Beauty for Ashes

by Win Blevins

Also, during these long evenings, they told stories. Some of them were simple. How Antoine got drowned in the Milk River. How Manuel and Ezekiel rode up the Mariah and never came back. How Joe and John got surprised by Injuns but outran them and warned the camp.

  Some of these stories Sam knew. How he and Clyman and Sublette survived a bitter night on South Pass. How old Glass found the grit to survive after being left for dead. (No one told this one in front of Bridger, and mostly they didn’t name young Jim as one of the men who abandoned Glass—Sam wondered why.) How Sam, and then Fitzpatrick and Gideon with others, got put afoot and walked down the whole length of the Platte, seven hundred miles, near-starving all the way. Several men clapped Sam on the back after this one was told.

  And here, finally, Sam heard the story of John Colter and his escape from the Blackfeet told properly. Some of the American hands here had been in the mountains for fifteen years before the Ashley men came. Some of the French-Canadians had been here for several generations. Auguste, a graybeard with two Mandan wives, told the tale:

  “Colter,” Auguste began, “he was some. He come out wit’ Lewis and Clark and stay, he stay—ze only man who don’ go back to ze settlements but by God live in ze mountains. When old Manuel Lisa, ze Spanyard, he come upriver, here is Colter to show him ze ways and ze creeks and passes. With Colter’s help, Lisa get on wit’ ze Crows good. When ze Crows get into a big tussle wit’ ze Blackfeet, though, Colter, he fight on Crow side and ze Blackfeet spot him—enemy.

  “Soon not long Colter and a trapper name Potts go trapping in Blackfoot country, keeping zeir eyeballs skinned.

  “One morning zey work a creek near Jefferson Fork in canoe when, all of ze sudden, zey see Blackfeet on both banks. Not just men, women and children too, which is a good, means is no war party. An Injun, he motion for zem to come ashore. Right quick Colter head in—no other place to go. He hope maybe zey just get rob and let go.

  “Colter, he step out canoe and sign he come in peace. When Potts start get out, an Injun jerk his rifle out of his hands. Colter snatch ze rifle back an’ hand to Potts, who push ze canoe to midstream. ‘Put in,’ Colter says to Potts, ‘right now. Ain’t no place to run. Let ’em see you ain’t afeered of ’em.’

  “‘You crazy?’ says Potts. ‘You can see zey going kill us. Torture us first.’ Blackfeet, they be bad Injuns for torture.

  “An arrow hits into Potts’ thigh. He ups rifle and shoots Injun as grab his rifle. Right quick Potts is pin cushion for arrows.

  “The women, now they send up grieving cries the way zey do, the men start whoop and yell for revenge. Colter, he know what comes. Hands grab him and he no resist. They take everything he own and rip off his clothes, but he don’ fight it. Warriors come at him shaking zeir tomahawks, and he act like he don’ notice. He means to stay calm, no matter what.

  “The Blackfeet, zey sit in a council. Not so long a chief comes to Colter and ask if he is fast runner. Colter, he consider his answer—you don’ hurry talk wit’ Injuns. Looks like maybe a chance here, poor as a gopher agin a griz, but a chance. ‘No,’ says he, ‘I’m a poor runner. The ozzer Long Knives, zey think I’m fast, but I am no.’

  “The Injuns chew on this. Soon ze chief takes Colter out onto a little flat. ‘Walk out past that big boulder,’ he signs—‘zen run and try to save yourself.’

  “Colter sees ze young men is stripping down for race. So he walk. He keeps walking past ze boulder, knowing zey start when he set to running. Finally zey whoop and he take off.

  “He head for Jefferson Fork, about five, six miles off. Don’ make much sense, but nothing make sense. He no outlast ’em on land, Blackfeet be good trackers. Maybe he can get in river and wipe out his track and….

  “At least he give zem a run for it.

  “He just run. Eyes see, legs run, that’s all—run. Way that child figure, while you run, you live.

  “He no look back, not for long time. When he take ze chance, he sees Injuns spread out all over ze peraira, ’cept one. That one is mebbe one hundred yards behind, and carry spear.

  “Right here, this is when Colter begin to t’ink mebbe he have chance. He gives thought to Jefferson Fork, probably two, three miles ahead more. He pick up pace a leetle. The mountain air come in and out of his lungs big and good.

