Where the West Ends

By Peter Bergquist

Where the West Ends

Synopsis

            A mountain man trapper named Jesse Tipps travels to California when the beaver give out and, after being wounded in an Indian attack, recuperates at the Russian colony of Fort Ross. Jesse learns about the peaceful coexistence of Russians, otter-hunting Aleuts and the Pomo Indian tribe. His adventures there include a grizzly bear hunt and a brief dalliance with the Russian Commandant’s beautiful wife, Princess Elena. He also meets a young immigrant from Boston named David Dowell, who has sailed around Cape Horn by ship. The two travel with the Commandant and his wife to John Sutter’s New Helvetia. When the Russians sell to Sutter and depart, Jesse becomes the caretaker of Fort Ross and David goes to work for Sutter. A few years later, David gets Jesse embroiled in the Bear Flag Revolt that later led to California’s statehood. The two participate in this underhanded action instigated by the glory-seeking Captain John Fremont until it turns violent and they realize that he is not the man they thought him to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Bergquist
• Release date: Mar 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781500915117

Book preview

Part One

Alta California

1841

"...there is an island called California,

very close to the Terrestrial Paradise."

- The Adventures of Esplandián,

a Spanish romance in which the name is used for the first time

Chapter One

As had so often been his lot in life, Jesse Tipps was coming from somewhere, was going somewhere, but didn’t know where he was. The situation suited him.

He rode down out of the snows and into warm spring air. Milky rays of afternoon sun shafted through heavy leaf cover at the tops of the giant redwoods, trees the likes of which the newcomer had never seen. The man’s feet hung lazy-like outside the stirrups; his body swayed in limp relaxation to the gentle amble of his liver-chestnut mare; and his disbelieving eyes slowly took in the ancient arbor that surrounded him.

It felt fine to be alive after yet another season in the high mountains. Jesse was glad to move amidst the new greens and soft breezes once again, but cautious too, because now he was travelling in fresh territory. It was a different spring for the first time in ten years and he observed all the strangeness ravenously, noticing everything: the smell of salt starting to come at him from the west, the vibrant colors of the budding wildflowers which he could not name, the abundance of butterflies. Sulfurs and swallowtails, mourning cloaks and monarchs whispered their wings in and out of the deep shade and flashed their iridescence at the passing stranger.

Life seemed good to Jesse today, so good that now and again he evidenced his pleasure with crude, hoarse snatches of song, the memory of an old tune he had learned as a boy back beyond the Rockies:

Darlin’, say that you’ll be mine

And in our home we’ll happy be,

Down beside where the waters flow

On the banks of the Ohio.

Jesse felt downright talkative in fact, and those who had trapped with him in the mountains would have guffawed to hear this normally taciturn man addressing his even more silent companions in one-way conversation. Trailing behind the lead horse by a line attached to her saddlehorn were two pack mules, their sides rope-tied with bulging beaver pelts and supplies. As he loped down the sloping forest, Jesse frequently exhorted them to keep to the makeshift trail in a boisterous voice: Come on Bess girl...git yer teeth outta that clover, Tessie. Not suppertime yet, ladies. We’re tryin ’to make some time first-off... Nothing but bother, Jessie thought for the thousandth time. Just a pair of old women, though they got the job done he had to admit. Thank the Lord there was another male along for the trip, someone you could really talk to. Where was that no-count hound anyhow?

As if on cue a mangy dirty-ochre mongrel dog with lop-eared but quick-to-rise ears came bounding into the open, zigzagging every which way his ground-eating nose dictated in the eager pursuit of odors.

Stay close, Gris, Jesse hushed the dog’s whine. We’re gittin’ near.

The man had always named and talked to his animals, for they were his closest companions most of the time. You went into the mountains with your mates; but you sheared off alone for long stretches, setting and collecting the isolated traps, waiting out the freak snowstorms when you couldn’t break through to base camp. And after many a lonely night feeding at the fire, the names evolved naturally enough: Gristle for the hound and Scraps for the mare, telling the story of who cleaned what leavings of buffalo hardtack and beans off the master’s plate meal after meal.

