The Last Race

By James D. Fletcher

Along Minnesota's rugged north shore of Lake Superior, some call Swift River the spirit of the wilderness. Others call him a murderer. James Youngest, a young newspaperman from Philadelphia visiting the Minnesota wilderness, knows the truth. He also knows there are people who will stop at nothing to prevent the truth from being told. James Youngest, coerced by his own conscience, assists the elderly Indian through Minnesota's harsh north woods in order to evade his pursuers. A breathtaking chase begins and Swift River and James Youngest race toward a place the Indian calls the Two Falls, a place where Swift River assures he will never be found.

Who is Swift River? James Youngest met him when he was eleven years old during his only prior visit to the north shore. Swift River had saved young James' life from a near drowning incident, but immediately after saving him, he vanished into the woods. Now, twelve years later, their paths cross again and it is James Youngest's turn to save Swift River. During their desperate race, Swift River reveals to James Youngest his extraordinary past and his life as a Mandan. The Last Race finishes with a compelling revelation and climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 7, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595778645

James D. Fletcher

Jim Fletcher grew up in the forest-covered mountains of Connecticut. Fletcher, a writer and artist, has exhibited his artwork around the country. He has also hidden his art in wilderness areas throughout the United States and Canada. He and his wife, Dee, reside in the lakes country of Minnesota.

Book preview

© 2004 by James D. Fletcher

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc. 2021

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Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Credit for cover design: Jim Fletcher

ISBN:978-0-5953-3074-4 sc

ISBN: 978-0-5957-7864-5 e

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgements

Part I James Youngest 1886

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part II Swiftriver’s Story

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Part III The Two Falls

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Other titles by James D. Fletcher

The Lore Adventure Trilogy:

The Lore Adventure, Book One—Lore: The Discovery

The Lore Adventure, Book Two—Kintu: The Discovery of One

The Lore Adventure, Book Three—Olyqua

For the People of the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara Nation

(Three Affiliated Tribes) Fort Berthold Reservation, North Dakota

Preface

Nueta

The Nueta, Mandan, established settlements in areas around the Heart and Missouri Rivers sometime during the early 1600s. They located settlements near fertile floodplains for agricultural reasons and also for the terrain’s natural defenses against their enemies. The women built and owned the lodges, gardens and domestic goods, and also did most of the trading. The men built and owned the Grand Lodge, or Medicine Lodge, possessed the weapons, horses and hunting tools, and planted their tobacco in gardens separate from the women’s. One village that was established around the mid-1600s was On-A-Slant Mandan Village, located at what is now Fort Abraham Lincoln State Park in Mandan, North Dakota. On-A-Slant village is open to the public and is a place where visitors can learn about the Mandan culture and the history of the earth lodges.

The first known written accounts of the Mandan were those of the French trader, Sieur de La Verendrye, when he visited the Mandan in 1738. He described the people as being strong and prosperous. Lewis and Clark didn’t visit the Mandan until 1804.

In 1781 smallpox devastated the Heart River region Mandan and reduced the population by nearly ninety percent, from around 15,000 people to 1,500. When Lewis and Clark arrived among the Mandan, they reported that nine prior villages had once been established on and around the mouth of the Heart River. It was in 1804, while staying with the Mandan, Lewis and Clark met the famed Sacajawea and her husband, French trader Tussaint Charbonneau.

At around 1822 the Mandan established the Mit-tutta-hang-kush village, a little north and adjacent to where the American Fur Company of St. Louis later completed the construction of Fort Clark. Two other major trading posts were also situated along the upper Missouri River at that time. James Kipp built Fort Clark in 1831 in order to continue trade with the Mandans. Shortly after the construction of Fort Clark, James Kipp left, and a man by the name of Francis Chardon took over management.

Steamboats supplied Fort Clark. Trade included sheet metal, iron tools, metal kettles and glass beads for buffalo hides, furs, meat, horses, and produce. The Mandan location was a major trade center, and the Sioux, Hidatsa, Arikara, and Assiniboine also traded there.

In the spring of 1833, artist George Catlin, whom some of the Mandans called white medicine painter, visited the Mandans at the Mit-tutta-hang-kush village. In his journal, Catlin described numerous Mandan customs, and he painted many images of Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara people. One of Catlin’s favorite subjects was the second chief at that time and one of the most popular among the people, Chief Mato-Topa (Four Bears).

In 1883-34, following George Catlin’s visit, artist Karl Bodmer and Prince Maximilian, stayed with the Mandans. Bodmer painted in great detail the interior of one of the earth lodges, and he portrayed lifelike images of the people. He also made several paintings of Chief Four Bears.

