Colter's Run: Mountain Man Series, #3

By Greg Strandberg

It’s the summer of 1808.

Mountain man John Colter is fur trapping on the Upper Missouri.

When he encounters some Blackfeet Indians one of the most epic true stories of the West takes place.

Discover that story and a whole lot more as the continuing saga of John Colter continues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Dec 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519909206

Greg Strandberg

Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana. He graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History.When the American economy began to collapse Greg quickly moved to China, where he became a slave for the English language industry. After five years of that nonsense he returned to Montana in June, 2013.When not writing his blogs, novels, or web content for others, Greg enjoys reading, hiking, biking, and spending time with his wife and young son.

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COLTER’S RUN

Greg Strandberg

Big Sky Words, Missoula

Copyright © 2015 by Big Sky Words

D2D Edition, 2015

Written in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Connect with Greg Strandberg

www.bigskywords.com

Table of Contents

Map of Three Forks Region

Introduction – The Warpath

Part I – Taking Stock

1 – Back at the Fort

2 – Back in the Village

3 – The Financial Outlook

4 – Taking Advice

5 – Another Heads Out

6 – Plans for St. Louis

7 – Talking War

8 – Seeking Trade

Part II – The Battle

9 – The Nation

10 – Out Again

11 – An Audience with Big Dog

12 – Strong Breeze

13 – Meeting the Bands

14 – On a Mission

15 – The Battle on the Forks

Part III – Downriver

16 – Problems at the Fort

17 – Summer Comes

18 – The Departure

19 – Shooting It Out

20 – Show of Force

21 – Hanging It Up

22 – Second Thoughts

Part IV – The Run

23 – The Jefferson

24 – Seized

25 – Strong German

26 – A Council

27 – The Run

28 – The Pursuer

29 – A New Chase

30– At the River

Part V – The Escape

31 – Hiding

32 – Regrouping

33 – Moving and Tracking

34 – On the Rocks

35 – Troubles in the Night

36 – Easy Prey

37 – Come Morning

38 – A Helping Hand

39 – The Musselshell

40 – A Fight on Porcupine Creek

41 – The Fort

Conclusion – Safe

Historical Note

Bibliography

About the Author

Preview of Colter’s Friend

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Introduction – The Warpath

The air was crisp, springtime in the Rockies.

Fox Foot bent down and put his fingers to the ground. The mud here was soft and the tracks showed well. The Blackfoot brave smiled and got up, turned back to look at the others.

Close, he said quietly as they drew near, very close.

The other four braves smiled and nodded and waited for Fox Foot to turn back around and continue guiding them up the mountain paths. They were on the western edge of their territory, where the Rocky Mountains began their majestic rise to the heavens above. It was also the boundary between the Blackfeet lands and those of the Nez Perce, a tribe the Blackfeet had pushed from the plains and to the mountains, as they themselves had been pushed by the eastern tribes, the eastern tribes in turn pushed by the whites.

It all came back to the whites, and always would. That’s what Fox Foot thought as he guided his small band further into the mountains, up the rocky paths, through the dense trees. He was of average height, long black hair flowing freely behind him. The sun was out, something that was causing the snow around them to melt. Spring was showing herself once again, and for the Blackfeet, that meant the hunting season could begin again. It wasn’t always animals the warrior tribe hunted, though.

They continued on for quite some time, moving ever upward. Then Fox Foot came to a stop, for the trail had suddenly come to an end.

There, Small Head said behind him, pointing off the trail and toward some trees. Fox Foot and the other Blackfeet looked over and could see some broken branches, not much, but enough. Leaves didn’t just turn themselves over, after all, their lighter-green undersides showing. It was a clear sign the Nez Perce had left the trail...but why?

They’re on to us, Soaring Eagle said, and Fox Foot looked back to him. The brave was once a leading candidate for medicine man but he hadn’t wanted to give up his warrior ways. Now into his fourth decade, with taut skin and muscles not as impressive as they once were, his pace not as swift, Fox Foot wondered if he’d still make the same choice. He also wondered if the man’s skill with a bow had lessened any. He doubted it.

They know we’re here, Soaring Eagle said as he looked around, the element of surprise is lost.

Fox Foot frowned. Soaring Eagle was old and cantankerous and always complaining. He’d been complaining more since last winter when the Pikuni tribe to the south of them had experienced its problems. Those problems, it was quickly learned by all the surrounding tribes, had revolved around two whites and a Crow travelling with them. Those problems had also left a monumental power vacuum within the tribe. There had been some serious shakeups because of it, Fox Foot knew, and that had in turn shaken up the entire Blackfeet Nation. Fox Foot wasn’t exactly sure what’d taken place at the Pikuni tribe, but he knew that things weren’t the same. He frowned. Things had never been the same since the whites had started to come.

