West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  Chapter 25

  I have no idea how I cling to the saddle, but realize I’m being pulled to the ground and almost panic thinking I’m back in the hands of the Crow…when I recognize it’s Ian.

  “Let’s get you inside,” he says, and half carries, half drags me to the skins covering the opening to our soddy. It’s strange as there’s a fire in what passes for a hearth for us, yet I’m still cold to the bone. Then my hands and feet begin to pain me even more than the poke and bat wounds as he pushes me down onto a bed of buff skins.

  “I hope you ain’t frost bit,” Ian manages, then adds, “I got a stew going.”

  “Sleep,” I manage.

  “Hell, you was sleepin’ in the saddle,” he says. “What the hell happened to you? You get catched up in a buffalo stampede?”

  “Crows happened to me.”

  “They get away with the stock?”

  “No, sir. God willin’ the Lakota have the stock and should they be as honest as they done proved to be, Falls-From-Sky and Sheo will be along with our critters, first break in the weather. I do believe I’ll have a peach can full of that stew, then a little nap for two or three days.”

  He laughs. “Stew coming up.” Then he flashes me a worried glance. “Them Crow didn’t track you here, I don’t suppose.”

  “I don’t suppose. They were hotfootin’ it across the Big Mo with Many-Dogs and his boys close behind, last I saw of them.”

  “Let’s hope they keep a’goin’. Anything I can do for all them holes in you?”

  “Keep the critters from eatin’ me while I sleep, and heal.”

  “You’re too damn ugly to eat.”

  “No argument. Stew?”

  And I do sleep until after dawn. I awake wondering if the mountain hasn’t fallen down on me, but realize as I shove off the buff skins Ian has covered me with that it is just the weight on all those cuts and bruises I am feeling…that, and my head still beats like an Indian drum.

  I can see daylight coming through the break in the door skins and a bit of snow on the ground outside, but Ian is nowhere to be found.

  What is left of the stew is still in the iron sink, and near enough to the embers that it’s still warm. I crawl over and dish up another peach can full, down it, then move about trying to stretch the kinks out, but to little avail. I finally just decide it is my lot to ache in every joint and muscle, and fight my way to my feet.

  I slip my head out of the break in the skins to see Ian plopped on a rock near a fire he’s built outside, and he has a buff pelt in his lap, working on something.

  Pushing my way on out I wander over and ease myself down on another rock near the fire. “You taking up sewing?” I ask, as he’s working a leather thong back and forth through holes in the pelts, binding two together.

  “Not a’purpose. I’m buildin’ you a buff skin coat as it’s the only material about other than that thin canvas and as you won’t be worth a damn stacking wood or shooting more buff should you freeze to death. Speaking of that, how’s them fingers and toes?”

  “Still aching a mite, but I don’t believe they’re gonna rot off.”

  “Good, we got lots of work to do. The Emilie should be coming back this way in a week or two…the last trip before the ice starts to keep the boats all downriver. We should have a couple of dozen cords lined up down by the water by then.”

  “How about I heal up a bit more before you set me to working that cross cut saw.”

  “Be my pleasure,” he says, with a wide grin, “so long as we’re at it in a couple of days.”

  “And I thought my old man was a son of a bitch.”

  “Why, Braden McTavish, that’s the first hard word I’ve heard you say about your dear old daddy.”

  “He didn’t build that farm being a mealy mouth. He was a son of a bitch, but he was my son of a bitch and I’m the only one can call him that, God rest his soul.”

  Ian laughs at that. “Well, sir, I didn’t know the gentleman so you’ll not hear me calling him anything but the father of a son of a bitch.” With that, he laughs and slaps his thighs.

  “You get back to your woman’s work. I’m getting cold just setting here and your blabber ain’t warming me a bit.”

  “You won’t be setting long, soon as we get you healed up.”

  “Humph,” I manage, and get to my feet to stumble back to the pallet of hides and the warmth of the soddy.

  I heal enough to get back to work and we do have fifteen cords of wood stacked when the Emilie shows up ten days later. As she’s on a downhill run that takes less than a fifth the time going against the current, she only takes on ten cords but that puts thirty dollars in our poke. And more.

