The Adventures Of The Brothers Dent (The Mountain Men Book 3)

by Terry Grosz

  Satisfied with their day’s work and ten large “blanket-sized” beaver pelts to show for their initial efforts, the two men headed back to their cabin. However, Al led them home by a different route thereby by confusing any trailing Indian as to their cabin’s location. Arriving later in the afternoon, they discovered the others had since returned and were busy fleshing out and hooping on willow branches their day’s harvest. Al took the time to show Gabe how to do the same. Since the other men were now finished with their work, they commenced building a fire and preparing for their evening meal while Al and Gabe attended to their beaver skinning and hooping detail.

  For the next two weeks, the men continued their frantic trapping activity as the beaver bounty began slowly stacking up and filling their cabin. Then one day, Al advised that Gabe was more than ready to begin trapping on his own. Jim, looking back at his brother, said that so was Josh. From that day forward, the Brothers Dent began trapping on the Musselshell by themselves. Jim would once again rejoin his brother as a partner and the three trapping teams were now all working smoothly together as the Mountain Men they were.

  After two months of constant trapping and learning the ways of Mountain Men, the Dent Brothers were more than ready to take on whatever the frontier had to throw at them. Since their arrival, they had quickly learned what they didn’t know about the frontier from the others in their party. They had quickly honed their tracking and trapping skills, not to mention becoming better horsemen, no matter the type or ruggedness of the terrain. They had learned how to read the weather from Jim’s teachings and their following experiences. Other survival skills learned included where to shoot a large-bodied moose or buffalo in order to make one-shot kills, which saved precious lead and powder and avoided unwanted attention from the Indians from all the extra shooting. Also learned were which plants to be collected for their edible tubers or roots and which plants to use for medicinal purposes. They learned how to use set lines for locally abundant cutthroat trout for a welcome change in diet, the proper way to flesh out beaver and otter pelts, and even better care of their livestock in such rough surroundings. The Dent Brothers in return, being the better cooks, did most of the cooking. They were also skilled farriers and shoed all the group’s livestock when shoes were thrown. Additionally, their stints as apprentice blacksmiths and gunsmiths back in St. Louis with Jensen Sutta helped with those associated chores for the group of men as well. Yes, their parents would have been right proud of what their boys had become. Their mom would have even made them one of her famous, “melt-in-your-mouth” pies for the capable, hardworking young men they had become. That was, had she lived...

  One late fall afternoon as the Dent Brothers rode into camp, the others looked up and, as a group, began to howl loudly.

  “What the hell is the matter with you guys?” asked Gabe with his characteristic grin.

  “Have the two of you stopped to look at yourselves?” asked One-Shot with a smile.

  Taking a close look at each other, the Dents began to laugh as well. The store-bought clothes they were wearing were on their last legs and both boys looked like ragbags. Like Jim had advised earlier in their relationship, store-bought clothing might look nice in civilization but sure as hell did not have its place out there in the wilderness, especially with all its poking sticks, numerous, clothes-grabbing branches, briars, and general rough frontier wear-and-tear.

  After supper that evening, both boys took from storage some of the tanned elk hides Jim had purchased earlier at Fort Raymond. With One-Shot’s help—he had been a tailor as a boy in his native New York City—they began cutting out patterns for their large carcasses for loose-fitting, easy pullover buckskin shirts. Jim, being a cobbler before he became a Mountain Man, began making his specialized style of moccasins from a tanned, bull buffalo hide. As the boys cut and sewed together their shirts, Jim cut a piece of leather from the shoulder area of one of his tanned, winter-killed, buffalo hides. Since the hide was thicker from that body area and somewhat heavier when taken during the winter months, he had each Dent stand on the piece of hide as he measured and cut out a sole for each man’s feet. Then, Jim expertly sewed a softer piece of tanned elk leather as uppers on the stiffer sole. Soon, the Dents had pairs of some of the finest-made moccasins on the frontier, thanks to Jim’s leather- working skills learned as a boy. The Dents still had several pairs of new blue-colored wool pants in their stocks from civilization. Since wool was warmer and dried more quickly after they had been wading around trapping beaver, they decided to stay with those pants until they wore out instead of trading out for buckskin pants as well at that time. However, once the store-bought pants gave out, they would change into a full buckskin outfit at that time.

