by Terry Grosz
“You can pick out what is your’n, Jim, and what animals is left that we don’t want for our pack string, we will try and sell to the people in the wagon trains or to you,” Jacob said tiredly.
“If you don’t have any particular druthers, I could use some of those mules, that be for sure,” replied Jim. “And the horses go without sayin’.”
“Take your pick, Jim, and if you don’t mind, we will take some supplies and our two gold bars back in trade,” replied Jacob.
“That be a deal,” Jim replied with relief. “Ever since them gold bars been here, they have been cursed. It seems everyone has to see them, and I can’t get a lick of work out of my men for all the talkin’ they seem to do on the subject. They spend all their time trying to figure out where you might be and how many more you have. It is almost as if I were cursed by ownin’ them.”
For the next several days, Jacob and Martin rested at the fort as Bridger’s guest. They sold all the Indians’ scalps for hard cash to a passing contingent of Mormon solders. The extra mules and horses that Martin, Jacob, and Bridger didn’t need disappeared into the ranks of the settlers in the wagon trains to replenish their exhausted stocks of animals. The boys had recovered their adoptive dads’ Hawkens and pistols from the Indians, along with the rifles from the five men from the fort hell-bent on stealing their gold. In addition, they had taken all the other rifles from the dead Indians. Jacob and Martin figured they would use those flintlock rifles in trade with the Indians along the trail for whatever they needed. Before everything was said and done, the boys had all the supplies they needed and all their pack string could carry. They also had over $2,900 in cash from the scalp and livestock sales. They left the other items retrieved from the Indians’ pack string, loaded with goods stolen from the valley’s settlers, at the fort for Jim to return to anyone still left alive who could claim them. If no owners showed up, they instructed that those items be given to any settlers in the wagon trains in need of such supplies.
Jacob and Martin were now men who still had many adventures ahead of them, along with numerous turns and surprises in their trails of life as they made their way in the West. And westward they would go, as would the Curse of the Spanish Gold...
Chapter Seven
A Surprising Step Back Into the Past
For the next several years, Jacob and Martin wandered southern Wyoming and northern Colorado like falling leaves in a November storm. They seemingly had no real purpose as they trapped and hunted off the land. Selling meat, buffalo hides, and the furs from their trapping, the two managed to make a good living. But something was missing in their lives if their random wanderings accounted for anything.
As they sat on logs by their campfire one evening in 1855, watching several slabs of elk meat cooking on willow sticks, Jacob said, “Brother, what say you we go south to Fort Vasquez on the Platte River? If’n we did, we could see what that neck of the woods has to offer. We can still hunt for a living, then sell our meat and hides at the fort and probably do better than we are doing here at Fort Bridger. ’Specially since this area seems to be dying out as the wagon trains are passing it by for shorter routes to places west. Plus, it is an area we haven’t seen.’”
Fort Vasquez was near the present-day town of Platteville, Colorado. Martin sat for a few moments, gazing into their fire, and then looked up and said, “That has to be better than what we are doing now. I hear tell at Fort Bridger that Fort Vasquez is really growing, and they have a need for just about everything. I still have a hankering to go further west and see that there Pacific Ocean someday afore the worms get at me. Brother, I am game, since that is at least heading somewhat in the right direction for where I want to go and have a look-see.”
The next morning found the two men with their pack string drifting south out of the old fur trappers’ rendezvous site at Encampment in Wyoming toward what is now called North Park in north-central Colorado, near the present-day town of Walden.
“We still have some daylight,” Jacob said after many hours of travel, looking back over his shoulder at his brother. “What say you we keep moving south toward those nearest mountains and hole up for a spell?” He pointed to a line of timber at the end of the sagebrush flats they were traveling through.
“Sounds good to me. Besides, these animals need a few days of heavy feed and rest, or they will become worn out and footsore. There seems to be plenty of buffalo and elk sign in the area, so I agree. Let’s find a spot out of the wind in the timber and do some hunting and resting up before we push on south to Fort Vasquez,” Martin agreed.
