The Adventurous Life of Tom Iron Hand Warren: Mountain Man (The Mountain Men Book 5)

by Terry Grosz

  Then Iron Hand’s peaceful and quiet times at the fort drastically came skidding to an unexpected halt. Walking out one morning from one of the fort’s storehouses carrying bags of cooking spices forgotten in his first go-around of re-provisioning, Iron Hand walked right into the rather large and imposing 300-pound figure of John Pierre entering the same storehouse!

  “Well, if it ain’t you and the rest of your worthless self,” bellowed John Pierre, equally surprised at the unexpected meeting of his old antagonist from the days of little Sinopa!

  Surprised over seeing such a disgusting individual up close and personal like, one who brought back ugly memories regarding his treatment of the young Blackfoot women named Sinopa, Iron Hand quickly recovered his composure, said nothing and kept walking away with his armload of supplies. It was then that his ‘sixth sense’ came roaring back into his inner being, causing Iron Hand to tense up!

  That was when the day turned ugly! John Pierre, not wanting to be ignored, reached out and grabbed Iron Hand’s arm, causing him to spill to the ground the various bags of much-needed spices. Without missing a heartbeat, Iron Hand whirled and with one punch, knocked John Pierre clear off his feet and in the process, sending him airborne into a nearby horse trough, where the man landed unceremoniously with a huge splash in front of God and everyone else looking on!

  Seeing that quick reflex action on the part of Iron Hand and the splash of their friend going into a horse trough, brought John Pierre’s nearby standing cohorts into the arena of battle at a dead run! Seeing that he was outnumbered, Iron Hand faced off with the crowd of onrushing friends of John Pierre with the same calm and demeanor that one does when it is realized there is a snake at hand that needed a damn good and quick killing...

  The first of John Pierre’s friends and fellow trappers to reach Iron Hand, a man known only as “La Rochelle”, got a thoroughly smashed flat, broken and bloodied nose for sticking it into places where it did not belong! That thunderous blow to the nose sent La Rochelle to the ground like a sack of spuds off a wagon… The second running man to reach Iron Hand with an upraised tomahawk and blood in his eyes was a smallish French-Canadian man whose last name was “Galipeau”. He in turn, had his tomahawk ripped out from his upraised right hand, his arm broken and his entire carcass tossed off to one side like a rag doll into a loudly howling-in-pain heap! The third and fourth trapper friends of John Pierre to reach Iron Hand received, simultaneously in concert, a busted mouth and the other, an eye that would not be looked out from for at least a week until the blood in the damaged eye socket had dissipated into its surrounding and now swollen tissues... Those two men then whimpered off and out of range of Iron Hand’s flashing right hand like a just-kicked cur dog…

  Then it was a soaking wet from his surprising immersion into a horse trough John Pierre, who upon coming back into the fight, ran into a ‘whirlwind’ of hammer-like fists at that point in the battle that quickly covered his face and head with soon-rising knots the size of ducks’ eggs... It took exactly three seconds of Iron Hand’s flying fists to lay out John Pierre cold as a long dead beaver for the next ten minutes!

  As for John Pierre’s trapper buddies numbers five, six and seven, whose names Iron Hand did not know, they drew up short of the physical combat arena after seeing what had just violently happened to the rest of their unfortunate cohorts...

  Then those three remaining cohorts from John Pierre’s group of American Fur Company Trappers simultaneously drew their pistols and leveled them at a standing still and quietly fuming Iron Hand!

  “Now, you big bastard, you will pay for what you just did to our friends and for stealing our little Indian ‘play-pretty’, Sinopa, when you should have been minding your own business,” said an evil-looking man, who smelled even worse than he looked!

  “Shoot ’em! Shoot ’em, Monk, afore that bastard McKenzie puts a stop to our little surprise party,” said a tubercular-looking stick of a man who came to be known as “Jacques Du Mont” and a close friend of John Pierre.

  “First trapper who pulls a trigger will be dead before he hits the ground,” said a strident mystery voice being emitted from the corner of one of the adjoining storehouses.

