Colter's Winter

by Greg Strandberg

  Wolf Calf took the items even though he didn’t really want them. He wanted horses and guns, and maybe some whiskey for his father, but he knew the whites weren’t likely to part with those. Still, he took the trinkets offered him and passed them back for the others to look at.

  “We’ve been out for three days and need to return to our village tomorrow,” Wolf Calf said once Joseph was back near his brother. “May we camp here for the night?”

  George translated and Lewis nodded immediately. “Yes, by all means, yes! Tell them that we’re eager to trade with them, just as we’ve been trading with their counterparts, the Nez Perce, Shoshone, and Kootenai.”

  “Sir, I’m not sure you want to say all that,” George said, “the Blackfeet –”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Lewis said with a laugh. “Tell them, will you.”

  George frowned, but did as he was asked. He’d known from the reactions upon hearing the tribal names from Lewis, however, that the news wouldn’t be received well. And it wasn’t. There were mutterings from the other braves and Wolf Calf had to turn around and silence them. When he turned back, it was with a business-like smile.

  “We appreciate the hospitality and also the gifts,” he said, “but what we’d really like to trade for are horses and maybe even a few of your guns.” Behind him, Calf Looking couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He never would have had the gall to ask the whites for those things, but then he supposed that’s why Wolf Calf was the leader of the Skunk Band in all but name and he wasn’t even much of a follower of his own band.

  George translated the boy’s words and Lewis looked on for several moments before answering. Finally he spoke. “We’re just four men in a much larger party,” he said, “and we don’t have enough of either horses or guns to trade at this time. If you meet us closer to the Mandan Villages, however, we could probably come to an arrangement.”

  The Mandan Villages, Wolf Calf thought after George translated the words, the dogs! Instead of saying that he smiled and said what the whites wanted to hear. “We’ll tell that good news to the elders and chiefs of our tribe.”

  “Wonderful!” Lewis said after George translated, and the two groups settled in to making camp for the night.

  ~~~

  The last dying embers of the whites’ campfire crackled and popped, and Wolf Calf knew it was time. For hours now there’d been silence from the three sleeping men while the sentry hadn’t move in a good hour. It was time, and Wolf Calf got up to tell the others.

  It was clear from the conversations they’d had while gambling that the whites were trouble. The fact that they were trading with whatever tribes they came across showed that they knew nothing of the politics of the land. The Shoshone were weak, and always had been, so why would the whites want to give them guns? And the Kootenai? Wolf Calf had to suppress a laugh when he thought of that tribe handling a gun. Most likely the first brave would point the barrel at his head and pull the trigger. He smiled in spite of himself – maybe giving the Kootenai guns wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Within moments Wolf Calf had all the members of the band up and ready. All knew the plan, for they’d discussed it before bedding down. Even Calf Looking had been silenced, mainly because of how the gambling had gone. Everyone knew that you couldn’t beat a Blackfoot at a game of dice, though it seemed the whites didn’t. And then to have the audacity to only pay out in beads and fishhooks and buttons? Wolf Calf still wondered how he’d been able to stay his dagger from biting into one of the whites’ throats over that insult. Alas, the whites would pay, and they’d do that as they should have all along, with their horses. Wolf Calf meant to take those horses, but he wasn’t greedy and would only take his fair share. The whites would still have five to get back to the Mandan dogs with, while his father would have sixteen more to his name. With that kind of collateral, there was no way anyone would be able to challenge him for the title of chief, once He Who Shouts finally did them all a favor and wandered off into the wilderness to die.

  Wolf Calf looked over at the others. He’d given Looking Calf his gun, for he’d never been that good of a shot with it at night. They and two others would go for the majority of the horses while Sidehill Calf and the rest of the braves would go after the rifles, and cause a diversion with them if need be. Wolf Calf knew that if the whites heard a few gunshots go off in the night, they’d likely jump down into the nearest hole they could find, and that meant they wouldn’t be going after the horses. The other braves would slowly slip away into the night, providing cover fire if need be until the last was finally gone. The whites wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.

