Colter's Friend: Mountain Man Series, #4

By Greg Strandberg

It’s the fall of 1809 and a group of St. Louis businessmen set out to conquer the Upper Missouri Fur Trade.

The Three Forks of the Missouri are chosen, smack dab in the middle of Blackfeet Indian lands.

Discover what happens in this fourth volume of the Mountain Man series. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Dec 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519920041

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 FRIEND

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 Upper Missouri

Map of Fort Three Forks

Introduction – A Pryor Expedition

Part I – August

1 – Into St. Louis

2 – Forming the Company

3 – The Braves’ Return

4 – A Trial

5 – Picking Brains

6 – Arguments

7 – The She-Wolves

8 – Drawing Battle Lines

9 – In the Dark

Part II – September

10 – The Captain’s Return

11 – Stocking Up

12 – The Course of Things

13 – The Miner

14 – Business and Pleasure

15 – Another Run

16 – A Fast Pace

17 – Fort Clark

18 – Cedar Island

19 – A Land Deal

20 – An Enemy Tribe

21 – Attack in the Night

22 – Taking Leave

23 – Upriver

24 – A Reunion

Part III – October

25 – Lisa’s Return

26 – To the Headwaters

27 – A Request

28 – Fort Three Forks

29 – Downriver

30 – Riding South

31 – A Discovery

32 – Hunting & Trapping

33 – Promises

34 – Second Thoughts

35 – Planning the Attack

36 – Hanging It Up

37 – Out in Force

38 – False Confidence

39 – A Second Shot

Conclusion – November

Historical Note

About the Author

Map of Upper Missouri

Introduction – A Pryor Expedition

Sergeant Nathaniel Pryor put his foot up on the keelboat’s gunwale and stared ahead. He was a tall man, dark black hair cut short in the military fashion. His jaw was firm, his nose straight. It was the eyes that one would notice most if they were to look at him, however, for they stared out like a hawk at the river unfolding before them. This part of the Upper Missouri was calm and placid, the waters untroubled. It was a stark contrast to what he expected to find up around the bend.

Pryor took in a deep breath and tugged at his military jacket. It was the first time he’d put the thing on since leaving St. Louis, though he’d been tempted to don it again when passing by the Sioux.

Pryor took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Was that already three weeks ago now, our passage of the Sioux?

The sergeant shook his head. It seemed like just yesterday, in fact, that he was with Captains William Clark and Meriwether Lewis, coming back down this very river in the autumn of 1806. Well, here it was now, May 1809. Pryor was at his wit’s end with the U.S. Army – he had another eighteen months to go and then his commission was up. He’d be mustering out, mustering into the trade.

The trade was of course the fur trade, and on the Missouri it was flourishing. Close to St. Louis the Osage tribes were the main producers of furs – that far south and trapping rarely took place anymore by whites, at least those working for the companies. Instead they traded with the Indians for the furs. It worked out well – the Indians got their trinkets and baubles and the whites got their furs. Both were happy with the arrangement, both thought the other was getting the bad deal.

Pryor knew all this because he’d married an Osage girl. Already they’d had several children who were all given Indian names. Yes, this area was in Pryor’s blood now, and he doubted he’d be heading back East.

Lodges up ahead, sir.

Pryor turned about, his thoughts interrupted. Private Brent was there, pointing upriver. He turned back, saw the first of the large lodges and teepees sticking up over the bushes and trees that dotted the river’s banks.

Very good, Pryor said, giving a nod to the man. Brent nodded as well, went back to his poling.

Most of the men were poling just now, and there were quite a few of them. It’d all begun the previous March when Secretary of War Dearborn had instructed Captain William Clark to get Chief Big White home. Chief Big White was called Sheheke by his people but the whites had called him Big White because of how tall he was. Captains Lewis and Clark had been impressed with the man, and he with them. It’d been agreed Big White would head downriver with the Corps of Discovery, eventually making it to Washington. There he’d meet President Jefferson and other important officials. It was seen as a way to bolster the nation’s relations with the western Indians and nearly everyone had agreed it was a good idea.

Alas, it’d turned into a nightmare of bureaucratic incompetence, ineptitude, and rigmarole. Pryor supposed they should have seen this coming from the start, for right when Big White had made it clear he wanted to go downriver, the problems in the tribe had begun. The Captains’ diplomatic gesture had ignited old animosities and rivalries among the leading men of the tribe. It’d only been through the careful diplomacy, and interpretation with trader Rene Jusseaume acting as mediator, that the Indians and the whites had been able to sort it out at all. In the end it was agreed that Big White could go so long as his family could come along, and Jusseaume and his family.

