To the River's End

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  They had been in the saddle for over six days since leaving the rendezvous, having stopped twice to hunt and once to smoke-cure some antelope when they struck the Madison River. Up to this point, they had seen no sign of recent Indian activity, but it was natural to become more alert for the possibility. For they were now in territory that the Crow claimed as their own but was often raided by Blackfoot war parties. They were of like mind regarding their plans for the new year’s trapping season. The best territory to find the beaver population plentiful was Montana Territory and north into Canada. While he worked for the American Fur Company, he and his team of trappers could not trap in this territory without starting a war with Hudson’s Bay Company. As free trappers, he and Jug were of the opinion they could trap anywhere they wanted, including the moon, if they could find the trail to lead them there. The purpose of the journey they were now on was to search out the best possible places to concentrate their trapping when summer was over, and the fall season began.

  As they got closer to Three Forks, they both agreed that the winding course the river took before its confluence with the Gallatin and the Jefferson created an ideal location for the possibility of many beaver lodges. The only problem was that it was well known as one of the best areas for beaver to other trappers, Indian and white. “This river will be overrun by Crow beaver hunters when the fur thickens up, catchin’ ’em anyway they can. Clubs, arrows, snares, some of ’em will even be usin’ traps that Hudson’s Bay give ’em,” Jug bemoaned. “What we need to find is a little valley up north of the Yellowstone River that ain’t that easy to get into.”

  “We can go above Three Forks, where the Missouri starts out to the north,” Luke suggested. “There’s another river breakin’ off from the Missouri that heads toward the Big Belt Mountains. Those mountains might have what we’re lookin’ for. If they don’t, maybe the Little Belts, farther to the east might.” After talking it over, they decided that the mountain range called the Little Belt might hold more potential for them. Jug had been there before, although never in the winter, but he said they looked to be the perfect mountains for the two of them to trap beaver without being discovered. He said the Judith River’s origin was in the Little Belts, offering more potential for beaver. So they headed a little more to the east to the Little Belt Mountains.

  Chapter 4

  “I think there were only two,” Iron Pony said as he shifted through the ashes of a fire, “and they have not been gone long.” He and his two companions scouted the small clearing next to the stream where someone had obviously skinned and butchered a deer. They were satisfied that the single rifle shot they had heard that morning had come from the two hunters who had brought their kill here to butcher.

  “Maybe Crow,” Hears the Wind said. “The hoofprints we’ve found are not wearing the iron shoes that the white man likes to put on his horses.”

  “Maybe white man, riding Indian ponies,” Two Bears suggested. “They took the meat and the hide and left the rest of the deer.”

  “What Two Bears says is true,” Iron Pony said. “I, too, think this is the kill of white hunters in our territory. Since there are only two of them, I think we should find them. They will have guns and there are tracks of five, maybe six, horses.” Part of a larger party of hunters who had spent a week in the northern half of this belt of mountains, these three had decided to scout the southern half of the mountains to see if the game was as plentiful there as it had been in the upper part. Standing Elk, Iron Pony’s brother, and the leader of the hunting party, had advised them not to take too long on their scout. They already had almost as much meat as they could carry, and the skies indicated a possible heavy snow on the way.

  “I agree with Iron Pony,” Two Bears declared. “It would be a good thing if we returned to the village with the scalps of two hunters—white man or Crow, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I agree, too,” Hears the Wind said. “And they have guns and a fresh-killed deer.” That was enough to inspire their enthusiasm, for none of the three possessed a firearm.

  The three Blackfoot warriors scouted the campsite carefully before deciding which way the hunters had gone when they left the clearing. The obvious tracks led into the stream, and apparently, they had led their extra horses in a straight line behind them, for there were no tracks outside the stream. So the Blackfoot warriors rode on either side of the stream, their eyes focused to pick up any sign of a hoofprint, as they followed it down the hill. When they reached the bottom, Two Bears called out, “Here! This is where they came out!” His companions came at once to see. “They tried to come out on these flat rocks, so no one would see, but one of their horses stepped on the soft sand before the rock.”