Without a word in return, Jacob pointed the pack string to the south and headed for the first timber in the area, which today is near Rand, Colorado. He kept the pack string heading for the nearest edge of timber as he kept a careful lookout for any hostile Indians. Moving into the comforting quiet of the timber, Jacob headed for an open spot near a small stream that looked like a good spot to set up camp. As he approached the chosen site, he was surprised to see an abandoned small log cabin already occupying the clearing.
“Must have been from some earlier mountain man fur trappers,” he mused as he lightly swung down from his saddle.
Martin had already dismounted and was stiffly walking around with sore knees as he went looking for the best area in which to set up their camp.
“No matter how you cut it, that old cabin is in the best spot,” Martin finally said. “Whoever built this place sure made it hell for stout. Aside from some trash inside and a broken front door, it is livable, and the roof still appears sound. Why don’t we camp here for the night? It sure don’t seem its original owners will be back anytime soon,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes and an easy laugh.
“Sounds good to this tired old carcass. Let’s get to unloading before this incoming afternoon storm hits and get our gear under cover,” responded Jacob as he eyed the darkening oncoming cloud cover from a thunderstorm.
Then the two woods-wise men suddenly noticed many things out of place. Surrounding the cabin in the limbs of the trees and stuck in the ground were old lances and numerous feathered items almost reminiscent of an old Indian burial ground.
“Jacob, see what I see?” asked a now cautious Martin, aware that it was not “the way” to set up camp in an Indian burial ground, if this was in fact one.
“Sure do, but this doesn’t appear to be a burial ground. I don’t see any old burial platforms anywhere. Do you?” he responded, looking into the surrounding trees.
“No, and if I was a betting man, I would say this area has some other kind of special significance. But what it represents I have no idea,” quietly replied the still watchful and cautious Martin.
Carefully looking over the area once more with practiced eyes, the brothers decided it would be all right to camp there, but all the Indian items left behind and their unknown significance still spooked them a little.
“This is the land of the Northern Arapaho,” Jacob mused, “but I’ll be damned if I can cipher the meaning of what is scattered all around this cabin.”
Finally convincing themselves that they were not trampling on a sacred site of the Arapaho, the men set about their business but kept their rifles close at hand. Within an hour, the horses and mules had been unloaded, hobbled, and let out to feed under the men’s watchful eyes. Soon Jacob had a fire going in the old cabin’s fireplace and a pair of Dutch ovens alongside, one holding biscuits and the other filled with thick slices of sizzling bacon.
Soon the old cabin smelled better than it had for many years. Bringing the livestock in for the night, Jacob observed that Martin had repaired the old corral near the cabin, and into that went their stock for safekeeping. The front door had also been repaired with several fresh straps of leather from their packs, and it now hung as it should. Breaking out a large candle, Jacob lit its wick with an ember from the fireplace and set it on an old table in the center of the cabin. Soon the cabin was bathed in soft light from the fire and the candle, and the cooking foo
d began to smell heavenly to the hungry men. Sitting on the still intact sleeping platforms in the cabin, they shoveled great chunks of biscuits sopped in honey along with slabs of sizzling bacon into their mouths until it was all gone.
Sitting with his tired back against the wall, Martin bit off a big chunk of good Virginia chewing tobacco from a soft deerskin pouch, closed his eyes, and let the juices work their magic inside his mouth. After a time, he opened his eyes and let his gaze roam over the inner structure of the cabin, looking for any leaks as the heavy rains began quietly beating on the sod roof.
Then he saw it! Carved in the ridgepole of the cabin were the words, This here cabin is the property of Jacob and Martin.
Jacob saw his brother’s reaction and, thinking danger was near, slowly reached for his Hawken as he looked around for the problem.
Martin, never taking his eyes off the carving in the log beam, slowly rose and stepped over for a closer look. Jacob didn’t say a word but just watched his brother for the explanation he knew was sure to come.
