by Terry Grosz
***
For the next few days the men tended to the livestock, enlarged the corral, and hunted the ever-present moose for fresh meat. The women kept tending their wounds with rum and clean coverings to avoid infection. Then the men set to work on the horses belonging to the Northern Cheyenne and removed all the painted markings relating to that tribe. That would make the horses easier to sell at the upcoming rendezvous without arousing any suspicion if they ran across bands of friendly Northern Cheyenne en route to the same get-together.
During that time, Harlan began thinking of moving on to safer climes. He had had enough of the angry Lakota and Northern Cheyenne seemingly lurking at every turn in the trail.
Crossing their hunting ranges to get to the beaver-trapping grounds is someday going to be a one-way trail to the Happy Hunting Grounds for all of us! he thought.
He had to find a good beaver-trapping area surrounded by friendly Indians. With that idea, he had a quiet yet surprising plan for the survival of his family at the upcoming rendezvous if he was given a chance to get there safely.
Chapter Twenty-One
The 1833 Rendezvous
The Upper Green River Valley was the historical crossroads of the Old West. Surrounded by the Wind River Mountains to the east, the Gros Ventre Mountains to the north, the Wyoming Mountain Range to the west, and the Uinta Mountains far to the south, it was a natural high plateau where the ancients and early Native peoples gathered. Loaded with wildlife of every kind and number, the area extended over one hundred miles from north to south and over fifty miles from east to west. Bisecting the length of this unique ecological and historical area was the mighty Green River.
From 1825 until 1840, the Upper Green River Valley was considered home by the mountain men and the traders from the various St. Louis fur companies, so much so that eight of the fifteen summer rendezvous took place in the area. Six of these rendezvous were held in the vicinity of the present-day town of Daniel, Wyoming, at the confluence of Horse Creek and the Green River.
Harlan remembered hearing from the trappers at the last get-together that the rendezvous of 1833 would be held at this confluence. That area was but a few days’ ride southwest from their current location at Willow Lake and across territory that was fairly friendly unless they ran across buffalo-hunting or war parties of the dreaded Lakota or Northern Cheyenne.
It is good that the next rendezvous is so close, he thought, because that will give my party a few more days here to heal before we have to make that trek.
***
The travel to the rendezvous site was uneventful, taking only five easy days, which pleased Harlan and his party. Arriving, they discovered about one hundred trapper encampments scattered about the site. Those numbers were augmented by about three hundred Snakes, Arapaho, and a group of Crows camped five miles north of the rendezvous site.
Trading will be good, thought Harlan, and this is working into my plans perfectly.
Finding a place in a small grove of trees about one-half mile from the rendezvous site and away from other trappers, the men quickly set up camp. First they made a temporary corral, using several ropes wrapped around a ring of trees to form an enclosure. Then, using rope hobbles, they hobbled every Indian horse within the corral. That way, if someone wanted to steal some of their horseflesh, they would have to work at removing the hobbles from a passel of horses while under fire from the clan’s straight-shooting Hawkens the whole time.
While the boys unloaded their horses and mules, Harlan took a short ride around the rendezvous site. Present was the American Fur Company and his friend Gavin. The St. Louis Fur Company and the Rocky Mountain Fur Company were posted in the same area. However, there was some bad news: the price of beaver fur had gone way down, from nine dollars in the eastern markets for a large hide or “blanket” to no more than three dollars at rendezvous prices, with most bringing less than that.
It seemed that something called silk from a worm had taken over the fashion market and replaced beaver fur in the making of hats. However, buffalo hides were bringing a premium price of four dollars, and Harlan’s crew had over one hundred hides they had acquired in trade from the Indians over the year. As Harlan watched the fur buyers, it was apparent that they were buying low and selling their goods for very high prices—that was, except for the smaller St. Louis Fur Company.
They seem to be reasonable in their fur grading, and with them I will trade, thought Harlan.
Three days after their arrival, Harlan and the boys moved their pack strings into the trading arena. True to his word, Harlan bypassed the rest of the fur companies, even his friend Gavin, for the St. Louis Fur Company. After the trader spent an hour examining the quality of the furs, the deal was cut. They did very well with their furs, mainly because the women had done a great job preparing and tanning them. When Harlan and the boys walked away from the trading, they had over four thousand dollars in credit for their labors!
***
“Now,” said Harlan as they sat around the campfire that evening, “when we go back to pick up our goods, I want each of you to think ahead. We may not be back to the 1834 rendezvous, which the word is will be on Ham’s Fork of the Green. That area is south of us by about fifteen sleeps.
We may just stay up in the high country for two years before coming back, and I am thinking farther north than we have ever been. North in the land of the Crows instead of in the land of the mean- ass Lakota and Northern Cheyenne. I am tired of having to fight for my life at every turn in the trail over beaver that have dropped in price to where they are almost not worth catching. And certainly not worth risking one’s topknot, especially with one youngster in our midst and two more on the way.
“I would also like to go north in order to let all of you experience living with your own kind under natural conditions,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes, knowing full well that revelation would catch everyone unawares.