  “He feels dizzy sometimes, and sick to his meat bag sometimes, but that Colter, he keeps runnin’. After a while his back, it starts prickle, like it is expecting ze point of that spear. He no help himself, he must look back.

  “The Injun is only twenty yards behind and ze spear, it is cocked.

  “That does it. Colter turn to Injun, spread his arms, and holler out in ze Crow language, ‘Spare my life!’

  “That Injun, maybe he is took by surprise. Anyhow, when he tries stop and throw ze spear all at once, he stumble and fall on his face. The spear sticks in ground and breaks off in his hand.

  “Old Colter, he pounce. The Injun holler for mercy. Colter grab that busted spear and drive it right into his gut.

  “Then Colter, he take a big look around. No sign of Injun anywhere. Shinin’ times. Off he runs wit’ a spring in his step, head for ze river.

  “Not so long he hear whoops, which mean ze Blackfeet find zeir dead comrade. He just run harder.

  “When he finally see Jefferson Fork, he spot an island down a little wit’ a pile of driftwood at ze top. He has idea. Right quick he dive in—damn, that river so cold!—and goes wit’ ze current down to ze driftwood.

  “Now he dive down like beaver and come up in ze pile. Thick logs sticking every which way, blue sky up above, O sacre bleu! If Injuns get too close, he can duck down in ze water.

  “Those Blackfeet splash all around and whoop and holler to le bon dieu in heaven, but not one sees Colter. They disappear downstream and come back, so zey probably know his trail no come out of ze river. After a while zey quit.

  “Old Colter, he wait until far after dark. Then he ease out and swim wizout no splash down ze river, float down a long way, in case zey check for his track agin.

  “What is ahead, that is a job for a mountain man. Walk two hundred miles naked. No rifle, pistol, nor knife. Nothing but roots and bark to eat. Sun and wind burning and drying ze skin.

  “Finally he come to Fort Lisa, and ze gate guard not know him—he is so gaunted and sunburned, all scratched and bloody. After they hear his story, all men say, ‘Colter, zat hoss have hair of a bear in him.’”

  ASHLEY CAME IN late on the last day of June, and brought some surprises with him. Leading the Ashley men to rendezvous was a brigade out of Taos. Reports of trappers working from Mexico echoed through the mountains, but this was the first outfit Sam had seen. Etienne Provost was the leader.

  Sam watched them unload and set up camp. They spoke three languages, Spanish, French, and English. They were Frenchmen from Canada (not French-Canadians but white Frenchmen) and dark Spanyards; that’s what the men called them, though Mexico had gotten her independence four years ago. These trappers were different, and their outfits were different, these men from Taos. Some of them carried ponchos instead of capotes, and they lifted odd-looking saddles from the backs of the horses, the saddle horns as flat and big as saucers. Sam reflected that a fellow could sit around the fire tonight and trade stories in a handful of languages—there were Americans, an Irishman for a different accent, Frenchmen, about thirty Iroquois, French-Canadians who spoke Cree, two Crows, a couple of dozen Mexicans. Coy sat close by Sam and glared at the strangers and growled.

  Then Sam heard a voice in English that seemed familiar. Coy jumped up and trotted forward, dodging horses, and jumped up on…

  Sam sprinted forward and gave the man a bear hug so hard it was almost a tackle.

  “Hannibal McKye,” he stuttered out.

  “Sam. I knew you were close when I saw Coy.”

  “Glad to see you above ground.”

  “Hail, friend,” said Hannibal. His speech was always a little strange. What could you expect of the son of a Dartmouth
Classics professor and one of his students, a Delaware girl?

  Coy squirmed around Hannibal’s legs until the Delaware petted him.

  “Have you turned into a mountain man?”

  “No,” said Hannibal. “After I saw you at Atkinson”—Hannibal had found Sam on the trail near the fort, passed out from starvation—“I went back to St. Louis to get outfitted again.” Hannibal’s profession, or one of them, was trading with the Indians. Oddly, he did it alone, apparently not afraid of having his scalp taken or his horses or trade goods stolen. “Had a good winter, partly because of some friends of yours, Abby and Grumble.”

  Abby the madam and Grumble the con man, two of the finest people in the world. Sam couldn’t stay in the mountains all the time, if only because he had to see Abby and Grumble once in a while.

