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

by Terry Grosz

  Jacob and Martin traded the horses taken from the Gros Ventre in their recent battle to the Nez Perce and received an excellent price back in furs. Then taking those well-dressed furs from the Nez Perce, they traded them to the traders for more powder, lead, primers, coffee beans, sugar and Hudson’s Bay Company three-point blankets. With those trades, they rounded out their needs and had some extra goods for trade with the Snakes upon their return to the trapping grounds. Leo and Jeremiah had done well in their trades as well and like Jacob and Martin, were now set for the coming year.

  The following week was spent visiting friends, enjoying the fruits of the 1835 rendezvous and making ready for the long trek back to the Wind Rivers.

  * * *

  What of the cursed Spanish gold? Bull Bear wondered.

  Times had been good for his tribe of Northern Utes. His warriors had killed three of the Great Bears, without a single scratch. He had added three more sets of claws to the necklace he wore.

  The bearskins would bring many of the White Man’s goods to his people. More guns. More horses. He had traveled to the trading post with several of his people to trade the skins. The White Man Antoine Robidoux spoke in lies and half-truths, as the White Man always did, but Bull Bear was wise to his ways. Bull Bear would get the best trade for the skins, as he noted the envious eyes of a trapper also in the Ft. Uncompahgre trading post.

  “I can give you blankets and tobacco,” the wily merchant Robidoux had offered.

  “Rifles. Horses. I am not interested in your blankets,” Bull Bear responded.

  The White Man laughed. “I can understand. Ever since the pox at the Knife River Indian Village, I have not been able to sell blankets.”

  Knife River! Bull Bear’s attention caught on the name of the Knife River Indian Village, far far away. “What happened at Knife River?” Robidoux shook his head. “A boatload of trappers came to Knife River Indian Village. They had smallpox, bad medicine. Somehow, the Indians ended up with the trappers’ blankets, which was infested with the smallpox. Killed almost all of them, I hear.”

  “What of the White Men called Leo and Jeremiah, who had been raised by Ben Bow and the Lakota squaw?”

  Bull Bear always sought information about the whereabouts of Jacob and his band. He had sent one of his warriors to spy on the Mountain Man Jacob at the Rendezvous that day, and so he knew that the gold had been split four ways. News from the next year’s Rendezvous was that the two boys his people had captured had left for the Knife River Indian Village with the one they called Ben Bow and Ben Bow’s squaw.

  Bull Bear’s people now had good luck. He had no desire to ruin it by ever crossing paths again with any of the four who had split the cursed Spanish gold.

  “You know white people from Knife River?” Robidoux asked. “A mite bit far fer yer circle of friends, I’d have thought.”

  The trapper, listening on, had something to say. “I heard of ’em. Ben Bow’s boys.”

  “Yes, Ben Bow. What do you know of the boys?”

  “I heard they were going to the Ft. Bonneville Rendezvous, to meet up with their old company.”

  Yes, of course, Bull Bear thought. With Ben Bow and the squaw dead from the curse, Jeremiah and Leo will have their part of the Spanish gold. If they have returned to Jacob and the other one called Martin, then all the gold is in one place again. All of the gold, and its curse, would be headed to the Wind River Mountains. Bull Bear’s people had no reason to travel that far north into the mountains, but the White Man had a habit of pushing west. He would have to keep an ear open, if he and his people were to keep their good luck and not cross paths with the Jacob band.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Curse of the Spanish Gold

  The reunited family left the rendezvous with Martin in the lead and the four women, with their babies on their backs and their travois colorfully strung out behind. Jacob brought up the rear of the caravan. Jeremiah and Leo rode on either side of the string of animals and humanity. If they were molested, then there would be hell to pay from the massed and highly accurate firepower carried by the travelers in the sometimes dangerous and troubled land.

  But after days of uneventful travel, the group arrived back at Jacob and Martin’s campsite. All the men tossed their sleeping gear into the lean-to that still held the remainder of last year’s horse hay. The women and children settled into the two cabins for the extra protections they offered. Soon the camp was humming along as the men and women worked together.

