Grizzly Killer: The Making of a Mountain Man
Page 1
Grizzly Killer: The Making of a Mountain Man
( Grizzly Killer Book I )
Lane R Warenski
Contents
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Note from the Author
Untitled
1. Under the Spruce
2. The Grizzly
3. Jimbo
4. The Wolves
5. The Snakes Return
6. Bear River
7. The Fight
8. The Fever
9. Making Meat
10. Warm Springs
11. Sweet Lake
12. Willow Valley
13. Trouble at Rendezvous
14. Indian Justice
15. The Hunt
16. Dead Men Don’t Tell
17. Too Many Ways To Die
18. The Badger
19. Arapahos
20. Homecomin’
21. One Tough Mule
22. Shining Star
23. Two Wives
24. The Attack
25. Luckiest Man in the Mountains
26. The Rescue
27. Going Home
A Look at Grizzly Killer: Under The Blood Moon
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About the Author
Grizzly Killer: The Making of a Mountain Man
( Grizzly Killer Book I )
by
Lane R Warenski
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2017 by Lane R Warenski
Wolfpack Publishing
P.O. Box 620427
Las Vegas, NV 89162
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62918-639-9
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Dedicated to Michael Gibson, a friend of nearly forty years, whose simple question years ago, “Have you ever thought about writing a book?” started me on this journey.
Note from the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person is coincidental. The town of Pottersville, Kentucky, is a product of my imagination. Any similarities with the history of an actual place were not intended. The places that Zach Connors, the main character of the book, travels are real, and the dates of the events that take place are as correct as my research can place them. There is some controversy of the exact location of the Rendezvous of 1826 held in Willow Valley, now called Cache Valley, Utah. Some historians believe it was held near the town of Cove, Utah, very near the Utah–Idaho border, while others believe it to have been held where I have placed it in the south end of Cache Valley, near the town of Hyrum, Utah. Some of the characters that attended the rendezvous in this book are real and, I believe, in attendance during the time frame that I have placed them there, but most are fictional.
The lands that this novel covers are all in Northern and Northeastern Utah, Southwestern Wyoming, and Southeastern Idaho. I have traveled all these areas throughout my life. My college days were spent at Utah State University in Cache Valley, Utah. I have tried to describe the land the characters travel through as accurately as possible.
I was born and raised in Utah and have a great love of the Intermountain West and the history of the area. I live with my wife in Duchesne County, Utah, and my home is virtually surrounded by the Ute Indian Reservation. Sitting on my front porch, I have an unrestricted view of the Uinta Mountains and the highest peaks in Utah. I have been an outdoorsman my whole life, hunting, camping, and fishing in the Uinta Mountains that is the heart of this book. The rivers and streams were the pathways of the early trappers and explorers, and I have camped on and fished most all the streams covered in this book. I have tried to impart my love of the mountains and the history of the opening of the West into the characters and hope the reader can appreciate the strength, both physical and mental, that those we call mountain men had to possess to survive and thrive in a wilderness so far from civilization.
1 Under the Spruce
I opened my eyes and lay there just listenin’, not movin’ a muscle. Pa had always taught me to make sure nothin’ was around before I moved after I’d been asleep, so I just lay there listenin’. It was just gettin’ light, and I didn’t know what had woken me up. There should have been a few birds singin’, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I listened, and I couldn’t hear Ol’ Red or the horses munchin’ grass either. Then I realized Jimbo wasn’t lyin’ by my side, but that wasn’t unusual as that ol’ mangy mutt liked to go out huntin’ for a rabbit or squirrel this time of day for his breakfast. But not hearin’ Red and no birds, I knew something was around that wasn’t supposed to be.
