The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men)

by Terry Grosz

  Picking up the wounded boy, he gently placed him face-up on the travois. Then Harlan went to his saddlebag and brought forth another slab of buffalo jerky. He handed it to the lad on the travois, and there was a short stand-off before he took it. Soon, though, he was eating the jerky as hungrily as his ravenous brother.

  Rearranging the pack-string so the boys would be close together for the comfort nearness offered, Harlan remounted his horse. With a careful look around to make sure his tree-chopping sounds had not attracted hostile attention, he continued downstream toward Willow Lake without a backward look at the scene of death. The wounded boy’s bow was packed onto one of the mules bags in case its rightful owner would want to use it once again someday.

  Chapter Two

  Willow Lake

  Willow Lake was large and beautiful by anyone’s standards. It had good water and lots of firewood; lush, knee-high meadow grasses growing clear to the lakeside, and was fed by many surrounding beaver-laden streams.

  A natural haven for any mountain man, Harlan thought with a grin of anticipation as he looked over the familiar area from his saddle.

  Harlan and his trapper friends who died on the Yellowstone River had stayed at Willow Lake two years earlier en route to the Yellowstone. During that stay they had constructed a stout horse-and-mule enclosure and several lean-tos. Initially, some of the group had favored staying to trap in that area. However, the tall tales they had heard from other trappers in St. Louis and the lore of the Yellowstone had gotten the best of the men. As it turned out, with one exception, it got the best of them not only in thought but, in deed as well...

  Surveying their old campsite, Harlan noted that the previous winters had been harsh on the lean-tos. They were flat on the ground, and their supporting poles had been scattered. The corral was another matter. It had been built hell-for-stout to keep Indians from stealing the valuable livestock and, with a little work on Harlan’s part, would soon return to its former strength.

  Slipping easily off his horse, Harlan untied the following animal and led him, still pulling the travois, into the shade of the timber. There he checked on his wounded traveler before tying the reins to a lodge-pole pine. Returning to his pack string, he lifted the still trembling younger boy from his saddle and carried him over to the travois where the wounded boy lay.

  He lifted the child up and placed him next to his brother. Both boys watched Harlan with wondering dark eyes but said nothing, either in their native tongue or in sign. Harlan figured they were still too scared to do anything but look and listen, which he understood and respected.

  He had work to do, so he left the boys where they could watch him and headed for the old corral. After an hour of hard work, the corral was ready to accept its new livestock. Unpacking four horses but leaving the fifth still tied to the tree with the boys, he quickly hobbled them and turned them loose in the nearby meadow to graze.

  He carefully arranged their packs and saddles in a half-circle redoubt in front of the area where he planned to erect a sleeping lean-to. Bringing up the six mules, he unloaded their packs, hobbled them with double hobbles (because mules had a way of traveling great distances even when hobbled), and released them to graze with the horses. One horse was now left alone, separated from his companions and still tied to a tree with the travois. Hustling over to the now very nervous horse, Harlan untied it and led it to the corral.

  Tying the horse to a stout corral pole, he carefully unloaded the wounded boy and gently laid him in the shade by the packs. Turning to retrieve the trembling child, Harlan was surprised to find him standing at his side. He guided him back to his brother and through sign language bade him to sit still, which the boy did. Harlan returned to the horse, removed the travois, unloaded the saddlebags, hobbled the animal, and turned him loose to feed and water with the other stock.

  Man, I never saw a happier horse, he thought as the animal kicked and crow-hopped his way across the meadow in happiness over rejoining his buddies.

  For the next four hours, Harlan sweated profusely as he constructed two lean-tos from the forest’s materials at hand: one for him and the boys and the other to keep the summer- afternoon rains off the packs of gear and beaver plews. Before the fatal battle on the Yellowstone, Harlan’s group had done quite well trapping beaver, and eight packs of cleaned and pressed beaver plews bore mute testimony to that fact. He brought in armloads of soft green fir boughs for bedding materials, and soon the sleeping lean-to was ready for habitation.

