Beauty for Ashes (14 page)

Talk of weather, too, a rain so hard it opens a gully right in front of you. Lightning that dances on the horns of the buffalo. A dust storm that will choke you if you stay out in it. A night's blizzard deep to a mule's muzzle. A flash flood that swept away our horses, beaver packs, possibles—everything.

Indians: What tribes were usually friendly, meaning the Crows and to Sam's surprise, the Snakes, which some of the men called the Shoshones. Those “friendly” Indians still might kill your friend and steal your horses. Which tribes were never friendly, meaning the Blackfeet. Which made the most durable moccasins, which tanned hides the finest, which did the best beadwork, and which had squaws most eager to go to the willows, and were most fun when they got there.

The news got handed around. Sam thought the most dramatic was Jedediah Smith's story. Trapping to the north and west of the Green, he and his half-dozen men had come on a bedraggled party of Hudson's Bay fur men led by a fellow who called himself Old Pierre. These men were from Flathead Post, on Clark's Fork of the Columbia, far to the north and west. They hailed originally from the region of the St. Lawrence River, all the way beyond Montreal, they said, but some of them had been on western waters for more than a decade. Bearing names like Godin, Godair, and Geaudreau, they were French-Canadians—half-breeds—and the American fur men called them by the tribe they said they came from, Iroquois.

These trappers, separated from their main outfit, had been harassed by Snakes, and the Indians were aroused because a chief had been killed. Would Captain Smith, they asked, in exchange for the hundred and five furs they had, escort them to the camp of their leader, Alexander Ross?

Jedediah Smith knew an opportunity when he saw one. The combined party would be safer than either outfit alone, and he would be guided through country he didn't know and get paid for it. And then he could follow the main outfit in safety all the way to their home post, mapping out beaver country all the way.

Now he was back, with knowledge of lands with plews aplenty. But his tale, along with Johnson Gardner's, meant bad news as well as good: The British were trapping the prime Snake River country to the northwest. Here on the west of the mountains, the territory was disputed. Both the U.S. and Britain claimed it. Whoever got the beaver first would carry the day, and neither side would do the other any favors.

Now a realization began to dawn on Sam and everyone else. This rendezvous wasn't a one-time thing. It was
the
way for all the men who roamed the mountains to get together. Summer, like winter, was a time you couldn't be out making a living—the beaver pelts were too thin to be worth taking. So why not rendezvous? See your friends, and note which ones you wouldn't see anymore. Get the stories of what happened to everyone, and be warned, or know where you would likely have a welcome. Rendezvous would be like a giant bulletin board, keeping all men up to date on doings in the fur country.

Now they were impatient for Ashley to show up, so they could trade their year's catch for all the things they needed, powder and lead, maybe a pistol or another trap, coffee, sugar, tobacco, and blankets, cloth, beads, bells, vermilion, all the foorfuraw that gave you entrée in a village because the squaws wanted it.

Some of the men saw that they were accomplishing something else, too. At this first rendezvous in the summer of 1825, they started to build their community's body of knowledge. Hard-won detailed facts about a land of daunting vastness and astonishing topographical complexity, creek and plain, mountain and badlands, and all the creatures who inhabited it, four-legged, winged, rooted, crawlers, and most important, two-legged. As carpenters knew about different woods and about tools, the mountain men needed to know about a country that was equal parts inviting and hazardous to your health.

Also, during these long evenings, they told stories. Some of them were simple. How Antoine got drowned in the Milk River. How Manuel and Ezekiel rode up the Mariah and never came back. How Joe and John got surprised by Injuns but outran them and warned the camp.

Some of these stories Sam knew. How he and Clyman and Sublette survived a bitter night on South Pass. How old Glass found the grit to survive after being left for dead. (No one told this one in front of Bridger, and mostly they didn't name young Jim as one of the men who abandoned Glass—Sam wondered why.) How Sam, and then Fitzpatrick and Gideon with others, got put afoot and walked down the whole length of the Platte, seven hundred miles, near-starving all the way. Several men clapped Sam on the back after this one was told.