Pryor rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. He’d left St. Louis to take Big White back to the Mandan Villages. Also along was Pierre Chouteau. He represented the traders along, many of the trappers too. His family was the money behind the fur trade, after all. Pryor wasn’t that fond of having civilians along but the truth was that he needed them for word on the river was that the Arikara were not happy with the whites. Why he had no idea, though he suspected the damned Spaniard Manuel Lisa deserved the lion’s share of the blame.

Pryor frowned when he thought of the Spaniard. Manuel Lisa didn’t have the best reputation in St. Louis, either among the Americans or the French. To both parties he represented the Spanish intrusion that’d lasted but a time, from 1762 to 1800. Be that as it may, Manuel had been cunning, ruthless, but most of all first. He’d been the first to see the potential of the Upper Missouri trade and the first to take a stab at it commercially. It’d paid off, too. He must have set up his fort, for he hadn’t been heard from since he left the city the previous spring, Pryor thought. It could also be that the Indians got him, particularly the hostile Blackfeet that were known to inhabit that land.

The sergeant frowned again, something he was becoming increasingly good at. After all, he hadn’t asked to spend the last three years of his life escorting a Mandan chief around. The frown was also for the land, however, for most of the men along had no real idea what that land looked like or who lived there. Pryor knew – he’d seen it firsthand with the Captains. Most white men couldn’t say the same. That’s why men that’d been with Captains Lewis and Clark were so valuable. More and more traders like Manuel and the Chouteaus were trying to secure the men that’d gone on that expedition, adding them to their own rolls. The institutional knowledge those men possessed about the Upper Missouri wilderness was priceless, and certainly worth the $150 a year the men expected in salary. It was a sight more than the $60 a year they’d earned in the Army – that was for sure!

Alas, once again the Spaniard had been first. He’d hired most of the former Lewis and Clark Expedition’s men and many were up at his fort now...it was assumed. Pryor shrugged at the thought. Perhaps the man had been killed by the Indians, either the Arikara or the Sioux.

That was the real wildcard, the sergeant knew – the Indians. Secretary of War Dearborn had made it clear that relations with the Upper Missouri tribes were still important, critically so. To help with that he’d authorized $400 worth of gifts from the War Department’s own budget, as well as whatever else was needed for the men to get Big White home. Still, it hadn’t been enough. The Army was short-staffed out on the western frontier and worries over the quarrelsome nature of the Arikara had everyone on edge. They’d need more men, everyone knew it, a lot more than they had now.

The group had ninety-five men stretched over three keelboats, three pirogues, a flatboat, numerous canoes, and even a few dugouts. It sounded like a lot but there were just two non-commissioned officers and eleven privates – all the rest were civilians. Pierre had thirty-two traders. William Dorion was another trader who had ten men with him, all originally going to the Sioux to trade though the trading had been so good they’d kept on with the party, hoping for the same with the Mandan. They weren’t the only ones with those thoughts, either. There were eighteen Sioux with them, who also had their own escort and their own appetites for trade. Besides that they’d picked up nineteen random trappers and traders that’d been canoeing, walking, or bull-boating up the river when the joint military-commercial venture passed by. Even if Pryor didn’t want them to tag along behind there was little he could do to stop them. He didn’t mind all that much, however, because they just increased his numbers. They didn’t decrease his concern though – most of the men weren’t military-trained and he didn’t know how they’d fare in a fight. He expected many would turn tail and run. What he wouldn’t give for more men!

He’d been able to secure thirteen soldiers and an interpreter for the military expedition. That wasn’t going to cow the Arikara, however, and probably not even the Sioux further downriver when they passed by again, their gifts now gone. Pryor had said as much to Captain Clark in a letter – the man was still back East, enjoying the pleasantries of Washington – and the Captain had come through for him. Clark let it be known, as Indian Agent for the Louisiana Territory, that he’d grant a two-year trading monopoly for the Upper Missouri beyond the Arikara to any companies that signed on to go upriver with Pryor. On top of it the government would furnish their ball and powder.

Pryor had been impressed when he’d heard the news. Clearly Dearborn’s decision to install Captain Clark as Indian Agent had been a good one. After all, what man knew more than he about the area he was to govern...besides Meriwether Lewis perhaps?

