to have to clean Bear and Wentz’s blood off the deck after Martin let these pesky trappers leak their life’s juices out all over the place.

  Jacob said, “Gentlemen, we aren’t interested in your game of chance or anything else that would jeopardize our ownership of these firearms,” said Jacob. This time when he spoke, instead of being polite, there was a ring of steel in the tenor of his voice.

  Bear and Wentz, picking up on the tonal change in Jacob and observing the deadly look in Martin’s flashing dark eyes, backed off like the cowards they were. Still grumbling, they ambled off but not without some mighty vicious looks back over their shoulders at Jacob and Martin.

  “You boys sure didn’t do yourself any favors by pissing off that pair of skunks,” said a quiet voice from a man richly dressed in beaded buckskins standing by a nearby rail.

  Jacob and Martin turned and discovered a tall thin man of obvious Indian descent looking intently at the two of them. Martin got a huge smile of recognition on his face and said something in Delaware to the man. The man replied in the same tongue and soon the two of them were chattering away in the Delaware language like long lost friends. Jacob saw this was a private conversation between Indians from the same Nation and just politely watched.

  Martin stopped speaking in Delaware. “Jacob, this is Ben Bow. He is also a Delaware. He is going West as a free trapper as we are doing.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Jacob as he warmly shook Ben Bow’s hand.

  Like Martin’s handshake, Ben let you know there was a real man on the other end of it.

  “What brings you to join this here particular expedition?” asked Jacob.

  “Lived in the Knife River Indian Village for three years past before I returned to St. Louis this spring. I missed the people, the trapping and the brand of living in this here part of the wilderness. So just figured I would earn my way north once again. After a few years trapping and watching my earnings, figured I would return to Knife River, get myself a good woman and then settle down.” He flashed Jacob a wide, beautiful, toothy smile like Martin’s.

  All three men smiled, not at Ben’s statement but at the mutual thought of a possible friendship among the group when it came time to trap their way north.

  That evening, Ben moved his sleeping gear and packs alongside that of Jacob and Martin. That move turned out to be the beginning of a strong, enduring friendship and bond among the three men.

  For the next several days, realizing he was with “greenhorns,” Ben taught Jacob and Martin the Indian sign language so commonly used on the plains. Both men picked it up rapidly and soon all three were conversing in the universal “tongue” of the plains. Ben also spent time with Jacob and Martin on the history and mechanics of the fur trade. That included the art of not only trapping beaver but the skinning, grading and care of the plews as well. His several years living and trapping on the frontier and among the Indians on the Knife River had served him well. It warmed his soul to share such knowledge with his two new friends, who eagerly absorbed it all.

  Sitting near the bow of the paddle wheeler, the three of them talked about the country, the Indians and beaver trapping in general throughout the daylight hours. Ben was a vast storehouse of information and Jacob and Martin found themselves hanging onto his every word.

  “Best time to trap beaver is in the fall and early spring. That is when their pelts are prime and generate the highest prices. When we leave the Laramie River, we will probably be in a larger group of twenty trappers or more. Then, as we pass through prime trapping country, small groups of up to four will leave the brigade and begin trapping in those beaver-rich areas. The rest of us will move on to the next trapping grounds and again another small group will be dropped off to trap those waters. This process is continued until the last group is left to find their own area to trap. Once in our trapping area, a small camp will be set up so as not to cause the local Indians any interest or concern. Those trapping will carry and set only six traps each. Trap weight is one factor and the other is, if the trapping is good, bringing back six beaver each to camp for skinning and dressing is about all one wants to handle. The trappers will set out their traps each day in the morning. Then we will scout out new areas that same day for later trapping, especially once we clean out the first area. Then the traps are checked again in the afternoon as we return. Once caught, the beaver are skinned, fleshed and dried on a hoop built for the size of the pelt. We will make our hoops from the many willows growing along the streams and beaver ponds. Then once the plews are dried, they are folded in half with the fur side in. As you get more and more of them, you will need to compress the folded hides into a bundle of about fifty or sixty pelts depending on their sizes. Using rawhide ties, you will compress those bundles with your body pressing down on top while another man does the tying.” Ben bent over with arms wide to demonstrate.

  He continued. “Those bundles will pack perfectly on a horse, with a bundle attached on each side of the pack board. A smaller one can also be tied on top of the pack board to fill the bill. But before we do that, we will tie around and cover each pack of plews with a tanned deer hide. That will make it easier to load and offload when traveling and keep them clean.”

