by Terry Grosz
Dave didn’t dally a bit. Ripping open the package, he took out a huge wad of the fresh chewing tobacco and stuffed it into his mouth until he looked like a big chipmunk with a cheekful of seeds heading for his burrow.
“Thumph, boff,” said Dave.
“He is saying, ‘Thanks, boss,”’ said Jerry, also stuffing his mouth with the fresh chewing tobacco as he headed back to his guard post. Once his mouth was full, he turned and gave Jacob a thumbs-up sign of thanks.
Kim and Martin walked into the light of the cooking fire. Kim was wearing a bright red apron with ruffles like Rose Eaton had been wearing earlier in the day.
Smiling from ear to ear, Kim said, “Thank you, Jacob. That was very sweet of you for getting me this. It is very beautiful, and my favorite color too.”
“You need to thank Martin,” he replied. “It was him that suggested I bring you back a play pretty.” He lied, but it was just as well because Kim once again looked dotingly at Martin as they walked away from the circle of wagons and down towards the river.
Finishing his supper, Jacob put the dishes into the pan of wash water; then, taking his last package, he walked over to Rich Grosz’s wagon. The inside of the wagon was dimly lit by a candle. As he drew closer, Jacob could hear Rich reading to his wife and kids from the Bible.
“Anybody home?” Jacob asked in a subdued voice.
“Sure are,” responded Rich. “Come on over.”
Walking around to the back of the wagon, Jacob said, “Good evening, all.”
“How was town?” asked Rich.
“Crowded, noisy, smelly, people and barking dogs everywhere, and wonderful all at the same time,” Jacob replied as he looked over at Amanda with a smile.
She returned his smile in such a manner that Jacob almost forgot why he was there.
“Rich, I found a small thing in the store I was in for Miss Amanda. I wondered if it would be all right with you and your wife if I gave it to her?” asked Jacob.
The look Rich gave back would have leveled a grizzly in a charge if his wife, Carrie, hadn’t broken the spell with “Well, why, yes. It was so nice of you, Jacob, to remember her when you were in town.”
Still not daring to look directly at Rich, Jacob handed Amanda the last package. She shyly opened it to find a beautiful dark blue heavy wool shawl for the upcoming fall and winter in the nearby Sierra Nevada Mountains.
“Why, Jacob, it is beautiful!” she said as she tried it on.
The shawl hung over her shoulders beautifully, and Katelyn, her younger sister, and Carrie had to finger its fine quality.
“Well, I have to make my rounds and meet with Martin, Jerry, and Dave to see how things went while I was gone. Excuse me, folks.” Jacob strode off into the cool night, glad to be away from Rich’s intense, disarming stare.
Daylight the next morning found the wagons rocking along the banks of the Truckee River as they headed for town and what laid beyond. Because of the close confines of the riverbanks and the nearby rocky hills, the travelers had lunch without circling the wagons as the livestock grazed and happy laughter rang throughout the Truckee River campsite.
Pushing the wagons hard, the company arrived in town at dusk. Jacob headed over to Rose and Ernie’s Emporium and requested guidance on how they wanted the wagons placed in their back pasture. Soon the wagons were circled in the large pasture, and the livestock had been turned out to graze quietly. Campfires were built with the cottonwood limbs picked up along the river trail en route to the settlement, and soon numerous good cooking smells prevailed. After supper was over and the chores were done, everyone turned to getting out their best duds for the morrow’s trip into civilization. Some folks even quietly washed up in their wagons in preparation for the big event. However, Jacob and Martin had much on their minds as they sat by a campfire wondering between themselves about the rugged trip over the Sierras that lay ahead. Neither looked forward to that part of the trip as they remembered Jim Bridger’s words of caution about the early winter snows and rugged trails they were soon to travel.
They didn’t realize that Jim Bridger’s reputation had preceded them and that there would be good news for the wagon train when it came to crossing the Sierras...