“Jacob, remember Leo and Jeremiah telling us stories about our dads and how when they were younger they trapped in this here neck of the woods?”
“Sure do. What the hell is going on with you, Martin?” asked a still puzzled Jacob.
“Remember the story about how they killed a large white buffalo and the Arapaho Indians in the area considered it sacred? And remember they made warm cloaks from the white buffalo hide and one day were surprised by a mad bunch of Arapaho and feared death at any instant?”
“Yeah, yeah, but what does that have to do with you acting all out of sorts?” demanded Jacob, getting more frustrated by his brother’s actions by the moment.
“I think I have figured out why all the sacred Indian feathers and such are outside our cabin. For some reason, this cabin is sacred to the Arapaho, and I think this here carving holds the key,” slowly uttered Martin. He gestured for Jacob to come have a look.
Jacob, with a look of puzzlement on his face, got up from the old sleeping platform on which he had been sitting and walked over to where Martin now stood. Looking where Martin was pointing, Jacob froze in his tracks. Their adoptive parents had taught both boys how to read and write, and what he saw sent shivers clear down to his moccasins.
Running his fingers over the carved words, Jacob could hardly believe his eyes as he began to feel a connection with his dad and uncle from a time long past.
The boys’ eyes met in disbelief. Thoughts of their adoptive parents’ teachings about their fathers began to whirl around their heads just as the bald-faced hornets had done on their first hunting trip. Soon they were running their fingers over the carvings as if the words could speak and tell them about their respective dads. The feelings they now shared were of love, closeness, history, sorrow, and things that never were, all wrapped up in one. Jacob and Martin found their eyes filling with moisture as the cabin now seemed to grow even “hotter” from the cooking fire in the fireplace.
Sitting back down, they just looked at each other for the longest time.
“Do you think those words in the main beam were carved by our dads?” asked Martin.
“How many other Jacobs and Martins have you met in our travels?” asked Jacob.
The boys slept rather fitfully that evening, and the first thing they did in the morning was go back to the main beam and make sure the carving was still there.
Notwithstanding the questions they now carried in their breasts, they shot and killed a buffalo that day for fresh meat. Hauling in the shoulders, hams, and backstraps, they commenced processing the meat into jerky for the trip ahead over the Rocky Mountains to where Jim Bridger had told them Fort Vasquez was located. They weren’t sure what kind of hunting they would find on the trail.
While Jacob tended to the jerky and checked the livestock to make sure the animals’ shoes were still in good condition, Martin remained in the cabin melting lead and pouring a small mountain of bullets for their rifles and pistols.
“Martin, I need you out here right now, and bring your rifle!” called Jacob, obviously riled and concerned.
Stepping through the cabin door with his rifle at the ready, Martin was surprised to see about thirty mounted Arapaho warriors quietly sitting on their horses in front of the cabin, glaring down at the two of them. The party had arrived as silently as ghosts from times past. For the longest time no one moved, and with odds of fifteen to one, the brothers knew they were dead if the warriors proved hostile.
Then an old Indian rode forward a few feet and said, in perfect English, “I am Bison Path, chief of the Northern Arapaho. Are those the magic buffalo guns that never miss?” He pointed to Jacob’ and Martin’s Hawkens.
As Jacob tried to understand what he meant by the question, his racing mind finally understood. Leo and Jeremiah had taught the boys that their dads were such good shots with their Hawkens that they hardly every missed.
Gambling, Jacob thought he would give his idea a try. He said, “Yes, these are the guns that never miss, and this is the very one that killed the great white buffalo many moons ago.” He patted the stock of his Hawken. Boy, did that stir them up, he thought, watching the ripple of movement as the warriors nervously fidgeted on their horses.
Martin, not understanding Jacob’s drift, just held his ground, ready for whatever came his way and hoping it wouldn’t be an arrow, lance, or speeding rifle ball.