Harlan could see that those words had created a ripple of careful thought and excitement among his clan. He wasn’t sure if his thoughts were received favorably by the whole group because some were so quiet. But it was a carefully thought-out plan that he had stewed over ever since the battle with the Northern Cheyenne in the cottonwood grove. Now the weasel was out of the sack, and his group would have to chew on it for a while.
“As I understand,” he said, “there is a small band of Crow just north of us who are here to trade with the fur companies. I propose to go talk with their chief, and if he is a good man and one I can trust, I will ask him if we might be allowed to travel with his clan back to his land as friends,” Harlan said.
He spoke slowly so his words’ importance would not be lost in the excitement of the moment. “There will be extra protection traveling across this land with a larger contingent of fighters, especially with the addition of our guns. Plus, they will know the way, will be our friends, and in the end will give all of you a chance to live happily among your own people. Now, does anyone have an objection or concern over what I am proposing?”
For the longest time no one spoke. They all sat in deep thought. Then Big Eagle rose as if to emphasize his point and said, “I would like to see what it is like to live among my own kind and hunt buffalo for a living. I am also tired of wading in the cold water all the time for beaver.” With that, he sat down and quietly stared into the fire.
Runs Fast rose and said, “I too would like to return to the land of my kind and see what is there. Maybe I can find some of my own family there as well.” Like his brother, he abruptly sat back down as if to finalize his words
Birdsong rose and said, “I would like to go with my brothers, and Autumn Flower would like to go with her husband.”
Looking over at Winter Hawk, all Harlan could see was a man still sore from the recent battle with the Northern Cheyenne. But his youngest son also possessed a big smile at the possibility of returning home and seeing what it would be like to live among his own kind.
“Then it is done,”
said Harlan with a tone of finality. “Tomorrow I will ride up and meet with the Crow chief and see what kind of a man he is. If he is a good man and a leader, I will ask him to take us in as brothers and show us his land so we might live in peace with a greater degree of safety. Then, if he agrees that we can go with him to the land of the Crow, we will come back to the rendezvous and, using our credit and some of the captured Northern Cheyenne horses for trade, procure what we will need for such a journey.
If not, I propose we move south to hunt buffalo and continue our trapping as long as we can make a living. There are trading posts as far south as the St. Vrain and Arkansas Rivers as well as west to Taos and Santa Fe. If necessary, we will trade our goods there instead of at the rendezvous,” said Harlan as if laying out their future in stone. Looking around, Harlan could see everyone was in deep thought at what had been said that evening.
“Boys,” he continued, “tomorrow I want all of you to remain in camp and protect the horse herd. I saw lots of covetous eyes looking them over among the trappers and the Indians because good horseflesh is so hard to come by. So be alert and on the lookout for trouble.”
All the boys looked at him in unison with the realization that the trading of those horses might very well be their ticket back to their homeland and allow them to purchase enough supplies for two years of life in the backcountry.
Woe be to any horse thief not correctly reading the meaning behind their eyes, thought Harlan with a smile.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Crow Camp
Daylight the next morning found Harlan quietly sitting on his horse at the edge of the Crow encampment. The camp was a fairly large one, consisting of thirty-two tepees. It likely held about one hundred twenty-five men, women, and children as near as Harlan could determine from his past experiences with Indian-camp layouts.
Behind him was a mule carrying a few gifts for the Crow chief if everything went according to plan. If not, he, the mule, and his horse would have a long, disappointing ride back to his camp.
As the Crow camp awoke and smoke from the cooking fires in the tepees rose lazily into the chill morning air, hardly anyone stirring paid much attention to Harlan sitting on his horse at a little distance. Then a Crow warrior noticed that the lone rider was a white man and paused to stare long and hard.
Without haste, the warrior walked to the center of the village to a tepee marked by a long staff of eagle feathers stuck in the ground out front. Standing outside, he said something to the tepee’s occupants. Shortly thereafter, the door flap was thrown back, and out walked a magnificent specimen of a man. Bare-chested, at least six feet tall, and wearing only long deer-skin pants, elaborately beaded moccasins, and a double-train war bonnet made from eagle feathers, he listened to what the warrior had to say.
After a short conversation, the warrior trotted off and began visiting a number of other tepees as if alerting those inside. Soon the camp began to swarm with armed warriors as the chief stood in front of his tepee looking at the lone white man sitting on his horse overlooking their camp.
About thirty warriors gathered at the chief’s tepee, and they too quietly watched the man sitting outside their camp. Then the chief raised his hand in the sign of peace and beckoned Harlan toward him. Harlan made the sign of peace and slowly walked his horse and mule into the Crow camp, right up to the chief. Stopping about ten feet from the chief, he sat looking at the man while the chief and his people quietly looked back.
Then the chief beckoned for Harlan to dismount, which he did. Harlan stood six feet two inches in his moccasins, which was big for a man in his day. It was obvious that the chief noticed his stature and bearing as well as his badly scarred head and face.
The two large men stood for another moment looking at each other.
“Do you speak Crow?” asked the chief.
“Very well,” replied Harlan in the man’s native tongue, which seemed to surprise the man.
