Manuel's Money: Mountain Man Series, #10

By Greg Strandberg

A new adventure begins for the mountain men and fur trappers of the Upper Missouri.

It's 1812 and in St. Louis, trader Manuel Lisa has fallen on hard times.

The Sioux Indians are disrupting river traffic, fur prices are down, and the creditors are breaking down Manuel's door. The trader's fortunes change, however, when some long-last trappers return.

A new expedition is planned, one that'll see the men 1,100 miles upriver to the Mandan. The British are encroaching on American lands there, and word on the frontier is that war isn't far off. Mountain man Edward Rose is dispatched to investigate. 

For lovers of historical fiction set in the American West of the 1800s and 1810s, Manuel's Money won't disappoint. Continue the Mountain Man Series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Strandberg
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536541571

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

Introduction – The Prophet

A dozen large bonfires lit up the night as hundreds of Indians stood about, gathered from all manner of tribes. There were the Shawnee, Sioux, Ponca, Gros Ventre, Assiniboine, Arikara, and even some Cheyenne and Pawnee among others. They’d come from far and wide, all to hear Tenskwatawa speak, or as most of them knew him as, the Prophet.

He was a Shawnee with a very distinct look – his right eye was gone, lost as a youth while trying to nock an arrow. Many thought a new eye was given to him, however, as he started having his visions twenty-five years later on the White River, back when his brother Tecumseh was just a tribal chief. Tecumseh doubted these visions until the Prophet predicted an eclipse of the sun the following year. At that point Indians from around the region began to flock to this Shawnee prophet that could predict the future, and soon Prophetstown was born. It grew in size for the next five years until it and its leader’s teachings became too much. The U.S. Army was sent in and at the Battle of Teppecanoe the Indians were defeated and driven back. Ever since then – nearly a year now – the Prophet had been moving from one village to another, never putting down roots for too long lest the army come back. So it was that he was at a spot on the Big Sioux River, just west of the Des Moines River and close to the expected area of British incursion when the war came...as it would. Hundreds of Indians gathered before him, eager to hear his words. They stood there, eyes cast up at the large outcropping where the Prophet stood to deliver his message to them. He took in a deep breath and raised his arms up before him and then began.

My people...welcome, he said, casting his arms out to take in all in the huge crowd. Murmurs arose from those gathered and many were filled with a sense of warmth and wellbeing. Just those three words and many could feel that this man was the one, the one that would guide them and show them the way and lead them back to their former days of glory, days that had never seen a white man and wouldn’t for a long time. Most gathered there had no memories of such times, though some did, and it was they who had told the tales of what life had been like before.

Before you came here today you were back at your villages and among your family, tending your crops and hunting your buffalo, the Prophet continued after the murmuring died down, but all was not right. There were many nods of agreement in the crowd to that. "You couldn’t quite put your finger on it at times, but deep down, you knew that things were not right."

More murmurs, more nodding of the heads. The Prophet lowered his head for a moment then began to pace about, head still down as if thinking, but speaking those thoughts as well.

"I see a lot of older members of our nation here tonight, and it’s they who remember what it was like before the whites came, before our way of life began to slip away, before the death and destruction were inflicted upon us. It’s to that time again that we must go, and to get there we must throw off these white incursions into our territory, we must throw them off now!"

Cheers erupted at that, and the Prophet paused and took it all in, his face stoic and firm, as if he saw the task before him and meant to accomplish it right then and there. Winning over the various peoples of the plains was a critical step in doing that.

"Even now as I speak, the whites to the north of us are preparing for another war with the whites to the east of us. The British and the Americans will fight again, and as they’ve done every time before, they’ll try to split and divide us, pitting one tribe against another for their baubles and trinkets and of course their empty promises. We cannot let them do this!"

More nods of agreement from the crowd, though little laughter. The Prophet spoke the truth, and it was a sad truth, one that’d destroyed a way of life.

Our Great Father above has always promised that we could remain on our lands and that He would take care of us. It made our hearts glad knowing this. Closer to us, our father across the ocean has always promised us that he would never draw his foot off the British ground that he now claims. Unlike the American foot, the British will talk with us, trade with us on fair terms, and respect our lands and our culture...not try to destroy them with drink and dalliance among our women. More nods, for the Indians had seen both well...too well. Now, however, we see our British father pushed to the edge, making ready for war, and I promise you, my brothers and sisters, if our father across the ocean should lose this fight...he will not be coming back and there will be little our Father above will be able to do about this. The Americans will fill the void left by the British, and more of our lands will be taken, more of our way of life destroyed.