  Leo and Jeremiah decided there was not enough horse feed in the immediate meadow for all the group’s horses to survive the long winter, so they took a walk to see if there was another like hay meadow nearby, which they found with a food-potential campsite less than a mile away. Soon the men had moved over to that site and began building two cabins for Leo and Jeremiah’s families.

  With the four of them working together, the cabins flew together as the women chinked the logs and built up the interiors with sleeping platforms and the like. As at Jacob and Martin’s camp, winter hay was gathered and firewood logs hauled in for the coming months. Soon Leo and Jeremiah’s camp site was ready for habitation.

  A gala affair was held as the four families worked together to effect the move. Much food was consumed and even a little of the drink was passed around to further celebrate the activities. The family was once again together.

  When the beaver approached their prime that fall, the two sets of trappers once again worked the beaver ponds and dams with their traps. Jacob and Martin continued to trap to the south of their camp and Leo and Jeremiah trapped to the north in Tom and Al’s old stomping grounds. Soon the furs rolled in and both sets of trappers found themselves very busy and once again successful in their trade. Frequently, the families would join each other in making meat from the nearby buffalo herds or moose from the many waterways, and the times were good. In fact, so many buffalo were killed that the women seemed to be constantly cleaning and processing the hides. However, all realized the value those hides represented to their way of life and the backbreaking work was cheerfully performed.

  That year the winter snows and bitter cold arrived late, allowing the men to easily continue trapping until the middle of January in 1836. Then winter came with a vengeance. For days on end, blizzards rolled unmercifully through the country.

  The buffalo and deer moved out of the mountains down to the sagebrush flats but the trappers and their families still lived well. They had put together adequate provisions in the late summer and early fall and were hardly bothered by the elements. Plus, there was good news. Both White Fawn and Running Fast were once again pregnant. Jacob and Martin could hardly contain themselves. To be fathers once again and doing so well as fur trappers made both feel complete and very happy. It also made their old homes in Kentucky and the loved ones they had left behind in 1829 seem far, far away.

  Winter hung on until late April that year. Finally, the men were able to wander out and effectively trap. However, for some reason, the beaver were not as plentiful as they had been in past years. Many times the men would find sick, starving beaver along the banks and soon realized something had beset the beaver and was killing them in large numbers. They soon deduced that the winter had been so harsh and late that many beaver had eaten all their food from their caches. Running out of food and unable to get any more because of the thick ice, they had begun to starve. Rolling with that punch, the men set more traps for the area’s many fox, river otter, lynx and ever-present wolf. That change in trapping plans also included moving more frequently to the lowlands with the four of them killing even more buffalo for their hides and some meat. Soon the cabins began to house small mountains of furs ready for the 1836 rendezvous to be held in the Green River area.

  Jacob and Martin’s wives were beginning to develop bellies, announcing more “new trappers” were on the way. As for young Jacob and Martin, they were growing like weeds and were spitting images of their fathers.

  * * *

>   They were headed for home. Martin took the lead, as he usually did, while Jacob led the packhorses. This has been a very productive day, Jacob thought. He looked back and counted again: ten large beavers, two gray foxes, and a mule deer buck that Martin had shot not too long ago.

  I don’t think I have ever seen a deer that fat before. “Martin,” Jacob called ahead, in the soft voice that trappers in Indian country often used. “What do you say we have a hurrah tonight? This is quite a buck, and with all these pelts and the work we’ll have to do to stretch them out, we could all use a little blow out.”

  “Like a birthday party,” Martin said. Both men’s twenty-third birthday came within days of one another, and today was Jacob’s day. “Guess this buck makes a pretty fair birthday present.”

  “I don’t think I can give you anything nearly as nice,” Jacob said.

  “Typical white man,” Martin joked.

  Black Eyes watched from the darkened woods. I remember you, White Man! Anger seethed through him, his heart burned with vengeance.