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jim Beckwourth and a Welcome Change of Plans
Early the next morning, the wagon train’s travelers streamed out of their protective circle and went their separate ways as they explored the settlement and what it had to offer. However, Jacob and Martin went directly across the street and into Larry Davis’s gun shop. Entering, they smelled the familiar odors of gun oil, cleaning solvents, wood smoke from a badly leaking stove at the rear of the store, and the strong smell of cigar smoke coming from a tall, rugged-looking individual working behind the counter. The man, who appeared to be a gunsmith based on the work he was performing on the lock of a rifle, was being watched intently by a dark-skinned, medium sized grizzled man who appeared to be the rifle’s owner. The rifle was a well-used and somewhat abused Hawken, similar to the ones Jacob and Martin carried.
“Damn, Jim, I think you have done it this time. You just have to shoot straighter in the future at the griz instead of trying to club him to death with what used to be a fine rifle. The lock is really messed up this time, and I don’t have the parts to fix it. In fact, I don’t even have the right kind or temper of iron to build you another hammer and flat spring,” stated the gunsmith as he shook his head over the poor condition of the well-used rifle.
“Wagh!” replied the man with the broken rifle. “That there smoke pole is the only thing that will kill that damn griz with one shot if’n he is hit right!”
The two boys took a closer look at the man with the broken rifle. He was a dark man, but not as dark as Cain. Maybe he was a cross-breed, Jacob thought. He had long, unkempt hair that flowed past his shoulders and wore buckskins that were somewhat the worse for wear. He was shod with beaded moccasins with beautiful Crow Indian beadwork and carried a long gutting knife in his much-decorated belt, along with a large-bored, single-shot pistol. Jacob and Martin thought he had the look of a well-used mountain man.
“Be with you two boys in a moment once I get rid of this here ring-tailed twister,” Davis said with a grin of admiration for the man standing before him.
“No hurry,” said Jacob. “We will have a lot of questions for you once you’re finished with your customer because it looks like we’ll need a lesson or two on some of these here newfangled firearms in your display cases anyhows.”
“I won’t keep you from good business, Larry. Just hand me ‘Old Meat in the Pot,’ and I will be on my way,” replied the mountain man.
“How the hell you goin’ to defend yourself or kill some eats if your rifle doesn’t work for a damn, you old poop?” the gunsmith shot back.
“Don’t rightly figure. Maybe sell off some land or some livestock, but sure hate to part with my Hawken. It has seen a lot of trails and saved my hide many times,” the other man replied, running his fingers lovingly along the scarred barrel and stock.
“Maybe we can help,” said Jacob right out of the blue, surprising even his brother.
The two men looked over at Jacob and Martin.
“We both shoot Hawkens, and if I am not mistaken, we have a keg of Hawken parts back at our wagon just in case we broke our rifles. Got them from Fort Bridger afore we came west,” Jacob explained.
“Fort Bridger!” yelled the mountain man. “You boys seen or knowed Jim?”
“Yes,” said Martin. “He is an old family friend and our friend as well.”
“Well, I be damned and turned inside out like a beaver hide. How is the old crapper? Is he still aboveground and well? When did you seed him last?” The questions flew from the mountain man as fast as a rainbow trout striking a grasshopper flopping on the surface of a cottonwood-fluff-covered beaver pond.
“Whoa there, old-timer,” said Jacob. “Them’s more questions than we have had to answer in a passel of days.”
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br /> “Jim Beckwourth here,” said the mountain man as he held out his worn hand for the boys to shake. “Any friend of Jim’s is a friend of mine. Who might the two of you be?” he asked, looking both boys in the eyes intently as if trying to remember their identities from his long-ago travels on the beaver trail or at one of the Rendezvous.
“We be Jacob and Martin from the Wind Rivers,” said Jacob.
“Holy cow!” said Jim as he slowly sat down on a keg of broken gun parts. “Be your namesakes from your dads? Jacob, a white man from Kaintuck, and his partner, Martin, a Delaware Indian from the same ground, and both as mean and as big as a he-griz in rut?”
Both boys felt a shiver go down their spines, as if someone had just dumped a cup of snowmelt water down the backs of their buckskins.
“That be us,” Martin answered slowly while Jacob just looked at the man in disbelief.