  ~~~

  Joseph Field was dreaming of St. Louis, and the brothels the city held. He was well-known in them, and loved. Few, after all, could match his deep pockets, pockets that bulged with the proceeds of his vast fur trading empire. As usual, the choicest women were falling all over themselves before he’d even gotten fully into the door. One, the most beautiful and voluptuous brunette that Joseph had ever seen, came up to him, and started to reach out for his rifle. Joseph’s eyes narrowed. This isn’t right...

  …Joseph awoke from his dream of St. Louis and the wonders it held, and at just the right moment – there beside him was a young Blackfoot Indian, his hand but inches from Joseph’s rifle.

  Joseph didn’t think – he didn’t have to. His right hand shot out to grab the rifle, just as the Indian boy’s hand had reached it as well. Joseph pushed down, keeping the loaded rifle down on the ground while at the same time reaching over with his left hand to the large knife that was fastened there. With a quick flip of the thumb he had its latch undone and the blade up and out. One swift motion brought it over his body and toward the Indian’s. Whether the Blackfoot saw the approaching knife or not, Joseph didn’t know, but it was soon entering into the Indian’s side.

  Sidehill Calf had indeed seen the knife coming his way, but he’d been too slow to react. The blade bit into his side, deeply, and the young brave was suddenly feeling faint and like he might just blow over should a breeze start up. He tried to get up, but the white whose gun he’d been trying to steal did so first, and was quickly bounding away. Sidehill Calf tried to rise and do the same, but for some reason, his legs wouldn’t listen. His eyes were growing heavy as well, and he figured if he just laid down for a few moments…everything would be alright. He did so, and the blackness took him.

  ~~~

  George awoke from the blackness of sleep with a start – something wasn’t right. It took but a moment for him to know what, too. He bounced up off his bedroll, for the horses were whinnying and stomping and that could only mean one thing – the Blackfeet were stealing them.

  He bounded out of the tent and was happy to see Joseph and Reuben doing the same nearby. A moment later the captain appeared from his, his McCormick pistol in his hand. His arm shot out into the black night, and George looked over.

  “There!” the Captain shouted, and George could see the faint forms of the boys in the moonlight. Sure enough, they were already riding off with some of the animals. He started off at a run, just as Captain Lewis did the same, the Field brothers too.

  Lewis sped after two of the Indian boys that were astride some of their horses, and leading quite a few of the others behind them. “Stop!” he shouted, both in English and Mandan and even a few other tribal languages he’d picked up along the way. Nothing seemed to work.

  Ahead of Lewis, Wolf Calf turned around. It was he and Calf Looking that’d gone to the horses, hoping the other braves would cause the diversion needed for them to get away. So far three of the whites seemed to have taken the bait, but the last one hadn’t. Worse, the young Blackfoot saw, the man had a small gun in his hand and was waving it above his head. He motioned for Calf Looking to take a look. The other mounted Blackfoot looked back, and as he did so, he brought up his musket. It was an old thing, a relic of the tribe really, but it worked…sort of, and if you were lucky. It worked best at dissuading others from attacking or even thi
nking of attacking, and Calf Looking was sure it’d do that now too.

  Captain Lewis saw the young Indian turn about and look at him, then motion to the boy at his side. That Blackfoot was armed, and though it was one of the oldest and most decrepit British flintlock muskets he’d seen in some time, he wasn’t going to take the chance to see if the thing still fired or not. As the young boy turned about, Lewis brought up his pistol, took aim, and fired.

  BOOM!

  “Ugh!” Calf Looking grunted, then slumped slightly on the back of his horse. Wolf Calf looked over and his eyes went wide – his companion was clasping his hand over his stomach, blood running through his fingers.

  Calf Looking looked up at Wolf Calf, his eyes wide and full of shock. “Wolf Calf…” he said, then began to slump over.

  Wolf Calf kicked his horse and was right there beside Calf Looking, pulling him over onto his own mount. He kicked and shooed the other horses away, for this round of horse thieving had suddenly gone terribly wrong. The animals broke off their run and started to stand still, blocking the route the whites were taking behind them, and allowing the young brave to ride off with his wounded companion seated behind him. Seeing what had occurred, the other members of the Skunk Band also fled off into the night.

  Lewis chased them another dozen yards, then let off as it became clear the Indians were going to get away. He started back toward the horses, and George who was rounding them up.

  “I shot one, George,” Lewis said as soon as he reached the half-Shawnee scout, “I shot one right in the stomach.”

  George gave his captain a hard look, then nodded. “What else could you do?”

  Lewis shook his head. “It’s not what I wanted to do, George, not what I wanted to do at all.”

  George nodded, was about to offer some words of consolation, when the Field brothers appeared.

  “Got one,” Joseph said as he approached, “got one in the stomach with my knife, just when his hands were inches from my gun.”

  “Did he get away?” Lewis said, hoping he had, like the one he’d shot had. Their diplomatic mission had just turned into a debacle, Lewis knew. By wounding at least one Indian, and now two, Lewis had virtually guaranteed that the already hostile Blackfoot wouldn’t likely deal with Americans in the future, at least not peacefully. In the space of just one night, years of work had gone down the drain…or had it? When Joseph shook his head, however, signaling that the Indian he’d stabbed was indeed dead, Lewis knew that it had.

  The men looked to their captain, waiting for word on what to do. They were in a tight spot, just the four of them, and out in the middle of Blackfeet lands. Sergeants Ordway and Gass were still out there, too, though miles and miles to the east. Because of this incident, however, they could be in danger, especially if the Blackfeet decided to go on the warpath. No, Lewis knew, the only thing left to them now was to get on their horses and ride the hell out of there.

  He looked over at George and the Field brothers. “Gather the horses and get packed up – we’re riding out of here and we’re not stopping until we reach the others at the Marias River.”

  The men nodded, and set about gathering the horses and their things. Lewis wandered over to the dead Indian while they were doing so. He shook his head when he reached him. Just a boy, he thought, just a boy with his whole life ahead of him. A thought came to the captain, and he reached into his jacket. There was still a small medal there, a trade trinket, but one that he remembered the Indians had been interested in. Lewis took it own and bent down, placing it on the body. It was just a small gesture, but perhaps the other Blackfeet would take it for what it was, an apology.

  Within ten minutes they were riding away.