  The one who leads the pack string, he is one with the land. The way the man sat in the saddle gave him away, even though he talked like a white man. We must be careful of that one. I remember now, he has the eyes of an eagle and the strength of a lion. He must have been the one to track me and my brother the day after we attacked the camp of Snake and their White Man friends.

  Black Eyes remembered. He and his brother had been tracked relentlessly, no matter how they tried to hide their trail. He remembered his brother, run down with an arrow through his head.

  Black Eyes let the image brand his determination. He and his brother had been wet, cold and hungry, yet had been hunted like animals. It was a vision of disgrace that Black Eyes was determined to take to his burial scaffold. He recalled the fear of an arrow rip- ping through him at any moment. He recalled the terror from every crack of a twig as he retreated northward for many days. He recalled the dread of facing his father and the tribal leaders with news of his brother’s death and the defeat of the raiders.

  He recalled how the tribal council delivered its judgment, that Black Eyes had dishonored the Gros Ventre people with his cowardice. He should have stood against their enemy and avenged his brother’s death.

  But I survived to return. Today, I will stand and avenge my brother. Today, I will bring honor to my people!

  Black Eyes looked left and right, to see if there was more of the enemy. There was not. Black Eyes gave the signal.

  * * *

  Martin sensed danger! A danger that gave him a feeling like he never had before. Boom-boom-boom! Three hidden rifles in quick succession. White smoke rolled out from the dense cover at the edge of the trees bordering the meadow.

  Martin flew out of the saddle as the heavy lead loads from the hidden rifles smashed and tore into his body. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Jacob, surprised at the sudden unseen onslaught from the edge of the timber, quickly swung behind the packhorses and, in one practiced move, grabbed his extra Hawken off the packsaddle.

  Gros Ventre Indians streamed yelling and screaming from their cover in the trees, heading straight for the trapper’s pack string. As they closed, two of the horde split off and ran for Martin’s body, clubbing it with their tomahawks as it laid motionless on the ground. Then out came an Indian’s knife, which scalped Martin in one fluid motion before Jacob could protect the body of his friend from mutilation.

  Rage took over as the fear of dying left his body. The first Indian to tomahawk Martin died with Martin’s scalp still in his upraised hand. The impact of the speeding bullet from Jacob’s first Hawken blew out his heart and closed that warrior’s black eyes forever.

  “Goodbye, my dear friend and brother,” muttered Jacob as he got down to the killing business at hand. Boom. The first Indian of the savage charge coming towards Jacob flew backwards under the impact of a chest shot from the reserve Hawken. Pow. A second Indian, close at hand, folded instantly from a head shot issued by Jacob’s horse pistol. As Jacob hurriedly reloaded his pistol, the Gros Ventre charge momentarily wavered and then stopped in confusion.

  However, that confusion only lasted a moment; the mad charge commenced once again. This time, Jacob did not have enough time to remove the ramrod from the barrel before the howling Indians were once again upon him. Pow went his nearly reloaded pistol, and the ramrod drove itself through the skull of the next closest Indian.

  Jacob’s riding horse reared and bucked almost out of control at the savage onslaught. Stepping off on one of the horse’s back-arching bucking jumps, Jacob shot another Indian in the face with his second pistol. A tomahawk swung from close range by another assailant. It missed his arm but knocked the pistol from his hand. Jacob quickly grabbed his own tomahawk from his waist sash. The Indian who had knocked away the pistol hit the ground with a screaming bounce when Jacob’s tomahawk sunk out of sight in his face.

  Jacob turned to run for the cover offered by some nearby willows. He began hurriedly reloading his remaining Hawken as the Gros Ventre forcefully plowed through the terrified and still bucking string of riding and packhorses.

  Zzip...thunk. A steel-tipped arrow slammed into the middle of Jacob’s back, just like that of his father years earlier back in Kentucky. Jacob plunged forward into the willows. He felt the searing pain as the arrow skipped off the side of his spine and plunged deeply into his lungs. The pain was so intense, that Jacob instinctively struggled to reach the arrow to tear it out. Finally realizing he was struggling in vain trying to reach the arrow’s shaft, Jacob staggered forward and finished reloading his Hawken.

