Dorion's Dilemma: Mountain Man Series, #8

By Greg Strandberg

The 1811 Astoria Overland Expedition has fallen on hard times. 

Splintered into three separate groups, each presses west toward the coast, winter and Indians coming up fast. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Jun 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533726421

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

Dorion’s Dilemma

Mountain Man Series, Book VIII

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 – A Cup

Part I – Over the River

1 – Hunt

2 – Lono

3 – Crooks & Mackenzie

4 – A Fork

5 – Along the Powder

Part II – Through the Woods

6 – The Dorions

7 – The Kentuckians

8 – Left Behind

9 – Closing In

10 – The Cabin

11 – A New Arrival

12 – Old Acquaintances

13 – On the Trail

14 – New Year’s

15 – Suspicious Minds

16 – Desperate Measures

17 – Going After

18 – Attack

19 – Out of the Woods

20 – Rude Awakening

21 – Running

22 – Dying

23 – Living

Part III – To Astoria

24 – Hunt Again

25 – Getting Worse

26 – Falling Upon

27 – Out of Nowhere

28 – The Columbia

29 – The British

30 – Astoria

31 – A Change of Mind

32 – Impressed

Part IV – Trouble

33 – In the Hold

34 – New Friends

35 – Old Company

36 – The Cayuse

37 – Rushing East

Part V – Taking Charge

38 – First Light

39 – From the Forest

40 – Pandemonium

41 – Out of the Hold

42 – On the Bluff

43 – On Deck

44 – Explosion

45 – In Shock

46 – Payback

47 – Ashore

48 – Retribution

Conclusion – A Cache

Historical Note

About the Author

Map of Missouri River Region

Introduction – A Cup

John Clarke narrowed his eyes and looked down at his pack. He felt the side, took on a confused look, then began feeling about some more.

Gone, he said to himself as he felt the pack, fingering it here and there to see if it still held what he wanted, where the hell...?

The Hudson’s Bay Company trapper and trader rose up from where he’d been kneeling on the ground, rose up and looked about the village around him. It was a Cayuse village, the tribe that was so closely related to the Nez Perce tribe that the two were often confused for each other. Both tribes were also known for their warrior ways, though with the Cayuse those ways primarily revolved around horses and their ability to steal them from the other tribes in their area. The stealing wasn’t just confined to horses, however, and as John Clarke rose up, the anger in him rising as well, he was beginning to realize that.

Where is it? he shouted out, a frown on his face and his hands going to his hips. His beard was scruffy and his face dirty, his frame wiry but eyes intense. Around him none of his companions seemed to take heed, and the Indians walking about them sure didn’t either.

Where is it! John shouted again.

Where the hell’s what, you loud–

Me cup! John shouted, looking right at his companion, a fellow HBC trapper named Clyde. The men were just two out of twelve that’d come down from Canada and the British lands there, come down into the disputed Oregon country that was so rich in furs, food, and all kinds of other resources. Trips to this country usually netted the Company quite the returns, the Indians eager to trade furs and pelts for fishhooks, awls, and mirrors for the most part. Lately they’d wanted more guns, and the way relations between Britain and America were breaking down, the company was more than willing to go that route. It’s why the village had a lot more braves sporting the Northwest Trade Guns, simple rifles that could unhorse a man from a hundred yards off. It’d change the balance between the tribes, change it quite a lot. Besides the Cayuse and Nez Perce there were the Umatilla, Sahaptians, Wasco, Wishram, Paiute, Chinook and Clatskanie tribes...and those just being the ones along the northern stretch of the Oregon country. Further south and along the coasts there were more, a total of twenty-five tribes in all, most eager to trade with the whites...but a few eager to kill.

You and that damn cup! another of the HBC men said with a scoff, and several of the men around him broke out in chuckles and laughs.

It ain’t funny! John said, coming up to them, then coming up to another group that was snickering. He got up in their face and the men, knowing full well Clarke’s temper, quickly wiped the smiles from their faces and looked down at their feet.

Alright, alright...calm down, John, another HBC man said, where do you think it might be?

John sighed, looked about a bit, threw his hands up and shook his head. "Hell, I don’t know!"

Think the Injuns took ‘er? one of the men said, and John started to nod.

What the hell else woulda happened to it, eh?

