Colter's Winter Page 3
“Maybe not,” Ordway said after a moment, “maybe not.”
6 – Last Night
The fire crackled and popped and shot embers soaring into the night sky. Up above were Sagittarius the centaur and Cygnus the swan, two constellations of many that touched the edges of the Milky Way Galaxy looking down. Colter traced them in his mind’s eye and remembered the nights the captains had explained them.
“Haven’t you spent enough time looking up at the stars over the past God knows how many months?” a voice called from behind Colter, one he recognized right away.
“Oh, you’re just sore still that you couldn’t benefit from the captain’s celestial knowledge, Pierre, what will that one blind eye of yours and the other being bum.”
“Hell, I can see enough out of this old orb still to see your ugly mug, Colter, though I wouldn’t need to – any Injun a mile off could smell the beaver stink comin’ off ya!”
Private Pierre Cruzatte laughed and clapped Colter on the back as he said that last, and Colter couldn’t help but laugh as well. In a quick moment, however, Pierre was lowering his head and whispering close to Colter’s ear.
“You saw the captain today, John,” he said, that slight Cajun accent of his coming through a bit with his voice low, “was he still mad?”
“If you’re asking if he’s still mad you shot him in the ass, Pierre, then I’d say yes, he probably is.”
Pierre stood back, and a frown came across his face. No doubt he was still thinking of how many weeks yet he had to go before getting to St. Louis, and if Captain Lewis would make his life a living hell during that time.
“He’ll always be sore over that, and in more ways than one,” another voice called out, and both men spun around to see the Fields brothers coming up, Joseph and the older Reubin. It’d been Reubin that’d stabbed that Blackfoot Indian through the heart when Lewis and his small band of three had run into the group of eight young braves just a few weeks before, and the death had resulted in the men rushing over one hundred miles in a single day to put enough ground between themselves and however many Blackfeet would soon be on their tail. Thankfully they’d never heard anything from the aggressive Blackfeet, and Colter could see some of the earlier edge gone from Joseph’s eyes – he was one of the best shots on the expedition, and looking over his shoulder for Indians every day had taken its toll. Thankfully three weeks was enough time to let their guard down.
“And what’s this I hear about you leaving us, John?” Pierre continued as he reached the two men.
Colter shrugged, just as Pierre looked over at him, a look of surprise on his face.
“What on earth are you doing?” he said, that Cajun unmistakable.
“I’m guiding Dixon and Hancock up the river, as far as they want to go until winter sets in.”
“And then you’ll stay with them, trapping?” Pierre said. It was well-known he didn’t think much of trappers, probably because a man didn’t need to be any good with a rifle to lure an animal into a baited hunk of metal with steel jaws. Not to mention the smell. Anyone handling the oily furs or the scent needed to bait the traps didn’t smell that good. Strangely, the trapper himself didn’t seem to notice.
“Might,” Colter said with another shrug, “haven’t thought about it much.”
“Guess you’ll just play it by season, huh?” Reubin said from behind his brother.
“Or at least play it until you can’t stand them two no more,” Joseph laughed. “Hell, John, you wouldn’t have been able to stand all of us if the captains weren’t ordering you to! You’re a damn loner if there ever was one – these mountains’ll accept you again, but just not with company, I’m afraid.”
Colter gave Joseph a long and hard look, but the burly man didn’t back down. And he was right, Colter knew it too, and nodded accordingly.
“I’m gonna miss you, Joseph.”
Joseph clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you too, John. Now let’s get over to that fire pit – I hear your new friends have got some gills of whiskey!”
7 – Around the Fire
“Ha, there he is!”
Colter narrowed his eyes and looked around the fire to try and see who’d shouted, but it was too hard to tell. One thing that wasn’t hard to tell, however, was that alcohol was coursing through the men’s blood again, and for the first time since the previous November. Colter knew Joe and Forest had some, and now that they were back among the Mandans, he knew the traders always had some close by. The men were enjoying it tonight, and that meant the captains must be as well, back in their tent.
