The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men)

by Terry Grosz

  The rest of the fall trapping season went like those before. The men successfully trapped many large beaver and when the ice on the beaver ponds became a problem turned to the trapping of other furbearers. Soon their three cabins were full of wolf, beaver, coyote, gray fox, lynx, and pine marten hides. There was even a respectable pile of deer, elk, and buffalo hides from their travels to trap other furbearers. It looked like the beginning of another good year, and that made for smiles all around.

  The braying of Martha, Harlan’s ever-loyal bell mule, carried through the cold, early-morning air. Harlan awoke and was out of bed like a shot. Martha didn’t like Indians; it was that simple. Even the boys, when they were around her, would get a nip in the hind end if they didn’t step lively.

  Grabbing his Hawken, Harlan noticed through the open hallway between the adjoining walls that the boys in the next cabins were scrambling for their shooting irons as well. Peering through a shooting port, Harlan could see their pack string being hurriedly led away from the corral by a number of crouched and darkened figures.

  It was too late to go after them at that moment without chancing heavy rifle fire from an ambush. With that realization, the men quickly dressed in their winter gear, grabbed extra powder and shot, and took off after the horse and mule thieves when the coast was clear. Realizing from the trail in the snow that the animals were more than likely being led to a small valley over the ridge behind their cabins, they took off at an angle to intercept the stolen animals and their captors.

  Rounding a small copse of dense standing timber, the men noticed in the brightening daylight six horses tethered to a stand of willows along the frozen creek.

  That is good, thought a slightly winded Harlan. The horse thieves haven’t made their getaway yet.

  Spreading out, the men formed a single line abreast behind some trees on their intercept course and waited. Pretty soon, six winded Indians could be seen trotting and leading the horses and mules stolen from the men’s corral. They were so intent on reaching their horses and escaping that they did not see Harlan step out from behind a tree, raise his Hawken, and cleanly drop the first man in the line of horse thieves.

  Boom—boom—boom went the boys’ Hawkens in quick succession, and three more Indians dropped like sacks of flour dumped from the back of a bouncing wagon.

  The remaining two men dropped the reins of the stolen pack string and sprinted for their horses, only to have the one in the lead dropped deader than a stone by a shot from Harlan’s reserve Hawken.

  The other man abandoned his horse and took off across the country with Big Eagle and Runs Fast in hot pursuit as they reloaded their rifles on the run. Minutes later, a single shot rang out, and soon the two boys could be seen returning through the trees. In the meantime, Winter Hawk and Harlan had rounded up their stock as well as the raiders’ mounts. Harlan realized that the markings on the six horses belonged to Indians from the Crow tribe! That raised an immediate concern because he and the boys had just killed a number of his sons’ own people.

  When the boys returned, Harlan quietly pointed out that the horses were from the Crow Nation to the north. There was a moment of silence, and then Runs Fast said, “A skunk is a skunk. Stealing a man’s stock out here is like a death sentence for its owner. Their deaths were deserved.”

  Big Eagle and Winter Hawk nodded at the wisdom of Runs Fast’s words, and not another word was said about killing their own kind. To everyone’s way of thinking, a wrong was a wrong, and this one had been taken care of.

  As he thought over the raid, a frown crossed Harlan’s face. Indians don’t go on the warpath or on raids during the winter. In all my years in the wilderness, I have never heard of Indians venturing away from their winter quarters except to move to better horse feed or to kill buffalo, he thought. That could only mean we are close to a Crow Indian encampment, and our horse and mule herd were discovered by the dead men as they hunted for meat.

  Sensing that something was bothering his dad, Big Eagle asked Harlan what was wrong.

  Harlan explained his concerns and said they would now have to be more alert if his thoughts were in any way true, especially if another party of Indians came looking for those they had just killed.

  ***

  As it turned out, the next thirteen days were filled with blizzard after blizzard and temperatures so low the aspen bark exploded off the trees near their cabins. When decent weather returned, Harlan and Big Eagle rode north and discovered the remains of a Crow Indian encampment that had been abandoned after the weather had cleared.