  They immediately hurried across the rock ledge to find the trail on the other side, but there was no trail to follow. The ledge was approximately twenty yards square, and they searched around the entire edge of it, but there was no sign the hunters had left it in any direction. “I think the white men have horses that fly like birds,” Hears the Wind remarked, half in jest.

  “They must have gone back into the stream,” Iron Pony said.

  “It would be very hard for them to do that without leaving tracks,” Two Bears insisted, as he stood looking at the edge of the ledge. “The horses had to step up to get out of the water, but it would be much harder for them to step back down into the stream without dropping their hooves to keep from sliding.”

  Iron Horse could see that Two Bears was probably right, especially when there were five or six horses attempting it without leaving a track. He turned and looked across the narrow valley, trying to determine a probable direction they might had ridden when they left the rock ledge. “Maybe they rode toward that ravine across the valley,” he said, pointing to a narrow cut up a hill on the far side.

  “Or the white devils flew over to it,” Two Bears added. But with no better suggestion, he followed along when Iron Pony and Hears the Wind rode off the ledge and headed for the mouth of the ravine. Again, they found no tracks, leaving them to puzzle over the unlikely occurrence.

  * * *

  Back on the far side of the hill the Blackfoot warriors had just left, Jug stopped the horses in the middle of the stream and waited. In a little while, he heard a horse splashing in the water behind him. “I hope to hell that’s Luke,” he mumbled to himself. But just in case, he pulled his rifle out of his saddle sling and turned in the saddle to watch the stream below him. A moment later, he relaxed when he saw the familiar figure of his partner. “Took you a while,” he commented when Luke caught up.

  “I had to ride all the way down to the bottom before I could find a good spot to leave anybody a track who might be tryin’ to follow us,” Luke replied. He went on then to tell Jug how he had to get his horse to jump off the flat rock ledge into the middle of the stream. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?” he joked.

  “Hell, no,” Jug replied. “I just didn’t wanna have to turn around and go back to get you outta trouble. Let’s get on back to camp and start smokin’ this meat. I can feel it in my bones, this winter comin’ on is gonna be a cold one. We need to get our camp ready ’cause it ain’t gonna be long now before this whole mountain range is gonna be froze solid.”

  Luke had the same feeling about the mountain range they had decided on for their winter camp. It was a short range of probably forty or fifty miles long, running north and south, just above the Judith Basin. But after exploring the mountains, they found that there were many secret valleys to choose from that would be well hidden. When the ponds and streams froze over, and trapping was not possible, there were good spots to hole-up until spring. They had discovered the presence of many beavers in the mountain valleys plus in the fertile creeks along the Judith River. It seemed the perfect base for a pair of fur trappers with plenty of game for food, and fir and pines for cover.

  The only thing wrong that had come to trouble them was the sudden appearance of a small party of Indian hunters they discovered sign of
in the past few days. It was their misfortune that the Indians had decided to hunt in the same part of the mountains they were set to trap in. When they first discovered they were not alone in their chosen hunting grounds, Luke and Jug had talked about the problem. Since they had selected the little belt of mountains as perfect for their needs, didn’t it stand to reason some Indians might think the same? “What sign we have seen ain’t been nowhere near our camp,” Jug pointed out when they were discussing the prospect of relocating. Like Luke, he was reluctant to move since they had put so much work into their winter home already. With short spades and hand axes, they had dug a cave into the face of a blind canyon, out of the wind, where a small stream came down from the mountain above. They had shored-up the sides and roof of the cave with logs to form a space wide enough for the two of them to place their bedrolls and deep enough to store their pelts. There was plenty of grass and wood for a fire. It was ready for winter, and they both felt it was time to start setting their traps. They had no time to relocate their winter camp. Both of them were of the opinion that the sign they had seen indicated only two or three Indians, Blackfoot or Crow, they could only guess. They decided to deal with them when the time came, if in fact it did. But for now, it was time to set their traps. The weather was cold, there had already been a light snow night before last. The horses were already beginning to look shaggy with the growth of winter hair. And the beaver were waiting. So they took care of the deer Luke had killed, smoking most of it to store for later, and tomorrow, they would set their traps.