I very slowly moved my hand and made sure my Hawken rifle was right handy and then very, very slowly slid out from under my bedroll. Now I had bedded down under the low branches of a big ol’ spruce on a thick bed of pine needles that was up the hill a bit above the creek so I could move without makin’ hardly a sound and almost without my movement bein’ seen. But I was bein’ almighty careful just the same. I had picketed Red and the horses on a nice patch of grass just across the creek. Once I got my head up, I could see Ol’ Red, his ears straight ahead and his nostrils flared. He was starin’ out into the meadow that was just through the willows on the other side of the creek. I couldn’t see the horses as they had moved into the willows a bit. Then I heard Jimbo’s low throaty growl that told me there was trouble very close by. Makin’ sure my knife was still in its sheath and pickin’ up my tomahawk and rifle, I started out. Stayin’ in the forest where I could walk without a sound, I edged up the hill and circled around upstream from where I figured Jimbo was with his low growl. I stepped through the creek and edged through the willows, bein’ real careful not to make a sound. I brought my rifle up and looked ’round the brush where I could see Jimbo standin’ there with his hackles up.
Just a few feet in front of him was an Injun lyin’ in the grass. He was up on one elbow with a knife in one hand and an arrow in the other. His eyes were wide, starin’ right at Jimbo. Jimbo could be a mighty fearsome sight. He was big, well near two hundred pounds. He was bigger than any wolf I’d ever seen, and I think he might be part wolf, though no one will ever know for sure. He had that wild look that had come from bein’ in the wilderness his whole life.
I waited there, just lookin’ around that brush for a while, makin’ real sure that he was alone. That Injun never moved, and neither did Jimbo. When I figured it was safe, I stepped out from behind that brush, and that Injun shifted his eyes to me but never moved a muscle, figurin’ Jimbo would attack at the slightest movement. I walked up and patted Jimbo on the back and told him to stay. I could see right off that Injun was in a bad way. His right leg was black and blue from ankle to knee and was swollen to twice the size of the other. Now I figured he couldn’t understand me, but I spoke anyway. And he just stared at me with a grip on that knife so tight his knuckles were white. I figured he must be in his late teens, maybe a year or two younger than me.
Now back home in Kentucky, we’d lived near a Cherokee village, and I grew up with my friends bein’ from that village. I had learned a lot of sign language and picked up a lot more as me and Pa had come across the plains. So I made the sign for friend and laid down my rifle and told Jimbo to go lie down, and that young Injun seemed to relax, but he wasn’t ready to put the knife down yet.
I walked back and got my water pouch from my pack and filled it with freshwater from the creek. I went back and set the water
pouch down for his easy reach and then went out and gathered some good, dry tinder and small branches for a fire. I set up that fire where he could get some warmth from it and struck a spark into the dry tinder. Within just a while, I had an almost-smokeless fire started. Now he had been crawlin’ an’ draggin’ that leg down through this meadow and, the way he looked, must have been movin’ like that most of the night. When he could feel the warmth from the fire, he relaxed even more, and after a little while, he dropped his hand holdin’ his knife. I picked up the water pouch and offered it to him, and he set down the knife, took the pouch, and drank. When he had drunk his fill, he handed the pouch back to me and picked up his knife and put it in its sheath. I noticed then that the sheath was a work of art, decorated with quills and braided horse hair. He brought his quiver, with eight or ten arrows still in it, over his shoulder and put the arrow he had been holdin’ in the other hand back in it, and I noticed the quiver was decorated with the same pattern as his sheath. This was a young man that took pride in his work.
Jimbo was just lyin’ there at the other side of the fire but not lettin’ that Injun out of his sight, and I could tell that was makin’ him plumb nervous. I told Jimbo with a hand signal to go scout the area, and he took off, silent as a ghost, and I figured he would be gone awhile.
Ol’ Red had gone back to grazin’, and I walked back over to my pack and brought it over by the fire and got out the makin’s for breakfast. I still had some flour, salt, coffee beans, and a little salt pork left. So I put some coffee beans in a tin cup and set it on the edge of the fire to roast. I filled the coffee pot with water and set it on the coals, and in my one fry pan, I started some pan biscuits. When the water was ready, I crushed the coffee beans with the back of my tomahawk and put them in the pot.
