by Terry Grosz
“Mobs” was the best word to describe them because this was the greatest gathering of fur trappers and Indians in the history of such rendezvous. Over four hundred trappers and more than three hundred Indians from a handful of tribes showed up to make it a gala affair for all concerned.
Looking over at the huge crowd of gaily dressed humanity mobbing the fur traders, Harlan said, “We will wait a day or two until they ‘get all the hair off' before we begin our trading. There are plenty of supplies, from the looks of it, so we shouldn't have any problems getting what we need for the coming year.’'
The rest of the men, used to the peace and quiet the backcountry offered, just nodded. None were too keen on mixing it up in a crowd like that and were glad Harlan backed them off from the madhouse of trading for the moment.
Two days later, when the crowds had thinned somewhat and the drinking had begun in earnest, Harlan quietly told the boys, “Pack ’em up; we are going trading.” It took the four men, with help from the women, about an hour to load all their trappings onto the mules and horses.
Seeing that the women wanted to go as well, Harlan told them with a grin, “Get your finest on, and we’ll all go to the show.”
***
Quietly riding by and looking the traders over, Harlan said, “We will trade with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Their prices are about the same as the others, and they seem to be doing a better and fairer job of grading the furs.”
Walking the pack string over to that fur company, Harlan awaited his turn. While he waited, Birdsong and Autumn Flower dismounted and, with the baby, began looking over the trade goods offered that year to the trappers and Indians.
“Harlan, you old rip. How the hell are you doing?” shouted a fur buyer grading furs for the American Fur Company.
Before Harlan could respond, an old friend, Gavin Hatch, beckoned him over to trade in his buying area for the American Fur Company.
“Gavin, you old scudder, what the hell are you doing working for a trading company? I thought you was free-trapping in the Bighorns,” said Harlan.
“Couldn’t make my keep. The damn Indians kept my head down most of the time, and when I could run and trap as I needed, they kept raiding my campsite. I lost just about everything but my hair. Then when this offer came along, I jumped at it. After all, it still allowed me to remain in God’s country,” he responded with a grin as the two of them shook hands.
Dismounting, Harlan introduced his sons to Gavin and pointed out his daughter and wife as they merrily examined the trade goods laid about them in profusion.
“How the hell did you throw such old’uns out so fast? The last time I saw you, you were free and single, trapping with your brother and a couple others up on the Yellowstone.”
“My party was killed up on the Yellowstone by the Blackfoot. Me, I escaped and in running to the south out of their territory ran across an Indian massacre. Picked up these two boys there. Their parents had been killed, and they had hid out from the savages killing their kind.
Then, at last year’s rendezvous, I traded for those two squaws who just happened to be captured sisters to these here two boys. In the case of Runs Fast here, I bought him for the extra protection his rifle offered, as well as my daughter’s husband and another son. I kinda like these here ready-made families, if’n you get my drift. They sure are a lot less hassle,” Harlan said with a grin as he doffed his wolf-skin cap.
“My God, Harlan, you certainly had a run of good and bad luck since I saw you last! It is good to see you, my friend, but what the hell happened to that lovely head of hair you had back in ’28?” Gavin asked, looking at Harlan’s scarred bald head.
“Griz, and a damned big one at that. In fact, those two boys I saved turned around and saved me,” Harlan replied proudly. “Don’t look none too good as a result but am still alive and roaming the backcountry without a hitch in my giddy-up.”
“Well, let’s get to tradin’ and see what you have,” Gavin replied. “We can always palaver as we trade and get caught up on the news.”
With that the trading began in earnest, and Harlan’s three sons looked on keenly at the process. For about an hour, Gavin disassembled the packs of furs and hides and carefully examined each one with the practiced eye of a trader and former trapper. Finishing his grading, he stood up and stretched out the kinks in his tired back from so much bending over to study the quality of the furs lying at his feet.