  * * *

  They started their first day’s trapping at a spot a long way from the Indian sign they had come across before. At a point where the Judith River began, created by the busy streams that fed into the river from the tall mountains above, there was a busy colony of beavers, making their preparations for winter. The streams formed a sizable pond with two lodges, one at each end. Both men carried six traps and they set all twelve in that one network of streams. They worked quickly as they moved from one location to the next, each man with rifle and pistol close by with their possibles bag with powder horn, flints, and rifle balls. In a short time, all traps were set and baited with castoreum, so they returned to their camp to dry off by the fire and cook some of the deer meat they hadn’t smoke-cured. “Now, all we got to do is wait till mornin’ to see if we know beaver as well as we think,” Jug commented.

  “I predict a big harvest,” Luke japed. “When they get a good look at us, they’ll know they ain’t got a chance. When we get back in the mornin’, we might find the whole colony lined up waitin’ to surrender.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jug replied, and reached for his jug. He took a long pull, smacked his lips, then offered it to Luke.

  “Thanks just the same,” Luke responded, “but I don’t wanna cause you to run short on your whiskey. That jug’s gonna run out soon enough without me helpin’ you.” When Jug started to insist, Luke said, “If we pull a beaver outta every one of those traps tomorrow, I’ll take a drink to celebrate that.”

  “Dad gum it, partner,” Jug commented, halfway serious. “I ain’t sure what to think about a man that don’t take to likker. I’m a-feared you might just start howlin’ at the moon one night and go plum loco.”

  “You might be right,” Luke joked. “Ever once in a while, especially if it’s a full one, I look at the moon and start in to itchin’ all over.”

  “I wish you’da told me all this back yonder when we was still at the rendezvous,” Jug said. Turning serious then, he recalled, “I never thought about it before, but you ain’t ever took a drink outta my jug since we’ve been on this trip—at least not when I was lookin.”

  Luke laughed. “I enjoy a drink of likker once in a while, but I reckon I just never got in the habit of drinkin’ it all the time. Matter of fact, I came pretty near gettin’ really drunk one time in a saloon with some other fellows and I didn’t like the way I felt. It was like I didn’t have control over my body, or my brain either, and I didn’t like it. I reckon it scared me so bad I was afraid to ever have more than one or two ever since.”

  Jug stared at him in wonder before declaring, “That’s the saddest story I think I’ve ever heard.” He shook his head slowly as he thought about it, then said, “I reckon it ain’t a bad idea for one of us to be sober all the time, though.”

  Luke revived the fire, and they cooked some of the deer meat they had left on one side of the fire while they dried their moccasins out on the other side. When the meat had cooked enough to turn color on one side, they turned it over and colored the other side. Then they ate it while waiting for their moccasins to dry, which didn’t take an unusually long time. Their moccasins, made out of animal hides, were waterproof. In Luke’s case, soles made of stiff, double rawhide buffalo, were sewn to soft, long uppers that had been waterproofed with grease and a mixture of bee’s wax. He carried a second pair of moccasins, just as Jug did, but he very seldom wore them unless he had done a thorough job of soaking his favorites. The wetness the two men suffered was confined mostly to their trousers and occurred whenever encountering a hole or step-off when they were wading in the shallow water to set their traps. Since his Creator had outfitted him with short legs, Jug was troubled more than his long-legged partner.

