The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men) (10 page)

Harlan looked hard at the boys but was not able to discern from their stoic faces what they had in mind. They had been good commonsense thinkers until now, so on a whim he said, “All right, you can have the great bear hide and let’s see just how good you two are at turning the hide into horses. Good horses, mind you. No nags, or you will find yourself riding the nags and the women riding your horses.”

The two boys gave each other calculating looks and smiled. Somehow, Harlan thought, this whole thing of letting the boys have their heads could be heading us for one hell of a “horse” wreck.

Chapter Eleven

Big Guns, Little Men

The next morning the new family left camp and headed for the activities at the rendezvous. Harlan rode his horse in the lead, and the two boys gave up their horses so their sisters and the babies could ride. On foot, Big Eagle and Winter Hawk led the six pack mules soon to be loaded down with supplies for the next year’s adventurers at Willow Lake.

When they arrived at the main trading camp, Harlan saw many trappers lying on the ground asleep or staggering around trying to get the “rum demons” out of their heads—the demons Harlan had placed there with the four kegs of rum he had purchased for the party the night before. Harlan had to smile and was glad he had left the shindig early.

Over at the wagons, fur buying and the procuring of supplies continued at a furious pace among the more or less sober trappers. After all, it was getting into late summer, and the trappers needed to return to their trapping grounds to prepare for winter by repairing their cabins, especially the roofs; hauling in wood; and cutting hay to feed their livestock when the snows became too deep for the animals to graze. They also had to make meat and trap beaver before the winter winds and thick ice became too difficult to overcome.

The two boys took the pack mule with the great bear hide and headed for the fur traders’ wagons. They unloaded the hide and struggled to unroll it until it was spread massively over the top and side of one of the trade wagons. In an instant, all fur buying and procurement of supplies halted as an amazed crowd of Indians and trappers gathered to examine the exceptional white bear skin. For the longest time there was absolute, almost reverent silence. Then a gush of talking ensued among those witnessing the freak of nature before them. The talk was soon interrupted by Big Eagle.

“Sixty beaver pelts against the bear hide if any one of you can outshoot me,” he said in a loud, challenging voice.

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Sixty beaver pelts for such a magnificent item was a joke! The rare white bear hide was worth at least one hundred beaver hides, if not more. Soon a throng of trappers pushed to the forefront of the crowd to lay wagers that they could outshoot this pipsqueak of a lad—and a Crow Indian at that. Fraeb opened a keg of rum to encourage the betting, and soon a small target was set up in the field at the one-hundred-yard mark.

A brief scuffle broke out among the trappers as they argued over who would go first—because surely that first man could outshoot a young Indian boy and walk off with the prize albino grizzly hide. Finally, Big Jim Tandy drew the short straw and stepped forward to shoot in the contest.

Still a little wobbly from the party the night before, he settled down and shot— boom! Dirt spewed up from beneath the target, and a laugh as well as a groan went up from the crowd. Tandy and Bridger were considered the best shots in the group, and Big Jim could be a bit of a bully because of his size, so the crowd enjoyed as well as commiserated with his missed shot.

Not believing his eyes but acknowledging the acclaimed judge of the event, Jim Bridger, when he announced a miss, Big Jim just stood shaking his head in disbelief. Big Eagle stepped forward, hefted the heavy Hawken, and in less than a heartbeat sent his shot down range—boom! Jim Bridger declared it a hit, and the crowd went wild with shouts of encouragement for the next trapper to step up to the shooting mark. Meanwhile, Winter Hawk dragged Big Jim's bundle of beaver plews off to one side where he could watch over them.

Next to shoot was Dan “Good Book” Beamer, another excellent shooter, and a religious man at that. He had not gotten drunk the night before, and Harlan began to worry a mite. Dropping his entry fee of one ninety-pound pack of beaver plews in the shooting arena, he stepped to the line, said a short prayer with a reverent look skyward, and fired—boom!

“A hit,” declared Bridger.

Big Eagle once again stepped forward and fired in less time than it takes to talk about it—boom!

“Another hit,” said Bridger.