A few of the men nodded, began to look at the Cayuse around them. The Indians were watching now, wondering what was happening. They didn’t speak English and just two of the HBC men among them spoke the Sahaptin language that the tribes of the area conversed in. John looked over at one of those men.

Damn Cayuse took my silver cup, he said, you know, the one’s that I got off o’ the Russian traders on the coast.

Damn cups were the Americans’ and you should just forget about ‘em, one of the men said, shaking his head.

"Forget about ‘em? John said, incredulous. I ain’t gonna forget about no silver goblet that’s worth $10. Hell, I already lost one to the damn Nez Perce and I don’t mean to lose this one!"

Then why the hell’d you take it out last night, let it get filled with wine, and then passed all about? one of the men said, and there were several nods to that. The men had been in the chief’s tent the previous night, they’d seen the cup making the rounds, they’d smoked the same pipes that John had. "Hell, you know these Indians are as friendly as can be...but you gotta watch your things."

Gotta watch your things, several of the other men echoed, for there was rarely a white man in the wilderness that hadn’t had something taken by the Indians.

By this time there were dozens of Indians standing about the small group of whites, looking on with confused looks. John, seeing that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his companions, started yelling directly at them.

Bring me my cup, damn it! Bring me my silver cup or I’ll kill the whole lot o’ ya!

Easy, John, easy! one of the men said, coming up and putting a hand on John’s shoulder.

Don’t you tell me to take it easy! John said, ripping the hand away. You tell them Indians to give me back my property!

Alright, alright, the man said, and motioned over to one of the interpreters. The man started to speak in the native language and soon Indian heads were nodding. Several began pointing off toward one side of the village, speaking quickly. A moment later several went that way and the interpreter turned back. Says they’ll get it, don’t you worry, she’s comin’.

John nodded, though he kept that frown on his face, kept his arms crossed. He paced about and the crowd of Indians grew larger. Finally, after what seemed like several minutes, a larger group of Indians came into view. Among them were those that’d rushed off, and the chief of the tribe. Words were exchanged with the interpreter and then a small blanket was laid out on the ground. A moment later the silver cup was placed upon it.

There, happy now? one of the Company men said to John. Now let’s get that damn thing and get back on the trail.

No, John said, as he went forward and took the cup, gave it a careful look to make sure it hadn’t been damaged.

No...what’dya mean, no? one of the men said.

I want punishment, John said, I want whoever took my cup to get punished. He looked over at the interpreter. Tell them, tell them to show the thief.

The interpreter frowned, but seeing that they weren’t going to get out of there until John was appeased, he spoke the words. The Indians murmured to themselves, and then after a few moments several of them began pushing forth a brave, a man that looked ashamed of himself, had his eyes on his feet.

This the man? John said, and the interpreter nodded. Good, then let’s get that lodge over there dismantled, he said, pointing at one of the tepee-like lodges that was mostly just hides covering long poles, and a tripod erected.

"Tripod? one of the HBC men said. What the hell you need a–"

We’ll be having a hanging, John said, now get me a rope and get a noose tied in her.

The interpreter had been translating John’s words for the Indians the whole time but at that last they gave out a shocked gasp, backed up a bit.

Do it! John shouted, and this time a few of the HBC men began moving toward the lodge. Meanwhile the translator continued to speak, continued to talk to the Indians, telling them what John wanted. He began to tell them this was the best way for their village to survive, the best way to ensure that only one died, not the whole lot of ‘em. Knowing what the whites were capable of, the Indians quickly began to agree, to nod, to point at the thief amongst them. Soon there were Indians over and taking down the lodge, making the tripod that John wanted, getting the noose tied and secured to it as well.

Good, John said when it was all done, the thief held there by his fellow tribesman. The Indian begged and begged but John would hear none of it.

Hell, it’s just a damn silver cup...and you got it back! Clyde said.

John shook his head. These Indian lives are cheap, our goods are not. It’s time this tribe learned a lesson, learns it and spreads it for all others in the area to learn as well.

Or they’ll learn to hate whites and kill us every chance they get, one of the men said.

Bad for the Americans, huh? John said, scoffing.

No one said anything after that. John got another man named Farnham to put the noose around the Indian’s head, pull him up. Farnham had had a pistol stolen from the Nez Perce tribe a few days earlier so he wasn’t too happy with the Indians, wanted some payback. As he pulled up on that rope and the Indian rose into the air kicking and screaming, he got it.