  None too soon, he figured as the skies to the northwest darkened and then opened up with a typical afternoon thunderstorm. He hurriedly gathered the rifles and sleeping furs under the cover of the fir-bough roof. Running back outside, he gathered the wounded boy into his arms and, gesturing to the trembling one to follow him, ran for the shelter. Soon they were watching the thunderstorm sweeping over the area, dumping buckets of cold rain and then wandering off toward the southeast. Within moments, the sun reappeared, and steam began to rise from the ground, accompanied by the fresh smells raised by a recent rain.

  “A good sign,” Harlan mused, remembering his dad saying, Rain is a sign of new life.

  As if on cue, another good sign appeared at the edge of the meadow some fifty yards away. A large, fat mule-deer buck looking for succulent feed at the meadow’s edge soon joined the trapper and the Indian boys—but not in the manner it had anticipated...

  Sitting by a small fire that evening, one designed not to attract attention, Harlan smiled. Both boys had been fed by the fat buck, as had he. The remaining meat hung high in a nearby tree, out of reach of any passing varmint. The lean-to he had constructed had kept out the summer rain, and both boys were sleeping quietly in thick, warm buffalo-hide furs. However, the older boy’s wound seemed to be no better, and he was still running a temperature.

  Tomorrow I will look in the lake’s meadow for a poultice, Harlan thought with a furrow of worry crossing his brow. That should do the trick in the fever department.

  Memories of his brother and two friends crowded into his thoughts. With the death of his brother, he alone remained of his entire family. All the rest had been killed by hostile Indians. A heavy sadness slowly fell over him as he sat by the fire, pondering his fate.

  He now had two young boys in his care. What should he do with them? Many white frontier communities would not accept a white man with Indian children. Neither would many tribes of Indians inhabiting the West, especially those who hated the horse-stealing Crows and who would recognize the boys’ tribal origin.

  Even other fur trappers, most of whom had lost friends and family members to hostile Indians, could show a mean, Indian-hating streak, especially those at a rendezvous with a snoot-full of the fiery liquor normally sold at such events.

  For now, he let those thoughts slide off into the heavy stillness of the night. He still had the results of his group’s earlier trapping activities from the Yellowstone, which would leave him well-off though not wealthy. He had the trapping season before him in the Willow Lake area, which was in the territory of the friendly Snake Indians. He had more than enough goods and supplies because he had all that had been purchased to provide for a four-man party during a year’s absence from civilization. He had a healthy mule and horse string and was in possession of five good Hawken rifles. He also had four horse pistols, much lead and powder, and more than enough beaver traps.

  However, he was alone in a land that could kill or cripple a careless individual in an instant. He had no one to come to his aid or even know of his existence if he were to break a leg, take deadly sick, be attacked by varmints, or die. Soon, the cloud of loneliness began to crowd into his inner space once again, along with the heavy darkness of the night. For the longest time all he could hear was the soft tinkle of the bell from Martha, the lead mule, as she fed in the nearby meadow and the quiet crackling of dry pine wood in his small fire.

  Then Harlan’s stooped shoulders straightened, and his eyes burned fiercely. “By God! This is t
he life that I always wanted. This life is my choosing, and this is my land to explore and enjoy. And by God, that is what I will do. I will trap and live off this land until it claims me. I will travel its length and breadth to see what it has to offer and then do it once again just to make sure I ain’t missed nothing.

  If possible, I will raise those two boys as my own, and the three of us will become a family. Together we will see what this great land has to offer its newest orphans. Yes, that will be my lot in life. And when it is over, I will step across that Great Divide, meet my old family once again, and tell them of the wonders I have seen.”

  It was as if a great emotional load had been lifted from Harlan’s shoulders once he had fortified his mind regarding his lot in life. Getting up, he used the toe of his moccasin to push fresh dirt into the small fire until it was no more. Making sure it was out so as not to invite any two-legged varmints to his campsite, he shuffled off to the lean-to with the characteristic trapper’s walk born of years of living in the backcountry.

