The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men)

by Terry Grosz

  The Saga of Harlan Waugh

  by

  Terry Grosz

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2016 Terry Grosz

  Wolfpack Publishing

  P.O. Box 620427

  Las Vegas, NV 89162

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-437-1

  Gary McCarthy

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About the Author

  Dedication

  As I sit quietly in my study musing over days long gone while listening to the music of Yanni, my eyes scan the walls decorated with mementoes representing a thirty-two-year career in the service of the people of this country. This service was not of a military nature but involved protecting the national wildlife heritage of the people of the United States.

  Interspersed throughout those career memories are family pictures from happier times: outings with our grandchildren, fishing trips to Alaska with my bride, elk and deer hunting and processing the carcasses in the garage with our two sons, float trips on the Powder River, and pictures of our parents before they all crossed over the Great Divide.

  Of note is a picture on top of my computer shelf of a distinguished Littleton police officer who watches over my every move. It shows a bear of a man whose arms were the size of most men’s legs and who contained in that carcass a good, gentle heart as big as Mother Nature’s outdoor world. It shows a man who, while elk hunting near Walden, Colorado, saw the first wild gray wolf that was black in color three years before it was officially recognized as having been “discovered.” It shows a man who was so strong that he could lift a dead, full-grown elk into the back of a pickup by himself, yet swing his daughter up onto his massive shoulders with an innate gentleness not of this world!

  It shows a man who, like his dad, married the love of his life. He was so proud that his second child was on the way that he was fairly bursting at the seams to tell anyone who would stand still and listen. It shows a police officer who was acknowledged by his peers as one of the very best, and that law enforcement community still mourns the loss of this man who was a friend for all seasons.

  It shows a man who was such an excellent cook that even God would have liked to come down to partake of his meals. It shows a man who was so steadfast in his faith in a supreme being and a life hereafter that his vision of life’s path was unshakable. It shows a man who saw the world through glasses of many colors and shades and lived accordingly.

  The picture shows my younger son, Christopher, who passed away of natural causes on October 13,2005, at the age of 35.

  I know of no greater loss a parent can suffer than the loss of a child.

  It is to this bear of a man—a good Christian, an excellent cook, an outdoorsman par excellence, a fisherman beyond compare, a valued member of the law enforcement brotherhood, the type of man most of us aspire to be although we don’t succeed, a holder of the Medal of Valor, a crack rifle and pistol shot, a beloved son and warrior—that I dedicate this book.

  Rest in peace, my son, until we are together once more to range over the land; enjoying its breezes, appreciating its wonders, and laughing like we did when we were together...

  Acknowledgments

  The character Harlan Waugh does in fact exist in reality. The real Harlan Waugh was a police officer for the City of Littleton, Colorado. As in the story, he is as bald as a river rock, is a crack shot with a rifle (a former U.S. Marine Corps sniper and was a S.W.A.T. member), is frank but level-headed, has a love of life that knows no bounds, has the highest ethics and a warm personality that can turn deadly serious in times of need or danger, is a loving father, and is one whom very little in life scares or concerns. He truly is a man for all seasons who became a close family friend through our police-officer son, Christopher.

  As in the story, if Harlan takes a liking to your miserable hide, he is a friend for life. But break the laws of the land or the principles of humanity and, if justified, he will hunt you down as ruthlessly as the Harlan in the book did one Bosco de Gamma...

  I acknowledge not only the use of this towering, courageous man’s good name but the very essence and spirit with which he lives and faces all aspects of life to cloak my main character in the book.

  Thank you, Harlan, for the grist of the story, and even more for the love and brotherhood you share with my family and shared with Christopher before his untimely crossing over the Great Divide...

  "Wagh!"

  Chapter One

  The Aftermath

  During the last mile of travel, the sickly-sweet smell of death permeated the crisp, late August afternoon air. Harlan was more than familiar with that smell, and he grimaced and narrowed his eyes to a higher level of alertness. A month earlier on the Yellowstone River, while he had been preparing for the fall beaver trapping season with his younger brother and two fellow trappers, they had been ambushed by a band of deadly Blackfoot Indians. Before the four men could reach any kind of redoubt, three lay dead in the late summer sun, full of arrows. Harlan had escaped and made it to a rocky outcropping on high ground with his group’s horses and mules. For the next four days, he held the Indians at bay with his remarkable sharpshooting ability and several highly accurate .54-caliber Hawken rifles.

  Harlan had been raised by his father, a superb big-game hunter who, for years, had supplied meat and hides for the pioneer settlements nestled in the Appalachian Mountains of western Pennsylvania. He had been taught by his dad that when shooting he should hold tight, relax his breathing, and squeeze the trigger as if the rifle was the love of his life. Above all, he had been told not to waste powder or shot because they were hard to replace in the wilderness.

