Colter's Winter Read online

  Colter looked from the two men to the river and the route he’d been taking to St. Louis, the second time he’d been taking it.

  “Course…we can understand if you want to get back to the real world,” Manuel said, “…and the money you still have waiting for you – it’s in the Bank of St. Louis, right there on Merchant Street.”

  “Earning good interest, I hope,” Colter laughed.

  Manuel shrugged. “2.8%, if you call that good.”

  “I ain’t never earned no interest before so don’t know what to call it,” Colter said.

  He looked downriver again, and the others looked at him. After a few moments Manuel nodded to George and the other men on the boats began to move back into their places, picking up oars and getting ready to move.

  “We can give you a gun, John,” Manuel said, “it’s the least we can do. And in another two days or so you’ll run into a small fur trapping encampment. From there you can get the supplies you need to get the rest of the way to–”

  “Where are you going, Manuel?” Colter said, cutting the Spaniard off.

  “We’re heading up to the Bighorn, just off the Yellowstone. We’re going to try and set up a new fort, make a go of it trapping through the winter before taking the haul back downriver come spring.”

  “Then I’m going too,” Colter said.

  Manuel nodded. “I thought you might,” then, “George – Colter’s coming!”

  George walked back and together the two men hoisted Colter up out of the dugout log-canoe.

  “Sentimental value?” George said with a smile as he held the dugout there beside their pirogue.

  Colter laughed. “More like junk,” he said, and kicked the log off. The men watched it float downriver for a ways before turning their attention back the other way. There were furs and money upstream, and another winter of adventure.

  THE END

  Historical Note

  Thank you for reading this novel. I’d like to say that again – thanks for reading this novel. It is indeed a novel, and not a true historical account. No one really knows what John Colter did over that solitary winter of his in 1806-7, but we do know quite a lot.

  Forest Hancock and Joe Dixon were real men that met Lewis and Clark. Colter was released from his contract, though the three men left the Mandan Villages before Lewis and Clark. From there they likely headed to the Yellowstone River and engaged in trapping, for how long we aren’t sure. What is known is that at some point Colter had a falling out with the two men and left them. When that was or why, we don’t know. One feature of the account is that Joe Dixon was left alone in a cave for much of the winter while Colter and Hancock went cavorting with some nearby Indian maidens. Dixon was blinded by the snow and did experience a “miracle” of some sort, one that allowed him to see again.

  Besides that, much of what you just read was my own creation. Both trappers lived, to old age in fact. I took the liberty of having Forest killed off, and I’ll leave the fate of Dixon hidden for the moment. What is known is that the Arikara tribe was hostile to whites, including Colter when he and George Drouillard and others ventured back up the Missouri in 1807-8. But that’s a story for another day.

  The best resource to look at for John Colter’s life is Burton Harris’s John Colter: His Years in the Rockies. It goes into the full extent of the mountain man’s life, as well as fur trapping in general. Most of the long passages describing life in the 1800s came about after reading Harris. For biographical information on Forest Hancock and Joseph Dixon, google their names and check out the Illinois State Museum link – you’ll learn a lot.

  Shappa and his band of Indian braves are my creation, as are the other Indian characters in this book. The A’anninen are more easily identified as the Gros Ventre tribe, though I was told the latter name is considered derogatory by them, so decided not to use it.

  I hope you enjoyed this book. If there’s enough interest in it I’d look forward to writing a second volume. That would be called Colter’s Hell and would explore Colter’s time charting the Yellowstone region over the winter of 1807-8. Thanks again!

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  About the Author

  Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana, and graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History. He lived and worked in China following the collapse of the American economy. After five years he moved back to Montana where he now lives with his wife and young son. He’s written more than 50 books.

  Connect with Greg Strandberg

  My website on writing and Montana: http://www.bigskywords.com

  My website for teachers in China: http://www.esladventure.com

  It’s hard for books to get noticed these days. Whether you liked this one or not, please consider writing a review, thanks!

  Goodreads Author Profile

  Other eBooks by Greg Strandberg

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  G.I. JOE: After Infinity

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  Colter’s Winter

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  English Rocks! 101 ESL Games, Activities, and Lesson Plans

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  Preview of Colter’s Hell

  Introduction – A Shot

  The sun was bright, the sky was big, and it didn’t seem like they’d find a better place in all of God’s Creation.

