Fortin's Furs: Mountain Man Series, #7

By Greg Strandberg

It's 1811 and a new expedition to Astoria begins. Tagging along with the group that’s heading to the Pacific are some of Manuel Lisa's men. It’s a small party of five that's eager to find some furs cached on the Upper Missouri. As winter sets in, however, things turn sour and survival becomes key.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Apr 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533712707

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.

Book preview

Fortin’s Furs

Mountain Man Series, Book VII

Greg Strandberg

Big Sky Words, Missoula

Copyright © 2016 by Big Sky Words

D2D Edition, 2016

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 Missouri River Region

Introduction – Case

Part I – In St. Louis

1 – Quite the Characters

2 – Backing

3 – Talk of War

4 – Christy’s

Part II – Up North

5 – Lono

6 – Brock

7 – MacDonald

8 – Hunt

9 – Marie

Part III – Setting Out

10 – The Wharf

11 – Record Speed

12 – The Mandan

13 – Ahorse

14 – Following

15 – The Pass

16 – The Snake

Part IV – Overland

17 – On Course

18 – In Sight

19 – The Divide

20 – A New Plan

21 – The Mad River

22 – Caldron Linn

23 – Hunting

24 – Mountain Attack

Part V – Fortin’s Furs

25 – Pushing North

26 – Another Tribe

27 – Trail Attack

28 – Friends Arrive

29 – On Foot

30 – Hand Talk

31 – The Flathead

32 – Maiden Rock

33 – The Cache

Conclusion – Scattered

Historical Note

About the Author

Preview of Dorion’s Dilemma

Map of Missouri River Region

Introduction – Case

Case Fortin stared down the spear that was pointed at his throat.

Well, he said, are ya gonna do it or what?

Tell me where they are, the reply came.

Case narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the man on the other end of that spear. He was a Blackfoot Indian, Case knew that much, but what he was doing this far west the trapper had no idea. He now had an idea what’d happened to Charles, Champlain and Beuvais, however, one look at the Indian’s belt and the three scalps hanging there gave him a real good idea. Whatever became of Old Dorion was anyone’s guess.

I ain’t tellin’ you noth–

Before Case could react the Indian flipped the spear around and slammed the butt-end into the trapper’s mouth.

FWAP!

Ugh! Case went, his hands going up to his bloody mouth. A few moments later he looked up, venom in his eyes, and spat out several broken teeth.

Where are they? the Indian asked again, and flipped the spear back around point-end first to level at Case’s throat again.

Case curled up his lip in his best sneer. Go to hell!

No, a new voice came from behind Case, that’s where you’ll be going – now tell us!

Case turned his head and angled about, hoping to get a better look. He knew that voice...knew it well. It can’t be, he thought, turning about, please tell me it can’t be...

But it was.

Where are they! the Indian shouted again, drawing Case’s eyes from the white behind him. This time the Indian poked the spear into Case’s throat, just slightly, enough to make a small prick. The trapper put his hand up and it came away with blood.

Tell us or die like your friends, the man behind him said, the voice of the traitor.

Case firmed his jaw, looked back at the man. William Clark will find out about this.

The man laughed. More’n two thousand miles to the south of us in St. Louis? He scoffed. I don’t think so. Now, where are those furs, damn it?

Case spit a mouthful of blood at the man’s feet, the man that he’d thought was his friend.

That man curled his lip in scorn and looked to the Indian with the spear, nodded. The Indian firmed his jaw and tightened his grip on the spear. Case spit a bloody mouthful of spit at him as well.

SCRISH!

The Indian plunged the spear forward and its razor sharp tip slid easily into the soft flesh of the trapper’s throat, slid in and came out the other side. Case’s eyes went wide and a shocked expression came across his face. The Indian didn’t give him time to raise his hands up to grasp at the spear, however. Instead the Indian twisted the shaft, and thus the tip as well.

SWISH...SCRUCH!

Blood shot out from the wound as the hole in the throat widened and tore. The trapper’s eyes glazed over in death and the Indian tilted the spear in such a way that the trapper slid off, crumpled onto the ground in a heap. Behind the Indian, another brave scoffed.

Still don’t know where those furs are, he said in his native tongue.

The Indian that’d killed the trapper let out a sigh, looked to the white amongst them. No, and it doesn’t look like we will.

We’ll find them, the white said in the Indians’ language, nodding to himself. To the Blackfeet Indians it looked like he was trying to convince himself, however.

The brave that’d killed the white shook his head. "Could be anywhere along the Divide, any spot for hundreds of miles in either direction, north or south. How long will we look...how long will you look?"

The white turned about and looked at the brave. For as long as it takes.

Part I – In St. Louis

1 – Quite the Characters

The Grand rushed southward toward the Missouri, carried on toward the Mississippi, and then finally saw her waters empty into the Gulf down by New Orleans. Sal Jessup wasn’t much thinking about that, however, not as he swiped his skinning knife down and cut another portion of the fur from the beaver he was on. Another swipe there, a turn, then a final swipe along the midsection and the men had another pelt, a good one too by the looks of it, perhaps two pounds. That’d bring ‘em about $6, the price being what it was in St. Louis these days.