In July of 1837, the steamboat St. Peter arrived at Fort Clark carrying long awaited supplies for the people. The steamboat also brought smallpox, and once again, the disease decimated the Mandan people. By early fall, ninety percent of the population had died, leaving about 150 survivors. It has been estimated that between 1,500-2,000 Mandans occupied the Mit-tutta-hang-kush village at the time the disease struck. The smallpox also took its toll on the nearby Hidatsa and Arikara settlements, but not as severely as it had the Mandans.

The remaining Mandans moved to the forested river bottoms to live during the winter that followed the devastation, and when they returned to their village in early spring, they discovered the Arikara had taken it over. The Arikara took them in for a short time.

The Arikara remained there, but the Mandan moved slowly up the Missouri and eventually settled with the Hadatsa at Like-A-Fishhook Village near Fort Berthold. Fort Berthold was another American Fur Company trading post founded by Bartholom Berthold. By 1860, fur trade had declined considerably and Fort Clark, further south, was abandoned. After the closing of Fort Clark, the Arikara also moved north and settled in the Fort Berthold area. In 1862, the Arikara joined the Mandan and Hidatsa at Like-A-Fishhook Village, the last earth lodge village on the Missouri River. The Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851 established the Fort Berthold Reservation for the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara. In 1934, the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara were officially united as the Three Affiliated Tribes.

Today, the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara Nation (MHAN), Three Affiliated Tribes, is a prospering and progressive nation on the Fort Berthold Reservation in northwestern North Dakota.

This book, The Last Race, is fictional. Some of the early Mandan customs are mentioned, however, in order to make the characters believable. To the best of my knowledge the early customs I’ve written about are accurate. The intent of this story is to honorably recognize the Mandan people. The Mandans have always been gentle, friendly, caring and giving, a peaceful nation that never sought war. They were, however, highly skilled at combat and fierce warriors when it came to protecting their villages and loved ones. The Last Race remembers the people from the past and pays tribute to those of the present.

Acknowledgements

First, I want to thank my son, Ryan, who was with me in 1985 when I began my initial research for this story. Together we traveled throughout North Dakota and Minnesota and visited with many people, listened to Native American stories and oral histories told by elders, and spent a great deal of time scouring historical parks, sites, and museums. We shared an incredible journey that led me to The Last Race.

During a recent visit to North Dakota I had the privilege of meeting Tex G. Hall, Chairman of the Mandan, Hidatsa and Arikara Nation (MHAN), Three Affiliated Tribes, Fort Berthold Reservation. MHAN and people throughout North Dakota regard Mr. Hall as an important, conscientious, and innovative leader.

I also met Glenda Embry, Public Relations Director for Mr. Hall and the Three Affiliated Tribes. I must give a special thank you to Glenda for offering information about the Mandan, Okipa, and for also sharing stories about her personal life. I treasure the stories.

I would like to thank the people at the Three Affiliated Tribes Museum at Fort Berthold. Thank you Pauline Goodbird Nez for your generous help and kindness and for assisting me in finding Edwin Benson and others who shared valuable information. Thank you Marilyn Hudson for all the information you provided, including facts about Mattie Grinnell, the last full-blooded Mandan, who lived for 107 winters and passed away in 1975. The life of Mattie Grinnell and the lives of her family and people should always be remembered. Also, thank you Leo Lockwood for introducing me to others for information. You were all very gracious, kind, and extremely helpful.

A highlight during my visit to the Three Affiliated Tribes was meeting Edwin Benson. Edwin and his sister Luella Young Bear are the only two people that today speak the Mandan language. I must give special appreciation to Edwin for helping me with some of the Mandan language included in this text. I should also add that Edwin has been working with Minot State University, Minot, North Dakota, and Fort Berthold Community College, in an effort to preserve the language.

Thank you, everyone, at MHAN for making my wife Dee and me feel welcome during our visit. The 2004 Little Shell Pow-wow was another special highlight where we met many kind, generous, and helpful people.

In Minnesota I would like to thank the people who work at the Grand Marais Historical Museum for helping me find information pertaining to the area’s history.

At White Earth Reservation, White Earth Band of Chippewa, located in northwestern Minnesota, I wish to thank the people at the White Earth Health Center. Special thanks to Jacki Hariluk and Theresa Donner for sharing information and making available historical documents and photographs that were provided to them by the Minnesota Historical Society and the Smithsonian.

I have met many extraordinary people over the years while developing this story and I wish to thank everyone who provided information and offered stories and oral accounts of histories, beliefs and traditions.

Very special thanks, Connie Evenson, for all your editing. You are a valued friend.

I must at last acknowledge my entire family—my wife Dee, son Ryan, daughter Sheri and her husband Jeff McKeever, and grandchildren Joseph, Jadyn and Chelsey. Thank you for your continuous support and encouragement.