This young Injun was watchin’ me like I was crazy, but he never made a sound. When the biscuits were done, I sliced some of the salt pork into the pan and fried it. I poured a cup and handed it to the Injun and set two biscuits and a couple of slices of the pork on a tin plate and set it down right by him and then did the same for myself. He picked up the plate and sniffed the pork. I started eatin’, and after he watched me for a minute, he did the same. Now I don’t know just what he thought of the grub, but he ate it all, and I cleaned up and put it all back in the pack. I hoped he was startin’ to trust me just a little by now.
I pointed to myself and said, “Zach.” I repeated this several times until I knew he understood my name. Then I asked his. I had to ask several times, but then in passable English, he said his name was Running Wolf and he was a Ute warrior.
I got down by his leg and asked if I could look at it, and with a very worried look on his face, he slowly nodded. I very carefully slid off his moccasin and ran my hand up over the swollen leg and could feel the break in the bone under my fingers. Now I’m no doctor, but I had helped Pa set an arm bone on a neighbor back home and helped him again set a broken leg on a calf, and both had healed up just fine. So I went to lookin’ for some good, straight sticks and some thick bark I could strip off. I had a couple of deer hides in my pack and got one of those out and cut it into strips. I carefully slid him over to a tree and had him hold on to a low branch while I made him understand I had to pull his leg out straight. I offered him a stick to put between his teeth, but he refused. I set the bark and splint sticks beside his leg, and putting one hand on his heel and one on the top of his foot, I looked into his eyes and nodded. He was goin’ pale, but he nodded, and I pulled. I felt the bone go into place, and although he was the color of a cloud on a bright, sunny day, he never made a sound. He was breathin’ very heavy as I wrapped his leg with the bark and wrapped the splints on the outside of the bark with the deer hide. He laid his head back onto the ground, closed his eyes, and tried to control his breathin’. That he was in extreme pain, I had no doubt.
Jimbo had been gone quite awhile, and I was ponderin’ on just what he had found. I wondered just what had happened to Runnin’ Wolf as well. But with the pain, I knew he must be in. I figured talkin’ could wait a bit. I was mighty curious how he knew English as well.
Ol’ Red was a big red Kentucky mule that could work a plow, carry a pack or saddle, and be a mighty, fearsome fighter whether fightin’ Injuns or wolves, and he had done both and had come out ahead each time. For bein’ a mule, he wasn’t too hardheaded either, as long as he knew and liked you. But he was quite particular who rode and who packed him, but a surer-footed animal was never born.
While Runnin’ Wolf was tryin’ to relax after his ordeal, I saddled Ol’ Red and started down Runnin’ Wolf’s back trail. Three or four miles down the trail, I found his horse, and when I saw the arrows sticking out of his side and the tumble Runnin’ Wolf had taken, I had a hard time figurin’ just how he had dragged himself that far. When I saw the broken bow, I wondered why these other warriors hadn’t moved in and finished the job and just where they were now. Just then, Jimbo come paddin’ up the trail. It was clear he had found something he didn’t like, and I decided we’d best haul our hides out of there. I broke off one of those arrows that were stickin’ out of that Injun pony and jumped up on Red, and we struck a lope back up the trail.
Runnin’ Wolf heard us comin’ as I was hurryin’, not at all tryin’ for quiet, and he had his knife in hand and a very determined look on his face as I approached. I threw the broken arrow down at him as I wasn’t at all happy ’bout his leadin’ several warriors out for blood right to me. He picked it up and made the sign for snake. So here I was, bein’ a nursemaid to a Ute and now bein’ followed by God only knows how many Snake Warriors. I figured now was time for some explainin’.
I asked how he learned to speak English. He told me that last year, a group of trappers had come into his village and stayed a few days and had bought some horses from them, and when they left, he went with them to care for their horses and to show them where there were beaver. He stayed with them for six moons, and he learned their talk. When the leaves turned, he went back to his village to help with the fall hunt and get ready for winter. He said his sister was alone, and he had to provide for her, since her man was killed.