  “One shot, one kill,” his father constantly preached until the day he died at the hands of a band of Indians who were upset by his intrusion into what they considered sacred hunting grounds.

  Harlan never forgot, putting those words of wisdom into practice during his previous five years roaming the western wilderness as a free trapper and mountain man. During those four terror-filled days and nights on the Yellowstone, Harlan did as his dad had preached. Every time an Indian raised his head to shoot or presented the smallest of targets, a one- ounce, .54-caliber lead slug would strike that individual and kill him instantly. Soon the band of Indians, dismayed by their continuing losses, abandoned the straight-shooting mountain man for quieter pastures. After waiting another day on his rocky outcropping to be sure the hostile Indians had vanished. Harlan led the hobbled, thirsty
, and starving pack-animals out to pasture along the Yellowstone River.

  Then he commenced the grim task of burying his brother and friends, made all the more difficult by the sight of their bloated, fly-covered bodies, heavy with the sickly-sweet smell of eternity.

  The magpies and ravens had not made his task any easier as the hungry birds had picked clean the dead men’s faces, down to their glistening white skulls.

  After burying the men along the Yellowstone and covering the site with large rocks so the wolves could not dig up and eat the rest of their bodies, Harlan headed south with the livestock, the men’s effects, and the previous season’s trappings. Dangling from the five mules at the end of the pack string were the freshly salted scalps of eleven Blackfoot warriors as a grim warning to all others with evil intentions. According to their own traditions, these warriors would forever be forbidden to travel the Happy Hunting Grounds because they lacked their hair and the skin that held it in place.

  Keeping to the densely brushed creeks and river bottoms. Harlan moved due south until he felt he was out of the territory of the dreaded warriors from the Blackfoot Nation.

  After all, one man, no matter how good a rifle shot he is, will find more than his match out west if he ain’t careful. Especially when leading a valuable pack string of horses and mules loaded with furs and other white man's necessities of life, he grimly thought.

  Entering a small valley south of the Willow Lake area, just north of what is today Pinedale, Wyoming, he chanced once more upon that telltale smell of death that reminded him of the events on the Yellowstone.

  Slowing his horse to a cautious walk, Harlan continued following a small stream toward Willow Lake, where he planned to set up camp. When he came to another large opening surrounded by tall cottonwoods and good grass, the nightmare associated with the smell of death began to reveal itself. In the stream lay numerous bloated bodies of Indian women and children filled with arrows. Nearly all of the bodies had been scalped and mutilated. His horse sidestepped the body of an Indian woman still holding her dead baby as Harlan examined the markings of her dress from the saddle.

  Crow, he silently figured. Probably a hunting party far south of their territorial range and into that of the Lakota. Once discovered by the Lakota trespassing on their tribal hunting grounds, well...

  Continuing, he found more bodies of women and children who had run for the protection offered by the brushy creek bed only to find that it was their place to die. He could smell the oily pine-wood smoke of campfires and meat rotting on drying racks, abandoned but still heavy and pungent in the air. Emerging from the dense brush by the creek but partially hidden at the forest’s edge at the meadow’s opening, he got his first look into the valley of death.

  Clustered along a small rise in the valley were the burned remnants of thirty-two Indian tepees. Scattered throughout were the bodies of numerous men, women, and children along with several dead horses and the corpses of most of the camp’s dogs. The silence of the scene was broken only by the melodious croaking of the ravens and calls of the crows and magpies, scared away from their feeding frenzy by Harlan’s sudden appearance.

  It appeared from the bloat of the bodies that the fight had occurred several days earlier, he thought as his eyes carefully swept the area for any signs of lingering danger. Looking closely at several bodies of men filled with numerous arrows and horribly mutilated, as was the custom of the time for many tribes of plains Indians, he noted that the arrows were from the Lakota and their allies the Northern Cheyenne. Knowing those Indians could be just as mean as the dreaded Blackfoot, he moved his pack string deeper into the comforting brush surrounding the creek. Determined to be rid of the oily, clinging smell of death and the sight of battle, Harlan continued along the creek toward Willow Lake.

  Zip—thunk went an arrow into his saddlebag! Harlan’s horse, spooked by the surprise impact to his side, bolted forward. Pulling the horse quickly to a stop, he whirled in his saddle to face his unknown assailant, quickly pulling back the hammer on his Hawken in one smooth, practiced motion for the battle that was sure to follow.

  Standing with a distinct wobble, not twenty feet away, was an Indian boy who looked about twelve or thirteen years old. An arrow was stuck deeply into a festering wound in his thigh. Off to his side stood another Indian boy of about nine or ten whose entire body was trembling violently, like aspen leaves in an early fall storm. It was obvious that the younger boy had seen more than his mind could reasonably tolerate and was in deep shock.