Fox Foot nodded after Small Head had pointed out the branches and then started that way. He held back for a moment, however, then looked back and nodded his head. He’d let Small Head go first, for a man that could spot the trail would be best at taking them to the prey. It was also a good way for Fox Foot to stay protected from the first shot. And it would be a shot, he knew, for the Nez Perce had guns, guns given to them by the small band of whites that’d travelled through a couple years before. Fox Foot frowned at the thought, and the Nez Perce would frown soon as well.

The band of Blackfeet moved on, now deep in the trees on the edge of the mountain. There were five of them in all, all from the Blood tribe of the three-tribe Blackfeet Nation. Fox Foot was the undeclared leader, although he wasn’t the oldest. That honor fell to Long Rider, the tribe’s best spearman. He was getting up into his fourth decade of life now as well, and his taut stomach and chest were beginning to sag even a bit more than Soaring Eagle’s. That must have perturbed him, Fox Foot thought, for Soaring Eagle was about the same age yet looked stronger than many braves a decade his junior. Soaring Eagle was the tribe’s best shot with a bow, however, and Fox Foot was glad to have him along, despite his negativity and sour outlook, and that went the same for Long Rider as well. After that there was Short Horse, a good, well-rounded brave that anyone would want in a fight, and then Small Head, Fox Foot’s best friend and constant companion. The man also happened to be quite the tracker, and up ahead Fox Foot saw that he’d spotted something else.

What is it? Fox Foot said as he drew near.

Real close, Small Head said, fingering the broken branches alongside the mountain path. Then he took in a deep breath with his nose, let it out slowly.

Smell that? he said, looking from Fox Foot to the others. They took in deep breaths as well, just before their brows furrowed and they looked askance at one another.

Cook fires, Small Head said after a moment, Nez Perce cook fires, and close – real close.

Fox Foot nodded at the tracker, then at the others. They were high up and had a clear view of the valley floors below, the rivers that wound through them, and their offshooting streams that cut channels across the land. They were well out of their territory now and moving even further away. But the Nez Perce were close, real close, perhaps over the next rise. They continued on, Small Head leading them, and then sure enough, just as Fox Foot had thought, over the next rise the tracker came to a stop, put up his hand. A moment later he was coming back.

Down below is a small clearing, one with a brook running through – that’s where they’re at. Small Head looked at the others, saw they were paying close attention. He pressed on. How it’s set up is a clear area about twenty feet across, trees around it, a fire in the middle. There are seven, Nez Perce dogs the lot of ‘em.

Easy pickings, Short Horse said with a smile.

Not so easy, Small Head said with a frown. They’ve got guns, the whites’ guns that we heard about, three of them to be exact.

Three guns for seven braves – what are the rest carrying?

Small Head glanced at Soaring Eagle and nodded. Bows for the most part – I count four in total, though one is also carried by a gunman – and then tomahawks. All have at least one of those at their belt.

Fox Foot nodded when Small Head was done with his report then looked at the others. Well, what do you think?

The guns are the most dangerous, Long Rider said, and we’ll need those taken out first. He looked to Soaring Eagle, who nodded.

I’ll be able to take two of them out before they know what’s happening. The third...I can make no promises.

That’s fine, Small Head said quickly before Fox Foot could get a word in, for one of their guns looks like it’s broken.

Broken? Short Horse said. What use is that?

I don’t know, Small Head said, but the Nez Perce with the broken gun is wearing a string of blue beads around his neck.

That’s all I need to know, Soaring Eagle said as he fingered the point on one of his arrows.

Alright, then that should be that, Fox Foot said, looking at his four companions. They nodded and a moment later they were all back on their feet, all moving forward.

~~~

The Nez Perce sat around their fire roasting the two rabbits they’d managed to catch that morning. It wasn’t the best lunch, but in the mountains it’d do. One of the rabbits was just about done and the band of seven was licking their lips in anticipation.

SNAP!

The licking of lips stopped and the darting of eyes began. A twig had snapped, somewhere, out on the perimeter of their area it sounded like. Men began reaching for weapons, bows and arrows, tomahawks, and of course their guns. The latter had been a gift from the white traders that had come through two years before, Lewis and Clark their names had been, and the Nez Perce prized the firearms like nothing else.

One Nez Perce was reaching for his gun at just that moment. His fingers were just inches from its barrel and that’s when the arrow slammed into his chest. The brave looked down, saw it there nearly up to its fletchings, and was amazed that he’d felt so little, like a bee sting really. He was still thinking that when he began to topple over. By the time he hit the ground he was thinking no more, though his eyes were glazing over.

~~~

Soaring Eagle’s face remained blank and impassive as he saw his arrow go into the Nez Perce, and just as the brave’s fingers were inches from the gun. Before the man had even started to fall the Blackfoot brave had another arrow nocked, was taking aim.

SWOOSH!

The arrow flew from Soaring Eagle’s bow and sailed out the few dozen yards toward another Nez Perce. That man too was reaching for his gun, and had actually grabbed it, was bringing it up when the arrow took him. Soaring Eagle saw the shock enter the man’s eyes but he was already reaching for another arrow. The shot hadn’t quite hit the heart, so Soaring Eagle sent another its way.

SWOOSH!

