Colter's Hell, page 4
The mountain man wasn’t worried about the furs he’d trapped over the previous winter, either. Manuel had taken on quite a few men in St. Louis, and while most had proven quite sound and capable, one in particular had not. That was John Baptiste Bouche, a man that ate more rations than he was allowed while not doing enough work on top of it. He’d already been on Manuel’s bad side for drinking up most of his advanced wages in St. Louis, and then getting thrown in jail on top of it. The Spaniard had bailed him out, and had come to regret it. When Colter appeared Bouche had taken the opportunity to plead his case for an early release, but Manuel had flatly refused, saying they needed all the men they could get where they were going. After learning of the man’s temperament, however, Colter had wished the man would have been allowed to leave. He refused to do any work getting the boats upriver and constantly shirked his duties. Colter knew he would have grown fearful for his furs and the money due to him also if Manuel had allowed the man to leave. At the same time Colter knew the Spaniard had men in St. Louis that would have known Bouche and that even if all the furs were lost, Manuel would pay for them out of his own pocket. It hadn’t come to that, and the packs that Colter had prepared were stowed away in the supply boat’s cabin. His money would have to wait, though with any luck the value of furs would increase by the time he finally cashed them in. That thought had assuaged the mountain man, and now here he was, already late-autumn, the Upper Missouri nearly at its end, the Yellowstone just days away.
After the Mandan villages they’d moved past a Hidatsa village. Following that there was known to be roaming bands of Assiniboine, a tribe that shunned villages in favor of mobile travel dominated by tepees. They ranged to the northwest, where the Missouri curved to the west, allowing the Yellowstone to sprout off to move southward, eventually leaving the general area for another mountainous area that Colter didn’t much know. Along the way travelers would pass through the heart of Crow country, though that bothered few as the tribe was as peaceful as could be. The Sioux, Assiniboine and Cheyenne were also present, as were the Blackfeet. Besides that, Nez Perce, Shoshone, A’anninen and Bannocks all ranged into the valley from across the Rockies, following the game that flocked there during the winter months. Far to the north were the Cree and Chippewa, two tribes allied with the Assiniboine in something called the Iron Confederacy. Colter hoped they didn’t have any run-ins with them.
That’s all you could hope for, the mountain man knew, that the area they were heading to would be free from hostile tribes. He knew the Blackfeet were on the western periphery of where the Yellowstone and Big Horn met, and that was the spot he’d told Manuel would prove the best for a trading fort. Colter also suspected with the trapping party’s numbers the more-hostile Blackfeet would leave them be. It all depended on if they had horses, the mountain man knew, for that’s where the true strength of the Blackfeet lay, with their superior horsemanship. He couldn’t say the same for all the other tribes. They were getting into the edge of the Iron Confederacy’s territory and the three-tribe alliance created a grouping even more powerful than the arguably most-powerful plains tribe of them all, the Blackfeet. Already the men had seen the overwhelming numbers the Assiniboine had been able to muster. It’d happened a few days before, with the tribe gathering on the shores just like the Arikara had. This time, however, they’d been as numerous as blades of grass on the plains. Manuel had ordered the swivel guns fired in warning, and it’d done the trick. Colter wasn’t sure how many other travelers would be able to say the same, or for how long. So far they hadn’t seen either of the other two tribes, but it was only a matter of time. With luck the northern tribes would stay up in Canada as winter set in, but Colter knew that luck was a fickle one out here in the wilderness. Then there were the Arikara, the tribe that had given him so much trouble the winter before...for whatever reason. Colter scoffed. The tribes around here didn’t need much reason, he knew – boredom was usually enough. The men called the Arikara “Rees” and knew them to be unpredictable, and that was not something Manuel wanted for his winter business venture, unpredictability.
The Spaniard looked worried as Colter glanced over at him sitting on the other side of the boat, and he was. He’d persuaded Pierre Menard and William Morrison to finance his expedition, and that’s the only reason he’d been able to set out in April. The two Illinois investors were far removed from Manuel, but if they didn’t start seeing some dividends from their investment soon it could finally be the thing that spelled disaster for the Spaniard’s shady business dealings. Manuel wasn’t likely to let that happen, but if an attack from hostile Indians came upon him, there’d be little he could do to stop it. So far he was doing well with his plans to monopolize the Upper Missouri River fur trade, but if the Rees attacked them before they even made it to the Yellowstone, those dreams would be gone, as well as the $16,000 worth of supplies the three keelboats held. That was a lot of money to be in debt for, and almost all the men of the trading expedition would be in the same sorry state. For as was custom – and the only way for many of them to get away from their own creditors – Manuel had loaned a good many of them a sizeable portion of their future earnings so they could settle debts and buy the necessary supplies for a year or more in the wild. It all meant they were in a sorry state, but they were in that state together. Manuel meant to capitalize on that fact, their debt and camaraderie in it, so they weren’t all ruined...he especially.
Perhaps that’s what Manuel was thinking, for a few minutes later he got up from his position on the boat, looked around, then began motioning and calling out to the men.