  Upon hearing that decision, Jim issued another friendly warning. “Boys, I agree with your decision to go to full buckskins when the time is right. But, I would not advise that you pattern them exactly after what the Indians wear. It is considered in bad form by all the Indians and many Mountain Men fer a white man to dress exactly like an Indian. Jest thought I would mention it,” said Jim with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Two days later after putting fringe along the sleeves and shoulders of their new buckskin shirts, unlike the Indians wore, the boys, except for the bright, new buckskin leather-color look, finally looked the part of a Mountain Man. After several more months of snot, smoke, blood, dirt, and grease stains, they then really looked and smelled the part of their compatriots!

  ***

  Weeks later, Josh looked up in concern from his trap set in a large, beaver-rich pond and said, “Damn, Gabe. This here trap is as empty as my stomach. It looks like it has been sprung but sure as shootin’, it is as empty as all get-out.”

  Realizing a fast-approaching, late October storm coming from the northwest was continuing to push dark menacing clouds over their location, portending a wet, maybe snowy afternoon, Josh hurriedly scented his lure stick, reset his trap and swirled muddy water over the metal pan concealing it from the sharp- eyed beaver. With that and the unusual “sprung empty trap” mystery still hanging heavily on Josh’s mind, they moved on to Josh’s next trap site along a small feeder stream strewn with freshly chewed willow branches. That trap was also empty and the area around the site showed that a beaver had been caught and had struggled in the trap!

  “Damn, Gabe, another empty one. What the hell is going on?” said Josh with a concerned look now flooding across his weathered face as his practiced eyes quickly swept the surrounding area for any signs of danger.

  “Don’t know, Brother, but you best keep moving afore this storm opens up and dumps a gut full of water on us in the form of cold rain or snow.”

  “That is alright. I only have one more trap to go and then we will be done,” said Josh as he once again reset his trap in the beaver-rich area and then mounted his horse. A short ride later, Josh dismounted and walked over to a set he had made at the end of an otter and beaver slide. That trap had been sprung and was empty as well!

  Saying nothing, Josh began carefully scanning the ground around the trap site. Then he saw it! A faint moccasin print alongside a partial knee print where an Indian had discovered the trap’s contents and had emptied it!

  “Gabe, we have a problem,” said Josh as he quickly stood up and began looking all around as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment by a horde of howling Indians. Seeing no immediate danger, his eyes went back to the soft earth as if to confirm what he had just observed. The partial moccasin and knee prints had not disappeared. They were still ominously there...

  “There is a partial moccasin print and a knee print where some Indian discovered my trap and emptied it, Gabe. We have Indian trap robbers in our midst and Blackfeet would be my guess,” said Josh with a serious look of concern crossing his face.

  Just then, a snowflake swirled lazily down from the darkening sky and landed wetly on Josh’s nose. Ignoring the inclement weather soon to be, he continued looking around as if expecting to see his trap-robbing cul
prit peering out from behind a tree. Seeing nothing of the sort, Josh hurriedly reset his trap, swirled the muddy water over the pan for camouflage and then stepped away from the set. Walking over to a Douglas fir, he broke off a green branch and brushed its needles over the ground by his trap site, hiding all signs of a human’s presence. Carefully throwing the tree branch in the brush so it would not be discovered, he mounted his horse as Gabe continued intently scanning the area looking for any signs of danger. With the last trap site brushed clean of any human tracks, we will see for sure who is robbing my traps tomorrow, grimly thought Josh.

  “Let’s head back with what we have and let the others know of our discovery,” said a now very grim-faced Josh. As he kicked his buckskin in its sides to move on, he knew what was coming next. Especially if in fact he had a trap robber in country. His thoughts were as dark relative to that eventuality as was the now-oncoming winter snowstorm...