That one did it, just a hairsbreadth from the first. Soaring Eagle barely noticed – he had another arrow nocked and was already looking for the final gunman. Around him there were shouts and yips and yells as his companions raced forth, raced at the other five Nez Perce. That’s when Soaring Eagle saw the final gunman, an older brave and one that was moving a bit slow. Slow or not, however, he already had his gun moving up, already had it pointing Soaring Eagle’s way. The Blackfoot brave’s eyes went wide.

BOOM!

The Nez Perce fired the gun and Soaring Eagle saw a huge cloud of smoke go up, a large burst of flame appear. Right away the Blackfoot knew that something had gone wrong, and he lowered his bow a bit, his eyes narrowing. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, but when it did Soaring Eagle could clearly see that the man’s gun had misfired. Now he was on the ground, thrashing about, clearly in agony. Soaring Eagle scoffed, thanked his luck, and looked for another target. The problem was that his fellow braves were now rushing forth and those targets were becoming blurred.

Long Rider darted forth past Soaring Eagle. He’d seen the man fire two arrows, take out two Nez Perce. That was enough for him, Long Rider thought, for his own spear needed to taste blood. It did a moment later, for he rushed forth at one of the tomahawk-wielding Nez Perce. A dodge, parry, and then his spear shot out, taking the enemy brave in the stomach. The man faltered, dropped his guard, and Long Rider pulled his spear back and then stuck the man in the chest. Long Rider was rushing forth again before the Nez Perce was even falling to the ground.

To Long Rider’s left was Short Horse, his tomahawk out. He had but one as he’d lost the other one crossing the Milk River two days earlier. It’d been a slight stumble, but one that’d put him in the water. He’d landed just right and his second tomahawk came loose and washed away. The rivers’ currents were strong in spring, and Long Rider had been cursing his luck ever since. The loss had made him angry, and he channeled that anger at the Nez Perce ahead of him, a brave with his own set of tomahawks.

Short Horse ran up to him, swung out with his weapon in a wide arc that forced the Nez Perce to back-off. That lasted but a moment, however, as the Nez Perce was soon swinging away at the opening left by Short Horse’s attack. Left, right, left, the twin tomahawks swung out, but Short Horse had no problems jumping and dodging out of their way. He kept that up, moving this way and that, waiting for the opening that he knew would inevitably come. And come it did. On another left-right-left combination, one that Short Horse was becoming quite used to now, the Nez Perce slowed. It was a slight thing, just the left arm coming back around a split-second slower than it had on the previous two arcs, but it was enough. Short Horse swung his tomahawk out in a short arc, one directed at the Nez Perce’s stomach. He connected, savagely so, and the man’s guts spilled out right then and there. As most braves did when such happened, the Nez Perce dropped one of his tomahawks and put his hand to his belly in an attempt to keep the entrails in. He was wholly unsuccessful, but had succeeded in giving Short Horse another opening. The Blackfoot’s tomahawk swung out, this time for the throat. There was a bright spray of blood as the Nez Perce’s life came to an end.

Fox Foot and Small Head saw the carnage their companions had wrought and charged forth at their own opponents. Fox Foot reached one of the bowman and Small Head reached another of the tomahawk-wielding braves. Fox Foot had no problem with his man, a brave that’d suddenly realized his bow would do him little good in close quarters. He’d been reaching for the tomahawk at his belt but wasn’t fast enough – Fox Foot embedded his own tomahawk in the Nez Perce’s chest and that was that.

To his right Small Head had to do a bit more work. His opponent was already armed and ready. Small Head had been anticipating the man’s stance and went down into a slide as he was just a few feet from him, his right leg going out ahead of him as he crouched down with his body. The move caught the Nez Perce off guard and he tried to change his stance to accommodate the new attack. He wasn’t fast enough. Small Head’s tomahawk bit into the man’s calf deeply, causing the man to falter. Small Head was at his side and nearly at his back by that point, his slide having carried him far, and he simply wheeled about, brought his tomahawk up again, this time to bite into the man’s lower back. The Nez Perce dropped his tomahawk and reached for his wound, turning slightly as he did so. That exposed his chest and Small Head was just coming out of his slide. He put his left foot forward to stand up, turned slightly, and brought his tomahawk down. Blood flew every which way as the weapon cleaved into the Nez Perce’s chest.

SWOOSH!

Fox Foot looked over, saw the arrow take the final Nez Perce in the chest, watched as the man went down. He turned back to see Soaring Eagle give him a nod, then he looked at the others. All but Soaring Eagle was covered in blood, though Small Head was drenched in the stuff. Around them lay the seven Nez Perce, all dead. It’d taken a minute, perhaps a bit more. For the Blood tribe of the Blackfeet Nation, it rarely took longer.

Gather up the guns, Fox Foot said after a moment of heavy breathing, racing hearts, and receding bloodlust, there could be more about, and we don’t want to chance it – we’ve been blessed in battle today...let’s not press our luck.

The others nodded to that and were soon taking from the Nez