And here, finally, Sam heard the story of John Colter and his escape from the Blackfeet told properly. Some of the American hands here had been in the mountains for fifteen years before the Ashley men came. Some of the French-Canadians had been here for several generations. Auguste, a graybeard with two Mandan wives, told the tale:

“Colter,” Auguste began, “he was
some
. He come out wit' Lewis and Clark and stay, he
stay
—ze only man who don' go back to ze settlements but by God
live
in ze mountains. When old Manuel Lisa, ze Spanyard, he come upriver, here is Colter to show him ze ways and ze creeks and passes. With Colter's help, Lisa get on wit' ze Crows good. When ze Crows get into a big tussle wit' ze Blackfeet, though, Colter, he fight on Crow side and ze Blackfeet spot him—enemy.

“Soon not long Colter and a trapper name Potts go trapping in Blackfoot country, keeping zeir eyeballs skinned.

“One morning zey work a creek near Jefferson Fork in canoe when, all of ze sudden, zey see Blackfeet on both banks. Not just men, women and children too, which is a good, means is no war party. An Injun, he motion for zem to come ashore. Right quick Colter head in—no other place to go. He hope maybe zey just get rob and let go.

“Colter, he step out canoe and sign he come in peace. When Potts start get out, an Injun jerk his rifle out of his hands. Colter snatch ze rifle back an' hand to Potts, who push ze canoe to midstream. ‘Put in,' Colter says to Potts, ‘right now. Ain't no place to run. Let 'em see you ain't afeered of 'em.'

“‘You crazy?' says Potts. ‘You can see zey going kill us. Torture us first.' Blackfeet, they be bad Injuns for torture.

“An arrow hits into Potts' thigh. He ups rifle and shoots Injun as grab his rifle. Right quick Potts is pin cushion for arrows.

“The women, now they send up grieving cries the way zey do, the men start whoop and yell for revenge. Colter, he know what comes. Hands grab him and he no resist. They take everything he own and rip off his clothes, but he don' fight it. Warriors come at him shaking zeir tomahawks, and he act like he don' notice. He means to stay calm, no matter what.

“The Blackfeet, zey sit in a council. Not so long a chief comes to Colter and ask if he is fast runner. Colter, he consider his answer—you don' hurry talk wit' Injuns. Looks like maybe a chance here, poor as a gopher agin a griz, but a chance. ‘No,' says he, ‘I'm a poor runner. The ozzer Long Knives, zey think I'm fast, but I am no.'

“The Injuns chew on this. Soon ze chief takes Colter out onto a little flat. ‘Walk out past that big boulder,' he signs—‘zen run and try to save yourself.'

“Colter sees ze young men is stripping down for race. So he walk. He keeps walking past ze boulder, knowing zey start when he set to running. Finally zey whoop and he take off.

“He head for Jefferson Fork, about five, six miles off. Don' make much sense, but nothing make sense. He no outlast 'em on land, Blackfeet be good trackers. Maybe he can get in river and wipe out his track and….

“At least he give zem a run for it.

“He just run. Eyes see, legs run, that's all—run. Way that child figure, while you run, you live.

“He no look back, not for long time. When he take ze chance, he sees Injuns spread out all over ze peraira, 'cept one. That one is mebbe one hundred yards behind, and carry spear.

“Right here, this is when Colter begin to t'ink mebbe he have chance. He gives thought to Jefferson Fork, probably two, three miles ahead more. He pick up pace a leetle. The mountain air come in and out of his lungs big and good.

“He feels dizzy sometimes, and sick to his meat bag sometimes, but that Colter, he keeps runnin'. After a while his back, it starts prickle, like it is expecting ze point of that spear. He no help himself, he must look back.

“The Injun is only twenty yards behind and ze spear, it is cocked.

“That does it. Colter turn to Injun, spread his arms, and holler out in ze Crow language, ‘Spare my life!'

“That Injun, maybe he is took by surprise. Anyhow, when he tries stop and throw ze spear all at once, he stumble and fall on his face. The spear sticks in ground and breaks off in his hand.

“Old Colter, he pounce. The Injun holler for mercy. Colter grab that busted spear and drive it right into his gut.

“Then Colter, he take a big look around. No sign of Injun anywhere. Shinin' times. Off he runs wit' a spring in his step, head for ze river.

“Not so long he hear whoops, which mean ze Blackfeet find zeir dead comrade. He just run harder.