“I can give you four dollars for your beaver hides, three for them buffler hides, a dollar and a half for the wolf and coyote hides, and three for your otters. I can give five each for them griz hides because there is a market back East to mount them for display as well as bear-skin coats, two dollars for them deer and elk hides, and fifteen cents apiece for the muskrat and raccoon hides.” He looked over at Harlan for his friend’s reaction to his grading and pricing of the furs.
After some long figuring, Harlan arrived at a total figure of about three thousand five hundred dollars (at the time, three hundred to five hundred dollars a year was the average salary of a man working back East). Figuring again to calculate what the group needed for the next year in goods, Harlan realized that amount would more than carry them through another year.
“You have a deal,” Harlan replied, “just as long as you throw in a keg of uncut rum.”
Gavin grinned and said, “You have a deal. That is more than fair.”
The two old friends shook on the deal, and Harlan and his kids went shopping for what they needed for the next year from the American Fur Company’s stockpiles of goods.
At the top of the list was 150 pounds of salt, 20 pounds of black pepper, 10 pounds of red pepper flakes, 200 pounds of red beans, and 200 pounds of fine cornmeal. Harlan went heavy on the cornmeal because Birdsong and Autumn Flower favored stews made with cornmeal and meat.
Next, looking to gain acquisition for defense, they purchased 100 pounds of powder, 150 pounds of lead pigs, and 1,000 primer caps for their Hawkens.
They purchased 100 pounds each of rice and pinto beans for the hearty meat stews they would prepare during the winter. Next came 20 pounds of red and blue glass beads, 4 fusils, and a dozen Green River skinning knives for trade with the Indians. They added four sharpening stones because they were always getting lost or broken, a bolt each of red and blue calico for the women, 75 pounds of coffee beans, and several more kegs of rum.
Wondering whether he had forgotten anything important, Harlan conferred with the women, and they pointed out the need for flour! That oversight was quickly rectified with the purchase of 150 pounds.
Good thing the women remembered the flour, thought Harlan with a grin. Not having fresh biscuits from a Dutch oven most mornings would lead to disaster.
The purchasing of goods continued until their credit was exhausted. Harlan believed those acquisitions, coupled with what they still had in reserve from previous years, would be more than enough to hold them through the year.
Pleased with their trades, Harlan had the boys bring up their mules and horses, and the packing for the return to their camp commenced. They hadn’t been packing for more than ten minutes when word spread throughout the camp that the Blackfoot were en route to the rendezvous with blood in their eyes.
Within moments hundreds of trappers and Indians mounted their horses and headed toward the danger. Harlan never blinked but just kept loading his horses and mules as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. Finally, after many questioning looks from his boys as to why they didn’t go after the dreaded Blackfoot with the rest of the trappers, Harlan said, “Trouble will find us soon ’nough. No sense going a-looking for a killing when the Good Lord will find us in his own good time.”
The men continued loading their pack animals and made ready to return to their camp.
“Keep what is left of that ugly topknot, you old bat,” said Gavin with a large smile.
“That I will, and you do the same,” replied Harlan with a wave of the hand.
; Once back at their campsite, the men unloaded their supplies into a lean-to, making sure the goods were covered against the afternoon rains. They left the women in camp to guard their goods and returned to the rendezvous for some hell-raising with old friends and to make some new ones.
When they arrived back at the rendezvous, they learned that the Indians had not been Blackfoot but their kissing cousins, the Gros Ventre—Indians who were equally deadly. The trappers currently had the war party cornered in a stand of timber, and a lot of lead was being wasted by both sides without much killing to show for it.
“Harlan, come and tip a cup with us,” shouted a voice off to Harlan’s left.
Looking over his shoulder, Harlan recognized his old friend Jim Bridger. With many greetings and much back-slapping, Harlan introduced his boys all around. Several tin cups full of rum were produced, and after Harlan had cautioned his sons to drink only one cup each, the men set to drinking and yarning.
When the boys finished their rum, they excused themselves, as their dad had instructed, and began walking around camp, taking in the sights. Harlan continued to drink with his buddies, laughing loudly at the many pratfalls spoken of as they described their previous year’s experiences.