“The man of the hour,” another shout came, and Colter saw this one came from Private John Shields, the expedition’s blacksmith, gunsmith and carpenter. Colter gave him a good clap on the back as he came up, and took a liberal drink from the wineskin he was offered. It was whiskey alright, and he let out a satisfied “Ah,” much to the delight of the rest of the men.
“Good to have a drop again, eh?” Private Peter Weiser laughed at him, and Colter nodded at the man.
“It sure gives me back a relief, I’ll say that much.”
Colter nodded and was about to clap Private William Bratton on the back when he remembered not to and stopped himself. Private John Collins didn’t restrain himself, and went ahead and gave William a hard swat, one that elicited a grunt of pain.
“Ain’t nothin’ like a little whisky to lighten your mood, eh Colter?”
“Or get you a hundred lashes again, Collins!” Private George Gibson said with a laugh, and the others joined in quickly, remembering the hundred Collins had received for stealing the expedition’s whiskey from the official supply while he’d supposed to have been guarding it.
“Oh, shut up and give us a tune, will ya!” Collins shouted back.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Gibson said, and picked up his fiddle and started in on a boisterous round of “Old Molly Hare.”
“Ha, that’s more like it!” Private Silas Goodrich chimed in, and he and several of the other men began to dance around the fire, joined in by a few of the young Mandan boys and even a maiden or two when they could pull one near, an older squaw if not. Colter stood back and took it all in. He was with most of the men he’d travelled with for two years, and these men here were some of the best. Private Hugh Hall was dancing away, and Colter laughed as he remembered him drunk as can be the day after helping Collins steal the whisky. Oh how he’d begged for leniency! Then there was Private Thomas Howard, who’d gotten court-martialed for climbing over the wall of Fort Mandan one night after the gate had been closed, showing any Indian watching how it was done. Dancing right along there too was Private George Shannon, who hadn’t looked so happy after being found out in the wild after getting lost for two weeks and damn near dying of starvation. All the men he knew and loved were there, and he’d miss them, that much he knew.
“So how’s it feel not to be a member of the U.S. Army anymore, John?” George Drouillard came up and asked. He had a small, metal cup in his hand and offered it to Colter. Colter put it to his nose and took a whiff, and for the second time that year smelled alcohol.
“Feels good!” he said, and took a gulp, much to the delight of the men dancing around.
“Sure hope it’s gonna feel good for you to be alone in the wilderness with them two!” John Potts shouted, and many joined in with their agreement to that.
“Oh, Colter may be a loner, but he gets along with people well enough!” George shouted.
“So long as you’s got the ‘keeps!’” Potts shouted out.
“The ‘keeps’?” Colter said.
“So long as you keep quite, keep out of the way, and keep yourself working all the time!” George laughed, and the men did too, raising their metal cups high to clink together.
“I don’t work all the time,” Colter said as he finished the last of his cup off. Beside him George saw he was done and grabbed it and sent it off over ferrying hands. Several moments later it’d come back full.
“And just make sure you steer well clear of those Blackfeet,” Ordway said from the edge of the group.
“And don’t shoot your captain in the ass if you do!” Hugh laughed from where he was still dancing around. That caused another round of laughter, a sigh from Pierre, and the men’s cups to need another filling. The flames leapt higher and it was if the night itself was rejoicing, the wilderness happy to see these foreigners gone…or perhaps just a smaller party enter.
8 – A Powwow
The fire crackled and sent shadows dancing across the tepee’s walls. Chief Shappa sat in his usual spot, his medicine man Anoki across the fire pit from him. On each side were the various wise men and warrior leaders and other critical members of the Arikara tribe. Women, of course, were nowhere to be seen.