  It was apparent that the Indians had moved on to seek a location with more firewood and better horse feed. There were no signs of anyone coming south toward their cabins to look for the six horse thieves Harlan and his clan had killed.

  That is twice now the weather gods have intervened when it came to actions in which Indians should have come looking for their kinfolk after they disappeared, thought Harlan. He questioned just how long his luck would last if another like situation arose. Thank goodness I don’t have any hair to lose, he thought darkly.

  Little did any of the men realize this episode would come back to haunt their lives a long way down the trail.

  Chapter Twenty

  Spring Brings New Life, Followed by an Ugly Trip to the Rendezvous

  With ice out in the spring, the men went back to their trapping, and soon their cabins were filled with many rich plews. However, it was painfully clear that the streams and ponds could not take the trapping pressure they were now facing and would be empty when the fur went out of prime. But now was now, and the foursome trapped as hard as they could because their existence depended on it come the next rendezvous.

  Sitting by the fire one morning, waiting for the coffee to boil, Runs Fast quietly said, “Autumn Flower is going to have a baby.”

  “What?” said Harlan, jumping up as if that would allow him to hear better.

  “Autumn Flower is going to have a baby,” said a calm Runs Fast with a big grin.

  “Holy cow; did you hear that, Birdsong?” Harlan exclaimed.

  “Yes,” she said with a knowing smile as she tended the fire. “And you will have a child about the same time,” she quietly whispered in his ear.

  Harlan just stood there in stunned shock and then sat back down on his log, saying, “Holy cow, I am going to be a dad and grandpa all at the same time!”

  After that revelation, Harlan began to wonder if this kind of rough-and-tumble existence would be right for his children and theirs. Life can be cheap out here, especially if the right Indian, varmint, or drunken trapper catches a man just right and not looking, he thought.

  Then those dark thoughts quickly departed as he thought more rationally about the situation. This is our home and our way of life, he thought with conviction. This being our way of life, we will meet whatever comes our way and hope for the best. If our destiny is not to live long, then so be it. As I thought so long ago, if something bad happens, then I will have a chance to meet my family once again across the Great Divide and tell them about all that I have seen. Yes, if we are to have new life, let it be here in God’s country.

  “Birdsong,” he yelled, “break out the rum. The boys and 1 have something to celebrate!”

  ***

  Leaving their campsite and the now beaver-depleted waters with hardly a backward glance at the end of trapping season, Harlan headed the crew southwest. Several days' ride brought them to what is today the area around Cody, Wyoming.

  They spent a day in the area to let the horses feed heavily in a lush meadow, then embarked in a southerly direction toward the modern-day small town of Meeteetse, Wyoming. It was there on the banks of the Greybull River that their luck ran out. Crossing the Greybull and moving up its southern bank one morning, they ran headlong into a small war party of about twenty-five Northern Cheyenne!

  The Cheyenne, just as surprised as Harlan’s group, sat frozen on their horses, not believing their luck at encountering a fur trapper
s’ pack string of sixteen horses and ten mules, fully loaded, with only four mountain men to defend it while they numbered in the twenties!

  Harlan, not missing a beat in the face of this new danger, yelled, “Make for that cottonwood grove to the west along the river!”

  The pack train lumbered into a full gallop out of desperation. Cast-iron pots, pails, and sleeping furs spun wildly off the running pack animals, clanging and scattering onto the shortgrass and sagebrush plain in front of the war party. The Cheyenne, amazed at the booty being dropped in their presence, rode along the drop line examining what had fallen onto the ground during the trappers’ flight.

  They knew the trappers could not outrun them, so they took their time. They believed the killing was not far away, nor the looting that would take place shortly thereafter—not to mention the raping of the two young women in the trappers’ group.