About an hour later, Harlan and the men he was drinking with heard a ruckus off in the distance. At first they ignored it, assuming it was just another fight between a couple of drunken trappers, and the rum in their group continued to flow. Then Harlan saw Big Eagle running toward him as if a hive of bees were in his buckskins.
“Dad, you need to come quick. A trapper tried to take Winter Hawk’s Hawken, and he is defending himself. Runs Fast tried to help, but several other trappers beat him up and are now holding his arms so he can’t help. They tried to catch me, but I got away,” he exclaimed breathlessly.
Grabbing his Hawken, Harlan sprinted toward the noisy gathering pointed out by Big Eagle. He broke into the circle of men and found Winter Hawk, knife drawn, holding a burly trapper at bay. The trapper was Patrick Bosco de Gamma, whom Harlan knew to be a bully and a drunkard. From all appearances, he had not done so well against the smaller Winter Hawk. Bosco had a cut across his right cheek clear to the bone and a rip across the front of his shirt that was bleeding heavily as well. Winter Hawk had a blackened and closing left eye but other than that was faring well in the exchange with a grown man and an experienced trapper.
“Hold it right there!” Harlan bellowed.
Startled by the loud shout and his appearance, both fighters hesitated.
“Drop your knife, Bosco, or by God I will put a ball through you, sending your miserable carcass into the next world,” Harlan uttered quietly with a look of impending death in his eyes if his words were not heeded—and fast.
The two men holding a battered and bruised Runs Fast let him go and grabbed their rifles as if to aid their partner against this intruder giving out orders.
“That be far enough, gentlemen,” came a quiet voice from the edge of the crowd. “Any further actions on either of your parts will result with a ball in one of you and my tomahawk in the other.” It was Jim Bridger, and behind him stood another dozen men who had been drinking with their friend Harlan moments earlier.
The dangerous moment had passed with the addition of Harlan to the fight and the appearance of Jim Bridger and his pals.
“What the hell started all this?” demanded Harlan.
“This here young’un, and a Crow at that, has a Hawken. Few of us can afford such a weapon, and to my way of thinking, he stole it off some white man. More than likely a fur trapper like us,” Bosco de Gamma growled as he wiped the blood off his cheek with a rag offered to him by his friends in the crowd.
“That Hawken be my dead brother’s,” Harlan said with steely coldness. “He were killed in ’30 by the Blackfoot up on the Yellowstone. I got it back from his killer and brought it with me down to my camp on Willow Lake. I picked up this here boy from an Indian massacre site and have been raising him as my own. I gave him that rifle because he earned it.
“Since he is one of mine, you have also picked a fight with me,” Harlan continued calmly. “Is that your wish now that you know the facts behind the rifle, or do you want to continue this fight with a man instead of a young boy. although a better man than you?”
Being a coward and now confronted by a man whom he knew to be capable of killing if riled, Bosco de Gamma begin to have second thoughts about continuing the business at hand with Winter Hawk.
“Bein’ that you put it that-a-way, Harlan, guess I don’t have any bone to pick with this here Injun. If’n he is agreeable to let it ride, I guess so am I,” replied Bosco de Gamma with a sneer on his bloody face that said this event wasn’t over by a long shot.
“Then let it be a lesson learned. Not everything appears as it is,” Harlan advised sharply. “Now, as long as it lasts, I have a keg of rum that will go a long way toward healing up your wounds, if you and your friends be agreeable.” Harlan's voice became quietly soothing now that he had made his point.
The keg, once brought into the appreciative crowd, didn't last long. However, Bosco de Gamma is not a man to easily forget something like this, thought Harlan, keg of rum or no.
Back at camp, Autumn Flower patched up Runs Fast as best as she could. Winter Hawk had only the black eye for his troubles and had moved one more step closer to manhood. Big Eagle and Harlan just breathed sighs of relief. If Big Eagle hadn’t gotten to Harlan in time, their camp and family might have held two fewer individuals that beautiful summer evening.