Now if I had any sense at all, I would just load up and hit the trail just as fast as I could go, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I hadn’t had much real schoolin’, but Ma had taught me to read and write, and most of those lessons were right out of the Bible. Ma had been a real God-fearin’ woman, and I was raised my whole life with the Bible stories. Pa wasn’t near the prayin’-type Ma was, but he believed in God. To Pa, a man’s word was his bond. I remembered the last words Pa had said to me: “Son, always treat people the way you want to be treated. Remember who you are, and be proud of your name. Never do anything that won’t make yourself proud. Be kind to all until you have to fight, then fight to win. In a fight, you must always win to survive in this wild and harsh land.” Now I know there’re some who don’t consider Injuns people, but I’m not one of them. Growin’ up with my friend’s bein’ Cherokee, I knew they were no different than us. They just have different ways and beliefs.
2 The Grizzly
I had lost Pa last fall on a creek above Black’s Fork on the north slope of these Bear River Mountains. We were out checkin’ our traps. He went down from camp, and I went up. I was maybe a mile above camp, just entering a long meadow. The sun was just hittin’ the grass from over the ridge when I got there, and I was really lookin’ forward to the warmth that late-fall sun would provide, as it was gettin’ real cold in the mornin’s, and we had been breakin’ ice on the edges of the beaver ponds.
When I heard the shot, I figured that Pa could have just taken a deer or elk, but I didn’t think so as we had plenty of meat in camp to last us for a while. I hightailed it back down the trail, goin’ right through camp without even slowin’ down. I made sure I had fresh powder in my pan, and ’bout a half mile below camp, I slowed right down. I didn’t want to go runnin’ right into an ambush or whatever other trouble Pa had come upon. I came aro
und a bend in the trail, and I could see this huge ol’ grizzly lyin’ right in the trail. My heart fell as I saw Pa’s upper half sticking out from under that big ol’ bear. I approached real careful and could see Pa’s eyes were open, and the bear wasn’t movin’ at all. I could see Pa was in a lot of pain, but when he saw me, he smiled and, through gritted teeth, said, “Get this smelly beast off me.”
It took some considerable doin’ as this ol’ grizzly was what I figured to be near eight hundred pounds. But when I got him rolled off Pa and I could see all the blood, my heart just fell. Pa’s left arm was near ripped off.
I took off my capote and used it to stop the bleeding the best I could, but I was hurtin’ him something awful. He said he was gettin’ lightheaded and he didn’t have much time left, said it was all right, that he was goin’ to see Ma, and then he kind of faded off. A little while later, his eyes opened, and he said the pain had gone. Then he told me that I was a grown man and he was mighty proud to be my pa. He said, “I fought that ol’ grizz with gun and knife, but we both lost that fight.” I could tell he was gettin’ weaker by the minute, and his eyes were gettin’ heavy. Then he told me what he did ’bout bein’ proud and ’bout fightin’ to win. Then he gripped my hand, closed his eyes, and just faded off to sleep. Only I could tell this sleep he wouldn’t wake from.
I just sat there, tears runnin’ down my face for the longest time. I watched the pink fade from the high fluffy clouds as they moved slowly across the bluest sky I had ever seen. A doe with twin fawns came out of the willows along the creek and started to graze. I watched a pair of marmots crawl out on the sunny side of a rock outcroppin’ so they could soak up the warmth of the mornin’ sun. I heard geese and looked up to see several flocks headin’ south in their familiar V-shaped flight. I could smell the pine on the hills around me, and I watched the birds flutter through the willow branches and a red-tailed hawk survey the world from above. I watched a gray fox sneak down the far side of the creek and get a quick drink then disappear just as quickly as he had appeared. I thought of all the life around me and just how fast it could be taken away. I thought of Pa and me sittin’ around the fire this mornin’, havin’ coffee, and how we had planned out our day. Before I realized how long it had been, the sun was well past center sky, and I knew I had a lot of work to do.