The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men) (2 page)

Crow, he silently figured. Probably a hunting party far south of their territorial range and into that of the Lakota. Once discovered by the Lakota trespassing on their tribal hunting grounds, well...

Continuing, he found more bodies of women and children who had run for the protection offered by the brushy creek bed only to find that it was their place to die. He could smell the oily pine-wood smoke of campfires and meat rotting on drying racks, abandoned but still heavy and pungent in the air. Emerging from the dense brush by the creek but partially hidden at the forest’s edge at the meadow’s opening, he got his first look into the valley of death.

Clustered along a small rise in the valley were the burned remnants of thirty-two Indian tepees. Scattered throughout were the bodies of numerous men, women, and children along with several dead horses and the corpses of most of the camp’s dogs. The silence of the scene was broken only by the melodious croaking of the ravens and calls of the crows and magpies, scared away from their feeding frenzy by Harlan’s sudden appearance.

It appeared from the bloat of the bodies that the fight had occurred several days earlier, he thought as his eyes carefully swept the area for any signs of lingering danger. Looking closely at several bodies of men filled with numerous arrows and horribly mutilated, as was the custom of the time for many tribes of plains Indians, he noted that the arrows were from the Lakota and their allies the Northern Cheyenne. Knowing those Indians could be just as mean as the dreaded Blackfoot, he moved his pack string deeper into the comforting brush surrounding the creek. Determined to be rid of the oily, clinging smell of death and the sight of battle, Harlan continued along the creek toward Willow Lake.

Zip—thunk went an arrow into his saddlebag! Harlan’s horse, spooked by the surprise impact to his side, bolted forward. Pulling the horse quickly to a stop, he whirled in his saddle to face his unknown assailant, quickly pulling back the hammer on his Hawken in one smooth, practiced motion for the battle that was sure to follow.

Standing with a distinct wobble, not twenty feet away, was an Indian boy who looked about twelve or thirteen years old. An arrow was stuck deeply into a festering wound in his thigh. Off to his side stood another Indian boy of about nine or ten whose entire body was trembling violently, like aspen leaves in an early fall storm. It was obvious that the younger boy had seen more than his mind could reasonably tolerate and was in deep shock.

The older boy was trying to notch another arrow and do a better job than he had the first time. Realizing that these two boys were probably all that was left of their band, Harlan quickly raised his hand in the sign of peace, putting on his best smile. Because much of daily existence in the West was painted in blood if one were not alert to the dangers at hand, his free hand went to the horse pistol in his belt.

Trying to draw another arrow in the bow was too much exertion for the boy’s weakened body, and he suddenly toppled over the stream bank, landing smack-dab on the nock end of the arrow shaft protruding from his thigh. With a screech, he dropped his bow and arrow, passing out as the shaft was forced clean through the thigh.

Dismounting and scrambling over to the boy, Harlan grabbed his bow and tossed it next to his pack string so it couldn’t be used against him. Seeing that the boy was out cold from the pain of the arrow passing through his thigh, Harlan scooped him up in his arms and walked back up the creek bank. The boy’s garb showed that he was a Crow Indian.

He more than likely ran to the creek for protection but didn’t escape before he had bought an arrow in the leg, he grimly thought.

Splitting the young Indian’s buckskin pant leg with his knife, Harlan discovered a blue-black, festering wound caused by infection from the arrow. He took the opportunity to pull the rest of the arrow shaft through the thigh while the boy was out cold. With the razor-sharp tip of his gutting knife, Harlan trimmed the putrid flesh around the entry wound down to that which bled freely and looked healthy. Pulling a small flap of dirty buckskin from the entry hole as well, he washed the wound with water from his canteen.

Then Harlan wiped the wound dry and poured a small amount of gunpowder from his powder horn into the arrow’s entry hole. With a spark from his flint and steel, he set the gunpowder aflame. The leg involuntarily jerked as the powder flamed high, then quickly died out. Along with that, came the smell of burned powder and flesh. Kneading the back of the small thigh with his hands, Harlan managed to get the wound to bleed freely from the exit hole, further cleansing the wound.

Stepping over to his lead mule, Harlan unpacked a piece of clean gun-patching material and tightly bound the boy’s thigh, covering the wound. Then it dawned on him that in the rush of the moment with the first Indian boy, he had forgotten the younger child. Quickly turning, he saw that the boy had not moved an inch and was still trembling violently. Harlan walked slowly toward him so as not to scare him any further, holding out his hand in a friendly gesture.

When he reached the young boy, whose dark eyes never left the trapper’s face, he gently picked him up. Holding the shaking boy, he carried him back to the pack string and sat him down by the wounded boy, who was now coming out of his spirit world. Realizing how much terror the little one must have undergone, Harlan reached up to his saddle bag, with the arrow still firmly sticking out of it. Fortunately, the arrow had not penetrated all the way through into Harlan’s horse.

It had been stopped short by the large amount of hard buffalo jerky in the saddle bag. Opening the flap, Harlan took out a piece of jerky and, kneeling back down, handed it to the shaking boy. In a flash, the child grabbed the jerky and savagely tore at the tough strands of dried meat as if he hadn’t eaten for a month.

A low groan brought Harlan’s attention back to the boy lying on the ground. He was looking up at Harlan with the fierceness of his kind, born from a thousand years on the unforgiving prairies and mountains of the West. Harlan again made the sign of peace, and this time the boy seemed to comprehend its meaning. Tears welled up in the youth’s eyes, and he let all the terror and misery flood from his heart over his losses from the recent attack. He was crying over the loss of his parents, a way of life, and almost his own life. Now he was faced with an uncertain future as he looked up at this massive white man dressed like a cross between the feared grizzly bear and a buffalo!

In the next instant, the younger boy flew into the older one’s arms, and Harlan realized they were probably brothers. Then the tears of loss really flowed between the boys. In a few moments, the older boy regained his composure and watched Harlan to see what he was going to do with the two of them.

The younger boy did the same, still trembling violently. Realizing that staying there in the valley of death was not wise, Harlan picked up the younger boy and gently placed him in the saddle on his dead brother’s horse. The horse was very gentle and accepted his load without much interest as he looked back toward the new weight.

The boy continued trembling but seemed to accept his new lot in life, especially since the contact with the horse was familiar and comforting. Realizing that the wounded and weakened boy was another matter, Harlan took an ax from one of the pack saddles on a mule. At first, the wounded boy looked like he thought he was in danger again, and the smaller boy stopped eating his chunk of jerky to observe Harlan’s actions.

Quickly selecting a small, nearby lodge-pole pine tree, Harlan cut it down, then limbed and trimmed it to the size he wanted. Another pine of like size soon joined the first. Cutting another gentle horse from the string, Harlan deftly constructed a travois and tied the front end of the contraption to that horse’s saddle horn. Removing a buffalo robe from another mule’s pack frame, he soon had a completed travois ready for travel.

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.