Jesse put himself in the shoes of a non-existent observer and had to smile at the motley crew he commanded—not to mention that crazy man shouting and singing his varmints onward. He must look quite a sight too. Always did after a full season, emerging from the high country at McKenzie or Tecumseh. At least folks at the forts were used to his kind. But not here. Besides, this had been a particularly long and arduous journey: out of the great backbone of the Rockies, down the Snake and up the Humboldt into unknown terrain, climbing yet another range and more snows as he circumvented a huge high lake, still and beautiful as the ones back home, finally falling into a great fertile valley bordered on the west by gentler slopes that he had even now crested and started to leave behind. It was the last of the mountains, he felt sure. The journey was almost at an end.

Ten winters, and now this final emergence, had taken their toll. Slumped in his saddle, Jesse appeared far shorter than his six-foot-two-inches and far older than his thirty-one years. His haggard, sagging, bark-brown face, nearly hidden by a filthy matted beard and long unkempt hair falling stringy all round, gave him the fantastic aura of some stuporous troll, with only the bright blue eyes to signal an intense life within.

But it was really the clothes and tools of his trade that unmistakably branded Jesse for the breed he was—a mountain man. He wore dirt-darkened buckskin, crudely hand-tailored to body and foot. It was too warm now for longcoat and beaver cap, so he had them tied onto his bedroll behind the saddle. Attached to his leather belt was a great sheathed knife, with a pistol shoved through as well. Hanging across his chest from leather thongs round the neck were bullet pouch and powderhorn. And, to complete the army of one, Jesse’s knee rubbed now and again against the boot that held his pride, the muzzleloading long rifle he had christened along with all his other children, this one dubbed Old Powdereater.

Despite the general sense of well-being, familiar anxious thoughts buzzed in and out of Jesse’s brain like a plague of gnats. Had he done the right thing, giving up the only job he’d ever worked steady to take off on this reckless adventure? He had no clear idea how he was going to support himself in the far west, though reports had often come back to the forts that it was easy as falling off a log. He knew there hadn’t been much choice anyhow. This last season he had trapped a fraction of the beaver he’d once got when he started in the trade and, what with hats going to felt and prices down, it was barely enough for a man to live on. Soon there would be no beaver at all in those pure clear streams, and the dams all made by settlers. Better get while the getting was good...

But his nagging nervousness about the future tended to evaporate, like the morning mists that hung so heavy in this wet country. Another kind of fear was constant, however, as well it should be. It kept Jesse alert, with weapons close, helping to insure an always precarious existence. He knew it was downright foolhardy for a man to travel alone in virgin territory; but he’d held back too many times in the past and so finally had to go, if only to save face. He had wanted his two trapping partners to come with him, for safety mainly. He’d talked and talked at them about the land of milk and honey to the west, shamelessly exaggerating the tall tales he’d heard out of all proportion. And they almost bit for it, but in the end reinforced each other’s dread of the unknown and stuck with what they could see, even though it was dying before their eyes. Jesse didn’t care to watch the wilderness disappear; and anyhow, he was by nature both loner and roamer and needed something new to satisfy an inborn curiosity.

Many times Jesse doubted he would make it. He had to cut his own trail most of the way. The weather or hostiles would do him in sure. But his luck had held steady and he hadn’t crossed paths with so much as one White Man or Injun yet. He spotted infrequent campfires well in advance and gave them a wide skirt. He loved the spaciousness, the feeling that he had the vast lands all to himself. Now he was almost out of land, and it occurred to him that human voices might sound sweet for a change.

A gust of salt air hit the mountain man full in the face. Ahead he could see a stop to the giant sequoias, like there was a line that even they did not dare to cross. He moved on with quickened pace to meet the break, came through into the clearing and immediately halted, staring in awe at the sight before him. All practical justifications for the journey washed out of his mind and dissolved as if never thought.  He knew now why he had come so far. Here at last was the ocean. And Jesse Tipps had never seen an ocean.