“Listen, men,” he began, “we’ve got the Yellowstone coming up on us soon and–”
The Spaniard was cutoff as a rifle shot ripped through the air. It was from the south, the direction they’d come...the direction the Assiniboine would come from if they’d decided to come after the whites. Colter figured many of the men were thinking that, for they looked around nervously at one another. He and the other hunters were up now, rifles in hand, waiting. Something would come at them, that was certain.
Moments passed like that, then minutes. The men poling the boats slacked off and they lost ground, at exactly the time they didn’t need to. But what could you do when everyone’s attention was trained on the south, where the rifle shot had come from?
“Could be George,” John Potts said after several minutes had gone by.
“Could be,” Manual agreed, though he kept chewing his lip while looking southward. It was clear he was nervous, both for the Assiniboine, and for what Potts had said. After all, he’d sent George out with the instructions, “dead or alive.” It’d all started when–
“There!” John Collins shouted out from his spot on the boat as he pointed toward the thick bushes and small trees crowding the shore. Everyone’s attention shot that way, and a moment later they all relaxed, for there was George Drouillard coming through the brush, rifle in hand, distinctive yellow cap showing.
“Was that you, George?” Manuel called out, and a moment later George nodded, raising his rifle up at the same time. The Spaniard looked to the polers and nodded. “Ease off.”
The men did so, and soon they were floating downstream with the current. Once near the scout they put their poles back down and moved the boats close to shore, anchoring them against the flowing water with brute force and sheer will. Manuel didn’t waste anytime once they were there.
“Did you get him?” he asked, leaning in eagerly to better hear the man’s answer.
George nodded. “I shot him, but he didn’t die. Truth be told, sir, I wish I hadn’t.”
Manuel leaned back, and Colter noticed a slight smile crease up on one side of the Spaniard’s mouth, but just for a moment. “You did the right thing,” he said, “now...where is he?”
“Quite a ways back, in some brush and bleedin’ bad,” George said as he nodded over his shoulder. “I was hoping a couple men could help me bring him back to the boats...maybe we could get him downriver, perhaps to the Mandans for help.”
The Spaniard frowned to that, but a moment later he nodded and looked over at the men in the boat with him. “Two of you go with him and bring Bissonette back.”
Manuel looked back to George and looked to the men. They all looked at one another until Colter let out a sigh and stepped forward. Without a word he jumped off the boat into the shallows of the river, already frigid despite the warm sun overhead, and trudged to shore. He heard a splash behind him a few moments later, but didn’t need to look back to know that it was the German, Potts, that was following him. They’d been talking quite a bit since leaving the Indian villages, and had a lot in common. Turning around when he reached the shore told him he’d been correct, for there Potts was, that blond hair and those blue eyes making it plain which country he hailed from.
“Let’s go,” George said when Potts was ashore, the sorrow in his voice evident. The three started off.
~~~
“There he is,” George said. They were about a mile from the boats and the scout was pointing to some trees standing out from a larger copse. Colter put his hand up to block out the sun, and sure enough, there was the French trapper. He’d joined on in St. Louis and had been nearly as bad as Bouche had been. The problem was that he’d had more gall than Bouche, and backed up his words with actions. Or back them up without, in this case, for the man had been smart enough to take off without telling anyone. Clearly he hadn’t wanted to be in Indian country, for he’d deserted two days earlier, just a short time after the Assiniboine show of force. He’d taken some blankets and other goods with him, and anxious to assert discipline and his authority, Manuel had sent out George, their scout and crack-shot. Bissonette hadn’t stood a chance.
“Damn,” Potts said after they’d covered the distance to the spot where Bissonette lay dying, “shot him right in the back.” It was true, Colter saw, for the trapper was lying on his stomach, his shirt a bloody mess and pooling around him. Both men looked to George.
“I didn’t want to,” the scout said, on the verge of tears it looked like, “but you know how Manuel gets.”
Both men nodded to that. The Spaniard could be a hard driver of men, and when he thought his authority was in question, he clamped down. Colter imagined that he thought of himself as a ship’s captain, always looking for mutinies and ways to suppress them. Unfortunately, George had gotten caught up in that. Both Colter and George were spared the worst of Manuel’s temper, mainly because their skills were in short supply – good shooting in George’s case, and while Colter had that too, it was the mountain man’s knowledge of country that really set him apart.
Potts was easing in to check Bissonette’s wound. A moment later he moved up to check the man’s face, and then he turned back to them and shook his head.
“Won’t be needing to take him back to the Mandan villages now,” the German said, “unless you want an Indian burial for him.”
The three men looked at one another and frowned. This wasn’t an auspicious start for their trip down the Yellowstone.
6 – The Yellowstone
The three men took Bissonette’s body back to the boats and together with a few others, buried him on the shore. They put up a crude stone marker, though Colter suspected it’d be blown or knocked down by spring. After that they’d headed on, poling, cordelling and warping their way up the river. Most days were easy, for the river was lower this time of year, the current less. Soon it’d start freezing in spots, and knowing this, the men put their backs into it more than usual. They started covering fifteen miles a day, making up for the time lost earlier downriver. And then, finally, they reached it – the fork in the river where the Big Horn sprouted from the Yellowstone.
