Brock's Betrayal: Mountain Man Series, #9

By Greg Strandberg

The Astoria Expedition is all but finished. The few remaining men start moving west.  Fortin's furs are still on the other side of the Divide, and with the spring thaw coming, now is the time to get them. Others have the same idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Jul 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536563498

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

Brock’s Betrayal

Mountain Man Series, Book IX

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 Letter

Part I – Changing Plans

1 – In the Snow

2 – Out of Options

3 – The Nez Perce

4 – The Blackfeet

Part II – In the Wilds

5 – No Better Time

6 – On the Columbia

7 – Cries in the Night

8 – Setting the Course

9 – Coming To

10 – Spring Thaw

11 – A Reunion

12 – A Bit o’ Crazy

13 – Encroaching

Part III – The Furs

14 – The Maiden

15 – Old Enemies

16 – A Pitched Battle

17 – An English Gentleman

Part IV – Pursuit

18 – Going After

19 – The Run

20 – The Chase

21 – Taking Shots

22 – Last Stand

23 – Shots Fired

24 – The Boiling Point

25 – On Land’s Edge

Historical Note

About the Author

Preview of Manuel’s Money

Preview of Sun River Crossing

Map of Missouri River Region

Introduction – A Letter

William Brock sat at the desk in his open command tent and looked out at the Missouri River unfolding in front of him. She was iced-over still, would be for quite a few months yet. It meant the winter season and holing-up, as the Hudson’s Bay Company trappers were doing now. Their Indian guides were off hunting. They were mostly Cree now that the Iroquois contingent they’d hired had fallen apart, half going west after some whites and the other half going back east. It meant there wasn’t a whole lot to do, had been that way for months and would be for months still. It gave a man a lot of time to think, though that was the last thing that Brock wanted. One glance down at the open letter there pinned under a rock on his desk made that abundantly clear.

Brock sighed. The Englishman had brown hair with a tinge of red in it, a straight nose, kind mouth, and keen eyes. His brows were thick and arched upward in a perpetual look of invitation, curiosity, and adventure. It was the latter that Brock owed much of his entrepreneurial success to, and the reason he’d come this far south, into American lands.

This area of the Upper Missouri had proven quite the coup for the company men, the trappers that brought in the furs that Brock in turn sold to traders heading west. It was a lucrative arrangement, one that’d just started up recently. Typically furs would go east to Montreal and then further onward to ships on the coast. From there it’d be across the Atlantic to London or Paris or Madrid...depending on which nations weren’t fighting and could therefore trade. Lately that arrangement had changed, though. Now, with more British military in the area – Hudson’s Bay Company men, North West Company men, as well as the independent explorers – new routes were opening up, and new markets with them.

And then there was the war. Brock sighed again. His brother Isaac was a big part of the buildup to that new war. He was stationed far to the east and heading up the forces that would defend the Great Lakes...and make excursions south into American lands when the time was right. Yes, the Yanks would be taken back, though under ball and chain and even more of their precious rights taken away. What happened 36 years ago would be a joke compared to what the British would do, what he would do.

Then Brock glanced down at that letter again and those grandiose thoughts were gone. It was his brother Isaac that would get the glory...but only if William managed to provide the funds. Isn’t that always the case? Brock thought to himself with yet another sigh. The younger Brock was a Brigadier General in the King’s Army, had been for the past four years. He’d come by that rank – as well as that of lieutenant, captain and colonel – because William had purchased them for him. He’d been able to do that at the time because his ship-trading business in the North Sea, Baltic, and across the Channel had been doing so well. War and weather had changed that, however, and it’d changed the Brock family finances as well. From financial princes to penniless paupers nearly overnight. Brock had escaped the worst of his creditors by fleeing overseas, to Upper Canada, the same area his brother Isaac was rising to command in. He would not rise further, however, unless more money arrived. That’s where William came in, and in the two years since he’d been out west trapping and funneling the HBC money back to his brother, he had little to show for it.

It’d been two years ago now that Isaac had needed the money, needed it bad. The £3,000 payment for his commissions had been missed, however, and the sum had quickly ballooned to £5,000, what with Isaac’s expenses, William’s own, and the cost of getting the furs to market. Now it was edging into the middle of 1812 already and that £5,000 was probably closer to £8,000, maybe more. Isaac would be dealing with the fallout of that, and William wouldn’t let him deal with it on his own. He’d already brought enough shame to the family by losing his North Sea shipping business, he would not bring more by allowing Isaac to lose his rank because of insufficient funds. No, Brock thought to himself, he’d get across the land and get to his brother, money in hand. Everything would be better then, everything.

Part I – Changing Plans

1 – In the Snow

Marie sat in the snow cave, close to the door and the warmth of the fire. Little Bap and Paul were asleep behind her on a bed of pine branches. They slept a lot these days, the constant hunger making it clear to their bodies that it was the best course. Marie sighed when she thought of it, thought of their predicament.