  Racing into the cottonwoods, Harlan quickly jumped off his buckskin. Slapping it on the ass, he ran to the edge of the trees to cover the remaining animals in the pack string as they entered the grove in a cloud of dust.

  Big Eagle had sailed off his horse as well and was kneeling behind a huge cottonwood for the cover it afforded as he faced the still surprised Northern Cheyenne. Runs Fast and Winter Hawk took the pack string and riding horses into a small gully in the grove of trees where they would be partially safe from flying arrows and bullets, then stripped the extra Hawkens off the mules.

  Running to the edge of the grove, they took up defensive positions in case the Indian attack came from that side as well. Dismounting, Birdsong quickly removed two reserve Hawkens from two other mules and ran one back to Big Eagle and the other to Harlan. Then, she ran back to the pack string to hold and defend it if necessary with her pistol. Autumn Flower had already taken cover, had hidden her child under a bush, and with pistol in hand was preparing for the worst. Both women resolved they would not be taken prisoner again by the Northern Cheyenne, “not without someone dying first!”

  Bear Comes Running, the raiding party leader, could not believe his luck. The little band of trappers had run into the trees and brush looking for cover and had formed a defensive position. A smile slowly crossed his weathered face. The trappers were surrounded and outnumbered; it would be a short fight with only one possible outcome, to his way of thinking. Looking back at his warriors, he yelled, “Hi-yeh-yeh-yeh,” and charged the trees to overrun the small band of trappers before they could get set.

  In the face of the full-frontal charge, Big Eagle and Harlan had only a moment to cock the hammers on both the Hawkens and their two horse pistols before the rushing horsemen were upon them. Using the trunks of the trees for cover, they began shooting into the front ranks of the onrushing horde.

  Boom—boom—boom—boom went the four Hawkens in quick succession. Four Indians sailed out of their saddles to ride no more, including Chief Bear Comes Running. But still they came, crashing into the brush at the edge of the trees, hoping to trample the trappers with their horses and split their skulls with their wildly swinging tomahawks.

  Pow—pow—pow—pow went the trappers’ pistols at point-blank range, with deadly results. That shooting was so close that smoke poured from the entry wounds of the Indians hit by the huge pistol balls, some struck just inches from the ends of the barrels!

  Next came a surprising boom—boom—boom—boom from Winter Hawk’s and Runs Fast’s Hawkens. Observing that the Indians were charging in a single group, they had quickly abandoned their rear positions and raced to the front line of the battle with their weapons at the ready. Arriving just as the Indian’s charge broke past Harlan and Big Eagle, Runs Fast and Winter Hawk stopped it cold with four accurate shots from their rifles into the surprised faces of the attackers.

  Dropping their rifles, into the fray they sailed with both of their pistols firing, killing four more Cheyenne warriors at point-blank range and splattering those riding behind with what was left of the breakfast of the rider ahead! Then, swinging tomahawks, rearing, panicked horses, and flashing knives ruled the violent moment. The women, witnessing the fury of the battle, bravely ran to the edge of the fight with their pistols and killed two more warriors who had not expected to be shot from behind.

  They ran back to the pack string to reload their pistols out of the line of fire, then came back once again, killing two more swirling Cheyenne warriors at the edge of the battle by shooting them in their backs.

  Much was at stake for them—not only their honor but also the lives of their men. Knowing nothing but misery awaited them if they lost the fight, they found themselves driven to the same level of desperation as their men. The white clouds of black-powder smoke were now so thick in the brush line that they could hardly tell friend from foe! Adding to that din was the racket of more than twenty panicked and rearing horses, trampling the living and dead beneath their flailing hooves.

  Swinging wildly with his tomahawk and slashing with his knife in the other hand, Harlan killed one big, fat Indian when he axed him square in the forehead, splitting his skull. Next his knife found the soft underbelly of another Indian. The thrust was so powerful that it swept the raider off his horse and under the hooves of his friends’ horses.