  “What is this?” Sam had never seen a horse the color of the one Hannibal’s saddle came off of. It was a stallion, slate blue, with dark stockings and tail, and a dark stripe on the back.

  “The Mexicans call it a grulla,” said Hannibal. “His name is Ellie.”

  “Ellie?” A girl’s name for a stallion? Also, it was Sam’s mother’s name.

  “Short for elephant. Hannibal was a general from Carthage. He marched against the Romans on elephants.”

  “Oh, well, Ellie is some good-looking,” said Sam.

  “And an athlete,” said Hannibal.

  Again, Hannibal seemed to have the finest in horse flesh.

  Sam grinned into the eyes of his friend. “My fire’s over by that cottonwood, just this side. When you’re ready, come and sit and tell your story.”

  A while later (time in the mountains was never measured in minutes) Hannibal staked the grulla nearby, keeping the horse in sight. He helped himself from the coffee pot on the fire and sat.

  Sam began with, “I never thanked you properly for what you did.”

  Hannibal cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “That Christmas Day,” Sam said.

  Hannibal nodded and smiled.

  Christmas Day, 1822, Sam often thought, was the most important day of his life. It seemed to be the worst and turned out the best. The day before, Christmas Eve, was just the opposite.

  On Christmas Eve, his birthday, he’d gone to his special place in the forest near his home, which he called Eden, to remember his father. Lew Morgan died in Eden that day in 1821.

  In the middle of his reminiscing, Katherine turned up. She was his neighbor and the girl he secretly fancied. As a birthday present, she’d brought him a picnic and, as it turned out, the first act of love of his life.

  The next day, Christmas, was emotional acrobatics. At Christmas dinner Katherine and Sam’s big brother, Owen, announced their betrothal. Sam wanted an explanation from Katherine, but got none. He fled—and ran into Hannibal.

  Across a fire, with the aid of some food, Hannibal helped him come to terms, partly, with what had happened. And helped him, gently, see into his own heart. What Sam wanted most in life was to go to the West, adventuring.

  Incredibly, nudged imperceptibly by Hannibal, he went that very night, straight from the campfire. He followed his heart’s compass to the Ohio River, down it to the Mississippi, up to St. Louis, and signed on to go to the Rocky Mountains as a mountain man.

  Madness. Divine madness.

  “You said something that night,” Sam said across the flames. “I didn’t really get it. Something about a wild hair. What was that?”

  Hannibal grinned. “I’ve said it several times, mostly to myself. ‘Everything worthwhile is crazy, and everyone on the planet who’s not following his wild-hair, middle-of-the-night notions should lay down his burden right now, in the middle of the row he’s hoeing, and follow the direction his wild hair points.’”

  Coy squealed and looked at Sam pathetically. The two men sat with the embarrassment of too many words about things that are hard to talk about.

  “I’m crazy, you know,” said Hannibal.

  Coy barked.

  “The pup agrees,” Hannibal said.

  Sam raised his eyes over rim of his coffee cup and said, “You were going to tell me about Taos, and how you ended up here.”

  Hannibal shrugged. “There was an outfit heading for Santa Fe to trade. I went, I traded, I made a few dollars. Up in Taos, where I went for the devil of it, I met Etienne Provost’s partner LeClerc. He was bringing supplies up to Provost in the Ute country, and I thought I’d like to see it. When I met Provost, I liked him and wanted to get to know the Utes, so I stayed…”

  They both laughed. The narrative of bouncing around in one direction after the other…

  “Hell,” Hannibal, “I never know what I’m going to do next.”

  “I guess you live without planning.”

  “I guess.”

  They were both laughing too much. Coy made simpering noises.

  When they looked up, Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog were standing next to them, waiting.

  Sam introduced the two Crows to Hannibal, who offered them coffee.

  After the Indians sat carefully—Sam noticed how mannerly they always were—Blue Horse said, “Everyone wants to know about that horse.”

  That brought on a discussion about Hannibal’s grulla that only horsemen could appreciate. Though he was interested, Sam felt half left out. He did, however, learn how good Flat Dog’s English was getting.

  “Your horse looks excellent, too,” said Hannibal. The three had stepped over to inspect Paladin. This brought Sam’s mind back to the discussion.

  “She’s a good horse,” said Sam.