Clark looked on as the Indian kicked his last and took his final breaths. Then the Indian hung there, swaying on that tripod of logs, the Cayuse all around and staring back in silence. They felt ashamed of what they’d done, felt ashamed that the whites had cowed them so. That shame would eventually turn to anger, then revenge.

Those thoughts were a long way off, however, as John Clark and the other eleven Hudson’s Bay Company men got back on their horses and rode out of there, rode north back to British lands. Any Americans coming through this way, a few thought as they looked back at the Cayuse village, the Indians still standing there with pained looks on their faces, would have a hard time of it indeed.

Part I – Over the River

1 – Hunt

The Astoria Expedition of Wilson Price Hunt was not going well. That was clear when Kevin, one of the nine men that was still left, came to a stop and then dropped to his knees in the snow. The men looked to Hunt, their leader across the continent so far, but a man they were quickly losing confidence in. Some had lost it altogether.

Wilson Price Hunt was from Trenton, New Jersey, a place 2,000 miles from their current location on the Snake River. He was 27-years old, had dark brown hair, a thin face, high cheekbones, and eyebrows that arched up in a way that suggested he was your friend. Hunt’s friends knew him as overly kind and thoughtful, a man that sought out consensus, not conflict.

Coming up behind Hunt in seniority – going by time in the wilderness if not ability to command – were John Reed and John Collins. The former was a clerk and capable scout for the party, the latter a Lewis and Clark veteran that knew the course they were on.

The other six men were common trappers, men that’d be vagabonds anywhere else but here in the wilderness they were skilled and accomplished men. They were Jules from Upper Canada, Ezra from Massachusetts, Mitchell from the Ohio country. Each was a good hand with the traps, sound with their rifle, and trusted to get the job done...whatever it may be. The others were Ethan from Tennessee, Kevin from Kentucky, and Levi from the St. Louis-area. They were a bit younger and a bit more wet behind the ears than the other men. They’d also been the three that’d voted along with Collins to head back the way they’d come. Hunt and the others had outvoted them, however, and so onward they trudged. Onward, that is, until this moment. The men looked back at Kevin kneeling there in the snow.

I can’t go no more, sir, Kevin said, rubbing his stomach and looking up real quick with sad eyes before shooting them back down to the snow before him.

Man can’t survive on a pound o’ meat a day, Ethan added.

What else do you want to do? Jules said. "There is no food and we can’t turn back now."

Shoulda turned back two weeks ago, when we took the vote, Levi said.

Everyone voted, Hunt said, and we went with that vote.

Maybe we should vote again, Ezra said, and the others looked over at him. For the first time it was clear that the party was splitting further, or at least Hunt’s faction of it.

There will be no more votes, not now, Hunt said, shaking his head then gesturing for Kevin to get up. "Now let’s keep on and hope we run into some game, some edible plants...something."

‘Something’ was right and not a one of them could argue with that statement. Oh, how they were hungry! The constant pains in the stomach due to lack of food were unbearable at times, with the men falling over to grasp at their bellies in agony. That of course just used up more energy, energy they didn’t have.

Whatever was found was eaten. Dandelions, grass, dead weeds. Everything was dead for the most part, this late in the year. The snows were terrible and made progress along the rocky slopes difficult, but then it was always difficult. For the most part they walked high above the river on the flat and desolate desert-like prairie. It was covered in a thin sheet of white, snow mostly but a good part ice as well. There were no animal tracks to be seen, no Indian tracks either. That meant there was no food and they straggled on.

It’d been November 9 when the men set out, the weather cold. The snows hadn’t come yet, something that surprised most of them as it was already quite late in the year. Perhaps they were used to the northern reaches around the Great Lakes. This area of the country was certainly different from Canada, though there were similarities as well. The lack of game in the winter, long stretches with no Indian contact, terrain that’d just as soon do you in as help you on your way. To Hunt and the eight men with him it was a veritable nightmare. Stomachs growled constantly. The meat they’d divided had long given out, now only roots and weeds and the occasional insect met their needs. It wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do for long. Already members of the party were weakening. It’d been just five days after starting out again, on November 14, when Kevin faltered but decided he could go on. Hunt began to wonder how long he could keep things together, how long the men would follow him. Four men had voted to go back the way they’d