Pryor frowned. Captain Lewis hadn’t been doing well lately. Following their expedition to the Pacific the captain had gone back to Washington but then had slowly drifted back west. Pryor wasn’t sure what his position was yet exactly, but he had it on good authority that it wasn’t anything close to the $1,500 a year plum Agent of Indian Affairs spot Captain Clark had been given.

Well, there was nothing to do for that. Lewis, like everyone else on the frontier, would have to take care of himself. Pryor had no doubt the man could do it, especially with the rush of commercial activity on the river. Already that spring of 1809 there’d been three American fur companies heading upriver and a British group heading down from Canada. Most were sticking around the Knife River 900 miles upriver from St. Louis

Pryor shook his head at the thought. The river wasn’t tame, the Indian threat was all too real. Too many trappers would upset the balance, anger the Indians, disrupt all trade. But what could you do?

Nothing, Pryor thought as the keelboat turned around a bend, made it past a small copse of trees that’d been blocking the way, nothing at all.

Those thoughts were dispelled when the Arikara villages suddenly came into view. Lodges and tepees stood all about. Women and children were everywhere. Dogs barked constantly. The villages were bustling with activity, and also with trouble. That was clear right away, for that many braves didn’t gather in one spot for no reason.

There were hundreds of Arikara on the riverbank, braves decked out in war paint, feathers and holding weapons. Pryor was good with math and quickly began sorting the Indians in his mind. He came to a final tally of 650, most with guns and other hideous, warlike weapons. There was the double-headed tomahawk, or at least ones with a spike at the butt-end. Rifles were in clear abundance, as was the dreaded gunstock club. The latter was like a rifle butt, just decked out with sharp cutting ends and festooned with knives. Indians often waved their weapons about overhead when they wanted to draw a trader’s attention. Rarely, however, did they shout and make such savage faces. No, Pryor knew, this was not good.

Don’t look good, sir, Brent said.

No, it sure don’t, Pryor said. He took his foot from the gunwale and turned back to the boatmen. Put us ashore – let’s see what they want.

There were some murmurs to that but not a lot of grumbling. The men knew full-well that they couldn’t get past the tribe, not with the current the way it was and how they had to paddle, push or pull the boats. Their best course of action would be to drift downriver, but Pryor wasn’t giving up on their mission that easily.

The boat pulled ashore. Grey Eyes, the young chief of the Arikara, came up to them. He wasn’t that tall but had his hair pointed upward to make up for that. He just stared, a blank look on his face, though one that didn’t impart confidence.

We’re not strangers to you, Pryor said to the chief. On a former occasion you extended to Lewis and Clark the hand of friendship.

Chief Grey Eyes said nothing, just kept staring ahead.

Here, Pryor said, stepping forward. He had one of the government’s peace medals on him, and he hung it around the chief’s neck. He stepped back, though the chief remained impassive.

I’ll stop at the other villages and visit their chiefs too, Pryor said, and turned, started back to the boat.

Think that’ll do it, sir? Brent said when Pryor was back onboard.

Pryor looked around. He wasn’t so sure it had done it, but a moment later the Arikara braves on the bank waved him on.