  Du Mont, his two still-standing cohorts and Iron Hand spun around in concert to see who the threatening mystery voice belonged to. There stood Spotted Eagle of Chief Mingan’s band of Blackfoot from the Medicine Lake area and seven of his warriors! They had just left one of the fort’s storehouses with several armloads of supplies and upon seeing their friend Iron Hand in trouble, acted accordingly! Their supplies now lay strewn about on the ground in disarray, as the eight warriors now held their rifles on John Pierre’s trappers with a look in their eyes meant to convince one of what was to follow if a single man of the three holding leveled pistols on their friend Iron Hand, even dared breathing too deeply, much less, if they unwisely pulled a single trigger...

  Seeing that they were now outnumbered by eight very serious-looking Blackfoot warriors, the trappers slowly laid their pistols down on the ground, just as a very concerned and previously alerted to the fight McKenzie hurriedly rounded another building and entered the battle arena.

  “All of you lower your weapons! What the hell is going on?” McKenzie bellowed, as he stepped in between the two warring groups of men. “Iron Hand, what the hell is the meaning of all of this,” said a still-concerned McKenzie over the possibility of a small war being carried out within the confines of his fort’s wall between his trappers and his Indian trading partners.

  “Ask him,” quietly said Iron Hand, as he nodded to a still out cold John Pierre lying on the ground off to one side.

  “I might have known,” said McKenzie in a disgusted sounding voice, once he recognized the identity of the heavyset man lying stretched out on the ground with a badly swollen face.

  “It is not going to do me any good asking John Pierre until he comes around from what I suspect is something he started and could not finish,” said McKenzie, as he looked over at the towering and still quietly standing at the ready for whatever came his way, figure of a very determined looking Iron Hand.

  About that time, several well-armed Company Clerks ran up to their boss McKenzie, and looked at him for instructions relative as to what he wanted them to do.

  “Throw some water from that horse trough onto that bastard lying on the ground over there and wake him up,” said McKenzie, as he pointed to an inert John Pierre lying a few feet away.

  Following their boss’s orders, they soon had John Pierre brought around, up on his feet and trying to explain away his earlier behavior through a set of badly split and swollen lips recently received from the fists of Iron Hand. Once McKenzie got the story straight as to what had caused all the uproar, he ordered John Pierre to settle up with the American Fur Company as to their wages. Then he ordered the men to get their needed supplies, leave the fort and never return because every one of John Pierre’s group was now released from their contracts as American Fur Company Trappers and were now out and on their own...

  As John Pierre’s group of ‘slightly damaged’ and still mad as hell and fuming trappers staggered off out of sight, McKenzie turned and told Spotted Eagle and Iron Hand that he apologized for the behavior of some of his Company Trappers. Then he said in a contrite tone of voice, “All of you men need to follow me.” With that and not another word spoken, the men adjourned to another storehouse, where all the really valuable items of trade, like kegs of gunpowder, firearms and casks of his best rum, were stored.

  For the rest of that afternoon, the men were treated to all the rum they could drink, as a gesture of McKenzie’s friendship and as an apology for his Company Trappers’ bad behavior. During a moment of that time, Iron Hand went over to Spotted Eagle, shook his hand and told him that he appreciated his getting involved during a rather tense moment when the three trappers had the drop on him and had him covered with their three pistols.

  Spotted Eagle just smiled back and said, “Remember w
hen we met last at your camp in the winter and had our discussion about Sinopa. I told you after that meeting that we would be like brothers forever, just like you and Chief Mingan. I only did for my brother what he would have done for me under the same circumstances.”

  The rest of that afternoon was spent in enjoying each other’s company and when Iron Hand walked back to his camp with his armload of needed spices, he felt pretty damn good, considering the amount of rum he had consumed and all... Plus, there was additional good news that came to light as the men enjoyed each other’s company over the free rum. Spotted Eagle and Sinopa were now husband and wife and happily so, with one very young son and another child on the way!