  Desperately grabbing the Hawken’s comforting steel, he staggered forward trying to cock the weapon. He turned slightly to confront his assailants, and he became aware of the fast-approaching darkness at the edge of his eyes and the strength flowing out of his arms.

  Jacob saw an Indian running towards him only a few yards distant with an upraised tomahawk. He struggled to raise his beloved Hawken. One last desperate attempt to raise his rifle. He helplessly felt it slip from his weakened hands.

  Thwack. The steel-bladed tomahawk viciously split Jacob’s skull.

  * * *

  Curly Bear let out a primal scream as he snatched the fancy White Man’s rifle from the hands of the falling, mortally stricken trapper. This was triumph. As the leader of the raiding party, this was a great honor.

  His twenty Gros Ventre warriors echoed his victory scream. There was a mad dash for the trappers’ horses and equipment as each warrior scrambled for spoils of victory.

  But this is not over. Black Eagle, our chief has been killed, and Black Eyes, the sole survivor of these men’s cowardly massacre of our people, has also been killed; killed while avenging his honor and his brother’s life. Curly Bear spat. Yes, we have more to do.

  Curly Bear watched as the Gros Vetnre warriors quickly cleaned out the area. He gave his warrior team the signal to go back to their horses, picketed well out of sight in the heavy timber. They raced back.

  The trappers are out of the way. We should have no more resistance.

  * * *

  White Fawn and Running Fast, upon hearing the shooting to the south, froze in stoic terror. That frequency of shooting meant only one thing—Indians were in a fight with their men. Both women hurriedly scooped up young Jacob and Martin and hid them in the outhouse under a buffalo robe with desperate instructions to remain still and out of sight. Then the women ran to their cabins, grabbed every available firearm and then joined each other. They locked themselves into one cabin. In the near distance to the south, they could hear the pounding of many horses’ hooves, and they were rapidly coming their way.

  A large force of fiercely painted Gros Ventre stormed from the woods and boldly streamed into the clearing in front of the cabins. In a heartbeat, two were blown clear out of their saddles, quickly followed by two more as the women let loose with blasts from their fowling pieces through several shooting ports. Totally surprise
d at the fierce defense, the Gros Ventre milled in confusion in front of the cabin as two more were lifted from their saddles by the two big Hawkens being fired through the firing slots by the desperate women.

  Now totally dismayed at the death and destruction spewing from the cabin, the raiding party scattered and lit out for cover, only to return to the cabin from all quarters on foot. They stormed the cabin and smashed through the front door. Two more Indians died from the blasts of pistols as White Fawn and Running Fast, knowing what was ultimately in store for them, extracted the highest toll possible. Both women were then clubbed to the floor, as the remaining thirteen Gros Ventre tore the cabin apart.

  In their frenzy, the raiders took everything of value, including the furs and firearms; the items not of interest were tossed in the clearing in front of the cabins. Then the women were hauled from the cabin and one at a time savagely raped by everyone in the raiding party. Seeing the naked women were with child—and trappers’ babies at that—the Gros Ventre continued their rapes, forcing screams from the two now badly bleeding and hated Snake women. However, unknown to the Gros Ventre, one of those seeming screams from White Fawn was in the tongue of the Snake, for the two children to remain still and not leave the outhouse. Finally, in so much pain, both women passed out. Then both women were mercifully stabbed to death and mutilated to the point of being almost unrecognizable by the frenzied Gros Ventre.

  * * *

  With so many killed from the raiding party by the trappers and their women, Curly Bear could now hardly go back to his tribe and declare a victory. To lose one warrior was bad enough, but to lose fourteen of the original twenty-seven would be viewed as a failed war party no matter the number of horses or goods they brought back. I will be looked upon as a failed war chief!

  In an act of total madness, the women’s bodies were tossed into the cabins and everything from the hand of the hated white man that was of little value to the raiding party was scattered all over the ground. Then both cabins were set ablaze.