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  COLTER’S WINTER

  Mountain Man Series, Book I

  Greg Strandberg

  Big Sky Words, Missoula

  Copyright © 2015 by Big Sky Words

  Smashwords Edition, 2017

  Written in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Connect with Greg Strandberg

  www.bigskywords.com

  The Mountain Man Series is an ongoing series that started in 1806 and is now up to 1812.

  The second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth volumes of this exciting series are now available.

  Get Colter’s Hell, Colter’s Run, Colter’s Friend, Colter’s Revenge and Colter’s Escape today!

  Or…

  Get the books in a convenient box-set!

  The eleventh volume in the series will be out in early-2017.

  See John Colter Maps Here

  See Montana Locations Here

  Table of Contents

  Missouri River Map

  Introduction – Upriver

  Part I – A New Journey Begins

  1 – Hunting

  2 – The Mandan Villages

  3 – Visitors

  4 – The Captains

  5 – Friends

  6 – Last Night

  7 – Around the Fire

  8 – A Powwow

  Part II – Travelling

  9 – First Morning

  10 – Outfitting

  11 – Up the River

  12 – Through the Years

  13 – Riding the Rapids

  14 – A Meeting

  15 – A New Outlook

  16 – The Beaver

  17 – Dams

  18 – Trapping

  19 – Landfall

  20 – Travelling Pains

  21 – The First Snow

  22 – A Grim Discovery

  Part III – Trapping

  23 – The Yellowstone

  24 – Making Camp

  25 – Farther Afield

  26 – Following Fast

  27 – Arguments

  28 – On the Trail

  29 – Rushing at Night

  30 – A Sighting

  31 – Distracted Thinking

  32 – Snowed In

  33 – Back to Work

  34 – Overturned

  Part IV – Hunting

  35 – The Cold

  36 – Fire

  37 – Pursuit

  38 – The Cave

  39 – The Cache

  40 – Springing the Trap

  41 – The Chief

  Conclusion – Downriver

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Preview of Colter’s Hell

  Missouri River Map

  Introduction – Upriver

  The clouds covering the moon moved ever so slightly, allowing the world to lighten just a little.

  “Damn!” Joseph Dixon said from the prow of the small, dugout canoe.

  “Just keep ‘er steady and those paddles quiet,” Forest Hancock whispered up from his spot at the stern.

  Joe bit his lip to keep from saying what he thought of Forest’s words, and concentrated instead on keeping his paddle dipping into the black waters of the Missouri as quietly as possible, the better to sneak past the Indian village.

  They were Arikaras, the two trappers knew, and from the looks they’d received after pushing into this area of the river the day before, they figured it’d be better to sneak past at night than make the attempt by day. Already they’d had a good amount of their earnings stolen by some Sioux down near Floyd’s Bluff, and both men had been firm in the decision that’d not happen again.

  The men had known the tribe was coming up somewhere around the Grand River, fellow trappers had told them as much the winter before, when they’d still been close to St. Louis. That seemed like ages ago now, and they were pushing further than most had before, most that is except for the Lewis and Clark Expedition that’d set out from the Gateway to the West back in 1804, just two years before, and only three months before they themselves had set about trapping on the upper-Missouri. Most figured the Corps of Discovery was long dead, killed by Indians further upriver that no one else had encountered yet, or some other unspeakable fate, too worse to think on.

  Forest shook the thought from his mind and chanced a glance back over his shoulder. Joe was still there of course, paddling silently away, but what he hadn’t expected to see was the village, now a good half-mile downriver. The look of surprise must have shown clearly on his face, for the moonlight caught a glint of white off Joe’s smile.

  “Told you we’d be alright,” he said quietly.

  Forest scoffed. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “No, but we’ll be into ‘em here real quick.” He nodded further upriver, at something Forest’s bad eyes weren’t able to pick out. The trapper squinted and put his hand up to his forehead as if that’d help in the night, but somehow it did, and after another few moments he made out a faint, black outline.

  “Copse of trees,” Joe said behind him, “hopefully thick enough to pull the boat up into a bit and get some shuteye before dawn, eh?”

  Forest nodded. That sounded like just the thing, especially after the day of rowing upriver, their nerves more taut than usual with the threat of Arikaras nearby and possibly around every bend.

  The men paddled on and were soon at the copse of trees, which really wasn’t that large, but was far enough away from the village to obscure them so they wouldn’t be seen. What’s more, it was quiet and with their tired minds and bodies, it wasn’t even a choice – they were going ashore and they were getting some rest.