The Prophet stopped and stared out at the mass of people and the dozens of large fires, letting his words sink in. Finally he took in a deep breath, let it out, then took in another before puffing out his chest and standing a bit taller.

So I have this to say to our British father across the ocean, the one that’s about to embark on a new war, a war that may see our lands kept in our hands, not the Americans’. Father...you have got the arms and ammunition which our Great Father sent for his red children. If you have any idea of going away, give them to us and you may go and be welcome to. For us, our lives are in the hands of our Father above, the Great Spirit. We are determined to defend our lands, and if it is His will we wish to leave our bones upon them.

Cheers arose at that, and the hundreds of Indians threw their arms up, many pumping tomahawks, spears, bows, and even flaming torches up into the air. The Prophet stood with his arms behind his back, the moon- and firelight shining down upon him. He watched it all and took it all in. He knew full-well that there were both American and British agents in the crowd, likely Indians from the eastern tribes that’d lost their way of life and cultural identity generations ago, when the first whites had come across the ocean when the Prophet’s father’s father’s father had been but a boy. So long ago, and yet so little had changed.

The Prophet hoped the British had eyes and ears there that night, for he wanted his message to spread amongst them, a message that said they’d have his people’s support. Hopefully that’d get them some guns with which to fight the Americans.

As to the Americans, the Prophet hoped his words would send a chill through them. It was no secret that the Shawnee nation was fully behind the Prophet and his brother Tecumseh. Now with this meeting it would be clear that many other nations were as well. Tens of thousands of Indians mobilized and ready to fight...it didn’t bode well for the Americans, not at all.

What the Prophet knew and expected the most, however, was that his message this night would travel much further than the British and American camps. It would travel to the distant tribes in distant lands that even he had not heard of. They’d be having the same troubles with the whites as the Shawnee were, and whether those troubles were brought about by the British or the Americans, it made no difference. The Prophet would mobilize them and put them to use for the side that would treat the Indians the best, and that was most clearly the British. After all, didn’t they say that they’d return the Indians’ land in Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan? It was what they wanted – a buffer state of Indians to thwart American expansion west so as to keep their lucrative fur-bearing areas of the Missouri to themselves.

The Prophet knew that all 2,500 miles of the Missouri – and much of the Mississippi below it – relied upon one lynchpin to hold it all together, one place to make the whole American westward movement and economy possible.

That place was St. Louis. The Prophet already had ideas on what he’d do to it.

Part I – Organizing

1 – An Ambush

The sun was shining down on the river and the birds were chirping in the white ash and box elder trees lining the bank. Manuel Lisa smiled and took it all in, happy that his two-week-long journey down the Missouri River to St. Louis was coming to an end.

Manuel was 39-years-old and had been working the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers for nearly two decades. The trader’s eyes were beady and black, owing to his Spanish heritage, and his complexion was dark as well. His black hair was combed back on his head and his forehead had a distinct widow’s peak. The Spaniard first came onto the St. Louis scene in 1798 though wasn’t noticed until 1802. Manuel still remembered the date – June 12, 1802. Manuel Lisa, Benoit and Company was formed right then and there to trade with the tribe.

Despite entering the merchant class, Manuel didn’t have the best reputation in St. Louis, either among the Americans or the still-dominant French population that’d started the city. 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. He’d done so with relish from 1807 to 1810 before things had gone sour with the Blackfeet. Now that area was gone to him, and his bottom line was suffering as a result. It was all he could do to get upriver to Fort Mandan, as far along the Missouri anyone dared go now. Any further and his men would be killed by the Blackfeet, he was sure of it from his talks at the fort over the past month.

Manuel had eight men on the 36-foot-long pirogue to get him that far upriver and then back down, plus another two boats behind him with an equal number of men on each. The holds of each boat were full, though not always with furs. Manuel was taking quite a few trade goods back with him, something he hated to do but there’d been no market for them. He wasn’t feeling confident enough to leave them upriver at one of the forts. Talk of war was growing too strong for that.