  We add twenty dollars worth of trade coffee, whiskey, salt, and some sow belly and beans to our stores. Not to speak of more lead and powder, a new axe, a crosscut saw, and some tin utensils as well as an Iron frying pan for the kitchen. To keep my word, I trade pelts for two Spencers and the two young braves who’ve been helping us will be the envy of their tribe.

  To my surprise I meet up with Sam, the big strong black who was second engineer on the Eagle and my former boss. I’m truly happy to see him and to learn he’s now employed on the Emilie. As we chat, I can’t help but ask about Pearl and Madam Allenthorpe, and he informs me that a saloon and opera house is under construction in Fort Benton, begun the day after the Emilie arrived. It seems the Madam and her new partner, who’s to run the saloon, don’t waste any time. And her new partner is not Pearl, but the gambler with the gold tooth, Chance O’Galliger. I feel some heat in my backbone as I remember how O’Galliger’s gaze swept up and down Pearl’s willowy frame more than one time. I turn my thoughts elsewhere as the Emilie steams away downriver.

  We’ve only seen a few buffalo since I’ve returned from the Crow fight and the Lakota camp, and even though the weather’s been decent and there’s still no snow holding onto the land, Falls-From-Sky and Sheo have not returned with our stock, or ready to go to work as I’d hoped.

  I hope even more that they’ve not ridden off to somewhere over the distant mountains, and taken my stock with them. As it is we’ve only my sorrel and Ian’s gray in camp.

  But I don’t have long to worry on it as before the sun’s fully up on the fifteenth morning of my return, the ground begins to rumble again.

  By the time the dust settles, the last buffalo has past, and the sun is low in the western sky we have twenty-two buffalo cows on the ground. We’ve learned that cow hides are easier to harvest and less damaged by fighting. And are easily stripped away using the percherons to pull.

  Shamus, Falls-From-Sky, Sheo and Pretty Cloud rest at our campfire, the Lakota having followed the buff herd. And my stock—three percherons, four mules, and a buckskin saddle horse—are grazing the hillside up above the soddy with nearly a dozen Lakota mustangs. Another half dozen Lakota are camped up above the little hot spring.

  We have enough meat in our cache to last a long winter, a pile of hides beginning to rise high, enough bones and waste to bait wolves for a month or more, and Many-Dogs has taught me the art of hunting beaver. Not trapping, but hunting. With Shamus adding to the conversation and interpreting, I learn that the beaver must leave their dens late in the winter as they run low of the branches and twigs they feed upon, and can be shot then while working among the trees in the deep snow. And even later, when the moving ice of the thaw in both the river and nearby creeks destroys their dens. Shamus tells me they are not shy of gunfire and at times a half dozen can be shot before they retreat into an ice clogged river or stream.

  We’ve seen no more sign of hostile savages, but with the river frozen over, it’s easily crossed.

  The Lakota pack up and leave well before what I think must be December. I hate to see Pretty Cloud go, not to speak of my many friends, but even though invited by Shamus I’m not ready to take on a woman and start a wilderness family.

  I still have the itch of gold niggling at me. And Pearl. I'm strangely haunted by a woman
I should hate, but can't. And my thoughts of her are not a bit hateful.

  By the time hard winter keeps us deep in our soddy on most days, with only a snow tunnel to the outside, we have over forty wolf hides, seventy-seven buff hides, and a half dozen beaver skins in our cache. The Lakota have retreated to a winter camp somewhere in the distant mountains. Ian and I have managed to tolerate each other in the close quarters, although it’s a true test of friendship.

  Spring is upon us and the snow is dripping from the pines and refreezing in long icicles during the night.