  ~~~

  Wolf Calf waited until the whites were well away before he rode back to the campsite. There he saw Sidehill Calf’s body and he dismounted. He shook his head when he saw his friend, then narrowed his eyes. Was that…yes, it was…one of the shiny medals the whites had had. Wolf Calf bent down and picked it up, then frowned. The whites thought they could dishonor Sidehill Calf in death, putting their religious symbols on him. It was an insult, a high insult, just as though they’d scalped him.

  Wolf Calf took the medal and flung it into the nearby river. Then he set to work. It was hard work for the 13-year old, but the young Blackfoot got the young brave’s body up on the horse. It’d be a long walk back to the Skunk Band’s encampment along the main river, but they’d walk it and get back in a day, maybe two. It all depended on how much Calf Looking could walk on his own. At least they still had one horse, and if nothing else, a travois could be fashioned for Sidehill Calf’s body. Usually Wolf Calf wouldn’t care too much about his dead, but in this case the rest of the tribe would need to see the body.

  He made it back to the bottom of the ridge, where the others were gathered. As soon as he reached them, however, he knew that something was wrong.

  “How is he?” Wolf Calf said right away, but his words were only met by shaken heads. A few more steps brought the brave close enough to see Calf Looking, the brave’s eyes wide and unseeing and staring straight up to where the Sky People lived. He was with them now, Wolf Calf knew, with them and happy.