  Once there, he made sure the boys were sleeping soundly. Then he took one of his Hawkens and stood it at the ready alongside a nearby tree by his sleeping furs. Taking another, he stood it next to the side wall of the lean-to in case the first rifle was not enough for whatever came his way in a bad or hungry mood. Removing his pistol and placing it by his head, he pulled the buffalo robe up around his chin and looked out at the star-filled night. Lying there for a few moments, he began to sense the cold of the night cooling the end of his nose. Soon he fell into a light sleep. Off in the distance a lone wolf’s howl enticed several others from a nearby pack to join in the mournful song.

  Yes, this is the life I have chosen, was Harlan’s last thought as he dreamed of many things.

  Overhead a million stars blinked their approval and welcome at the newest family on the frontier.

  Chapter Three

  Trouble

  Dawn the following morning found Harlan standing by the fire, warming himself. His practiced eye roamed the meadow, counting the horses and mules. All were still there and getting fatter by the moment on the lush grasses. Grease spattering at his feet told him it was time to turn the generous chunks of venison steak cooking in a cast-iron frying pan loaded with bear grease.

  He stuck the steaks with the point of his knife and flipped them over. Next to the frying pan sat an old spouted pot with a dark brew of coffee liberally laced with the grounds whirling away in a boil. Soon the fresh mountain air was filled with great smells.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Harlan could see the younger boy standing in his bedding furs, looking hard at his still prone brother. Sensing that something was wrong, Harlan strode to the lean-to. The Indian boy with the wound was shaking violently and groaning. Kneeling, Harlan placed his hand on the boy. His body felt like it was on fire!

  Realizing that he had to get the fever down quickly, he scooped the boy up and walked toward the lake. The boy’s eyes were barely open, and he seemed to be deep in the clutches of the Great One. Removing the boy’s dirty clothing, Harlan slowly immersed him up to his chin in the cold waters of the lake.

  The boy’s small body convulsed as the cold water closed in around his young frame, then lay still, as if he had passed out. Turning him on his side, Harlan examined the exit hole made by the arrow. It was a deep reddish-purple and swollen. Taking out his knife, Harlan thrust the tip carefully into the old wound channel. A greenish-yellow pus began trickling like a ribbon into the clear waters of the lake.

  Taking the boy’s thigh with both hands, Harlan “milked” the area around the exit hole until a flood of pus squirted from the wound. Soon that stream turned to a trickle, and then a stream of bright-red blood began to flow into the water. Harlan let the wound bleed for a while, cleansing it, then lifted the boy from the cold water and carried him back to the lean-to.

  The smaller boy just stood there as if too scared to move for fear he too would be doused in the icy water. Harlan had to smile. Wiping the wounded lad dry with a rabbit skin, he laid him back down under a thick buffalo hide sleeping fur. Then he went to the meadow by the lake and harvested some western yarrow to make a poultice. He put the yarrow leaves, roots and all, in a tin cup and crushed them into a poultice with the butt end of his knife. He then applied the sticky poultice to the exit hole and bound it tightly into place with a clean gun-wadding rag. Feeling the boy’s forehead, he grinned with satisfaction at the already sharp reduction in body temperature.

  The icy lake waters did their job well, he mused with a grin. ’Course, water that cold would do most anything for what ails anyone.

  Scooping up the younger boy, he carried him over to the fire and put him down on a log that he had pulled over for a seat. Soon the boy was wolfing down hot venison from the cast- iron frying pan.

  All the while, Harlan’s practiced eye continued roaming the edge of the forest and length of the meadow for any sign of trouble. Finding none, he sat down, and the two of them finished off the rest of the still cooking venison. Walking over to the hanging mule-deer carcass, Harlan sliced off another chunk from the hindquarter and returned to the fire. Soon more venison steak danced merrily in the hot cast-iron pan, filling the air with more great smells. Harlan poured himself a tin cup of the ugly-looking boiling coffee and gratefully swilled down a mouthful of the burning liquid, grounds and all.