  I know Spring has truly begun when I bolt upright with a sound so thunderous it shakes our soddy. For seconds I think I’m back in the war, and a brace of cannons is raining grape shot and explosive shells down on me, then realize it’s coming from the river. At dawn we push our way out to see an amazing vista. Chunks of ice, many seemingly as big as our McTavish farmhouse, are grinding and heaving their way down river. We watch in wonder as these mammoth sharp-shouldered icebergs fight each other for position. I fear for our stores of wood, only twenty feet above what I thought was the high water mark of the river. But I am wrong as it swells to just within ten feet while mounds of ice scour the banks. A few more feet and we’ll have to race to move them higher…but then it begins to recede. In a week, the giant mountains of ice are reduced to floating barges interspersed with paths of water. Much as I’ve seen many times near our farm.

  When the thaw begins in earnest we go back to cutting and stacking wood—and soon to hunting beaver, mostly afoot. The stock have all survived the winter— making their own way by pawing deeply to graze, except for the cottonwood bark we bring in after each wood cutting expedition. They’ve survived, but I can count their ribs. We keep two of the percheron mares with us and have built a large skid, a sled, that will carry a cord of wood as well as bark feed piled high. In this way, leaving my faithful lead mare, Sadie, with the wandering horses, they return nightly to the hot spring near the river camp where they can water and partake of the cottonwood.

  I’m surprised the wolves haven’t taken any of the horses as, like the stock, the wolves ribs are clearly outlined on bodies with not an observable ounce of fat. It’s been a long hard winter for every living thing.

  Shamus gave me some valuable advice before leaving, and that was to watch a nest in a large cottonwood down near the river’s edge. He said when the fish eagle returns, then you can expect the river to be clear enough for the side wheelers to start up, and we should be ready to sell wood as they labor upstream. And to sell some wood but more hides as they return in two to five week’s time, depending upon their upstream destination.

  And today, an eagle and his mate have returned proving to be excellent fishermen as they hit the river and most always come up with a fish which they adjust in their grip so that it is easily carried against the wind.

  That night, after observing the eagle, which Ian calls an Osprey, he breaks out a line and some bone fishhooks traded from the Lakota, and we enjoy a change of diet, trout fried crisp in sowbelly grease.

  Upriver, between our location and the end of the navigable river at Benton City, a thousand miles from us, are a half dozen forts and the growing trading post and village of Bismarck across from Fort McKeen…and thousands of square miles of wilderness, savages, grizzlies, and God knows what.

  But we’re ready for visitors, with over fifty cords of wood, mostly in four foot lengths for the larger boats, seventy-seven buff hides, now over one hundred wolf hides and nearly that many beaver. By summer we should be ready to head upriver with our saddlebags heavy with gold coin.

  The first boat we wave over is the side wheeler Andrew Jackson, smaller than either the Eagle or the Emilie, but able to take on twenty cords and leave us resupplied with powder and lead, coffee, sowbelly, flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt, and eighty dollars in gold. We gift them a side of buffalo, and make fine friends of the crew. We won’t be able to hold our meat for long anyway as it’s warming up.

  We can see that we’re rapidly going to run out of wood supply, and the next side wheeler, the Anna Mae, takes all but ten cords of our remaining. But she leaves us with a way to quickly restock. Anna Mae’s captain is not happy as during the loading I’ve come across Lukas Eckland, the Swedish lad who survived the sinking of the Eagle and was in camp with us—but badly burned—until he went upriver on the Emilie where I guess he hired on until he joined the Anna Mae. He’s not too pretty, with bad scars on his neck and arm, but he seems to not be impaired when it comes to hard physical work.

  With the offer of two dollars a day guarantee against two dollars for every cord of wood he cuts and stacks, I manage to hire him away. That, and I tell him he can hunt beaver, buff, and wolf in his off time and we’ll split the take with him. And he convinces a friend and fellow deck hand, Lars Ostland, who’s worked as a lumberjack in the past, to join us as well. Lars is an ax handle wide with legs to match the percherons, and an accent so thick I can seldom understand him, but I have no question he’s up to any task. Both have muzzle loaders and we can use the extra firepower, in case the hostiles return…and I’m sure they will.

  Shamus assured me the Crow have long memories.

  Within two days the two enterprising blond boys have built themselves a respectable soddy up against the rock wall, and are ready for hard but profitable labor.