  Leaving their whole beaver carcasses from Gabe’s sets swinging on their pack animal, the Dents turned and headed back a different way for their cabin before the snowstorm arrived in all its fury. Several hours later, they arrived back at their cabin amidst a swirling, wet, October snowstorm. Unloading their pack animal of its beaver carcasses under the cabin roof overhang, Gabe removed the saddles and tack from the animals. Hanging them over a log rail under a lean-to to dry, he quickly curried the animals and then let them loose to run with their other hobbled stock in the nearby meadow so they could feed.

  Stepping out from the cabin, Jim’s eyes were drawn to Josh and Gabe’s serious looks of concern. Then he spotted the pile of fresh beaver carcasses under the cabin roof’s overhang.

  “You boys run into some trouble?” asked Jim casually.

  “Sure did,” said Josh, as he brushed the snow from his buffalo cape. “Got a trap robber in the valley and from the looks of it, it is an Indian. Blackfoot most likely,” he continued as he began skinning out a beaver carcass.

  “Wagh!” said Jim with a look of concern now flooding across his face as well. “Whereabouts?” he asked.

  “Up on the north end of our valley by that rocky point overlooking the huge beaver pond,” said Josh.

  Sitting down on a workbench under the porch overhang, Jim began skinning out one of the beavers from the pile the boys had brought in. Then, the rest of the trappers emerged from their cabin and without a word jumped in and helped the Dents skin out their beaver. In so doing, they boned out all the beavers’ ham meat to go along with a cooking pot full of beans being prepared for their evening’s supper.

  ***

  After supper as the men sat around in their cabin listening to the first winter winds of the year howl around the corners, Jim said, “What be your plans fer the morrow, Josh?”

  “Me and Gabe plan on getting out early and see if we can ambush our trap robber. If we can, we plan on killing him and leaving his remains for the critters,” quietly replied Josh.

  “If that be the case, do you boys want an old basterd along fer company?” asked Jim as the rest of their partners waited on in interest for Josh’s answer.

  “No help needed, Jim. The two of us kin kill our own snakes. If we kin catch the red devil in the act of trap robbin’, we will kill him and drag his carcass off to where it will not be found, ’cept by a hungry griz or a pack of wolves. And if he is one of ‘our kind,’ he will at least get the honor of seeing his Maker just before he is killed,” said Josh slowly. “Then Mother Nature can do her work and cover up the remains with a fresh blanket of snow,” continued Josh slowly as Gabe nodded in stem-faced agreement. The rest of the evening was spent by the men smoking their pipes, sharpening their knives and casting a small mountain of lead balls. The way of the frontier was that no man ever stole another man’s horse, took his rifle or robbed his traps of his livelihood. To the Mountain Man’s way of thinking and creed, those were killing actions. And the quicker they were carried out, the better...

  The next morning before daylight under a crisp, full moon, Josh and Gabe sat coldly on their horses overlooking several trap sites in the valley below full of streams and beaver ponds. Shadows danced in the cool northern breezes as the scene below was bathed in the silvery light of a late-month full moon. Across the snowfield below silently flitted a small group of cow elk followed by a large six-point bull still in the rut. Moments later, a pack of eight gray wolves, silent as ghosts, trod the same ground with their noses closely following the recently made elk tracks. Then nothing else moved but the wind playing tag with the shadows. All of which was punctuated by cottonwood trees still with leaves, getting rid of them in the cold morning air, accompanied by soft rustling sounds. Then more cold seeped into the bones of the Dent Brothers as their horses stood motionless in their heavy winter coats under the silvery moonlight.