  With his belly full of venison, Jug announced that he was going to take a little nap before working on some finishing touches for their winter camp. Luke decided he was going to saddle Smoke and scout the mountain that adjoined the one standing over their camp. He was still somewhat concerned that the Indians they had found sign of might have come across the spot where he and Jug had butchered his deer. All the trouble he had gone to, in order to mislead them, may not have fooled them at all. And he wanted to reassure himself that they had not somehow found the bend in the Judith where he and Jug had set all their traps.

  “Don’t you want me to go with you?” Jug asked, not really enthusiastic about the prospect. He had just made himself comfortable with his feet to the fire.

  “No,” Luke japed. “I’d feel better knowin’ you were here guardin’ our camp.”

  “You’re so full of it,” Jug japed back at him. “You go ridin’ off . . . How will I know if you’re in trouble?”

  “I won’t come back,” Luke laughed. “That’s how you’ll know.”

  “Damn it, be careful,” Jug said. “I ain’t got time to hunt all over these mountains to find your bones.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Luke replied, laughing as he picked up his saddle and went to fetch his horse. He was beginning to believe Jug partnered-up with him just because he was lonesome, after his years of working as a free trapper.

  * * *

  With a feeling of complete freedom, Luke guided the big bay gelding through a forest of Douglas fir, as he sidled around the mountain where he had killed the mule deer. He wondered if he would one day grow tired of his life in the mountains, and long for the companionship found in the towns and saloons. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine that day occurring. He felt the chill wind upon his face as it whispered through the fir trees, and he knew that it was a promise that winter was on its way. If they could go by the feeling in Jug’s bones, it was going to be a cold one. He pushed Smoke along until they reached the stream where he and Jug had butchered his kill. He turned the bay down the mountain to return to the exact spot. When he reached it, it was obvious that what he had suspected was accurate. The Indians had found it. Their tracks were all around it, testifying to their search of the area. Out of curiosity, he couldn’t resist riding on down the stream to the rock ledge and he smiled when he saw the evidence that told him the Indians had ridden all around the ledge before riding off across the narrow valley. “You see that, Smoke,” he said to the gelding, “you fooled ’em.” He brought his mind back to the purpose of his scout then and nudged the horse into a fast walk, following the trail left by the Indians.

  It led straight to a narrow ravine on the opposite side of the valley. He followed it to the mouth of the r
avine, then hesitated before continuing. How long did they ride before they realized they were following a trail that didn’t exist? He nudged Smoke again, and the big horse took him to the top of the ravine. This is where they finally gave up, he thought. What he was interested in seeing now was which way they rode from that point. What he saw was what he had hoped he would see. After obviously lingering there at the top of the ravine while they decided, they then headed down the hill, angling back toward the north. Good, he thought, for they were heading in the opposite direction from his and Jug’s camp. He rode down the ravine to the valley floor and just as he reached it, he reined Smoke to a sudden stop. Dead still on the other side of the narrow valley, an elk cow stood watching him. His natural reflex was to slowly draw his rifle from the saddle sling and pull the weapon up against his shoulder, but that was as far as he got before hesitating. Literally a sacrifice, she remained there, looking at him, fresh meat, no more than a thirty-five-yard shot. Moving just as slowly as when he raised the rifle to shoot, he pulled it down and slipped it back in the saddle sling. He realized that he could not risk a shot that might be heard by the Indians he was scouting. Evidently losing interest in the strange-looking animal confronting her, the elk suddenly turned and bolted toward the mouth of the valley and the herd gathered by the creek beyond. “And good day to you, ma’am,” he muttered to himself, at that moment deciding he had been wrong to quit practicing with a bow. A Shoshone hunter named Rain Dancer at the rendezvous two years ago had let him try his. And when Luke showed a considerable talent in the use of one, Rain Dancer told him how to make his own bow. But Luke had decided he was better off with his Pennsylvania rifle. “Except right now,” he mumbled to Smoke and started back to camp to give Jug his report. He didn’t tell him about the elk cow.