The men of course were Sal, Schaefer, Rose, Daniels, and Jeffrey. All five of them had done time upriver, time at Fort Raymond, and for four of ‘em at least, Fort Three Forks and Fort Henry also.

Sal Jessup was tall with short hair and a weatherworn face. He was 28-years old now and with his time trapping on the Tennessee and Arkansas River before coming up to the Mississippi and Missouri, all the way to Fort Three Forks, he could count himself as an old hand. Despite his youthful appearance, most others did so as well.

Schaefer was certainly an old hand. About 43-years old now, he came from Pennsylvania. He was about as ugly as they came, with a large burn down one cheek, several missing teeth, and breathe that smelled like a brothel’s chamber pot. Despite that he was a helluva shot with his 1805 Kentucky Rifle, yet another gun that he called ol’ Gertrude – he’d lost the first when Fort Henry had burned to the ground, hadn’t found it on the dead Indian women either. So he replaced her with the same make and model, a fine rifle that was 33 inches in length and came in at .54 caliber, giving her a range of 100 to 120 yards. He used her to good effect, had saved the day many a time because of it.

Daniels was one of the greenhorns that Manuel had recruited in St. Louis to head up to Fort Raymond and the Three Forks in 1809. He’d been one of the more competent ones at least, and now two years later he was still around because of it. He was about as average as you could get, young to boot. Straw hair that stuck out straight in all directions, a freckled nose that had yet to be broken, and lips that had probably been callin’ for momma just a few years before.

Rose and Jeffrey were the other two, two that weren’t among them at the moment. They were downriver a day trapping a plum hole they’d come across, one that didn’t require five men to go at her.

Edward Rose was a man’s man. Rough, rugged and resisting all calls to tell him what to do. The mulatto’s muscles bulged from his tight shirt and his face hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. He smelled like a man, too – dirt, smoke, blood, and muck. Yep, Rose was a trapper. Anyone ten feet off would know it in an instant.

Jeffrey Smith had a calm face, the kind you’d expect on a clerk or maybe even a banker. It was a face that said, ‘trust me, everything’s gonna be alright.’ Like with a clerk or a banker, however, best to keep one hand on your wallet while those calm and kind eyes smiled at your passing.

Jeffrey was the newest among them, the most recent at least. Daniels was too, but he’d done time up at Fort Three Forks and Fort Henry after it, nearly lost his hide at the side-hole in fact. Jeffrey had done well getting them through on the keelboat, however, and despite his loose tongue and penchant for saying the damndest things, he was a good trapper that knew how to bring in the furs. That’s what it was all about – furs. The price was low now, what with the increased competition and the increased number of men plying the rivers. The trade embargo was to blame as well, as was the lower demand because of it. Talk of war didn’t help none, nor did the closure of the Upper Missouri due to Blackfeet hostilities. It was hell, actually, and times were damn tough. Despite that, they still went out, still went trapping. They had to get furs, had to keep Manuel Lisa’s St. Louis Missouri River Fur Company in the black. Lately it’d been in the red, and despite their forays a few hundred miles upriver, the color on those balance sheets didn’t look ready to change. Times were tough, damn tough.

Sal stopped his skinning and looked up. He turned his head this way and that, narrowed his eyes and generally gave the appearance that he was listening.

What the– Schaefer started to say, but Sal cut him off with an upraised hand. The scarred and grizzled trapper frowned to that but held his tongue, though he did spit angrily over his shoulder.

Sal kept his hand up for several seconds, kept his head cocked to one side, the left side meaning something was to the west of ‘em, maybe on the other side of the river 30 yards away. Finally the trapper lowered his hand, shook his head.

Thought I heard something but I guess it was nothin’, he said, looking back at Schaefer there on the bank with him, then over at Daniels in the boat. He shrugged. Just jumpy, I guess.

Daniels got a laugh out of that one, rose up to better secure a pack of furs in the rear of the craft. Ain’t no reason to be jumpy around here – this ain’t the Upper Missouri full o’ Blackfeet, now. He laughed again. Hell, I figure–

The other two didn’t hear what Daniels figured. Just then the bushes on the other side of the bank began to rustle. There came a horse from behind them right as the men looked over, a rider atop her.

A Fox, Schaefer said, dropping his skinning knife and reaching for his rifle.

Beside him, Sal knew his companion spoke true – the Indian was decked-out in the ornamental shoulder-shawls the Fox Tribe favored, numerous feathers coming off of it, most painted red or blue. The Indian’s hair was painted red, done up in a Mohawk-style with one large eagle feather sticking up from the back. The Indian’s deerskin leggings were tasseled with red and blue beads and even his horse was draped with ornamental garlands of beads and tassels. It was the rifle in the Indian’s hand, however, that got Sal’s attention the most. It was a Northwest Trade Gun, likely received for twenty pelts from one of the many trapping parties operating in the area, perhaps even the French or British further north. The Indian brought that rifle up just then, brought it up and aimed it right at Sal.

Get down! Daniels shouted from the canoe, reaching for his own rifle. That got the Indian’s attention and he swiveled the gun