Manuel shook those thoughts away and looked back at the river and the life around it. He smiled, for in another 20 miles the Mississippi would come into view. At that point they’d turn south into her, pass by St. Charles a few miles downriver, then the farms and houses of St. Louis would begin to appear another 17 miles after that. It’d be another round of trading done, another stock of furs to unload in the warehouse...and another round of fighting off the creditors to come.

Manuel sighed at that last. His finances were none too good, and the furs he had on the boats wouldn’t make much of a dent in what he owed. If only Schaefer and Rose and the others would have come back, he thought for about the thousandth time. He shook that thought away quickly – it’d do no good ruminating on that mishap again.

Snag to port! one of the polemen shouted out, drawing Manuel from his thoughts and back to the matter at hand, the few miles they had left to go. They’d be uneventful miles, aside from the snags and eddies that the boats had to contend with, even a downed-tree from time to time. No, by uneventful Manuel was thinking of the Indians. He had no worries this far downriver, unlike the Upper Missouri where things were going from bad to worse, and even spilling over into the northernmost portions of the Lower Missouri. If they spilled much further south then...

Manuel didn’t want to think on it, for–

That’s no snag! a shout rang out from the port side of the boat, and just before the boat gave a sudden lurch.

KREE-SPLASH!

The next thing Manuel knew he was flying through the air. He’d been standing on the bow-portion of the boat but now found himself sitting amid the cargo on the deck. Dazed, he looked about him and saw everyone else had been thrown as well. Some had even wound up in the river, the men in the front especially. It was while looking at the front of the boat that Manuel saw a rope. He narrowed his eyes in confusion...then widened them as realization struck. The rope was stretching out over the river in front of them. It’d been laid out to stop them, Manuel knew, and that’s when he knew they’d been ambushed.

Indians! a shout went up next, though it was from the boats coming up behind them. Manuel turned his head to the northern bank, and sure enough, there were Indians there.

Cut that rope! he shouted, and stood up to start rushing forward toward the bow. Already the boat was getting pushed sideways as the rope held it against the current.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH!

Two arrows came out and stuck themselves into the gunwale just inches from him, and Manuel crouched back down immediately. The boat had a draw of 20 inches, meaning that there were just 19 inches of freeboard between the water and the lowest point of the gunwales. They were sitting low...easy pickings, in other words, for someone higher up on the bank.

I’ll get it, sir! one of the polemen shouted, and Manuel gave a nod as the man started rushing forward.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH!

Two more arrows came, one hitting the gunwale again but the other taking the poleman in the side.

Aahh! he shouted as the force of the arrow knocked him into the side of the boat’s hold. He bounced back, tried to regain his balance, but couldn’t and fell into the river with a splash. It was a good thing too, Manuel realized, for just after he did so another arrow shot into the side of the boat where he’d been standing.

BOOM! BOOM!

Two shots drew Manuel’s attention back to the boats behind them. Sure enough, the men manning them were shouldering their rifles and firing. They were just in time, too – at least a dozen Indians on horseback were riding up over the small hill on the river’s bank. The tall grasses blew in the wind and blew the riders’ hair as well. Decked out in red and black war paint, Manuel could tell right away that they were members of the Sioux tribe.

Cut that rope! he shouted out again, for the last thing he wanted was to get into a fight with the Sioux. The boat was completely stopped now, the current keeping it stuck against the rope. It wasn’t a good spot for a fight, and he didn’t have the men for that fight. The men with him were trappers and traders for the most part, and few had any army experience. Hardly any had had to fight Indians before, as Manuel was keeping his expeditions confined to the Mandan villages and no further. With enough trade goods any tribe between them and St. Louis could be bought-off easily. The Sioux tribe wasn’t on the Missouri, however, but further inland. Just the sight of them made Manuel think of the Prophet. His words were embroiling tribes all across the west. With just 40 miles to St. Louis, Manuel had thought he’d be safe from them. He’d been wrong.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH! BOOM!

Another two arrows came out at Manuel’s boat, but a rifle shot answered this time. One of the men on his boat had gotten himself up and armed and others were doing the same. Better yet, two men were rushing to the bow to get that damn rope cut.

SWOOSH! BOOM! BOOM!

Only one arrow this time, for one of the men had shot one of the Indians. Others were rushing up, however, and Manuel wondered if they’d make it or if–

FA-WAP!