  Suddenly Harlan noticed that the mules and horses were frozen in the pasture, looking in unison into the edge of the trees bordering the meadow. Signing for the trembling boy to stay by the fire, he grabbed his, always-at-hand, Hawken and stealthily sneaked toward the livestock.

  Keeping to the edge of the trees, he soon spotted the object of the animals’ attention. In one word: trouble. A large grizzly bear was standing on its hind feet, intently watching the livestock some thirty yards away from where Harlan stood. Low on bear grease and knowing the bear would be loaded with fat this time of the year, which would produce some of the best cooking oil once rendered, he swung his Hawken up to rest along a nearby tree. Boom roared the great rifle in the cool morning stillness, and the grizzly bear was no more after being hit squarely in the ear.

  Quickly reloading in case the bear had some friends or the sound of shooting drew the attention of any nearby Indians, Harlan stood stock-still, watching and listening. After discerning no sights or sounds of danger, he returned to his fire only to find the venison left in the frying pan resembling a lump of coal. Dumping the burned meat onto the ground, he greased the pan once again and put more meat into it.

  This time I need to pay more attention to my cooking, he thought with a grin.

  Over to the bear he went, and in no time he had it skinned out, with the fur side lying on the ground. On the meat side of the skin were the hams, front shoulders, and ribs cut out and ready for hauling. He had dragged the guts a short distance away for the varmints to enjoy, and two gray jays had already claimed the pile as their own. Grabbing a front shoulder with one hand and the Hawken in the other, he trotted back to the campsite. Hanging the shoulder on a pack frame to keep it clean and off the ground, Harlan went back to the fire, and he and the smaller boy hungrily laid waste to the venison frying in the pan once again.

  Damn, there is nothing like a gutful of fresh venison and scalding-hot coffee for breakfast in a country as beautiful as this, thought Harlan with a grin as he surveyed his surroundings once again.

  Turning to see the wounded youth lying propped up on his elbows, Harlan sliced some more steaks and tossed the rest of the venison into the frying pan. Rising to his feet, he shuffled over to check on the youngster.

  Inching and squirming himself over until he could lean against a pack of beaver plews near the bedding, the youngster smiled weakly at Harlan and made the sign of peace.

  Harlan quickly responded with the universal talk of the prairies in the form of sign and then asked the young man if he spoke English or Crow. The boy did not comprehend English but spoke in the Crow tongue. As if on cue, he spoke
of the predawn ambush of his people by the hated Lakota and the Northern Cheyenne.

  His eyes momentarily misted up, but he quickly wiped them as if embarrassed by his show of emotion. He then spoke of taking his younger brother and running into the willows by the creek for cover, but not before being hit in the leg by an arrow. He continued, “We lay back out of sight under a cut in the stream bank until all the shooting, yelling, and crying had ceased and the two enemy tribes had left. Then you, the bearded one dressed like a buffalo, arrived four suns later.

  Afraid, I tried to shoot you with an arrow and missed. I don’t remember anything else until now. The rest of my thoughts are with those living with the Cloud People.”

  “Are you feeling better?” Harlan asked in his broken and rusty Crow language.

  The boy broke out into a big smile. Realizing that his Crow wasn’t very good, and he may have screwed up and said the wrong thing, Harlan asked him in sign why he was smiling.

  “Because,” the boy responded, “you said my foot smelled like rotten fish!” Both broke out into big grins, and after that Harlan relied on sign to communicate with the boy until his mastery of the Crow language returned.

  The smell of the cooking venison reminded Harlan to retrieve the frying pan and bring it over to the wounded boy. Regardless of the heat of the pan’s contents, the young man gobbled down the sizzling, half-raw meat, burning his tongue in the process.

  That is good, thought Harlan. If he is hungry, then he is truly on the mend.

  ***

  For the next three days, Harlan tended to the boys off and on as he began cutting timber into logs to make a winter cabin. In the evenings, after the log work and supper, Harlan used his knife and awl to fashion clothing for the boys from his stock of dressed furs by the light of the campfire. Their footwear was good, and he soon replaced what they lacked in the shirt and pants department.