“Hell, I met the two of them first time in ’33 at the Horse Creek Rendezvous. And it goes without sayin’ we tipped many a tin cup of old top-knot remover celebrating our friendship. Even helped the two of them out of a scrape or two with the Indians. In fact, the two of them went to the Wind Rivers to trap with my good friends Tom and Albert Potts. Them Potts brothers was killed by Blackfeet, but your dads cleaned out the whole damn nest of killers in revenge, if’n I have my facts right. Then we met once again in ’34 at Ham’s Fork on the Green for a rip-snortin’ good time at that rendezvous. They had two of the prettiest damn Snake Indian wives at that rendezvous, if’n I remember the facts right. Must have been your mas. Saw them two boys again in ’35 at Horse Creek on the Green, and they had you two along, but just as little guys. Then your dads teamed up with Leo and Jeremiah, two boys they had bought out of a life of slavery from the Utes years before. By then them two boys were full-fledged mountain men and free trappers. The whole kit and kaboodle went back into the Wind Rivers, and your dads and moms was kilt in the spring of ’36 by the damn Blackfoot or Gros Ventre, if’n my memory don’t fail me. It also seems them two boys, Leo and Jeremiah, tracked down and avenged your folks by killin’ the whole nest of hostiles who had murdered your folks.”
Neither boy dared to move or breathe for fear of breaking the spell of history flowing from Beckwourth’s lips. He was covering history that dovetailed with what Leo and Jeremiah had told them as youngsters. It was as if a small window had been opened and the boys were wonderfully allowed to look back into their past.
Jim, noticing the shock registering on the boys’ faces for the first time, stopped and said, “You boys all right?”
“We’re fine, Jim. Just a little startled at meeting someone who knew our families before they were killed and who could give us a fresh look into our pasts like you have just done,” Martin replied quietly, as if not wanting to break the spell.
“I am sorry if’n I have opened up the hurt on you two boys over what I just said. Many folks who know me say I have a big trap, and most of that which comes out one can’t hang their hats on. But as God is my witness, what I spoke of here today is to the best of my memory,” Jim said with a serious look. “Say, how be them two adopted boys of your folks, Leo and Jeremiah? Now, them was two ring-tailed twisters. Some of the best shots and trackers I ever did seed. They was as gentle as baby rabbits and just as mean as full-growed griz if’n you cornered them or hurt their kin. Now, them two were real men of the mountains. How they be and where do they be?” asked Jim as he finally ran out of questions.
“They both be dead, and their wives as well,” said Jacob slowly. “They was killed by a raiding party of Lakota out by Fort Bridger way, but not before they killed a passel of them Indians. Then Martin and I cold-tracked those still living after we got back from our first buffalo hunt and killed all of those Indians from that raiding party still left alive.”
“Well, I be damned! I am sorry to hear that. This country sure can be rough on a body even if he is on the lookout for the trouble that comes with the wonder of it. But from the sounds of it, you two boys sure be of their stock,” Beckwourth said as he carefully looked Jacob and Martin over closely.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Jacob said, “Jim, what you said here today opens up more memories for us and gives us additional details on the lives of our folks afore the Indians killed them. So don’t be ashamed for what you said.”
“Damn, boys, them was some good folks and always treated me as an equal even though I come from half-slave and half-Indian stock myself. If’n there is anything I can do for the two of you, you just let old Jim know,” the older man said with a big grin.
“Well, for now, I think there is something we can do for you. I am sure we have the kind of parts fer that Hawken you need and would be glad to part with them for old times’ sake,” Martin said with an answering grin. “Especially for a friend of our parents.”
“That would be one hell of a help. Man can’t get around in this country without his smoke pole because of all them varmints, man and critter alike. I sure would be obliged fer the help,” Beckwourth responded.
“Mr. Davis, will you be open later on in the morning or tomorrow?” asked Jacob.
“Sure am planning on it,” the gunsmith replied, “unless the good Lord takes a likin’ to me in the dark of the night and comes alookin’ fer me.”
“Good,” said Jacob, “because me and my brother will probably have some business with you in the area of some of those newfangled pistols that shoot more than once before having to reload them. There also appears to be several of them new Sharps rifles in the corner we might be interested in as well.”