  The next day, McKenzie, Fort Union Factor, good to his word, ordered Company Trappers John Pierre and his seven other trapping cohorts off the grounds of Fort Union for their previous day’s bad behavior. That was also followed with a stern warning never to return, either to sell their furs or to seek re-provisioning of their annually needed supplies. With that and escorting guards leading the now-released fur trappers from the fort, John Pierre and his slightly worse for wear cohorts left Fort Union and disappeared. As that group of dejected men sullenly rode off, Iron Hand could not get the stirring ‘sixth sense’ out from his being that those trappers and Iron Hand would meet again, someday, somewhere and when they did, the outcome would be so very different.

  CHAPTER NINE: THE RETURN, THE GROS VENTRE AND A FORTUNE IS MADE

  Come daylight one week later, Old Potts and his trappers had their pack string loaded and ready to go. They had told all their trapper friends to ‘hang onto their hair’, had breakfasted with Factor McKenzie as Free Trappers were accustomed to doing one last time before they left for the next trapping season, and then began moving out from their old campsite along the Missouri River bottoms heading west. Traveling along the north bank of the Missouri, the four trappers made good time, as they headed for their cabin in the land of the dreaded Gros Ventre and the streams and marshes full of blanket-sized beaver in their old and familiar Poplar River country.

  Several days later, they crossed the Big Muddy River, then continued westerly along the Missouri, en route to their trapping grounds on the Poplar River. Along the way, the men passed numerous small herds of peacefully feeding or resting buffalo, antelope, elk and a few bighorn sheep on the prairie. On the morning of their sixth day, the men crossed the Poplar River at their usual fording location, than turned northerly. Finally arriving at the southern end of their familiar line of timbered foothills lying to their west, the four trappers became even more vigilant, as they continued passing numerous trails of unshod Indian horses and travois drag marks heading north in the same direction of travel as that of the four trappers.

  Stopping along the way one afternoon, Old Potts gathered up his trappers for a ‘confab’. “It appears we are trailing an entire band of more than likely Gros Ventre on the move. They probably are moving their main camp because they ran out of horse feed or for sanitary reasons. I don’t think it wise for us to just follow blindly along behind them for fear of stumbling into one of their campsites. I would suggest that Iron Hand and Crooked Hand ride out ahead of us and make sure we are not riding into an ambush of sorts or stumbling into one of their camps.”

  Without another word, Iron Hand handed off the lead rope of his pack string to Big Foot as did Crooked Hand his to Old Potts. Then checking the priming on their rifles and pistols, the two lone riders spurred their horses on ahead as they followed the travois drag marks and the hundreds of unshod Indian pony hoofprints, all the while keeping hidden from sight by using the features of their terrain as much as possible. Iron Hand and Crooked Hand rode until the edge of darkness overcame them and not finding any Indians or being discovered themselves, they stopped and waited along the way to their cabin site. About three hours later, Old Potts and Big Foot rode up trailing their pack strings to their two waiting partners for another hurried conference.

  “We are only about an hour out from our cabin,” said Old Potts. “What say we continue on and see if we even have a cabin left or not? Besides, the quicker we get out of sight and not wandering around here out in the open with a valuable string of horseflesh, the longer we get to keep our hair.”

  Agreeing, each trapper once again took hold of a lead rope to an individual pack string and hurried on towards the direction of their cabin under the cover of darkness. As they did, they continued spooking off along their route of travel numerous herds of resting buffalo and elk. Finally arriving at a darkened point of trees coming down from the adjacent foothills that led up to their old cabin, the men quietly moved in that direction hoping for the best when they got there. When they arrived at their familiar geographic turning point, they left the trail of travel taken earlier by the band of Gros Ventre on the move and headed in the opposite direction into the timbered foothills leading up to their fairly secluded cabin site.