  Soon our wood yard grows by as many as six cords a day. Still leaving me time to hunt wolves and beaver, and I’m sure very soon, buffalo, as they begin to return and cross the river to the rich fields of soon-to-be belly deep meadow grass now greening the low hills at our backs.

  We supplied more than a dozen boats as the weather continues to warm, and the buff have returned with the wolves dogging their tracks. We continue to add to our pelt bundles.

  Every day now, Ian harangues me with our leaving the wood yard to Lucas and Lars and heading for the gold fields. I keep waiting for the return of Shamus and the Lakota, but there’s no sign of them even though the rising and setting sun continues to march northward and the days become sweat hot.

  Finally, I decide our poke is full enough, as we have nearly two thousand dollars apiece, thanks mostly to the sale of wolf hides and beaver pelts that bring us four dollars each, and bargain away the remaining wood and our soddy to our employees. And we gain another hundred each at two dollars a cord, plus fifty dollars each for the gray and the sorrel and two mules. We take the wood money from the pay due them, and agree to leave them our supplies of meat and foodstuffs. They agree to send payment for the horses and mules up river to Benton City to what we’ve learned is Miner’s Bank, newly formed there. Payment is to be made by the end of the season.

  As I watch the approach of a side wheeler, name yet to be determined, I’m a little sad to leave the river camp and our soddy, particularly since I’ve not seen the return of the Lakota, Shamus and Pretty Cloud—but as my mother often told me with her limited Latin, carpe diem, seize the day.

  If I can wave this boat down, and we light a large bonfire as has been our method to do so, and she swings toward our shore, I can see…we’re soon off to the gold fields.

  Chapter 26

  She’s the Glasgow, a double boiler side wheeler of one hundred thirty feet, carrying seventy-seven passengers if you consider only cabin space, with all her cabins occupied, plus another forty or so taking up residence on the various decks. Again it’s the engine deck for Ian and me, and my remaining stock. We still have one saddle horse, a buckskin; two mules; and my three percheron mares. Each of us has nearly two thousand dollars in gold and I’m owed another two hundred for the stock, which I’ve sold too cheaply but Lars and Lucas have become good friends, and my daddy taught me long ago to cut a fair deal, particularly with someone who’s to owe you for the transaction. A fellow who feels cheated is likely to forget his debt. Speaking of daddy, he had years on the several thousand acres of McTavish Farm, years when he, working the family and all our nigras, didn’t clear as much as I’ve made in one winter
.

  Not only are we relegated to the engine deck, but we have to re-arrange freight to make room for the stock, and have to build stalls to contain them. We’re able to arrange crates so they are walled in by wooden boxes on three sides and I only have to construct simple gates to finalize the enclosure. Luckily we had two days worth of graze stowed up at the river camp we could haul aboard. With Bismarck only two or three days upriver in the fast Glasgow, I’m sure I’ll be able to buy grain and meadow grass hay there.

  As soon as we’re underway I climb to the wheelhouse and try to convince Captain Elias Easton to hire us, but it seems we’re to be gentlemen of leisure on this trip. Which, to be truthful, is some relief.

  Particularly when I stop at the door to the main salon and see the menu posted there:

  Soups

  Chicken Giblet and Consommé, with Egg

  Fish

  Salmon, au Beurre Noir

  Relieves

  Filet a Boeuf, a la Financier

  Leg of Lamb, Sauce, Oysters

  Cold Meats

  Loin of Beef, Loin of Ham, Loin of Pork, Westphalia Ham, Corned Beef

  Boiled Meats

  Leg of Mutton, Ribs of Beef, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Russian River Bacon

  Entrees

  Pinons a Poulett, aux Champignons

  Cream Fricasse of Chicken, Asparagus Points

  Lapine Domestique, a la Matire d'Hote

  Casserole d'Ritz aux Oeufs, a la Chinoise

  Ducks of Mutton, Braze, with Chipoluta Ragout

  California Fresh Peach, a la Conde

  Roasts

  Loin of Beef, Loin of Mutton, Leg of Pork

  Apple Sauce, Suckling Pig, with Jelly, Chicken Stuffed Veal

  Pastry

  Peach, Apple, Plum, and Custard Pies