Got it! a shout came, and just after a sudden lurching of the boat. The rope had been cut and the boat came free to flow with the current again. Already the craft was straightening itself out...something that’d allow the men to give the Indians quite the fusillade from their rifles. The Indians on horseback seemed to realize that, however, and were beginning to turn about.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

More rifle shots and this time the second Indian on the bank was shot and killed. That did it – those that’d dismounted turned about and got back on their horses. With a lot of whoops and hollers and the thrusting of spears into the air in anger, the Indians turned tail and rode off.

The boat straightened itself out and Manuel got up to assess the damage. A few arrows, no gunshots, and three men dead – two by arrow and one drowned. The other two boats caught up and the men did a quick stock of the situation. The agreed to stay closer the last few miles...miles that none of them had expected to hold danger.

Hold it they had, however, and as each of the men got closer to St. Louis they wondered how close this war they were hearing about was to them already.

2 – Money Woes

A week later, Manuel sat in Christy’s, feeling worse than he had when the Indians were bearing down upon him. The mood was pensive, sour almost. Hands fingered glasses nervously and a stillness clung to the air. William Christy’s Tavern was the best bar in St. Louis. It’d been built in 1802 and sat on Rue Royale, a clear view of the river below. For the ten men sitting inside it today, though, it felt like the morgue.

Sitting and ruminating on it won’t help matters, Pierre Chouteau said, breaking the silence that’d lasted for more than a minute.

No, but it’ll make me feel good, Manuel said.

Rueben Lewis scoffed. I very much doubt that!

"It will make you so drunk you can’t walk, however," Pierre added, flicking his chin at the empty wine glass in front of Manuel, one that’d already been filled three times since their meeting had started not more than an hour before. Manuel rolled his eyes to that, then stared off out the window again. The others in the tavern looked at each other uneasily, unsure if they should give the man another minute or get down to business. It wasn’t everyday, after all, that a man’s company was taken out from under him.

That’s how things stood on that early-April morning as the men met at Christy’s for the final meeting of the Missouri River Fur Company. The Chouteaus were all present, that was a given in the city they’d started. There was Auguste Chouteau, the patriarch of the family and co-founder of St. Louis, though his interpreter, Charles Gratiot, was noticeably absent. Auguste had relinquished more and more responsibility to his brother Pierre over the years, and it was he that was doing the family’s business today. Pierre’s sons A.P. and Cadet were also present. The family was the prime mover and shaker on the Missouri and the ones everyone who was serious about entering the trade went to first. Manuel had done so in 1804 when he’d first gotten active and it’d helped him immeasurably. He and Pierre had started the St. Louis Missouri Fur Company that year and for the past eight years both had grown wealthy because of it.

Besides that the other principles of the Missouri River Fur Company were present – Benjamin Wilkinson, nephew of Louisiana Territorial Governor James Wilkinson; Reuben Lewis, brother of the late Meriwether Lewis and someone that’d gone upriver with Manuel quite a few times before deciding to stay closer to St. Louis; William Morrison, a former North West Company trader that’d been stationed upriver at Fort Mandan for the last few years; Dennis Fitzhugh, a trader from Kentucky that’d been active in St. Louis for the last number of years; and Sylvester Labbadie, the carpenter that Manuel had taken to Fort Raymond years before, one who’d made a name for himself separate from his Chouteau relations.

Pierre Menard was the final shareholder, one that’d been a founding member in 1809. Alas, his fortunes had changed dramatically after the disastrous upriver expeditions that year and into the next. He was still in St. Louis, had recovered enough to get a job as a clerk in a trading office. He was still out of sorts most of the time, jumpy as well really, but he could hold it together...unless talk of Indians came up. Then he’d often be rushing to the nearest desk to hide under, though most were saying he was coming out within five minutes these days instead of the hour or so it’d been last year. One benefit of dissolving the present company was getting rid of Menard, and seeing as he wasn’t present now, that should be easy to do...when things got going again.

The meeting had started off well enough, what with the usual going-over of the accounts, tallying the take, speculating on the rest of the season, and looking forward to the next. But then the bombshell had dropped, and for the past fifteen minutes they’d been doing nothing more than sitting near the front window, drinking and looking down on that river while thinking of what they’d do.

Manuel had entered into negotiations with the Chouteaus in 1811 and had gotten hold of Fort Mandan for the ungodly sum of $20,000. That’d been the start of his current money woes. He’d thought he’d get it paid off in three years, but then talk of war had disrupted the trade