  “Tie ‘er up and I’ll find us a spot to bed down,” Joe said as he got out of the front of the boat. Forest nodded and was soon pulling the boat further up to a sturdy-looking bush while Joe walked ashore. The trees were Cottonwoods and their branches reached low to the ground. What’s more, he now saw, there was a smattering of boulders about, providing even more cover from the village downstream. Joe hefted his pack up on his back and headed toward the largest, then set himself down once he was there. He opened the pack and started to undo his bedroll when a sound stopped him. He sat stone still, listening.

  Hm…mmm…

  Joe’s brow knitted. What the hell was that? he thought to himself, then heard it again.

  Hm…mmm…oh…

  His eyes went wide at the realization of what he was hearing, and slowly, he began to stand up, creeping ever closer to the boulder so he could look over it. Sure enough, there was an Indian man and woman, in the throes of passion, right there on a bed of grass and leaves and–

  “Got ‘er tied off,” Forest called out behind him.

  Joe’s eyes went wide and he spun back to see his partner coming up, then he spun around to see both the Indian man and woman staring up at him.

  “Oh, shit!” he said, then spun around again and started running toward Forest and the river and the boat and safety. Before he’d gone more than a few steps, however, Forest’s eyes went wide and he knew the Indian was up. In an instant he saw Forest reach for his belt knife and in the most causal of flicks of the wrist, sent the blade flying through the air.

  Joe didn’t see it but he swore he heard it, the knife going into the Indian. What he heard next after that was the night pierced with wailing screams as the woman saw her lover topple down to the ground dead, a knife in his chest.

  “C’mon!” Joe shouted, reaching Forest and pulling at him to come to the
river, the woman still shrieking behind him. He hadn’t yet seen what happened, but then he didn’t need to.

  “What about the woman!” Forest yelled, grabbing hold of Joe’s arm and holding him there.

  “What about her?”

  “She’ll run back to that village and we’ll have the whole tribe on us in minutes.”

  Joe looked up at him. “I ain’t killin’ no woman!”

  “If it wasn’t for me and my knife, you’d be dead right now – go look at that tomahawk he was about to hurl at your back!”

  Joe swallowed the knot in his throat and for the first time, looked back in the direction he’d just come from. There was only the boulder, and nothing else, except for the terrible wailing still coming from behind it…wailing which might well drift back to the village downstream, if it hadn’t already.

  Forest looked into his eyes. “Do it, or we’re both dead.”

  Joe let out a sigh, nodded, then headed toward the boulder. A few moments later the wailing stopped.

  Part I – A New Journey Begins

  1 – Hunting

  The crickets were chirping away like there was no tomorrow, but John Colter knew that the slightest snap of a twig would–

  Damn!

  Ahead the 6-point buck lifted its head quickly, its ears pointing the mountain man’s way. Colter glanced over at John Potts and George Drouillard, both of whom had stopped their slow pacing forward and were standing as stock-still as he.

  George took one hand from his musket and waved a few fingers. Colter nodded – the men had been together for more than two years now, they didn’t need to use sound to communicate.

  Colter advanced steadily, around the Cottonwood tree he’d been skirting and then over the row of small boulders. There was a fallen tree he was trying to get up to, one beside a few more Cottonwoods. They were the only things between the buck and Colter, that and a good one hundred yards of grass, scrub brush and the stray Cottonwood tree.

  The buck knew someone was there, but it kept chewing, even putting its head back down for another bite. Colter sighed inwardly, then took the last few feet to the fallen tree. He bent down, and not taking his eyes form the dear, loosed his powder horn and began filling his barrel. Glancing over told him that both John and George were holding back, letting him take this one. It was a responsibility he’d been given a lot over the past two years of the expedition, especially when they’d been near starvation. Now, this close to the Mandan Villages and with St. Louis just forty-five days away, caution didn’t seem to be something so necessary.

  Colter went through the motions, rammed his ball home, and put stock to shoulder, taking aim. The buck looked up once again, and Colter closed his eye.

  BOOM!

  The sound was thunderous and scared a flight of birds from a nearby stand of trees. Even with the cloud of white smoke obscuring his vision, however, Colter knew his round had struck home.

  “Damn, right in the chest,” George said from behind as he came up, clapping Colter on the back as he started to rise, “didn’t even have a chance to run before you took its legs out from under it.”

  Colter nodded. He’d heard it all before, but didn’t mind hearing it again. It’s just that he didn’t want George to have to waste his breath, either – two years together made the men a bit tired of frivolous compliments, of which all were at that point.

  George was part-Shawnee, part-French-Canadian and the best scout the thirty-three-member expedition had, even including the captains. His hair was long and black and mostly covered up by the bandanas the man wore. He had four, and for the past several days he’d been sporting yellow, though now it was so caked with dust that it was becoming tan.