The following morning the family prepared to leave Pierre’s Hole forever. Harlan figured it would be best in light of what he’d heard about Bosco de Gamma’s nasty temper and his penchant for getting even, even if it meant back-shooting someone from ambush.
Standing quietly in the sun’s warming morning rays, Harlan shook his head. Tangling with Bosco de Gamma was not wise on any man’s best day. The man was not large, but he was strap-steel tough and hardly afraid of anything, especially if he had his equally mean pals with him.
He was an odd duck. First and foremost, he stank to high heaven. Bosco de Gamma didn’t believe in bathing because he said it would make his body hair fall out, and that and the occasional squaw were all he had to keep himself warm in the winter. In addition, he was a killer of the worst degree. He never forgot a slight, and even for the smallest disagreement the offender had to watch his back because a knife thrust or rifle ball was waiting for him somewhere down the road—especially if an attack could be made when Bosco de Gamma’s chosen victim was not looking.
William Bent, a mountain man and fur trader located on the Arkansas River, told a story of an occasion when the Comanche Indians had caught Bosco de Gamma trapping beaver. After torturing him for several days, they had staked him over an anthill and left him for the Apaches. Somehow Bosco de Gamma survived and lived to kill every man in that twelve-man Comanche war party, and it was said that he ate their raw hearts after each kill. After that, he bragged that his bad smell killed the ants’ appetite.
Yes, thought Harlan, Bosco de Gamma is one to avoid at any cost, but if you did tangle with him, he needed to be killed because only then could you live in peace. Otherwise you 'd be looking over your shoulders for the rest of your life!
He had learned at the rendezvous that Captain Bonneville was en route to the Green River Valley at that very moment. Bonneville would eventually choose to locate his trading camp at Horse Creek for the 1833 rendezvous. His route to that area would take him via South Pass in the present-day state of Wyoming.
It was rumored among the traders at the current rendezvous that he was bringing more than a hundred men, many pack animals, and at least twenty wagons full of trade goods, as he planned an overwinter stay.
Like many other trappers, Harlan did not know the exact location of Horse Creek, but he knew the general lay of the land in the Green River Valley, which was many days south of their present location.
Once there, thoug
ht Harlan, it is just a matter of talking to the local Indians or other trappers regarding the exact site of the rendezvous. Failing that, a bit of riding in the general area will allow us to locate the traders’ site.
Even with the land almost empty of civilization, the West still had its own set of ears and eyes for those who know how to hear and see.
Chapter Eighteen
The Bighorn Mountains Become a New Home
Still concerned with the mischief Bosco de Gamma and his party of hardened trappers could create, Harlan figured his group needed a faraway place to trap during the coming season. Another winter would give the boys time to gain some age, experience, and meat on their bones. Those gains would also allow them to better defend themselves if they ever crossed paths again with Bosco de Gamma without Harlan to lend a hand.
Plus, the distance would let Bosco de Gamma cool off—or maybe get his hair lifted. In his conversations with Gavin, the trader had spoken of the riches of furs beyond compare in the Bighorns as long as one could keep the Crow or Blackfoot Indians from lifting one’s hair, stealing one’s horses or plews, or putting an arrow into one’s carcass.
Heading southeast from the rendezvous, Harlan’s party began by retracing their steps from their original route to Pierre’s Hole. Once in the area of present-day Bondurant, Wyoming, they headed northeast over the beautiful Wind River Mountains.
Continuing northeast, the group finally arrived at what is today Thermopolis, Wyoming, site of the world’s largest hot springs. Camped there in gay profusion were many groups of Snake and Northern Cheyenne Indians enjoying the waters’ healing properties. By chance, Harlan and company located Low Dog and his clan, and a great celebration was had by all. Low Dog, in honor of the event, threw a big feed that lasted two full days, and at the end most participants swore off gorging for at least a month.