The Hidatsa name was Mi tse a-da-zi and the French called the river Roche Jaune, or Yellow Rock, because of that. Colter had taken to calling it the Yellowstone, and many others were doing so still. It was 20 miles downstream from Pompey’s Pillar, Colter knew, the large rock monolith that jutted from the plains and the spot that Captain Lewis had carved his name at in July 1806. It was a prime spot, being in the wintering grounds of the Crow, and with lowlands that provided amble cover. Cottonwoods and Russian-olive trees choked the banks, an added air of seclusion to the place, one that afforded a bit of protection should it be needed. They’d also supply much of the timber the men would need to build the fort. Much of that timber had shed its leaves, the cottonwoods especially, though those trees were often gnarled and twisted and didn’t make for the best building. There was a fair bit of pine, fir, spruce, juniper, and aspen trees, however, and they did. All in all, there was more than enough for whatever needs the men might have.
The ground was golden as they landed the boats, owing to the tall grass being starved of water this late in the year. It blew in the wind and cast shimmering sheets across the highlands above them.
“There she is,” Colter said to Manuel when the were on the bank, the other men disembarking around them, looking at the location of their winter home, “this is where the fort should be.”
The mountain man cast his arm out and in the minds of the men they saw the wood go up, the tar to hold it, and the gates to secure it. The fort would be situated on a wooded point between the two rivers, good timberland that would serve as both protection and source of supply. Scouting nearby had revealed that there were low-grade coal sources, something that would provide amble heat during the winter. Colter knew that the area would flood during spring and then again in summer, creating an island where the fort stood. There was more than enough room so he wasn’t worried about it, and had spoken at length about it with Manuel. The Spaniard had been swayed more than anything when the mountain man had pointed out the beaver sign there, everything from huge cottonwood trees that’d been toppled, the teeth marks still showing, to the numerous dwellings that had been tunneled right into the riverbank. If Manuel had had any doubts, they’d been dispelled when Colter and George had gone up to one of the larger holes and pulled a large beaver out right then and there. He’d kicked and clawed and been mad as hell, but one bop over the head with a good club had brought them one more pelt, a $5 one by the looks of it. The final good sign had been a pair of bald eagles that’d been circling overhead ever since they’d come ashore, occasionally landing in some nearby trees. Yes, the men knew, this was the spot. Manuel seemed to know that they knew, and he was preparing himself for a speech.
Colter was eager to hear the man harangue his men. He’d heard a lot about the Spaniard, especially from Captain Lewis, who’d procured some supplies from him in St. Louis before they’d ventured out. The Captain had called Manuel a bastard, though from what Colter had since heard, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Manuel Lisa was about as cutthroat as you could get when it came to a businessman. His eyes were beady and black, owing to his Spanish heritage, and his complexion was dark as well. Many suspected his business practices took on the same appearance, and they wouldn’t have been far off the mark. Manuel Lisa was a man for whom the ends justified the means. Men detested and despised him, and those were the ones that’d done business with him. People were warned not to trust the man, and Manuel was known to tell people that himself, usually before entering into a business contract. Of course, the Spaniard would be the first to tell you all of those rumors were false, and just that – rumors, spread on a vast and wide frontier wilderness, the easier to reach the heights of exaggeration with. And even his firmest detractors would usually be at a loss for words when it came to explaining how the man had stayed in business all these years, if his dealings were so nefarious, corrupt, and downright rotten. More than likely it was his thrift in enterprise, firm purpose, and unstoppable energy that kept him afloat, and profitable.
Manuel Lisa stood there staring at the man, and the air grew tense. Moments passed as the man gauged which words would sink in, and Manuel let them pass. The Spaniard had grown up in New Orleans, after all, he knew what a good show was, and even out here in the wilds, thousands of miles from civilization, there was always need for show. Manuel gave it to them. He let out a long sigh, then glanced at some of the men around. George caught his eye, as did Colter. Finally he turned about, looking up toward the distant mountains to the north.
“I will build this fort,” he said, his arm rising up to take in the land near the river and the area around it, “I’ll build it right here. But I’ll do more than that,” he continued, moving about now swiftly, his arm still raised but facing the men once again. He wasn’t really looking at them, however, but further up toward the mountains to the south. More than that, Colter knew, he was looking into the future.
“I’ll build another fort,” Manuel continued, the men’s full attention upon him,” and another after that and another still, all up and down the Upper Missouri and its reaches and right into the animal kingdom it represents. You, my brave trappers and hunters and scouts, it is you who I’ll send out, armed and equipped, ready to do battle with them. Beaver, bear and even bison will fall to our rifles, which will be the best from Springfield, Missouri, that I promise.”
There were a few laughs at the bison remark and then quite a few favorable nods at the comment on rifles. Manuel had the men in his hand and he knew it, Colter saw, though they did not. Early childhood memories of George Rogers Clark and Simon Kenton back in Kentucky came to him, and the political harangues they’d given about the British. It seemed to the mountain man that even out here in the deep wilderness, the institutions of man would follow in idea if they couldn’t in fact.
There was a long pause as Manuel looked at the men around him, all fifty-one, and nodded. He’d put his rifle butt down and leaned on it as he did so, and the tension built.