“From the time that our people lived on the Elk Horn River we’ve known trouble,” Shappa said, drawing all eyes to him. “It was Neesaau ti naacitakUx, Chief Above, that came and brought our warring villages together in a period before time. It was he that told us of our destiny, of our constant quest to find Mother Corn. After that we knew peace, and expanded to search for our Mother, and reached the mighty Niobrara. It was there more than ninety moons ago that the first Grey Beard came.”
Shappa looked over at Anoki and the medicine man gave that toothy grin of his and threw more of the black powder onto the fire.
“Etienne!” he shouted as the fire flared to life and those gathered around inched backward, most involuntarily. The chief’s face remained a visage of stone, and then he continued once again.
“It was a short time after his departure that we moved further north, to the Grand River near Lake Oahe, and then another ten moons after that before the next Grey Beard came.”
“La Verendrye!” Anoki shouted as he threw another handful of black powder onto the fire.
“That’s when the split came,” Shappa said, staring into the fire and back in time, “that’s when the old one’s talked and talked and then talked some more. Finally it was decided that more would come, and that our way of life was now changed forever, just like those of our long lost brothers living far to the east.” He sighed. “So what did they do? Move us to safety further north, further to the west, to lands that hadn’t been occupied yet by those fleeing the Gray Beards and their perpetual push west? No, instead we moved across the Grand, north and east a few miles to Íŋyaŋwakağapi Wakpá, a once-proud river that’s now been given the name…” he looked to his medicine man again.
“Cannonball!” the man spat. ‘Anoki’ meant ‘actor’ in the Arikara language, and the man certainly earned his moniker.
Shappa looked around at the gathered tribal elders and the younger warriors, those that would lead the bands if war ever did finally come. Shappa knew it would.
“I remember when the Gray Beard Verendrye came, though I was but a boy of five or six moons at the time,” the chief said. “His full name was Pierre de Vamess Gaulteir de La Verendrye, and he was following in the footsteps of his father, another explorer from the land beyond the Great Waters. It was on a day in early spring when he came upon our Little Cherry Band, and it was that day he carved the moon into his metal plate and left it with us.”
Shappa reached into his robes and pulled out a metal plate, square in shape and containing some kind of scratches. He threw it down onto the ground before the fire and a deathly silence fell over all.
“It was two years after they met our small village that Verendrye and the men with him buried their plate, further down the Great River, on what we now call the White. It took me a few more moons before I had the nerve to go and dig it up.”
The men in the tent stared at the plate, and the scratchings on it. Then they looked to their chief, a man who had done much, and lost much.
“Just over ten moons ago now we had our last Gray Beard come, another man from across the Great Waters, this one named Trudeau. He stayed with us for a time, and it’s from him that we know the language they call the French.” He looked over at Anoki and frowned. “But we also now know that this is the language of our friends, not our enemies. Our enemies use a tongue they call…English.”
The Medicine Man nodded gravely, and so did the others in the tent.
“And so it was two years ago that we had the largest group of Gray Beards yet come to us, a party numbering thirty-three, mostly fit, young men…their braves. Outfitted for war, they spoke of exploration, but we’d seen what explorers had looked like before, and it wasn’t these men.”
“But we let them pass,” one of the leading warriors said, Wapi, a challenge and one that was nearly unheard of in the chief’s tent. Instead of punishing the transgression, however, the chief simply nodded.
“But we let them pass,” Wapi said again, emboldened now, “and it cost you your son, and heir-apparent. What’s more, it cost me my wife.”
You could cut the air with a knife, the tension was so high. The other warriors and wise men looked from Chief Shappa to Wapi and back again. They’d been waiting for this moment for days, waiting for one of the two to challenge the other. Already Wapi’s honor had been sullied when his wife was found to have been sleeping with the chief’s son, and behind both of their backs…at least that’s what Shappa had claimed. And who was to challenge him on that? No one but Wapi, and now that challenge had come.
The chief gave Wapi a sharp look, but the warrior didn’t back down. He smelled the blood, saw the age in the chief’s eyes, saw his chance…and took it.