A long meadow sloped down the hillside, tall browned grass speckled with bursts of newly-budded poppies. And there to meet that riot of orange and yellow and gold in the distance was the deep, white-capped blue of the Pacific, spreading out, reaching for the horizon and the lighter azure of the sky. That water just goes and goes forever, Jesse thought, as he gazed unblinking, his eyes squinting with the splendor of the low sun and its myriad diamond flashes bouncing off the waves.

The trapper dismounted and ground-tied Scraps at her front hocks with the reins. Then he sat himself down on a nearby hillock and stared again to the west. Even Gristle seemed to feel the hushed quality of the moment. He padded over and sat quietly on his haunches next to his master.

We come a long way for this, said Jesse to his hound, but I reckon it was worth it.

He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a bent, rusted harmonica. As he picked out a few clumsy notes from the same tune he had sung in the redwoods, he began to take in the whole panorama before him. The coastline to the north was rapidly becoming obscured by massive oncoming folds of palpable slate-toned cloud. Sheets of a finer grey announced that rain was already falling in the vanguard of the storm. Behind it, quick sharp shards of lightning occasionally burst through and, reflecting the first colors of the sunset, lit the backs of the storm-clouds saffron and cerise. Inevitable thundercracks followed fast.

To the south the jagged coastline stretched on as far as the eye could see. Vertical cliffs hung suspended, with many great masses of stone sheared off from the main, standing in the frothing sea as lone sentinels, around which creatures of the air—seagull, shrike and swallow—wheeled and dove and cried out exultantly. And everywhere the pounding waves beat the tattoo of centuries past and future.

As he watched and heard the rhythmic in-and-out of the surf, Jesse took the harmonica from his lips and rested it on his lap. His breathing slowed, his body sank back gently into a calm repose. Then his eyes drifted up from the hypnotic lapping of the distant breakers, out to the endlessly extending horizon. All thought melted away as his mind floated free, nearing that infinite realm past seeing or understanding, always beyond reach. It felt like those clear cold nights in the high country, staring up sleepy at stars too many to count. A kind of peace again, at last...

Jesse caught the sudden hint of movement where meadow fell off to the sea and it brought him forcefully back to earth. Indistinct figures coming up a ravine in the cliffside, picking their way past two wind-blasted scrub oaks...walking upright...men...

Chapter Two

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The mountain man and the Indians spotted each other at about the same time. As his practiced eyes focused on the small band, Jesse knew from the pointing and wild gesticulations that he’d become the subject of some mighty animated conversation. He wondered how surprised they were to find a White Man in their territory. At any rate, their having already seen him made his first plan obsolete. He had hoped to duck back into the woods and lay low, but now he couldn’t try anything fast without giving away fear. Running would be his last resort; he’d just have to tough it out. He wasn’t worried too much as yet. He’d been in such predicaments before and had a few tricks up his sleeve.

The savages started to advance up the meadow and Jesse took a good look. Six in all and all braves. Most dressed in nothing but stringed loincloths. One elder wearing a blanket-poncho of rabbit pelts and moccasins. Must be the chief or some such high-up, Jesse reckoned. Another Indian wore as a headdress the hollow head of a buck mule deer with full horns intact, no doubt intended for stalking similar prey. Small quivers draped over every back, bows in hand and stone hatchets hung at the sides. A hunting party. Question was, what were they hunting now?

Jesse stood up slow and stretched into a big yawn just for show, then ambled over to the pack mule that hauled his totebag. He rummaged around and withdrew a few items which he stowed down his shirt. As he walked back toward the highest rise overlooking the meadow, he casually pulled free the reins binding Scraps and levied Old Powdereater from her boot without breaking stride. He put in cap and ball, pulled the attached ramrod off the barrel and pushed it in. Finally he primed the flintlock, hoping these Injuns might be too uncivilized to know what all his fuss was about. He figured the mare would hold fast like the trusty old girl she was, even if a ruckus developed. Climbing the mound, Jesse drew himself up to maximum height and stood facing down the hill toward the oncoming Indians, motionless, with arms crossed over the Kentucky long rifle, looking formidable and forbidding...he hoped.