  Captain Meriwether Lewis put the butt of his rifle down on the ground and his arm up. “This will do,” he said, and the three men behind him came to a stop. Two of them let out sighs.

  “Haven’t even gone ten miles yet,” George Drouillard scoffed at the two. He adjusted his yellow head-cloth, which
was soaked with sweat.

  “My feet say otherwise,” Joseph Field said with a frown.

  “They don’t say anything, but they sure do stink up a storm,” Joseph’s older brother Reubin said, and both he and George broke out laughing.

  “Alright, alright,” Lewis said ahead of them, picking up his rifle once again, “let’s get to making camp.”

  The men nodded and started doing just that, happy to get a break from the hot July sun overhead. They were still following the small creek that’d branched off from the Marias River, one they were calling Birch Creek on account of the trees growing up on its banks. The spot they were at now had the trees on just one side, the north, while the south was open grassland for a quarter of a mile before the ground rose up into a rocky ridge of hills a hundred feet high.

  “Sure this is a good spot, Captain?” George said as they started to unfurl the tarps and break out the cooking supplies.

  “Why wouldn’t it be, George?” Lewis already had one of his journals out and didn’t bother to look up.

  “Just seems a bit open is all, sir,” the half-Shawnee half-French-Canadian scout said. The Field brothers stopped their unpacking for a moment to look the captain’s way. Sensing the tension in the air, Lewis looked up, looked around, and then shook his head.

  “This will do,” he said a moment later, his pen beginning to move across the journal’s pages once again. George shrugged and started unpacking again.

  ~~~

  Wolf Calf came to an abrupt stop, his long black hair swishing about as he did so. He kept his hair unbound and flowing long, for he thought it made him look more savage.

  The seven other young Blackfeet Indian braves behind him came to a stop so as well. They were more boys than braves, really – Wolf Calf had just turned 13-years old, and though there were a few as old as him, none were older. They were armed as well, with sturdy bow and arrows. Wolf Calf even had a rifle, a good one too, or so Calf Looking thought. He was also 13-years old, and while he didn’t have the courage or as powerful a father like Wolf Calf did, he was fast and smart and the boys looked up to him.

  Calf Looking and the others were looking up to Wolf Calf now, for he’d begun creeping toward the edge of the ridge, the better to look over. The others held back, knowing that whatever their leader had seen below could just as easily spot them above if they moved forward. They also held back because of Wolf Calf’s temper. One look at the swollen black eye of Sidehill Calf could tell you that, and that’d only come about because the 11-year old had suggested they go back that morning. Wolf Calf hadn’t agreed to that, and now Sidehill Calf was sulking in the back of the band, wanting to go home more than ever.

  Calf Looking knew they couldn’t go back, not yet at least. He was with the Skunk Band of the Pikuni Tribe of the Piegan Blackfeet Nation, and coming back into camp with nothing to show for their three days of hunting would lower their worth in the eyes of the other bands. Calf Looking knew full well that Buffalo Child’s Otter Band was waiting for such an opportunity to move up in the eyes of the tribe. Buffalo Child was one of the tribe’s three Wise Ones, back at camp and no doubt scheming how he could become full chief. If he could use the young braves’ poor showing to make Stone Bear’s Skunk Band look bad, then he certainly would. Stone Bear was Wolf Calf’s father, and also a Wise One, though one that didn’t have as much ambition, or at least didn’t let it show as much, as Buffalo Child did.

  Calf Looking sighed. He knew he shouldn’t be out with an opposing band of braves, but his father forbade him to go out. Silver Heart was the third Wise One of the tribe and he treated Calf Looking too much like his older brother had been treated. Dog Hair may have been obedient, but he wasn’t brave. Calf Looking was, and that’s why he was with the Skunk Band, braves who craved adventure and didn’t hide from it. Still, Calf Looking knew that his father didn’t get to his high position by being a coward. Silver Heart was indeed a powerful Wise One, and one that could take over when Chief He Who Shouts finally died. Wolf Calf knew that, and it was probably why he’d been pushing them so hard over the past day. Wolf Calf’s own father had been adamant that they go out for three days only. Today was that third day, and there was no way they could make it back to the tribe by morning…unless they had some horses.

  Wolf Calf reached the edge of the ridge and peered down. Sure enough, there was a small band of fur trappers, four of them it looked like, and they had quite a few supplies. They had even more guns, four the young Piegan boy thought to himself, but that’s not what he was really interested in. The true prize were the horses, twenty-one of them, all milling about in the grass a short distance from the men’s camp. They had Nez Perce markings on them too, and must have been traded by the western tribe.

  Wolf Calf shook his head. The Blackfeet had cowed the Nez Perce, and they’d done so with the same guns the whites were carrying now, long-barreled rifles that sent shots far. Those shots came sudden and unexpectedly from horseback. The horses below had their legs hobbled, and Wolf Calf smiled – it’d be easy to cut the small ropes put in place so the horses wouldn’t move too far, and then all they’d have to do was ride on out of there, back to the village, and the admiration of the tribe. His father would be proud of him and Wolf Calf would gain much honor. That honor would be increased, the young brave knew, if he could bring the weapons back as well. Then his own father might have a chance at becoming chief, not just Looking Calf’s, or worse, Little Mouse’s. The thought made the young Blackfoot brave smile. Wolf Calf slowly began pushing himself backward, and after a minute he was back with the other seven boys.

  “Horses,” he said as soon as he reached them, “twenty-one horses and just four men, whites.”

  “Trappers?” Sidehill Calf asked, and Wolf Calf nodded.

  “Looks like it, and it also looks like they’re armed pretty good.”

  “So we’ll rush in after dark and take off with the horses before they know what hit ‘em,” Sidehill Calf said with a laugh, clapping Looking Calf on the back beside him. Several of the other braves smiled and mumbled their enthusiasm as well, even if Sidehill Calf was likely putting on a show, the better to get them home faster.

  Although he was happy to see some of the youngest of the braves’ enthusiasm return, Wolf Calf shook his head. “They’ll be watching, the sentries I mean. I doubt these men will sleep without posting someone to watch.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Calf Looking asked.

  “That we go down there and talk with them,” Wolf Calf said. That was met with silence, as well as a lot of shuffling feet and downward looks. “Ah, c’mon – don’t tell me you’re afraid,” Wolf Calf continued. “Those men have a lot of stuff down there – they want to trade. Let’s go and see what they’re doing, try to win their confidence, and see if we can bed down near them. When we know most are asleep and the sentry is dozing off, we’ll make our move and take the horses.” The 13-year old stared at the other boys, most younger than him. Only Calf Looking met his gaze, and Wolf Calf held it for several moments. Finally Calf Looking nodded, drawing the other boys’ attention.

  “Alright,” he said, “but let’s be careful – those trappers have enough guns for twelve men, and we don’t want to get hurt.”

  Wolf Calf smiled. “Of course!”

  After that they began to move down toward the creek.

