by Terry Grosz
The smell of fresh blood from the dead men must have brought them, thought Martin.
A few firebrands thrown their way made the glowing eyes leave but they soon reappeared at another point at the edge of the darkness.
Martin recharged his weapon with fresh powder in the pan, to prevent a misfire in the damp air. Then he walked over to the pile of dead men’s bodies, took one by the arm and dragged it to the edge of the clearing. Leaving it there, he returned to the group of dead men. Martin continued dragging the rest away from camp until they were all at the very edge of the light of their fire. Backing away all the while facing the now growing, noisy menace in the woods, he returned to the safety of the campfire.
Martin inspected Jacob’s wounds again, then placed a small stream of gunpowder in the tear of Jacob’s side wound, along the ribs. “This will burn, but you need to have this wound cauterized,” he told Jacob.
Martin set a small burning limb from the campfire to the gunpowder. This technique was common, and Martin had seen it used numerous times by his father. Jacob made a horrible face as the gunpowder burned, but made no sound. “You are pretty tough for a white man,” Martin said, smiling. Jacob grimaced back.
The worst noises imaginable came from the dark at the edge of the clearing where he had dragged the dead men. So much so, and since the ripping, tearing and growling continued most of the night, neither of the men got much sleep. It was probably just as well, though—Jacob hurt so much, he couldn’t sleep but fitfully.
Come the next morning, Jacob was stiffer than a new pair of soldier’s leather boots. His face was puffy and bright red looking, but felt better thanks to Martin’s frontier medicinal knowledge of things natural. However, his rib cage was as sore as a boil. Martin soon had the fire going and put more slabs of venison on the cooking sticks to roast along with a pot of steaming coffee. Next he saddled up their two riding horses and packed the remaining two. Then he bridled the five horses from the dead men but left them barebacked. He planned on leaving their five saddles and saddle blankets stacked along the trail for whomever came along needing them. But horses were another matter. They were very valuable on the frontier and would be better used somewhere down the line to help the two of them on their trek west.
However, when going through the saddlebags of the deceased leader, Martin discovered a large sack containing many U.S. silver fifty-cent pieces along with several handfuls of Spanish gold and silver coins. Martin checked the other men’s saddlebags and discovered more of the same.
A small fortune, to say the least. The previous owners won’t need the money. Martin figured he would include it into their own small stash of silver coins. As he stood there holding the bags of heavy coins, it was obvious someone else had not been so lucky earlier in meeting the five men as had he and Jacob. With difficulty, Martin stuffed the bags of coins into his and Jacob’s saddlebags, with the rest being put into their packs. He returned to his friend without uttering a word of his find.
The two young men finished their breakfast of half-raw sizzling deer meat and black coffee, then Martin dressed Jacob’s rib wound once more, this time adorning it with fresh moss along the edges of the running sore and wrapping it as well with a soft piece of tanned elk skin. Martin examined the wound one more time before he covered it with the pain-killing black moss, and found it to be clean of any bone chips.
That is good, he thought. That means only a very sore flesh wound, one that will quickly heal. Aside from two small places, the gunpowder burn has done its work well. The wound has pretty much sealed and Jacob can ride without bleeding every jarring step of the way. It will be painful, but he can ride if we take it slowly.
Martin helped Jacob to his feet, and they walked over to Jacob’s saddled horse. “Here, let me help,” Martin said as he cupped his hands for Jacob to step in.
Martin hefted his friend into the saddle.
“Oof!” Jacob grimaced and moaned softly, but stayed put in the saddle.
Martin tied the outlaw’s horses to their own horses in two short strings. “I think that should prevent a horse wreck,” he said as he inspected his handiwork. Jacob only replied with a grunt of approval.
Then Martin looked over the remains of the five men in the timber. He clenched his mouth tight to keep his fortitude. The bandits’ clothes had been torn from their bodies, and their bones glistened white where meat had been just hours before. Their intestines had been strung out all over the ground and it seemed the only things not touched were the bones of their skulls—skulls, not heads, for the wolves had chewed off the meaty soft parts of their faces, and not one had remained recognizable.
The wolves, meanwhile, lay all around the pile of dead men. The animals were gorged and wore potbellies. They were too lazy to get up even at the men’s departure.
“That is good,” Martin told Jacob. “The wolves will stay until all of food value is consumed. Then those bears not hibernating will eat the rest. Any kinfolk examining the scene will be hard pressed to determine the causes of death, thereby reducing the chances of pursuit.”
Jacob nodded slowly in agreement, and Martin continued. “Plain and simple, it will look like the five men had set up camp, had been attacked, killed and eaten by a pack of wolves, and their horses run off. Any remaining equipment like firearms were picked up by strangers passing this way and one has a clean explanation for the men’s disappearance. Yes, today is going to be a good day!”
* * *
They came to the Ohio River the next day. When the ferryman looked over the two of them and their horses with a practiced eye, he said, “That will be fifty cents per horse and a dollar each for the two of you. I know that is high but this is the only ferry for miles and I have a family of twelve little ones to feed.”