He could make out facial features now and found that these savages didn’t look much like any he’d ever seen before. The raven hair of course, but close cropped at uneven lengths as if arbitrarily hacked up with one of those serrated hatchets, not tied back neatly as the trapper was accustomed to seeing. The faces were crudely squashed together: puffy noses surrounded by big-lipped mouths and pinched, close-set little black eyes. The suggestion of a pugnacious underdevelopment was completed by foreheads which were strangely pronounced compared to the rest of their physiognomies, just as the gleaming leg muscles appeared oversized in relation to the short scrawny bodies. Not only did the savages evidence no sense of grooming, but they wore no paint or jewelry whatsoever.

Seems these Injuns don’t care much for finery, Gris, Jesse concluded wryly to his companion. Hell, they barely got clothes.

This discomforting realization forced Jesse to discard his second plan without trying it out. He felt certain the colorful bead necklaces and earrings he had brought along would be of little interest to this bunch. He’d just have to impress them another way.

Suddenly Gris got a whiff of the strangers. He paced back and forth in front of his master a few times, then stared down the slope, head held low, a deep growl growing in the back of his throat.

Shut up, dog, the mountain man whispered sharply out the side of his mouth. Act sociable.

Gris whined in disbelief but obeyed, holding his coiled position.

From the looks of the sun setting fast behind the Indians and the storm clouds rolling down the coastline, Jesse knew he’d have to act soon. Lucky the redskins hadn’t fanned out yet; maybe he could give them all a jolt. They came on intently, not jabbering amongst themselves anymore, but silent as they neared, each one staring at the White Man. They looked intense, excited, spoiling for a good fight perhaps. Then Jesse noticed the gaunt stomachs. These Indians were hungry; they wanted the meat of his animals. Maybe they even hankered for a little human flesh...

He shook off the thought. At his back Scraps began to whinny and rustle skittishly. Time to make a move. Jesse rested the long rifle against one leg, drew a broken piece of mirror from inside his shirt and, with a dramatic gesture, threw both arms straight up to the heavens. Then he pitched his voice low and bellowed at the startled savages:

Great White Father make heap big magic, by damn!

A hundred yards down the hillside the braves stopped dead in their tracks and gawked. Jesse took advantage of the general stupefaction and immediately thrust the mirror forward in both hands, taking a ritualistic stance and pointing the glass directly at the Indians. Good old sun. Couldn’t be setting in a better spot for this show, Jesse reassured himself. Fast as his dignified pose allowed, the trapper twisted and tilted the mirror, searching out the last rays of light.

It was taking too long; the savages were getting itchy. Where was that goddam reflection anyhow? The blood pumped furiously in Jesse’s veins; adrenalin lifted his stomach and sucked at his breath.

Find it...lower now...

A brilliant shaft of bounced sunlight caught the lead Indian, the one Jesse figured to be Boss Man, full in the eyes. He let out a wail and jerked away spasmodically, slapping at his face like he’d just run into a beehive. Jesse quickly gave some of the others the same treatment and they were likewise impressed.

Sun work for White Man, Jesse intoned. You run like hell!

They didn’t. And their terror was all too brief.

Real hungry all right, Jesse grumbled under his breath.

He kept the hot light dancing in and out of the piggy eyes of the Indians until a thunderhead blotted out the sun and put an end to his sleight of hand forever. The trapper swore under his breath, plenty nervous now.

Either them Injuns seen this trick afore, or they ain’t as dumb as they look.

Not dumb at all. The Boss Man now signaled the others to fan out into a semi-circle which would soon surround the White Man. Nothing for it but to put up a fight.

Jesse lifted Powdereater to his shoulder. The Indians took notice and shouted across to one another. Quickening the pace, they wrested short arrows from their quivers and cocked their