The snow cave had started out that first week of January 1812 at four feet tall and six feet wide, the top supported by some thick tree branches for poles and then some pine-needle-covered branches laid one atop the other to support the snow, with a small opening in front for a fire. Since that first day Marie had strengthened the snow cave as best she could, adding branches here, packing in snow there. The opening was shielded more from the wind yet expanded in such a way that more warmth from the fire got in. Marie worked sticks and stones around the walls on that side to protect the snow from melting, but as the days and then weeks had gone on she’d replaced most of the snow with sturdier branches. It worked and they had a viable dwelling, one that’d held all three of them within its small space

The first few days and weeks had been rough, with January weather that tore off of the higher peaks and pummeled them up there in the high mountain valleys they were in. It snowed endlessly and Marie had fretted and sighed and paced about the small area she kept clear around the fire, the small path she’d made to the deeper woods for kindling. Foot upon foot had piled up and the larger drifts were now twice Marie’s height in some spots. There was no way out, no way to walk out of there at all. No Indians would stumble upon them either, Marie was sure, and that meant they’d have to sit the winter out, doing as best they could with the roots and dead berries they could gather, the small game they could kill. Marie had slung a slingshot together on that first day with strands of her own hair but it hadn’t been until their third that she hit a small squirrel, then a rabbit the next day. Most of the meat had gone to 2-year-old Paul or 4-year-old Pierre, Little Bap she still called him. She’d call him that forever, she’d decided on the trek away from the cabin, the knowledge of what her husband had done burning with shame inside of her. How could he have killed them, she’d thought of McClellan and Reznor and even his good friend LeClerc, how could he kill them in cold blood like that?

But then she knew why – he’d done it before. He’d killed his own father over a cache of furs on the edge of the Rockies, deep in what used to be Nez Perce territory but which, by all accounts, had changed hands and was now heavily Blackfeet. Now Pierre was dead, and whatever profit he’d hoped to get off those furs was long gone. Marie sighed when she thought of it again. The shame was less now, but it’d come back real quick when she got back to civilization...if she got back to civilization.

Biting her lip and firming her jaw, Marie stood up, cast that thought from her mind. She would get back to civilization, she’d make sure her two boys did as well. It all depended on carrying on, using the slingshot to get a little game, keeping the path clear to get kindling and whatever else she could forage. Supply was key as well, for she’d need a supply of food for when the time came. When the snows cleared in March or April – God, let it be March – she’d bundle that supply and bundle her two boys up as best she could. They’d walk out of there, west toward the Columbia and the coast beyond, though she hoped she’d find a friendly tribe along the way. She could find a hostile one too, in which case she could die or be captured. If she didn’t walk out she’d die as well though, and that thought kept her looking at the skies, kept her counting the days until spring and the mountain thaw. It’d come, and she’d be ready.

2 – Out of Options

The ten men that’d made it away from Fort Astoria were walking single-file along a hill, climbing higher before they descended back down into some valleys to meet back up with the Columbia several miles from the fort, an area they hoped would be safe. They had two horses but were on foot by choice – the ground was just too uneven and they couldn’t chance a horse breaking a leg. The men that’d trekked to the fort in the days before had had more horses, but those had been rounded up by the British when they’d been captured and whatever they missed the Cayuse Indians or another tribe had taken. So they walked, and hoped they’d chance upon a friendly tribe that was willing to trade them a few horses more. Come the Rocky Mountains, they’d need the animals...in more way than one. Fortin’s furs still danced through many of the men’s minds, and to get those fifty packs downriver they’d need the animals.

The five men at the column’s front were the men that’d latched onto the Astoria Expedition the previous fall, trappers under the employ of Manuel Lisa. Following them was what was left of the 65-strong Astoria Expedition under Wilson Price Hunt, who’d previously co-commanded it with Donald Mackenzie. Both were now dead, lying back beside the burned-out Fort Astoria with a number of other men that hadn’t made it through the momentous morning of breakouts, Indian attacks, and trappers fighting trappers. Just five remained from that expedition, and one – Gabe – was unconscious and had to be dragged on a litter. Spirits were low, therefore, and up ahead Sal sensed that and knew it was time to address it.

Look, he suddenly said, directing his words to the center of the line, we gotta stop, we gotta talk about what happened back there.

Sal was tall with short hair and a weatherworn face. He was 28-years-old now and had been at the Three Forks when the Blackfeet attacked and burned down the fort there.

At the front of the line, Schaefer slowed then came to a stop so he could look back at his companion, the other eight men that were there as well. That was all it took for the conversation to get going, and get going it did when Crawford threw up his arms.

"What we need to do is go back to the fort and see what’s still there, who’s still there!" The Pennsylvanian was 43-years old now and was as scarred and grizzled and ugly as ever. Ol’ Gertrude, the name he gave to every rifle he owned, was gripped tightly in his hand...as always. She was an 1805 Kentucky Rifle that came in at 33 inches in length and .54 caliber, with a range of 100 to 120 yards.

Right away Jeffrey shook his head. Jeffrey 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.’ It was a reassuring look to all who didn’t know him, but to those that did,