  “And she saved your ass,” said Blue Horse. He and Flat Dog had learned that “ass” was a slightly vulgar word, and got a kick out of using it in English, which they would not have done in Crow.

  Sam told Hannibal the story of how Paladin saved him from the buffalo bull. He finished with, “She is a good horse, but how can you tell?”

  “Horses are athletes, or not, just like people. This animal doesn’t look strong, but she has fine grace and balance.”

  Sam twisted his mouth in a pretense that he understood.

  “In a race, for instance,” Hannibal went on, “a clumsy horse will lose distance. A well-balanced horse covers the ground more efficiently, and therefore faster.”

  Sam could see that “efficiently” and “therefore” were too much for Blue Horse and Flat Dog, so he explained.

  “So how about a race?” asked Blue Horse.

  Coy barked in apparent approval, and they laughed.

  “Several men want to run against you,” said Flat Dog, a good English sentence for him.

  “Including us,” said Blue Horse.

  Flat Dog began, “And some want to…”

  “Bet.” Blue Horse supplied the word.

  “You got a race,” said Hannibal.

  BEFORE THE RACES the next day, most men got their business done with General Ashley. The general, typically, wanted to get his trading done in one day and start back to civilization.

  This very first rendezvous made Ashley a believer. Summer was the best time to get a trade caravan to the mountains and back. The men had to have supplies. For survival, they needed fire steels, powder, lead, and flints; for their sanity, tobacco, coffee and sugar, plus an occasional trap, rifle, pistol, knife, tomahawk, or coat, and all the items they traded to the Indians. If Ashley brought these goods to the mountains, the men wouldn’t have to spend months going all the way to St. Louis, or at least to Taos, to outfit themselves.

  Ashley saw that and more. He realized that bringing trade goods to an annual rendezvous would be less risky and more profitable than running fur brigades. So he sat down with Jedediah Smith, the young captain who had impressed everybody in the mountains, and offered Smith a partnership—Ashley to supply from the city, Smith to lead in the mountains.

  Diah said yes. He didn’t tell his partner that his ambition ran far beyond profit. He said nothing of his desire to see what was over the next hill, every hill in the
West. Nothing of his yearning to be the first man to cross the continent to California. Nothing of his desire to use his compass and his eye to make pencilled maps, rendering the entire West for cartographers. He just agreed to a business proposition.

  For Ashley this day’s agenda was trading. He kept a careful record of what he traded to everyone. He gave the free trappers three dollars a pound for their beaver pelts, these plews weighing on average two pounds. He sold them tobacco at $1.25 per pound, coffee and sugar at $1.50, cloth at six to eight dollars a yard, two yards of ribbon (something to make an Indian woman smile) for a dollar; he exchanged a dozen fish hooks for two dollars, a dozen flints for a dollar; he sold butcher knives at $2.50 each, wool strouding at five dollars a yard, earrings, bells. The old types of muskets, fusils, went for $20 each—these were for trading to the Indians, since mountain men demanded the newer, more accurate guns, with rifling in the barrels.

  One outfit, Gardner Johnson’s, actually bought razors, scissors, and combs. The other mountain men chuckled at the idea that Johnson intended to have his men groom themselves.

  The general settled up with his hired trappers at reduced rates for their beaver, because they were being paid wages as well.

  Sam waited his turn. This was the moment, the occasion for which he’d stood in cold creeks until his knees and scraped hides until he smelled worse than a dead rodent. But like every other man, he needed DuPont and Galena. He needed trade items for the Indians. And much of what else was in Ashley’s packs. He bought more than his pelts would pay for, and ended up in debt to the company.

  Some of the men grumbled at the prices, which were five and ten times what Ashley had paid for the goods at St. Louis. The brigade leaders, though, defended Ashley. The cost of transporting goods to the mountains was huge in time, effort, and dollars, and was sometimes paid in blood as well.

  Ashley kept one fact to himself. In the first three years his fur trade operation had lost money. Now he was heading to St. Louis with plews worth nearly fifty thousand dollars. He was becoming a rich man, and back in Missouri and important man.

  The fur men of the Rocky Mountains were miffed about one big gap in all this trading. Ashley had no alcohol. Nothing to drink now, when they were in the mood for a party, to celebrate surviving the year; and nothing all year long, when they were working hard; and most important from a practical viewpoint, no liquor to trade the Indians. Booze made the trading much better.