  Ben waited for the two young men to nod in understanding, then he said, “Part of the reason for such poor relations with the Indians is the competition for the furs and fur trade. Another bone of contention is that of firearms and our earlier trade practices. Some bands of the Lakota and the Blackfoot don’t want other tribes to receive the white man’s goods. If they can keep the other tribes from the white man’s goods, especially firearms, they can rule the other Indian nations. Trading with everyone as we are wont to do has loosened those Indian’s powers and now those tribes are mad at just about every white man. Another reason they don’t like us is because this is their land. The Indians just don’t want us here. That is why we must be very careful in everything we do. That is also why we must stay in pairs so if we are attacked we can help each other to survive.” Ben touched both men on the shoulders.

  “Most trappers use a liquid fro
m the beaver’s glands, called castors, located at the base of their tails. That liquid, called castoreum, is used to lure other beaver to the set. Other liquids are used to extend the volume of the castoreum so it will go farther as will we. I have a special potion I make and will teach both of you how it is made. Once it is placed in the vicinity of the trap on a lure stick, we will have a beaver in the trap within hours. Even small bottles of this liquid cost up to ten dollars in St. Louis, so trappers usually choose not to purchase it there. We will get our own from the beaver we trap and save the ten dollars. The way to do that is once on the trapping grounds, we will locate some beaver dams. We will create a small break in one of the dams and set our traps in front of that hole. When the beaver come to repair the hole, they will step into the traps and we will have the start of our supply of castoreum. However, most of the liquid we use will be collected as we continue trapping other beaver.”

  Jacob and Martin fastened onto every word.

  The next morning, Ben brought three of his traps. “Setting the trap will take some learning and practice. But, I will show you. The way I do it is as follows. First, I cut a thick willow or aspen stick about four feet long. Then, I cut that stick in half.

  Next, I set the trap in shallow water, about ten to twelve inches from the bank. With my hand I swirl the water around the set trap until it is covered with silt from the bottom of the pond. You don’t want the beaver to see the metal of the trap and that is the best way for concealment that I have found. Then I extend the chain on the trap out into the deep water. Taking some cord which I always carry, I will tie my trap ring to the stake. That way if the beaver is a large one and manages to pull up my stake, I can later find the trap still tied to the stake. There I drive in one half of the stake with my hatchet, fastening the ring on the end of the trap’s chain over the stake driven deeply into the mud. I take the other half of the stake, and I drive it into the mud of the bank over the trap at an angle over the water. On the end of the stick hanging over the water I place several drops of the castoreum. When the beaver smells the castoreum and comes to investigate, it is almost over. The beaver will swim to the stake with the castoreum sticking out of the water. Standing up on its hind legs, he will grab the stake for a better smell. When they do that, one false step and one of their feet will be in the trap. Struggling to get away, it will swim out into deep water until it hits the end of the trap’s chain. There it will stay, trying to swim away until it tires and eventually drowns. That is why keeping a tight chain on the trap short of the bank is so important. It can’t allow the animal to reach land because, if it does, it will chew its foot off and escape. It also can’t allow the beaver to swim to its lodge. It has to be set just right so the animal drowns,” he continued.

  And so the lessons continued, hour after hour and mile after mile traveling on a river “too muddy to drink and too thin to plow.”

  In another lesson, Ben explained how the trappers played only a small part in the trapping trade.

  “The Indians play the biggest part,” he said. “When it comes to the overall volume of furs, the Indians contribute the most. That’s only natural, as there are more of them than there are trappers.”

  “But then why do they trade with the trappers for simple beads and knives?” Jacob asked. “Why don’t the Indians ask for more valuable things?”

  “Indians use furs and hides for everyday living items. Hell, they wipe their asses with them. But they consider the White Man’s goods to be of greater value. In their minds, they are trading the waste skins of readily trapped furred animals and easily killed buffalo for items they consider of real value.”

  “Like what?” asked Martin.

  “Anything they consider of necessity. Steel knives, iron pots, beads. And liquor. Firearms, certainly, and all that goes with them like gunpowder, lead and such. Fish hooks, too. They love tobacco, and salt.”

  Later, Ben taught them about the White Man’s side of the trade. “There are quite a few fur companies working in the wilderness. Most of the trappers work for fixed wages. What those trappers collect in furs, they give to their companies in exchange for the annual supplies they need. I hear they make about four hundred dollars a year, not much. And those trappers are forever broke because the fur companies charge them high prices for needed supplies every rendezvous.”

  “But what of the free trappers, men like us?” Jacob asked. “Believe it or not, they’re considered the elite of the trapping community. Once the trapping season is done, free trappers trade their furs at the trading posts, or at rendezvous, or some trappers will take their furs all the way back to St. Louis. I believe that because a free trapper has to live by the quality of his furs, he’s more likely to go after the finer furs. Furs like beaver, and otter, fox, mink, and pine martin. The contract trappers, they take whatever they can get their hands on to make their quotas.”