Jacob reached into his saddlebag looking for his small bag of coins brought from home. Doing so, his fingers “clunked” on many larger sacks of the same. He realized what was at his fingertips but did not want the ferryman to see the hoard of coins for fear of being charged more. He looked over at Martin for some sort of an explanation. Martin’s expression and eyes advised nothing more than a pay the man expression.
Typical Indian in his explanation. Jacob returned Martin’s smile, painfully.
It took two trips on the small ferry to transport all their gear and horses across. Jacob and Martin agreed it was worth it.
Once on the other side and out of earshot of the ferry operator, Jacob asked, “What the hell? Where did all this money come from?”
“I found it in the bandits’ saddlebags. They didn’t need it, and I figured we earned it, seeing as how we put an end to their sinful ways.”
“If my face and ribs didn’t hurt so much, I might not agree, but they done near killed me, and perhaps you’re right, we should get some kind of reward. Thanks, for taking the money, and for keeping me alive.”
“Do you think the money will be missed?”
“Not rightly,” Jacob said thoughtfully. “But we should put more ground under us before the night is through. Just might be key to our survival if those fellows had any kin in hot pursuit who see through our ruse back at camp.”
Martin agreed, and they once again headed northwest.
After several days of riding—slowed because of Jacob’s injury—they came upon another river, the Wabash. Again, a ferry and more pieces of silver gained access to the west bank. In the small burg of Maunie, Jacob sold one of the five men’s horses that was starting to go lame. It brought in exchange several large bags of freshly ground cornmeal, two heavy Hudson’s Bay Company blankets, another small sack of coffee beans, and some ear corn for the horses.
“A good trade for a gimpy horse,” Jacob told Martin with a smile. A quick look over at his stoic partner’s face revealed the same satisfied look over the transaction.
* * *
By now, the winter of 1829 had set in with all its fury. Their journey was slowed even though Jacob was healing up and getting better by the day. Several
times they holed up alongside small streams with dense brush cover to avoid biting winter blizzards and wet snows. The cover also provided shelter for the horses in which to rest and provided much welcome feed. That, plus the occasional feedbag of corn and their heavy winter coats, made life for the horses livable.
Martin finally said, “There is much mud, and the snow and cold is bad.”
Jacob replied, “I suppose it’s time to hole up somewhere. How about the next settlement we come to?”
Martin nodded in agreement.
That afternoon, they came upon the burg of Mt. Vernon, Illinois.
They rented a hayloft in a nearby farmer’s barn and moved all their gear in out of the weather. In addition for helping the farmer with his chores, they were allowed to winter their horses with his livestock free of charge. In their spare time both men hunted elk and deer for the farmer’s larder and themselves. They made their share up into jerky. In so doing, they also provided for their “found” as well.
It was a couple of months well spent, especially for healing up, equipment repairs, repairing footwear and re-shoeing horses. Eventually the horses were well rested; in fact, they were growing fat. The same could be said for Jacob and Martin who had been eating well of the good German farmer’s wife’s cooking. But both longed for the spring traveling weather of 1830 so they could go to St. Louis, “see the elephant” and start their journey into the Trans-Mississippi.
Chapter Six
St. Louis
When the first vestiges of the 1830 spring arrived, both men were more than ready to continue their journey. They said their good-byes to the gentle farmer and his wife the night before their departure. Then Jacob and Martin retired to their comfortable, clean smelling hayloft. However, not being able to sleep because of the excitement of discovering new places in the morrow, they arose long before daylight and headed out. Dawn found them miles from the winter farmstead and facing new country and adventures.
The road from Mt. Vernon to St. Louis was clearly marked and well-traveled. As the days progressed, they passed many people walking, riding in wagons, on horses or in stagecoaches. All seemed to be in the same general direction and most were in a hurry.
After several weeks of traveling in improving weather, they stopped one night near the settlement of Shiloh, Illinois. The town was nothing more than a collection of mud and log huts with some of the poorest looking people either of them had seen. It was obvious making a living in that area was pretty hardscrabble.
They bunked down a few miles out of town, a lean-to was again constructed, the horses cared for and dinner of fresh venison started. Soon the soft spring night enveloped them. Over steaming tin cups of coffee and the incessant hum of mosquitoes, both men’s thoughts quietly returned to loved ones back in Kentucky, a place and time that now seemed so far away that even the memories were becoming more faint and distant.
Whinny! Suddenly the horses started pulling on their picket ropes and acting crazy as loons. Both men quickly jumped up with rifles in hand looking for the cause of the uproar. Then Jacob saw it: A huge bear was trying to get at the horses. However, between their collective flailing and kicking with their rear hooves, the bear was having a hard time trying to make an evening meal out of horseflesh.
And it’s going to get a whole lot harder in the next few moments if I have anything to do with it, thought Jacob as he quickly shouldered his rifle.
Boom-boom, went Jacob and Martin’s flintlock rifles in unison. The bear, roaring in pain, left the horses. It stood on its hind legs, turned and started walking towards that which it figured had caused its discomfort.
Martin raced for the stash of extra rifles from the men who tried to rob them last autumn as Jacob stood his ground with his drawn horse pistol. Pow went the handgun in a cloud of white smoke.