  Under a full moon, the four trappers quietly rode into the immediate area of their cabin and horse corral. At first glance in the moonlight, the cabin appeared to be intact and undisturbed as did the horse corral. Iron Hand dismounted and remembering the ‘welcoming’ they had received by a grizzly bear who had taken up residence in their old cave campsite by Medicine Lake, moved cautiously forward to the cabin’s front door which was slightly ajar with his rifle in hand and at the ready.

  Slowly opening the front door wider with the end of his rifle barrel so he could cautiously look inside before he entered, Iron Hand was met with a sharp-smelling stench from some animal that had occupied their cabin throughout the summer during the trappers’ absence. However, further examination inside the cabin’s dim light revealed that whatever had left the strong smell was now long gone and it was safe to enter and occupy their old home.

  Turning to let the rest of his party know the cabin was now free of any still smelly critters, Iron Hand took two steps and then felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the toe area of his right moccasin! Jumping in pain, he let out one hell of a loud howl like a grizzly bear in heat, as his big toe exploded in intense pain like something had just taken a rather large bite from the luckless appendage!

  “What the hell is going on in there!” yelled Crooked Hand, as he bailed off his horse and raced toward the cabin to aid his big friend who was still inside and howling in pain like a banshee.

  Rounding the front door’s frame, Crooked Hand ran straight into a madly exiting Iron Hand, who was bailing out from their cabin like a scared cottontail rabbit just discovered by a red fox at close quarters...

  WHOOM went Iron Hand’s big body into the lesser-sized Crooked Hand and a loud “OOOOFF” was heard to follow, as both men now exploded out from the cabin’s doorway like they had been shot from the barrel of a rather large cannon!

  By now with all the howling and the loud crashing sounds made by two men impacting into each other at a high rate of speed, the hair on the necks of both Old Potts and Big Foot was standing straight up and both men now had their rifles at the ready. Had their rifles at the ready for whatever had obviously gotten hold of Iron Hand, the biggest and strongest man in their group and from all the sounds of it, the mysterious ‘thing’ causing all the commotion was winning! Something that had him now howling in pain and had put him on the run like there was no tomorrow! Put him on the run and in so doing, had caused him to plow into his friend Crooked Hand who had been coming to the rescue, causing one hell of a wreck! When the crash of the two bodies occurred, it spilled both men out onto the ground in gay profusion in front of God and everybody into an embarrassing heap!

  Finally, peace and quiet once again reigned, as Old Potts got a small fire going in their old outside firepit, which cast some light on the issue. As it turned out, Crooked Hand had a bloody nose and blackened eye from having the larger, stout as a bull buffalo sized-trapper, namely Iron Hand, plowing into a rather smaller, soft as the ‘fluff’ on a cottontail rabbit, man, namely Crooked Hand, at a very high rate of speed!

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nbsp; As for Iron Hand, all six-foot, seven-inches of his huge frame now found him hopping all around on one foot like a grizzly bear had just taken a chomp out of his last part over the fence... Finally, Old Potts got all the wild dancing dust settled down and with the light from his fire, the problem was solved.

  While walking around in the dark of their cabin checking things out, Iron Hand had picked up a porcupine quill from a previous visitor in the cabin with the front of his moccasin, had jammed it clear up and almost out of sight, under the toenail of his big toe and two inches into the flesh beyond! Thinking a grizzly bear had taken a chomp out from his foot, Iron Hand had hightailed it in intense pain, out the open doorway from the cabin at a high rate of speed and had plowed directly into his friend Crooked Hand, who was coming inside to rescue him. Well, when a 250-pound man going faster than a ‘bull buffalo in rut to meet a cow in estrus’, runs into a 150-pound man, who is cautiously creeping along in the dark, violent physical things could and did happen...

  Not having enough light to adequately address the ‘porcupine quill’ issue that evening and not wanting to sleep inside their cabin because of the intense smell from a porcupine living therein all summer, the men bedded down outside and after having a long day, drifted off to sleep. That was all except for Iron Hand. His big toe was throbbing so much, that he sat up all night tending the fire and soaking his sore appendage in a Dutch oven full of warm water and a pinch of their precious salt from one of their packs.