  The older boy was trying to notch another arrow and do a better job than he had the first time. Realizing that these two boys were probably all that was left of their band, Harlan quickly raised his hand in the sign of peace, putting on his best smile. Because much of daily existence in the West was painted in blood if one were not alert to the dangers at hand, his free hand went to the horse pistol in his belt.

  Trying to draw another arrow in the bow was too much exertion for the boy’s weakened body, and he suddenly toppled over the stream bank, landing smack-dab on the nock end of the arrow shaft protruding from his thigh. With a screech, he dropped his bow and arrow, passing out as the shaft was forced clean through the thigh.

  Dismounting and scrambling over to the boy, Harlan grabbed his bow and tossed it next to his pack string so it couldn’t be used against him. Seeing that the boy was out cold from the pain of the arrow passing through his thigh, Harlan scooped him up in his arms and walked back up the creek bank. The boy’s garb showed that he was a Crow Indian.

  He more than likely ran to the creek for protection but didn’t escape before he had bought an arrow in the leg, he grimly thought.

  Splitting the young Indian’s buckskin pant leg with his knife, Harlan discovered a blue-black, festering wound caused by infection from the arrow. He took the opportunity to pull the rest of the arrow shaft through the thigh while the boy was out cold. With the razor-sharp tip of his gutting knife, Harlan trimmed the putrid flesh around the entry wound down to that which bled freely and looked healthy. Pulling a small flap of dirty buckskin from the entry hole as well, he washed the wound with water from his canteen.

  Then Harlan wiped the wound dry and poured a small amount of gunpowder from his powder horn into the arrow’s entry hole. With a spark from his flint and steel, he set the gunpowder aflame. The leg involuntarily jerked as the powder flamed high, then quickly died out. Along with that, came the smell of burned powder and flesh. Kneading the back of the small thigh with his hands, Harlan managed to get the wound to bleed freely from the exit hole, further cleansing the wound.

  Stepping over to his lead mule, Harlan unpacked a piece of clean gun-patching material and tightly bound the boy’s thigh, covering the wound. Then it dawned on him that in the rush of the moment with the first Indian boy, he had forgotten the younger child. Quickly turning, he saw that the boy had not moved an inch and was still trembling violently. Harlan walked slowly toward him so as not to scare him any further, holding out his hand in a friendly gesture.

  When he reached the young boy, whose dark eyes never left the trapper’s face, he gently picked him up. Holding the shaking boy, he carried him back to the pack string and sat him down by the wounded boy, who was now coming out of his spirit world. Realizing how much terror the little one must have undergone, Harlan reached up to his saddle bag, with the arrow still firmly sticking out of it. Fortunately, the arrow had not penetrated all the way through into Harlan’s horse.

  It had been stopped short by the large amount of hard buffalo jerky in the saddle bag. Opening the flap, Harlan took out a piece of jerky and, kneeling back down, handed it to the shaking boy. In a flash, the child grabbed the jerky and savagely tore at the tough strands of dried meat as if he hadn’t eaten for a month.

  A low groan brought Harlan’s attention back to the boy lying on the ground. He was looking up at Harlan with the fierceness of his kind, born from a thousand years on the unforgiving prairies and mountains of the West. Harlan a
gain made the sign of peace, and this time the boy seemed to comprehend its meaning. Tears welled up in the youth’s eyes, and he let all the terror and misery flood from his heart over his losses from the recent attack. He was crying over the loss of his parents, a way of life, and almost his own life. Now he was faced with an uncertain future as he looked up at this massive white man dressed like a cross between the feared grizzly bear and a buffalo!

  In the next instant, the younger boy flew into the older one’s arms, and Harlan realized they were probably brothers. Then the tears of loss really flowed between the boys. In a few moments, the older boy regained his composure and watched Harlan to see what he was going to do with the two of them.

  The younger boy did the same, still trembling violently. Realizing that staying there in the valley of death was not wise, Harlan picked up the younger boy and gently placed him in the saddle on his dead brother’s horse. The horse was very gentle and accepted his load without much interest as he looked back toward the new weight.

  The boy continued trembling but seemed to accept his new lot in life, especially since the contact with the horse was familiar and comforting. Realizing that the wounded and weakened boy was another matter, Harlan took an ax from one of the pack saddles on a mule. At first, the wounded boy looked like he thought he was in danger again, and the smaller boy stopped eating his chunk of jerky to observe Harlan’s actions.

  Quickly selecting a small, nearby lodge-pole pine tree, Harlan cut it down, then limbed and trimmed it to the size he wanted. Another pine of like size soon joined the first. Cutting another gentle horse from the string, Harlan deftly constructed a travois and tied the front end of the contraption to that horse’s saddle horn. Removing a buffalo robe from another mule’s pack frame, he soon had a completed travois ready for travel.