  Some who wouldn’t be happy were the whites, Wolf Calf vowed. He’d remember them, remember what they looked like, remember what they were wearing. The yellow head-cloth the half-Shawnee had been wearing stood out in his mind most of all.

  Part I – Into the Wilderness

  1 – The Outfit

  John Colter stared out at the late-spring landscape and smiled. He was heading back upriver, into the wilderness…where he belonged. To think, just a couple weeks before he’d been heading to St. Louis, ready to join civilization. That was all behind him now and for at least one more season he’d be where few white men had gone before.

  For Colter, it’d be the third such season in a row. The first had been at Fort Mandan on the Missouri in 1804-5; next had been Fort Clatsop on the Pacific over the winter of 1805-6; and after that it’d been trudging through the snow for a time with Forest and Joe before he went out on his own. That’d been 1806-7 and now here it was, June 1807. That meant he’d be up at the three forks of the Missouri for the winter of 1807-8, unless Manuel got something else into his mind. Colter looked over at the Spaniard, who was nibbling on a quill pen while staring into an account book with those black, beady eyes, and he suspected that would probably be the case. Will the winter of 1808-9 be any different? Colter thought to himself, a full five years after Captain Lewis had first offered him the rank of private at $5 a month?

  “That looks like a man that’s thinking he’s made a mistake,” Colter heard a voice say from behind him. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know it was George Drouillard, the half-Shawnee, half-French-Canadian scout that’d accompanied him for three years on the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

  “Mistake? No,” Colter said. “It’s just…”

  “Just that you’re wondering what you could be missing, there in St. Louis.”

  “Or at the Bank of St. Louis on Merchant Street, where my $299.871/2 from the expedition is.”

  “Ha!” George laughed. “You’ve got it calculated out and all, even with the interest, don’t you?” He laughed again. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that much money if you had it, John!”

  Colter frowned. George was probably right – he hadn’t used money since that last thing he’d bought in St. Louis in May 1803, a new comb. He wondered if that shop was still there. The way the men had made it sound over the past couple weeks, the city had grown so much he wouldn’t recognize it. In another year, he promised himself, in another year I’ll see it again.

  George walked off after that, along the gunwale of the boat. There were three boats in all, two of the same length and one that was longer and wider and full of most of their goods. The first boat was more than fifty feet long and eight feet across. Behind it came the long keelboat, seventy-five feet long in fact, and eighteen feet
wide. Behind it was the third boat, the same proportions as the first. The keel boats were long and wide and difficult to get up the river. The Missouri was flowing toward the Mississippi, which itself flowed toward the Gulf of Mexico down near New Orleans, and that meant the men had a hard time getting the boats upriver to the Upper Missouri where the best fur trapping was. They managed it, at quite the slow pace against the four mile an hour current, and did so in three main ways.

  First was cordelling, which involved ten or twenty men walking alongside the boat on the shore, pulling it with ropes. Next was warping, which had a few men row up in a small rowboat so that a rope could be tied to a tree, attached to the keelboat, and then the men would pull it forward through the current. Then there was poling, which had the men stand on the boats with long poles, pushing off the bottom of the river so the boat moved forward. After that there was rowing, which was the most hated method, and involved the men paddling against the current, making little headway most of the time it seemed. Finally there was sailing, which was the rarest of all keelboat travel, but came up every once in awhile when the wind was right and the boats could move along with it. Colter had done them all with the Captains, and each had their drawbacks. With cordelling you had to walk through the thick brush along shore, and sometimes in the muck and over rocks, always looking over your shoulder, wondering if an Indian might attack. Warping often left your arms feeling like they’d come out of their sockets, so much pulling on the boat was there. Poling did the shoulders in while rowing just created resentment at the one who’d ordered it. Even sailing had its drawbacks, such as when the boat suddenly veered off into an eddy or a shoal or even the bank. It was hard work, and that’s why Manuel had so many men with him, just to transport the goods they’d need to make it a winter in the wilderness.