  Then there it was! Far below in the valley out from a dense stand of pines, slowly moved three Indians on their horses as they trailed a lone packhorse. Stopping at the last trap site Josh had set the evening before, one rider dismounted, waded out into the cold waters and retrieved a large dark form. Even clear up where the Dent Brothers quietly sat on their horses hidden at the edge of a tree line, they could hear the faint rustling of the trap chain in the cold, crisp morning air. The Indian trap robber hastily emptied the trap, quickly walked out of the water, and tied a dark form taken from the trap onto their packhorse. Then the trap robber mounted up, in typical Indian fashion, in one fluid motion onto the back of his horse. The three braves quietly continued downstream to the next trap site and repeated the same trap-robbing ritual. Soon, they had not only emptied all of Josh’s previously set traps, but began taking trapped animals from Gabe’s trap line as well! It was apparent to the two motionless trappers watching the drama unfolding below that these Indians obviously had been watching the Dents days earlier from concealment and had learned the location of each man’s trap site for raiding later.

  Kneeling down and grabbing the next of Gabe’s trap chains by the stake, Lame Deer, South Piegan of the Blackfoot Nation, pulled hard as he felt a heavy weight on the end. Lifting up a heavy beaver, he smiled and then waved at his two brethren on their horses as they remained vigilantly on guard. Releasing the dead beaver from the trap, he staggered out of the water under the weight of the very large, adult animal and tied it alongside the others on his packhorse. That made nine of the beautifully furred creatures he had taken that morning. With a smile of realization at what they would bring when traded to a Hudson’s Bay fur trader, he leapt easily up onto his horse.

  Then the three men made their way to the next trap site. Stepping deftly off his horse at the next trap site and mindful that they had to move fast before the Mountain Men arrived to check their trap lines, Lame Deer trotted in the snow on almost ice water-deadened feet and legs to the water’s edge. Stepping off into the freezing water once again, he walked out to the stake, reached down and grabbed the trap chain. This time there was movement in his hand and quickly jerking out his tomahawk, he struck downward just as the head of a very large and alive river otter tried to attack. Whump! went the tomahawk and soon the river otter wiggled no more. Holding up his prize for the others to see, Lame Deer removed the otter carcass from the trap and threw it up onto the bank. Struggling out from the freezing water and deep icy cold mud, he slipped and fell against the bank. Laughing at his clumsiness, he lurched back up onto the bank, grabbed the otter, and once again hurriedly tied the animal off onto his packhorse. As he did, he enjoyed the body warmth from the animal on his cold-numbed fingers and hands.

  Once again, Lame Deer leapt gracefully from the ground up onto his horse. Boom! went the loud report of Josh’s 1803 musket in the cold morning air! Its speeding .52-caliber ball caught Lame Deer dead center in his chest with a loud, bone-crunching whack! The closeness of the shooter and the heaviness of the soft lead ball exploding in his chest propelled Lame Deer off his horse and into the snow with a soft crump. He no longer needed the body warmth from a stolen river otter to warm his hands
or fingers... That report was quickly followed by the loud roar of another rifle close at hand. Lame Deer’s brother, Black Elk Running, felt the searing pain of another .52-caliber ball for a microsecond striking into his guts after glancing off his saddle horn. The soft lead ball, now in a greatly expanded state after glancing off the saddle horn, tore a large hole clear through the man’s belly and blew out a section of his spine! As Black Elk Running’s horse reared in panic at the closeness of the rifle’s report, he was bucked off causing him to land squarely on top of his brother’s now cooling body. Upon hearing the two close- at-hand explosions and realizing the nearness of his mortality, Curly Bear, the sole remaining Piegan, began his death song as he kicked his horse in its flanks in panic. Pow-pow! went two close-at-hand pistol shots, shooting deadly combinations of buck and ball. Numerous lead balls sped into Curly Bear’s insides as well as breaking his left arm. His horse, feeling the harsh kicks on his flanks, sped away in a flying spray of snow. Sensing the searing pain from numerous hits, Curly Bear tried to stay in the saddle as his horse raced away from the danger of the ambush. However, the roaring sounds in his ears and the weakness in his still-remaining good hand holding the reins told him the Cloud People were close at hand...

  Then Curly Bear pitched off his horse and onto the almost- frozen ground with a hard crump. Still barely alive when he slipped from his saddle, the violent fall from his speeding horse snapped his neck upon impact, ending his worldly pain. Yes, he was closer than he realized to his ancestors, the Cloud People...