PART I

JAMES YOUNGEST 1886

CHAPTER 1

James Youngest squinted through his blackened eye toward the narrow band of daylight passing through an agate he was holding several inches above his head. He was sitting cross-legged on a rocky ledge towering a hundred feet above the Brule River. Directly across a narrow ravine, the Brule gushed toward him, rumbling white along its seething course through an endless wall of rugged, northern Minnesota forest. He lowered his gaze momentarily from the agate and looked straight ahead to where the river abruptly split into two waterfalls and dropped out of sight. One of the falls roared through its incessant mist to the continuing river below; the other plunged thirty feet and vanished into a perfectly round hole formed in the rock of a jagged outcropping. His lips labored to form a painful smile as he remembered something Swift River had said of this place. My wife, the Indian said, believed this was a place of magic. She said this was a good place to make children. James released his hurting smile, returned his attention to the agate and again squinted through his blackened eye toward the narrow band of sky.

James Youngest looked like hell. Below the black eye his right cheek was scuffed, bruised and swollen, and his upper lip was split wide and puffy, causing it to appear like an angry snarl. His entire face was marred with cuts and scratches, and bruises appeared all around his neck. A few days ago he had taken a brutal beating and was nearly killed on the very spot he was now sitting. It was all worth it, however. In fact, receiving that vicious thrashing had been an honor.

Behind James Youngest’s present, unsightly physical appearance was a handsome face of twenty-three years. Under normal circumstances his deep brown eyes would be alert and lively, smiley, with a glimmer of mischief. His light brown hair, too, would normally be well groomed but was now mussed and scraggly, curling behind his ears down the length of his neck. His plain buckskin shirt and pants were a bit frayed and torn in places but fit snugly to reveal a rock solid six-foot frame beneath. Within that sturdy framework was a relaxed posture that suggested a gentle nature and carefree air.

James Youngest was of gentle nature. He was a young man full of compassion, and while peering through the agate, his heart both wept and rejoiced over the events of the past week. A lot of ruthless killing had led up to those events and two extraordinary men were now gone. A warm tear trickled down his cheek as he lowered the agate and cradled it in his palm. He caressed the stone tenderly with his glassy eyes. The agate. Swift River had called the agate great medicine and, indeed it was, great medicine.

James Youngest carefully bound the agate with the rawhide lace that had come with it. One edge of the agate was straight and sharp, while the remainder was curved and smooth and formed a half oval nearly half the size of his palm. One face of the stone was as clear as glass while the other surface was scarred, splintered and frosty. This medicine had a significant history that dated back to when James Youngest was eleven years old, when he had made his first trip to Minnesota and Lake Superior’s rugged north shore.

James had come to Lake Superior from Philadelphia with his father, William Youngest, who was a trestle designer hired by the railroad to help plan potential routes through some of the harsh inland wilderness. It was the most treacherous country James had ever seen and its people were just as rough and untamed as the immense lake and surrounding landscape. Such an array of characters they were, made up mostly of fishermen, trappers and loggers. One of James’ favorite characters was a French man named Doc Basteen, who was the proprietor of a small trading post located about thirty miles south of a community called Grand Marais. Doc had been assigned as James’ guardian while his father explored the wilderness for the railroad people. That responsibility was just fine with Doc, as the French man had sort of taken a liking to the boy.

James reflected on that first visit with another painful smile. He decided this is a good place to begin. Even though the story he was about to write was not about him, this is when it all began, during his first visit to Lake Superior’s north shore when he was eleven years old.

James Youngest looped the rawhide lace around his neck and let the agate hang in front of his chest. Beside him lay a leather folder that he picked up and rested in his lap while he traced his fingers over his name embossed into the cover. He opened the cover and revealed a stack of blank parchment.

Next to where the folder had lain sat a bottle of black ink and a writing pen. James carefully opened the bottle, dipped the pen into the ink and drew it to the paper. As he wrote the date, 1886, he lightly touched the agate and thought quietly for a moment. Then, just below the date he wrote the words, The Last Race.

James Youngest’s eyes welled up again as he gazed toward the waterfalls and caressed the agate with his hand. He simply sat and tenderly traced his fingertips over the stone and stared at the waterfalls. After a while, he returned his eyes to the paper, and halfway down the page, he wrote the following: I was the last person to see Swift River alive.

CHAPTER 2

Twelve years earlier

At age eleven, James Youngest was quite impressionable. His first climb up the steps leading to Basteen’s Trading Post was almost too much for him to comprehend. Hanging all the way around the edge of the roof were the skins and furs of different animals. He recognized those of bear, beaver and rabbit but there were also many he’d never seen before. A pungent, musky odor lingered in the fresh evergreen air below the skins that created an odd sensation like the blending of salt and sugar. It wasn’t an offensive fragrance; it was just different. Everything was different.