Jacob continued, “We two are the sons of the mountain men who came here many moons ago, killed the great white buffalo, and treated the Arapaho as brothers.”
Another ripple of apparent understanding went through the mounted warriors.
By now Martin had his brother’s drift and, without making any menacing moves, pointed out a rock many yards away, raised his Hawken, and fired. The flat-sounding whock of the heavy lead slug hitting the rock squarely was audible to all. Without further ado, Martin set his empty Hawken against the front of the cabin and, reaching through the open door, took out his reserve Hawken just in case. However, the point had been proven to the warriors gathered at the sacred place for the mountain men who had killed the white buffalo. The bullet had hit the rock at a distance their flintlocks could not even approach.
A murmur of excited talk moved through the Indians, and Chief Bison Path got off his horse and walked over to Jacob. Grabbing his right forearm in friendship, the old man smiled and then warmly embraced Jacob. Then it was Martin’s turn for the same treatment. Soon all the Indians were talking excitedly at once over their discovery at what they called “Big Medicine’s” cabin.
Bison Path raised his arm for silence and when he had the stage asked, “Would the two ‘spider people’ like to go on a buffalo hunt tomorrow?”
Jacob and Martin understood the Arapaho name for white men. Knowing they still needed more meat for their trip to Fort Vasquez, Jacob said, “We would be happy to help our brothers kill some buffalo.”
Those words made Bison Path happy, and he said his hunters would meet the sons of Big Medicine at their cabin the next day at daylight. He quickly mounted his horse, and after a friendly wave of his arm, the warriors rode off into the timber behind the cabin.
Jacob and Martin stood there in amazement, watching the Arapahos ride off. Instead of being killed they had been invited to go on a friendly buffalo hunt with their newfound friends. They also now understood the significance of the Indian decorations around the cabin.
“It sure was a good thing our dads killed that sacred white buffalo and were good to the Arapaho, or we would be dead and cooling critters about now,” Martin said with relief.
“We best get ready for the hunt, and Lord help us tomorrow if we miss,” Jacob replied seriously.
Chapter Eight
The Hunt and Much More
The next morning at daylight found Jacob, Martin, and about thirty Arapaho warriors heading north into the sagebrush flats and rolling hills of present-day North Park, Colorado, looking for buffalo. It didn’t take long to fi
nd several herds, but they spent a few hours scouting them all for the one with the best nearby cover from which the hunters could approach unseen. After a herd had been selected, Jacob and Martin left the Indians behind because they had only the shorter-range flintlocks. Jacob and Martin then crawled up a rise careful not to be silhouetted, and looked over the top. There below them lay about a hundred buffalo, resting or feeding, unaware of the danger nearby. Getting into shooting position, each man shot a cow and then, crawling back out of sight, hurriedly reloaded. Two more shots, and two more cows struggled on the ground, life ebbing. Because the herd could not see the danger, only small puffs of white smoke, the animals continued peacefully resting or feeding. Soon eight more cows lay on the ground, and now the smell of their blood was beginning to alarm the herd. A large cow began to nervously move away, and Jacob used his reserve Hawken to kill her before she could stampede the herd. With the confused animals now in a stand, the killing continued as six more buffalo hit the ground. As another cow began to nervously move off, Martin killed her with his reserve Hawken, and the killing continued until another eight buffalo were on the ground. By now the Hawkens were too hot to hold, so Jacob and Martin let the rest of the herd walk away. They had twenty-eight animals down and figured that was plenty for all. The two men stood up in plain view and beckoned to the Indians sitting patiently out of the herd’s sight in a nearby draw. The buffalo, now seeing the danger, rumbled off into the sagebrush with their tails typically held high as Jacob and Martin smiled at their success. They had not missed a single shot!
The rest of the day was spent butchering the animals. Soon the horses, travois, and pack mules were loaded with all the meat and hides they could carry. What remained of the kill was left to the ever-present skulking wolves, coyotes, and meat-scavenging birds.