Now the crowd was alive with the noise of excitement, gambling, anticipation, and speculation about the shoot’s outcome.

“To break the tie, both of you must shoot again,” said Bridger.

Dan reloaded, stepped forward, said a prayer once again, and fired—boom!

“A clean miss,” stated Bridger.

A groan went up from the crowd, but the men were happy because Fraeb’s keg of rum was still gushing forth into their empty tin cups. Big Eagle, taking his cue from Bridger, stepped forward and fired.

“A clean hit dead center, and the winner,” Bridger announced, laughing at Dan’s embarrassment over being bested by an Indian kid with a good shooting eye.

Six more shooters stepped forward with their packs of plews for the chance to win the albino bear hide, and six times Big Eagle beat them where they stood. Soon, no more takers entered the contest after watching those rounds of shooting by the young man. Big Eagle looked over at his brother and gave him a knowing wink, then stepped away from the firing line as his even smaller brother replaced him.

Now the crowd was excited again. Here was a shooter even younger than the last one, and surely he could be beaten. With renewed interest, five more shooters strode forth to best Winter Hawk, and five more bit the dust. Little did they know that Winter Hawk was an even better marksman than Big Eagle or Harlan—and that was exceptional because Harlan rarely missed! Soon thirteen packs of beaver plews were piled up by the wagon, more than enough to purchase two horses for the women to ride without sacrificing the great white bear skin.

The crowd parted, and up strode the proud Northern Cheyenne chief who had enslaved the two girls, in all his finery. Flinging down a bundle of beaver skins in a challenging way, he pointed an accusing finger at Big Eagle and through narrowed eyes said, “I will shoot against you!”

Big Eagle, realizing that this was a chance to partially avenge the killing of his band, smiled a deadly sort of smile, then nodded his acceptance.

The target was reset in the meadow, and Big Eagle strode up to the firing line and shot—boom! The target was knocked down, and as it was reset, Bridger declared the shot a hit. Next the chief strode to the line and with the Hawken he had just acquired from Harlan took aim and fired—boom! A small plume of dirt flew into the air below and to the right of the target.

“A miss,” declared Bridger, beginning to feel concerned as he realized that something ominous was happening. We may have a trapper-Indian bloodletting after all if this chief flies off the handle at being bested by a Crow Indian and losing face, he thought.

The chief turned and said something in his native tongue to a nearby warrior. In a moment the warrior disappeared and soon returned with the two grizzly-bear rugs and Harlan’s necklace from the previous afternoon’s trading session.

“This against your beaver pelts,” the chief snarled.

Big Eagle, with hatred welling up in his heart and blood in his eyes, stepped forward without a word being spoken and drilled the target dead center once again. That rattled the chief a bit, but he quickly gathered himself up, threw the Hawken to his shoulder, and placed his shot no one knew where.

“Another clean miss,” Bridger declared with little enthusiasm now for what was happening in front of God and everybody. “Big Eagle is the winner,” he continued after a pause, and with that, a loud roar of approval went up from the trappers for the young Indian shooter. They couldn’t help admiring his marksmanship even if they saw him as a stinking, horse-stealing Crow...

The chief blew up, growling threateningly, “We must shoot again! What do you want from me to shoot against all that you now have?”

Without hesitation, Big Eagle said, “Three good horses of my choosing from your herd and that Hawken you are shooting!”

The chief went rigid with anger as well as vain pride, finding himself boxed in and egged on unmercifully by the crowd of trappers.

“It is as you have spoken,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Move the target to one hundred and fifty yards,” Bridger ordered, and two trappers hurried into the field to move it farther back.

Big Eagle let the chief shoot first. Taking his time, the man slowly squeezed off his shot.

“A clean miss,” declared Bridger.

It was apparent that the chief was beside himself with rage as he glowered at the target. Now it was Big Eagle’s turn. Stepping forward, he raised his Hawken and fired into the dirt not ten feet in front of the chief! The crowd gasped in amazement at the aggressive gesture. The youth had just wasted his shot.

“A clean miss,” slowly declared the wondering Jim Bridger.

Looking over at the chief, Big Eagle said, “I missed. It is once again your turn.”