  Big Eagle threw his tomahawk at one man, missed, and killed the rider behind him when the ax struck him full in the throat! Then an Indian jumped off his horse, right onto Big Eagle and his flashing knife. By then Harlan and Winter Hawk had each axed another Cheyenne in the confusion as they tried to ride off and escape the bloody scene of unimaginable fury they had not anticipated.

  Runs Fast savagely brained the last Indian with his pistol. The man had fallen from his madly rearing and terrified horse and, in the process of trying to remount, died in his tracks.

  Then there was nothing but the quiet that comes after desperation, savagery, and bravery in a land where such acts could be commonplace. As the smoke, noise, and struggle died away, the men looked at each other to see who was still standing. On the ground in bloody profusion lay twenty- seven dead and dying Cheyenne warriors who just moments before had been looking forward to the battle.

  However, they had not anticipated the straight-shooting trappers armed with double sets of weapons. Now they would forever roam the Happy Hunting Grounds looking for their souls.

  As for the trappers, it would take several weeks before all were healed from the battle. Harlan had an eight-inch gash wildly bleeding on the top of his head. Blood was running down his shoulder and chest where a tomahawk had struck and glanced off, but not before ripping open a large wound in his already damaged scalp.

  Big Eagle was missing the last two fingers of his left hand from trying to block a vicious swipe of a warrior’s knife. In addition, his right cheek was ripped open to the bone, and he had lost two teeth in the same blow from an unseen tomahawk strike.

  Winter Hawk had a deep knife wound on his left forearm that went clear to the bone and another across both shoulder blades. Runs Fast had a ten-inch gash in his thigh from a spear thrust. Other than that, they had survived.

  Making camp right there in the cottonwoods where the battle had occurred, the women set about caring for their men. Birdsong cleaned Harlan’s head wound with some rum and then sewed it shut with needle and thread.

  While the other men were being tended to, Harlan mounted his horse and slowly began dragging away the Indian dead before the buzzards and other varmints gave away the trappers’ position any more than they already had. There was a steep-sided gully a hundred yards from camp, and soon the dead warriors shared a common hole in the ground— but not before each had been scalped by Harlan.

  Then Harlan cut branches from the trees and dragged them across their tracks and into the gully to cover the morning’s violence. However, the hiding of the bodies turned out not to be necessary. One hell of a prairie thunderstorm blew up that evening, and as the lightning crackled all around, the gully full of dead Indians filled with a torrent of water and mud.

  The next morning Ha
rlan and Winter Hawk went to rebury the dead, figuring they would have been washed out by the storm, only to find that the torrents of water running down the gully had washed all the dead into an even deeper hole and neatly buried them under tons of alkali silt.

  Fearing more roving bands of Indians and now with an additional sixteen horses collected from the dead as a potential target, Harlan and his band headed slowly due west for the Wind River Range, seeking the coolness of higher altitudes for those suffering healing wounds. The mountains were home to the trappers’ friends, the Snakes.

  If they could reach that sanctuary, the chances of more Northern Cheyenne following them by tracking the escaped horses were small. Harlan had learned early on that one way to lose pursuers was to make liberal use of opportunities to walk in creek and stream bottoms in order to erase one’s tracks. He used that tactic with great effect in the small streams of the Wind River Mountains.

  The next day found the band of trappers and their new horse herd deep in the covering timber in the mountains of the Wind River Range. The second day of travel after the battle found the tired and sore little band at a welcome place—their original cabin site near Willow Lake! The horse corral was still there, and into that went the Indians’ horses after being fed and watered. Their own stock was then unpacked, hobbled, and let into the nearby meadow to feed and water because the corral could not hold any more animals.

  As the women cleaned out the old cabin, the men rehung the front door and hauled in some wood for the evening fire. Then, as dinner was cooking, they all sat around the fire and tried to relax without falling asleep in case they had been followed. After dinner and the events of the previous days, emotions came crashing down on them as they retreated to their sleeping furs in the cabin. There they were quickly lost in the deep sleep that comes from running on the edge of bodily reserves.