  “She’ll be hell to drag back to camp,” John said.

  Colter nodded to his other companions’ words. John Potts was a good four years younger than he and George, but Colter knew him to be trustworthy and a hard worker. It was likely that work ethic came from the fact that Potts was the only foreigner amongst the men, born in Germany. Wouldn’t tell it by the black hair, but those blue eyes and that fair complexion made it clear. That and the accent.

  Colter shouldered his rifle, then started around the fallen tree to move toward the deer.

  “Aye, hell to drag,” he said, echoing John’s words. “We’d best get on it then – St. Louis isn’t getting any closer.”

  2 – The Mandan Villages

  “Yip…yip…ee-haw!”

  The three men heard the whooping and hollering of the Mandan Indian Villages long before they saw them. It was the sign they’d been waiting for, and they put their shoulders back into it and to make it the last bit with their prize.

  “There!” a shout went up from ahead, and George put his arm up to block out the sun’s rays.

  “Pierre?” John asked beside him.

  George nodded. “Looks like he’s still on watch.”

  “Captain’s probably still damn sore about what happened,” Colter said from his spot at the rear of the travois. They’d fashioned the carrier out of two long tree branches and several smaller laid crosswise, lashing them together to haul the buck.

  “I’d imagine,” George said, stifling a laugh, “shot in the ass ain’t no easy thing to get over.”

  “Or sit on,” Colter said.

  “And it ain’t something you can exactly walk off, either,” John said before the three men fell into laugher. Just two days before Captain Lewis and Private Pierre Cruzatte had been out hunting just like the three of them were today. The only problem was that Pierre mistook the captain for a bear and put a bullet right in his backside, literally. The men had been ready to get back to St. Louis, just about 1,500 miles away, but now they were ready to get back there more than ever, Pierre most of all.

  “That’s what you get when you go hunting with a man that’s blind in one eye and near-sighted in the other,” George said with a laugh. “He should never have been given a gun!”

  “I guess the captain thought he could hunt like he could play that fiddle,” John joked, and the men had another good laugh. It was their laughs more than anything that probably allowed Pierre to focus in on them, and a moment later he saw them and gave a wave.

  “Something’s up,” George said, noting right away that something was amiss from the way Pierre was waving his arm. Before he could get another word in, however, Colter took off, running fast ahead. George and John gave each other a look then shrugged and started after him. By the time they covered the hundred yards they were panting, but what they heard Pierre say gave them their wind back mighty quick.

  “…came up on a dug-out not more than ten minutes ago,” he was saying to Colter, who was standing there with hands on hips and eyes as wide as saucers.

  “Who came up?” John said quickly before inhaling a large breath of air.

  “Two trappers,” Colter said to him, “and they’re still unloading from the river now – let’s go!”

  All three men started off at the same time, while Pierre just kicked at a clod in the dirt and cursed his bad luck in getting guard duty at the most exciting moment the expedition had seen in months.

  3 – Visitors

  Joseph Dixon turned around with yet another crate in his arms and nearly had his eyes pop out if his head.

  “You, you there…stop that!”

  The two Mandan Indian boys that’d been poking at the pile of crates with a stick laughed and scampered off, back toward the village. Joe just stood there fuming, his anger at having their trade goods harassed nearly causing him to drop those still in his hands.

  “Take it easy,” his partner Forest Hancock said while coming up behind him, an identical crate in his arms.

  “I’ll take it easy when we’re back on the safety of the river,” Joe said as Forest walked off the plank leading from the boat to the shore. Nonetheless, he fell in behind him and in a few moments another two crates were stacked on the bank.

  “They won’t cause you no harm, sirs,” George Shan
non said a little sheepishly. He was the youngest member of the expedition, not yet twenty, and being out in the wild for these past years hadn’t done much to cure his already noticeable shyness. Why the captains had sent him to help the men, he hadn’t a clue. The two trappers felt about the same.

  “It’s not us I’m worried about,” Forest said gruffly, “it’s our goods here – these are our livelihood for the next two years out here.” He gave Shannon a narrow look. “You did say this was near where the Yellowstone starts, didn’t you?”

  Shannon gave a firm nod, several times in fact, and nearly stuttered over his words. “Y-y-yes, sir.”

  “Good, and…”

  Forest trailed-off as he heard footfalls coming up fast, and turned slightly to see a roughshod-looking man, bearded and muscled and coming at the three of them full-bore, a musket clutched tightly in one hand. If he hadn’t put the crate down a moment before, Forest would have dropped it from shock and surprise.

  “Colter!” Shannon gave a shout out when he turned to see what’d spooked the two trappers so.