  ~~~

  “Captain,” George said as quietly as he could, and then a little louder when he saw that Captain Lewis hadn’t heard him. Lewis looked over, and then toward what George was nodding at. There were Indians coming, a small band of them.

  “Men,” Lewis said loud enough to get the attention of the Field brothers a short distance away. The two were organizing the packs to fit Lewis’s latest samples, and they looked over and then quickly got up at the sight of the Indians. “Take it easy,” Lewis said after a moment as he started forward, “let’s see what they want.” He began moving forward, said “George,” and the scout was quickly at his side.
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  “Blackfeet…or maybe A’anninen,” he said, “I’m not really sure. Sure are young though, I’d say 10-years to 13-years old for the lot of ‘em.”

  “Old enough to fight,” Lewis said quietly as they drew near.

  Wolf Calf came to a stop about twenty feet from the two whites, one of whom looked like he had a bit of Indian blood in him. He raised his hand up. Though still kept his bow in his other hand, it didn’t have an arrow nocked to it.

  Across the distance, Lewis also put his hand up in greeting, and said “hello.” Beside him George said a few Indian greetings in various tribal tongues, and after the fourth the young boy nodded and spoke up. He spoke for a few moments and then George nodded.

  “They’re Piegan Blackfeet,” George said, “from around this area. They’re young, and likely out on a small scouting or hunting trip for a day or two.”

  Lewis nodded, and then turned around and called out to the Field brothers. “Bring up some of the trade gifts.” The two brothers nodded and were soon rushing up with one of the packs. They started to hand it to Lewis but he shook his head. “Find them three items for gifts,” he said.

  Within moments Joseph had a medal, a small American flag, and a handkerchief out.

  “Those will do,” Lewis said with a nod when Joseph looked to him, and the young man got up and walked the items over to the boys.