Hop to it, men, he called out, and they were soon poling off the bank, back up the river.

~~~

Further back, Pierre Chouteau was standing with his own boot on the gunwale, though on his own keelboat. He was on the River’s Kiss, the main supply and trade boat his family used for trading on the Missouri. Up ahead he’d seen Pryor’s boat stopped and began to worry. A smile had come to the Frenchman’s face, however, for now the Arikara were waving the boat on.

Keep us moving, he called back to the men poling the boat, the way’s clear.

It was clear, very much so. Pryor must have decided to pick up the pace, for his men were poling something fierce. That was all fine and good, but now the Indians that’d been waving turned their attention back to Chouteau’s boat.

Pierre grew nervous. He didn’t have the soldiers on his boat like Pryor had on his. Still, the Indians were waving them to shore, most likely because they were eager to trade.

Put us in, Pierre said after they’d gone a ways closer.

There was some grumbling, but the men did so. They were getting paid to get upriver, and the only reason they were going upriver, after all, was to trade.

The boat came in easily, its bottom scraping against the stones and sand of the river bottom. Pierre smiled down at the Indians, who held out arms to welcome him. The men lowered the gangplank and Pierre and several of his most trusted men came ashore. They were Curts, Fitz, and Roberts and each would have passed muster at West Point.

We have many goods, enough to... Pierre started to say in French, but then trailed-off when the chief started forward. He had one of Pryor’s peace medals and he reached up and tore it from his neck in one violent grasp. He threw it to the ground next, then spit upon it for good measure. After that he looked back up and met Pierre’s eye.

Our chief, Grey Eyes said, stepping forward once again, you killed Chief Ankedoucharo!

Pierre narrowed his eyes. Chief Ankedoucharo...died in Washington...in our capital – you know that. There was no hostility involved...he simply fell ill and passed away.

Grey Eyes scowled and took another step forward. You killed him!

And you trade with the Mandans, trade with them more than us! another brave shouted out, his English horrendous but understandable.

That elicited another cheer from the mob on the riverbanks. Further upriver, Pryor looked back at Pierre stopped there, looked back with quite a bit of unease.

On the riverbank, Pierre was completely beside himself, shocked beyond belief. Before he could act, however, one of the Arikara braves standing near him came forward and hit Curts upside the head with his rifle butt.

YEE-YEE-YEE!

The Indian called out savagely and the cheer quickly went up among all gathered on the shore. The sound those hundreds made was immense and rattled Pierre to the bones.

Fire!

BOOM!

Pierre stood and stared in amazement as a enfilade of rifle fire tore into the front ranks of the Arikara. He looked back and saw George Shannon on the boat. Their eyes met and Pierre nodded – my, he was glad to have a Corp of Discovery veteran along!

To the boat! Pierre shouted, and went for Curts. Thankfully the rifle blow had only stunned the man and hadn’t knocked him out. He staggered up and the two started back, Fitz providing cover with his pistol and Roberts with his knife.

Go, go, go! Pierre shouted after he was up the gangplank and had looked back to see Fitz and Roberts up as well. One of the polemen pulled it up and the others got them shoved off.

Fire! Shannon shouted at just that moment

BOOM!

Another enfilade of rifle fire tore forth into the front ranks of Arikara, a little more than twenty seconds after the first. It slowed them, but it wasn’t going to stop them.

George, Pierre shouted up at him from his position near the cargo boxed, you’ve got to get down!

Got to keep firing, got to–

BOOM!

Ugh! Shannon went, reaching down to his leg before staggering and falling over on the boat’s bow. Pierre’s eyes went wide and he went for the man.

Keep firing, he yelled to the trappers and traders amongst him, then he reached Shannon.

How is it? he said, looking down at the bloody leg.

Hurts, hurts bad, Shannon said, now give me my rifle.

Pierre scoffed. He admired the man’s courage, if not his intelligence. Instead of reaching for Shannon’s rifle, Pierre turned and looked back at the banks. They were out in the water about twenty feet now, the current beginning to take them downriver. The Arikara were regrouping though, for the scattered fire was nothing compared to the enfilades that’d assaulted them. Worse, a string of braves on the bank was pointing his way just then.

Take cover! Pierre managed to shout out before he jumped down.

BOOM!

Pierre pulled his hands from his head and felt around his body. He broke out into a big smile – he hadn’t been hit! Looking back at the bank, he saw the string of braves down on the ground.

Pryor, that rascally dog! Shannon shouted out, banging his fist on the boat. Pierre looked over. Sure enough, there was Pryor’s boat, now within rifle range.

BOOM!

Anther round of bullets went out, about a dozen, the trader estimated. He looked over on the banks and saw the Arikara running.

Ugh!

Pierre looked back over and saw Shannon there, holding that bleeding leg. The wound looked bad.

Get us downriver and pull us ashore when you can, Pierre shouted back to the polemen, we’ve got a wounded man here!

Part I – August

1 – Into St. Louis

Manuel Lisa smiled as St. Louis came into view. My how fine the city looked after the winter upriver!

The main street, Rue Royale, ran parallel to the river at a distance of forty feet above the water and there was one cross street, Market Street. There was a sand towpath along the river for men to pull the boats, though it was submerged completely at high water. Located 700 miles up the Mississippi from New Orleans, and 17 miles south from the mouth of the Missouri, St. Louis had gone from a collection of fewer than two hundred stone and timber houses and other buildings sitting atop a perpendicular limestone bluff extending for two miles along the Mississippi in 1803 to something he’d expect to see in New Orleans, and just six years later. The largest houses had high walls and large gardens and were built in the style of Quebec, the Caribbean, and New Orleans. The main streets of Rue Royale, Market and Walnut were barely able to contain all the houses, shops, warehouses, smithies, and other places of business, and pleasure. Manuel had already counted two new taverns since he’d arrived, though he knew only one could claim to be the best. He expected he’d end up at Christy’s Tavern here real soon – its back rooms were where most of the city’s serious business took place.

As the keelboat glided downriver with the