  “So, how many beaver does a free trapper usually catch?” Jacob asked.

  “Oh, I figure, on average, a good trapper can trap and pelt out somewhere between one hundred and one hundred forty beaver in a year. Good thing, ’cause any less, and you won’t be able to sustain yourself when it comes time to trade. You’ll have to go into debt to the fur company to get what you need.”

  “Don’t sound like there’s much money in fur trapping,” Jacob said, with some worry in his voice.

  Ben laughed. “Not many get rich, that’s for certain. The only men getting rich in this business are the St. Louis merchants who supply the goods for the trappers. Me, I just want to make enough money to go back to the Indian villages at Knife River, settle down, marry, and raise a family. Ain’t looking to be a rich man. But to make enough to do even that, I figure being a free trapper is the best course of action.”

  The training continued every day without let up, until they arrived at a location where the Platte joined the Missouri River. There the General Slaxton slowly pulled into a pole dock at a wood camp, on the north side of the entry point of the Platte River.

  “Not much of a river,” Jacob said to Martin and Ben, “compared to the Missouri River.” The Platte was fairly wide, maybe forty yards or so, but seemed sandy and shallow at the mouth and as far upstream as Jacob could see. Willows and cottonwoods abounded along the Platte and everywhere he looked, he saw small herds of buffalo seemingly uninterested in the presence of the humans as long as they didn’t get too noisy or active.

  Several river men jumped off onto the dock and tied the paddle wheeler’s bow lines snugly to a large post that had been driven deeply into the stream bottom. Then the paddle wheeler was allowed to slowly drift back with the current until it comfortably rested alongside the dock. Its sister ship did the same, tying off directly behind them. Then, all hell broke loose.

  Yelling, bellowing of orders and counter commands flew through the air like so many leaves in a November prairie wind. Men were scrambling everywhere lowering gangplanks and walkways for the livestock and the “anxious to get the hell off the boat passengers.” Trappers pushed to be free from their smoking, whistle blowing, spark throwing, newfangled traveling devices so they could get their feet back on solid ground. Many of the trappers couldn’t swim and were especially nervous in deep waters. So many had a bad case of nerves being on a deepwater riverboat, and now they couldn’t wait to get off. It seemed ironic that they were willing to take chances at the point of a lance or speeding lead ball, but when it came to deep waters, many quaked at the thought.

  Jacob had anticipated the boat’s landing. He worked with Martin and their new friend Ben to pack their animals and be ready to go. He and his team fell in behind the confusion of the other disembarking men when their turn finally came. There was little trouble offloading the horses and pack animals. However, once on shore, confusion reigned. Closely grouped men and their pack strings moved in every direction.

  Jacob winced when he saw that his own pack animals had tangled up with those belonging to Bear and Wentz.

  “Git yer mangy mu
les out of my way!” Bear roared.

  “You sons a bitches,” Wentz added. “You bunch of greenhorns.”

  Jacob kept his tongue silent, and much to their credit, Martin and Ben did, too, as they worked through the tangle of horses.

  The barrage of epithets from Bear and Wentz continued, which only spooked the horses that much more. The nervous horses had all intertwined their halter ropes, and it took a few moments to square things away.

  “Ben, you’re right about those two,” Jacob said. “We’ve got a couple of human skunks in Bear and Wentz who are right pissed at us.”

  Skunks that bear watching the whole time we are in country and they are close at hand, thought Jacob with a leveled gaze at the two still yelling and swearing men.

  That night the trappers celebrated their first time back on the ground after the lengthy river ride. The resident woodcutters had killed several large cow buffalo and were cooking great slabs of the meat over a hot bed of coals. Several barrels of whiskey on hand—supplied by the fur company for the occasion—beckoned the horde of trappers. Then there was a special treat, one most trappers found hard to refuse—several barrels of rum cake from a St. Louis bakery were broken out, awaiting the trappers’ palates and sweet tooth. It was a meal fit for a king after the wormy, sour food served on the paddle wheeler. Soon singing and guns fired wildly in the air disturbed the pleasant evening and numerous critters along the rivers.

  However, the ever present frontier mosquito was not put out by the noise and revelry, especially when making hay on those trappers who drank more than they should have, passed out and made slow-moving targets for the clouds of biting pests. Come daylight, such unfortunate men were a mass of red welts beyond description.

  A minor mishap among those making poor decisions that would likely magnify in later days when poorer choices were made and a serious “debt” was claimed.