This caused the bear to whirl and bite at its flank. Jacob had misplaced his shot in the poor light, and had hit the bear too far back.
Jacob drew his knife and prepared for the worst. He heard boom...boom as Martin shot once from each of the two flintlocks he had brought back to the fight. Both shots hit their marks.
The bear moved slower and forward toward its assailants. It roared with a determination that did not speak well if it managed to get hold of either of its antagonists. As the bear shuffled closer, Jacob smelled the fetid, moist breath and looked at the small but angry-looking red eyes.
Pow went Martin’s horse pistol, this time at close range, with staggering effect.
The bear slowed, lowered its head and then laid down, groaning all the way to the ground. Both men hurriedly reloaded their rifles and shot the bear each once more in the head before it finally expired.
Never had either of them seen a bear take so much killing. However, upon closer examination, the bear turned out not to be a black bear but a grizzly bear—a species they had heard took a tremendous amount of killing but one which neither of them had ever seen before. Grizzlies had originally lived in the Salt Lick, Kentucky area and had been a problem to the farmers. But by the time the boys were of age, they had been all but exterminated.
They carefully examined the carcass and found an old wound in the lower jaw of the bear. It had festered and the animal was in poor condition. Even at that, the bear still weighed at least four hundred pounds.
Jacob leaned against his spent rifle and considered the giant beast. “Martin...”
“Yes, my friend?”
“That is one big bear, and it took quite a bit of killing.”
“That it did,” Martin said.
“I’m beginning to think that our rifles are not the guns we need for what lays ahead in the West. What we got is for smaller game like elk, deer and black bear. But where we are going, there’s the mighty buffalo, the huge-bodied moose and beasts like this grizzly bear. Or so the traders keep telling us. These guns, they just won’t do in the Trans-Mississippi.”
“I agree. Our friend the grizzly has given me doubts about our flintlocks, too. They’ve served us well so far. But only so far.” Martin and Jacob stared more at the grizzly laying in a heap, lifeless teeth still snarling in death. It was as though the grizzly was telling them of the immense power of the western wilderness and its vicious unconcern for human life.
Then Jacob broke the silence. “Martin, when we get to St. Louis, we need to get better rifles with bigger bores if we’re to survive. I also think we also better get newer pistols and two apiece if we can afford them.”
Martin didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Neither man slept very well that balmy Illinois spring night and every rifle and pistol they possessed was loaded and “ready for bear,” in a manner of speaking.
Days later, as the two men and their horses plodded along the forested trail leading to St. Louis, they heard a loud, unknown sound. Whoo-whoo-whoo went the new sound thundering through the trees. It scared the hell out of the horses as they almost ran off with the men. If the two of them hadn’t been alert and hanging tightly onto the reins and sitting well in their saddles, they would have ended up on the ground. Thanks to the hoards of mosquitoes causing them fits, they were alert and when the great noise went off again, this time they were ready and the horses held.
As they continued towards the strange sound, log cabins began dotting the landscape more frequently. Soon, the silhouette of a town could be seen through the trees on a high bluff in the distance, and beyond that, a wide, slow-flowing river.
“The Mississippi River!” they both shouted.
Both men kicked their horses in the flanks and picked up the pace to see what they had ridden so far to see all these many months through bad weather and wild times.
Riding into the town of Wiggins Ferry, they were greeted by streets of mud, garbage, piles of horse manure, hoards of people, scampering barking dogs, and hogs running loose. With all that came a constant din of sounds. Huge paddle wheelers, the first steamboats the boys had ever seen, quietly belched smoke while tied to a cobblestone levee along the Mississ
ippi River below the town.
As for the Mississippi River itself, the boys had never seen such a thing
“Martin, look at that river. It’s huge!” Jacob said.
“It ain’t no creek by a long shot,” Martin replied.
“You sure are right about that. It’s easy to see why people back in Kentucky said it was so big one could not even shoot across it. A long shot indeed.”
Looking down the street on which they were riding, they observed filthy mud huts and log cabins jammed side to side alongside many places of business. They found the ferry dock, and took one of Samuel Wiggins’ ferries across the river with several other travelers, for a considerable price. On the Missouri side of the great river, the passengers trampled off in a chaotic group, Jacob and Martin included.
So this is St. Louis, Jacob thought. Martin, too, stood agog at all the activity, the businesses, the warehouses, the heavy wagons, the merchants and traders and steamboaters and river workers and painted ladies and teamsters and coopers and porters and...and everything.
Then they saw the homes that were brightly painted and so beautiful, it made both of them shake their heads in wonder.
There were white people, people who were black—the first they had ever seen—and dozens of gaily clad Indians from unknown tribes everywhere.
Oxen teams led by swearing teamsters and cracking bullwhips crowded the streets; all with creaking, straining wagons loaded with merchandise from the boat docks. Then they observed dozens of men with black skins hauling great loads of boxes and sacks on their shoulders to the places of business and warehouses dotting the streets. That was followed by more kids, barking dogs and ladies wearing brightly colored dresses—all muddy on the bottoms because of the unkempt streets.