The coldness in his taunting voice spoke of many dark things, and the tone was not lost on the chief. Setting his jaw with determination to whip this young and now hated upstart Crow, the chief took plenty of time preparing for his second shot. It went into the dirt at the base of the target, and a great roar went up from the trappers as Big Eagle stepped up to the shooting line and looked long and hard at the chief.

The message in Big Eagle’s eyes was clear. Then, shouldering his Hawken, he drilled the target dead center with such force that it was knocked off the log on which it sat! Another roar went up from the crowd as the chief, realizing he had been bested, threw down his Hawken at Big Eagle’s feet in a rage.

“Three of your best horses, and I will be by later to select them,” Big Eagle uttered through clenched teeth as he looked the chief coldly in the eyes.

The chief whirled and strode through the crowd of trappers mustering all the dignity he could in light of his defeat at the hands of a mere boy, and a Crow at that.

By now Fraeb’s keg of rum was kicking in, and a great time was had by all during the rest of the day of fur buying and acquiring necessities for the coming year. Harlan took the two boys off to one side and looked at them proudly as they grinned at him.

“Never in a hundred years would I have guessed what you two had up your sleeves. You did good, and badly as well,” he said sternly.

With those last words, both boys furrowed their brows. It wasn’t often that Harlan was critical of their actions. His admonition meant something had gone wrong with their plan, they realized.

“It was not good to rub the chief’s nose in buffalo droppings as you did. Especially in plain view of the trappers and his own kind. I only hope we never run across his band in the bush because if we do, there will be a right good killing taking place—and I only hope it ain’t us.”

The boys, especially Big Eagle, realized the wisdom of Harlan’s words now that they thought over their actions. Big Eagle had intentionally made the chief look bad, especially with that challenging shot into the dirt at his feet, but he felt that he had had good reason.

The chief and his band had slaughtered his family and his tribe. Big Eagle hoped they would get a rematch once again, only next time on the field of combat. If we do, he darkly vowed to himself, I will slit the throat of the chief and smear his blood all over myself as a final act of revenge.

Regaining control of his emotions, Big Eagle went with Winter Hawk to the shooting site to retrieve the great white bear hide and pack it back onto their mule. As for the beaver plews they had won in the contest, Harlan quietly told the boys to leave them where they were. That came as a surprise to the two boys, but they did as they were told. After all, their dad had spoken, and he was to be believed in all that he did.

Chapter Twelve

The Rendezvous Ends, and a Deadly Event Follows

That afternoon Harlan, the boys, Jim Bridger, Joe Meek, and Thomas “Crooked Hand” Fitzpatrick went to the camp of the Northern Cheyenne chief. To avoid any more embarrassment, the chief had all his horses except his favorite buffalo pony gathered in a small herd close by his tepee. As the men sat on their horses overlooking the situation, Big Eagle dismounted and, after careful review, selected three fine horses as his winnings.

With Harlan’s words of caution still ringing in his ears, he approached the chief and in sign thanked him for his generosity. The chief said nothing and with a face still cast in stone glowered at Big Eagle as if memorizing his face for posterity. The party of trappers left, trailing the three horses, with the recent life’s lessons ingrained in the two boys as they fast became men.

Having acquired all the supplies their credit allowed, including some nice bolts of red cloth, iron rings, red and blue beads, and six soft tanned bighorn sheep hides to make dresses for the two females now in their midst, they headed for their camp, but not before Harlan tipped a couple cups of rum with Meek and Bridger while discussing plans for the next rendezvous.

Harlan had returned all the beaver-plew winnings from the shoot-off to their original owners because he knew he had a couple of ringers in the boys when it came to their shooting abilities. Harlan had also quietly returned the two grizzly-bear hides and the claw necklace, but not the Hawken rifle, to the Northern Cheyenne chief.

The chief was still miffed at having been bested by an uncivil Crow youngster, but Harlan hoped the return of these items would somehow take the edge off what had happened that day. Little did he realize that was not to be the case. Harlan decided to keep the hide from the white bear; it had brought such good luck to his new family that he saw little use in trading such a powerful talisman.