“What do you want, white man?” asked the chief.
“I come to parley with the great Crow chief,” said Harlan not outlining his needs any further.
The chief stood looking at Harlan, and Harlan never took his eyes off the man in his attempt to read who he really was.
With a flourish of his arm, the chief opened the flap of his tepee and beckoned Harlan to enter.
“I ask the great Crow chief to protect my animals and goods,” Harlan requested in a respectful tone.
Again the chief looked long and hard at Harlan, and Harlan did the same right back. Turning, the chief asked a warrior to hold the reins of the two animals and beckoned once again for Harlan to enter his tepee.
Ducking, Harlan entered the tepee. Inside, a small cooking fire burned, and two women scurried off to one side and stood with their eyes downcast in a sign of respect. Entering the tepee, the chief moved to the right of the campfire and sat down. Then he beckoned for Harlan to sit, which he did. Once he was seated, one of the women brought the chief a brightly beaded leather bag and then scurried off to one side of the tepee again.
Harlan noticed that the other woman standing near her, probably a daughter, was young, possibly in her late teens, and very beautiful like Birdsong.
Reaching into the leather ceremonial bag, the chief took out a sacred pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, removed a small stick with a burning end from the fire, and used it to light the pipe. He took several long pulls on the pipe and then pointed it to Mother Earth and the sky, blowing out smoke, which he brushed back into his face with his hand.
Then he handed the pipe to Harlan. Harlan correctly took the bowl of the pipe in his left hand and the stem with his right. Taking several deep puffs on the pipe, he too pointed it to Mother Earth and the sky, blowing out the smoke and then pulling it gently back with a cupped hand over his face and head for the blessings it brought.
The Crow chief smiled at the good manners of the white man, took back the pipe, laid it by his side, and said, “What is it the white man desires from Chief White Bear?”
Harlan, shocked by the name of the Crow chief, smiled widely.
“What does the white man find so funny?” asked White Bear, letting a flash of anger race across his eyes at these apparent bad manners.
“The chief has a great and strong name,” replied Harlan in a convincing tone meant to relax the chief and reduce his doubts about the man sitting before him.
The chief sat back against a backrest and studied this bold yet calmly surprising white man closely. He discerned that Harlan was a man of strength who lacked fear, and his instincts said the man before him was not two-faced, like many white men, but honorable. He appeared to be gracious and learned in the ways of the Crow, among other things understanding the meaning behind the sacred pipe ceremony. His many scars spoke to his ability as a fighter. Truly, this is a man to be reckoned with and respected because he knows and lives “the way.” thought the chief.
Harlan had already discerned that this chief was a noble man. He began to explain the reason for his visit in the Crow language.
“Chief White Bear, I have an adopted son, a daughter, and a wife, and the two women are each now carrying a child. They are all from the great Crow Nation, having been captured by the Northern Cheyenne and the Snakes in years past and made into slaves.
I also have two younger sons from the Crow Nation whose parents were killed by the Lakota and Northern Cheyenne several years ago. I discovered the last two young men after the battle as the only survivors and have raised them as my own.
The first three I spoke of I purchased from the Snake and Northern Cheyenne. I purchased the two women because they are the sisters of the two young boys. The other young man I purchased last year from the Snakes because he saved my life and the lives of the rest of the family from bad white men. He, like all my boys, is a great warrior.
The two women are also brave fighters, having already killed Northern Cheyenne warriors in battle, and will bear many strong children. It is because of them that I c
ome with a request. All of them would like to return to the great Crow Nation to live with and learn about their own kind.”
Harlan paused in his story to try to read Chief White Bear’s reaction to he had just said. It was obvious that the chief was listening carefully if the look in his eyes meant anything.
Harlan continued, “My family and I have been in many battles over the years with bad white men and enemies of the Crow, the Northern Cheyenne.”
He left out the killing of the six horse-stealing Crows the winter before, for obvious reasons. “We are small in number, and there are many around us who would like to kill us and take our furs and other goods. It is with those thoughts that we would like to join up with your band and follow you north to the land of your ancestors.
We would like to trap beaver and kill buffalo as well as trade and live in peace among your people. Your band is strong and would be made even stronger by the addition of my family and our straight-shooting Hawken rifles.
If it pleases you, at the end of the rendezvous, we would like to become part of your band and move north to live quietly with you in the land of the Crow.”
Finished, Harlan sat back, looking long and hard at the Crow chief for any sign of his feelings regarding what had been said.
“You are a brave and strong man, white man. How are you named?” abruptly asked the chief.
“My name is Harlan Waugh, mountain man and friend to the Crow,” Harlan answered.
“Well, friend to the Crow, you may join my band as we go north to our homelands after the rendezvous. I would be happy to have four more brave warriors in my band with their long-shooting Hawkens,” Chief White Bear replied with a big grin.
Rising, he extended his hand in the sign of peace to Harlan, and Harlan rose and accepted. Harlan noticed that the chief’s handshake was almost crushing in strength, reminding him of the grip of his friend Tom “Iron Hand” Warren, keel boatman who was an ex-mountain man, and also a man-mountain of considerable power and courage.