“When he finally see Jefferson Fork, he spot an island down a little wit' a pile of driftwood at ze top. He has idea. Right quick he dive in—damn, that river so cold!—and goes wit' ze current down to ze driftwood.

“Now he dive down like beaver and come up in ze pile. Thick logs sticking every which way, blue sky up above, O
sacre bleu
! If Injuns get too close, he can duck down in ze water.

“Those Blackfeet splash all around and whoop and holler to
le bon dieu
in heaven, but not one sees Colter. They disappear downstream and come back, so zey probably know his trail no come out of ze river. After a while zey quit.

“Old Colter, he wait until far after dark. Then he ease out and swim wizout no splash down ze river, float down a long way, in case zey check for his track agin.

“What is ahead, that is a job for a mountain man. Walk two hundred miles naked. No rifle, pistol, nor knife. Nothing but roots and bark to eat. Sun and wind burning and drying ze skin.

“Finally he come to Fort Lisa, and ze gate guard not know him—he is so gaunted and sunburned, all scratched and bloody. After they hear his story, all men say, ‘Colter, zat hoss have hair of a bear in him.'”

 

A
SHLEY CAME IN
late on the last day of June, and brought some surprises with him. Leading the Ashley men to rendezvous was a brigade out of Taos. Reports of trappers working from Mexico echoed through the mountains, but this was the first outfit Sam had seen. Etienne Provost was the leader.

Sam watched them unload and set up camp. They spoke three languages, Spanish, French, and English. They were Frenchmen from Canada (not French-Canadians but white Frenchmen) and dark Spanyards; that's what the men called them, though Mexico had gotten her independence four years ago. These trappers were different, and their outfits were different, these men from Taos. Some of them carried ponchos instead of capotes, and they lifted odd-looking saddles from the backs of the horses, the saddle horns as flat and big as saucers. Sam reflected that a fellow could sit around the fire tonight and trade stories in a handful of languages—there were Americans, an Irishman for a different accent, Frenchmen, about thirty Iroquois, French-Canadians who spoke Cree, two Crows, a couple of dozen Mexicans. Coy sat close by Sam and glared at the strangers and growled.

Then Sam heard a voice in English that seemed familiar. Coy jumped up and trotted forward, dodging horses, and jumped up on…

Sam sprinted forward and gave the man a bear hug so hard it was almost a tackle.

“Hannibal McKye,” he stuttered out.

“Sam. I knew you were close when I saw Coy.”

“Glad to see you above ground.”

“Hail, friend,” said Hannibal. His speech was always a little strange. What could you expect of the son of a Dartmouth Classics professor and one of his students, a Delaware girl?

Coy squirmed around Hannibal's legs until the Delaware petted him.

“Have you turned into a mountain man?”

“No,” said Hannibal. “After I saw you at Atkinson”—Hannibal had found Sam on the trail near the fort, passed out from starvation—“I went back to St. Louis to get outfitted again.” Hannibal's profession, or one of them, was trading with the Indians. Oddly, he did it alone, apparently not afraid of having his scalp taken or his horses or trade goods stolen. “Had a good winter, partly because of some friends of yours, Abby and Grumble.”

Abby the madam and Grumble the con man, two of the finest people in the world. Sam couldn't stay in the mountains all the time, if only because he had to see Abby and Grumble once in a while.

“What is this?” Sam had never seen a horse the color of the one Hannibal's saddle came off of. It was a stallion, slate blue, with dark stockings and tail, and a dark stripe on the back.

“The Mexicans call it a
grulla,
” said Hannibal. “His name is Ellie.”

“Ellie?” A girl's name for a stallion? Also, it was Sam's mother's name.

“Short for elephant. Hannibal was a general from Carthage. He marched against the Romans on elephants.”

“Oh, well, Ellie is some good-looking,” said Sam.

“And an athlete,” said Hannibal.

Again, Hannibal seemed to have the finest in horse flesh.

Sam grinned into the eyes of his friend. “My fire's over by that cottonwood, just this side. When you're ready, come and sit and tell your story.”

A while later (time in the mountains was never measured in minutes) Hannibal staked the
grulla
nearby, keeping the horse in sight. He helped himself from the coffee pot on the fire and sat.

Sam began with, “I never thanked you properly for what you did.”