“That be fine with me, but just be aware you have mentioned several of the most expensive firearms in my whole shop,” Davis replied with a serious business look on his face.
“If they do the job, that is fine with us regardless of the price,” Martin answered.
The two boys and Jim left the gun shop and headed back to the wagon train. Jacob and Martin were surprised at what awaited them there. As they rounded the corner of their wagons, Jim stopped dead in his tracks, then sprinted over to their campfire and picked up Jerry Hall from behind. With that, he flung him down to the ground in a heap of dust and dried horse manure left behind by previous campers.
“Jerry!” yelled Beckwourth, “you old scudder and leaky bottom of a whiskey barrel, how the hell you be?”
Jerry scrambled to his feet, preparing to do battle before he quickly recognized the face of his old friend. Soon both were talking and laughing as fast as they could. The noise level only heightened when Dave rounded the wagon with an armload of wood for cooking. When he saw his old friend with his brother, the sticks flew into the air, and soon all three men were talking and slapping each other on the backs like the long-lost mountain-man friends they were.
Jacob and Martin looked on in amusement. After things had calmed down a bit, Martin went to one of their wagons and brought out a small keg of the hell-for-stout uncut Kentucky whiskey they had purchased from Jim Bridger. It didn’t take long for all who imbibed to get a little loose in the wheels, so to speak. However, cooler heads prevailed, and soon Jacob was digging around in their barrel of spare rifle parts. Spotting what he needed, he retrieved a complete lock-and-hammer system for a Hawken, with a spare set thrown in for good luck in case Jim had to whang another griz on the head with the business end of his rifle.
“Chris,” yelled Martin, “how about a hand over here?”
The man-mountain blacksmith and gunsmith ambled over and, after hearing about Jim’s problem, took his rifle and examined it. Soon he had the new lock installed and working properly. Then Chris was into the whiskey cups with the rest of the men, and a grand time was had by all.
“Jim, why don’t you stay the night with us and partake of some great home cookin’?” asked Jacob.
“Don’t mind if’n I do. That is, if’n it won’t be a burden on you good folks,” replied Jim.
“Not in the least way. That is the least we can do for a man who is a friend
of the family,” replied Martin, smiling.
“Then by gum, you will have an eager eater as your guest this evening,” said a happy Jim Beckwourth, still a little deep in his whiskey cups.
At dinner, Jacob introduced Jim to Daniel and Martin Jones. Soon the whole clan was quietly listening to the story Jim had to tell about his time with Jacob and Martin before they were killed in ’36. There were tears in a lot of eyes after Jim finished. But there were also proud looks in Daniel’s and Martin Jones’s eyes as Jim spun more and more tales about their two dead sons. It was like a whole new, wonderful world had been opened for the two old men.
After supper and storytelling time, things began to quiet down in the wagon train. Then Beckwourth asked of the little group still sitting around the campfire, “Where you boys headin’?”
“Well, we don’t rightly know at this point. Just somewhere in California where we can farm and ranch in peace without looking over our shoulders all the time for hostiles,” responded Jacob. The cigar smoke rolled lazily over the heads of the men as the question and answer hung in the cool night air for a moment.
“I know a place where there is room for everyone in this train and where cattle are growing fat as I speak. The place I speak of is one in which folks can grow corn, beets, spuds, onions, grain, apples, and the like. There is plenty of water, the four seasons are not too harsh, and there are only the friendly and poor local Indians running around. They might steal a cow, pig or chicken once in a while but nary a thing more,” Beckwourth said.
“Where might this piece of milk-and-honey land lie?” asked Jacob with more than passing interest.
“Over the lowest pass in the Sierras. One I discovered myself, and a few days’ easy ride west from here,” Beckwourth replied, aware of the change in tenor and tone of Jacob’s voice.
“Are you saying we can avoid the rugged passes in the Sierras, go over a lower one, and a few days later be in such a place in California?” inquired Jacob. He wasn’t the only one interested in the answer if the intent looks on the others’ faces said anything.