“Why should we go on a wild chase up the river after two men that most likely were only protecting themselves? We all know what Patamon was like when he had fire water in his system. And we know before those men passed that they–”
“Enough!” Shappa shouted out, and silence fell in the tent once again, broken only by the crackling of the fire. It didn’t last long.
“Enough is right,” Wapi said in a loud voice, though without shouting like the chief had done, “enough is what we’ve had – enough of your endless rule, enough of your bad decisions, enough of our tribe dying away while you sit back and do nothing. Enough of–”
Wapi – a name that meant ‘lucky’ – wasn’t able to finish that last. Faster than anyone could believe, the old chief had his tomahawk in hand and pulled back. In a flash the weapon was sailing through the air, feathers over beads, and implanted itself in Wapi’s forehead. The warrior’s eyes went wide before rolling back in his head, and then he slowly fell over onto his side. All eyes went to the chief.
“We move out tomorrow.”
Part II – Travelling
9 – First Morning
Colter stood staring down at his prized Kentucky Rifle, his gun. It had an octagonal-shaped barrel, 33 inches in length, and fired a .54 caliber round. The stock was made out of walnut wood, and featured a well defined comb and a narrow wrist as well as a brass patch box and brass furniture. She was 49 inches in length all told and could drop a good-sized buck at 100 yards. She was a killing machine, and Colter loved her.
They had it all when it came to guns, and his prized Kentucky was just one of a few the three men would be taking with them upriver. There was the trusty 1803 Harper’s Ferry Rifle, which the captains had procured back in St. Louis. It was a ‘halfstock,’ so it was .54 caliber as well, a metal ramrod on the side.
Next there was the Northwest Trade Gun, the typical weapon carried in abundance by the Hudson’s Bay Company personal in that area of the northwest. Besides its value out in the middle of nowhere as a trade good, it could use either ball or shot, making it an easy choice in a fast fight.
They had one other Kentucky Rifle. Colter and most everyone else he knew had always called the gun a Kentucky Long Rifle. Some still called i
t a Pennsylvania, however, because that’s where they were made, if not used. It had a full stock, unlike the Harper’s Ferry, and a 44-inch barrel, giving it a caliber of .54 as well. Still, Colter preferred the Kentucky, and had become a crack shot with it as a boy, even more so out in the wilds with the captains.
It was the weather that was the worst enemy of the rifle, however, and Colter had suffered many a misfire because of it. Typically a flintlock would fire seven out of ten times in dry weather, so you were already at a disadvantage. Add in the snow and rain that he knew they’d be hit by this winter, and hit hard, and the fire rate would go down closer to three out of ten, if even that. Keeping the flintlock dry was therefore critical, and often came down to how each particular gun was designed and subsequently maintained.
There was the flint itself, stuck into the upper jaw of the cock and held there by the flint screw. The cock screw was holding that to the lock plate, at the end of which was the powder pan and the frizzen and battery spring. The whole area only took up a few inches worth of space on the side of and top of the musket, but it was the most important piece of the puzzle, for if it were out of sorts the gun simply would not fire. Colter still remembered the look of the grizzly that’d been charging him one day in May 1805, and how his rifle had misfired. He was sure the look in the bear’s eye had changed, as if it’d somehow sensed the trouble he was in.
Thankfully he’d had one of the captains’ 1799 McCormick’s on him as well, and a few pistol shots at the beast had been enough to dissuade it of its course. It had turned back and thankfully George had come up, another rifle primed and ready to go, but it’d been close, damn close.
Colter hoped to hell too that none of the Indians they encountered would be armed with anything more than bows and arrows and hand weapons. He had a bad feeling about something, what he couldn’t exactly say, but he was certain it had something to do with the two trappers’ passage upriver. Somewhere along the way they’d fallen into trouble, and something had happened that they weren’t telling. And they wouldn’t tell it, either, not until they had to. By then it may well be too late.