James had been in total fascination throughout his entire journey to reach this place. On the train ride from Philadelphia to Duluth, he’d been glued to the window while gawking at the different landscapes as they rolled surreally past. While on board the boat traveling up Lake Superior’s north shore from Duluth, his eyes were held captive to the ever-changing cliffs and towering bluffs overlooking the lake. Beneath the deep, clear water gigantic boulders seemed to be crawling toward their parents residing amidst the perpetual waves crashing against the craggy shoreline. Everything he saw, heard, and smelled was new. Even the air seemed to have a constant and an unusual wild flavor to it. It was all very fresh and exciting.

All of James’ senses were on overload and he was held in awe as he followed his father up the steps and onto the porch of Basteen’s Trading Post. The porch spanned the width of the building and was so filled with hardware, boxes and clutter, that James couldn’t separate any of it with his eyes. It was an immense plain of absolute chaos that was dizzying to try to sort out. Once on the porch, James turned around to look back at the dirt road they had just walked. Only a few other buildings were scattered about, four across the way closer to the lake, and three on this side of the road. Gulls could be heard squawking near the water, and somewhere off in the distance a sawmill was whining. The other buildings were quiet and seemed unoccupied. James was yanked suddenly from his observation by a loud clanging behind him and he turned back quickly toward his father.

William Youngest was standing before an open door. On the side of the building next to the door hung a large slab of wood with the name Basteen carved and painted into the surface. Next to the sign was a large window you couldn’t see through because of all the stuff hanging behind it. William was blocking James’ view into the building, but James knew someone was there ready to greet them.

William! a voice boomed. It was such a boisterous howl it caused James to wince.

Grizzly, William replied without the ear shattering enthusiasm. It’s good to see you.

A gigantic hand appeared suddenly on William’s arm and pushed him aside. The loud voice blasted in James’ face, What did you bring along with ya’, William? Find a stray in the woods?

James Youngest stood frozen, eyes darting over an image his mind couldn’t immediately process into a complete picture. All he saw at first was a large bone knife handle sticking out of leather sheath. The sheath was attached to a wide belt wrapped around the largest waist he’d ever seen, directly at his eye level. He heard his father’s voice as his eyes dropped along two massive legs covered with buckskin to a pair of gigantic boots.

Grizzly, this is my son. His name is James.

One of the boots thumped forward and James felt himself taking a step back. He stopped short as the largest, meatiest hand he’d ever seen appeared suddenly before his face. He could almost feel his hair fanning in the voice that appeared with the hand.

Glad to make your acquaintance, James.

James automatically brought his hand up and it disappeared into a firm, calloused grip. He was expecting to never see it again; nor his arm, as the giant hand gave an abrupt, tugging handshake. James’ head tilted back and his eyes became tangled up in a huge bushy beard that hid everything but a large pear shaped nose and two eyes that looked like the holes at the end of a double barrel shotgun. Beneath a floppy, leather hat hovering high above, everything seemed to be frizzy hair. Hair tumbled over gargantuan shoulders, hair raveled around a hidden, boisterous mouth and hair plummeted over the front of an animal hide shirt. Hair was everywhere. Then, James suddenly realized, the salt and sugar fragrance in the air had suddenly turned into a biting, acrid odor.

James? William Youngest said, breaking the boy’s trance. James untangled his eyes, glanced at his father, then looked back at Grizzly. Glad to meet you, too, he stammered.

The giant hand released James’ and came about to the boy’s chin; he tilted James’ head back a little more. He’s a spittin’ image of you William. More like his mom I think.

Grizzly removed his hand. I’ll get your belongings at the boat dock and bring them along.

I’d appreciate that, Grizzly, William Youngest replied. The giant stepped around James and he clomped down the steps. James turned and followed him with his eyes while trying to realize what he’d just seen. He wasn’t even conscious of backing through the doorway with his father until the large wooden door closed with the clanging of a cowbell suspended above it. The clanging jolted James back to himself.

That was Grizzly, he realized—all six feet five inches, two hundred and ninety pounds of him—without an ounce of wiggle. .

CHAPTER 3

The eye boggling clutter on the porch was actually greatly organized compared to the disarray inside the trading post. A narrow path led through heaping racks that were bulging with pelts, clothing and who knows what, arranged so closely together, one had to sidestep to go between them. The walls were completely hidden behind hanging traps, bear skins, moose heads, pelts, guns, you name it. The outdoor fragrance of evergreen was absent here. Inside it was all pungent, musky odors without the sugar.

Come along James, William said.

James turned slowly full circle, eyes bouncing off distant items to closer ones and back again, like two loose marbles. He followed his father slowly through the heaping racks to a long wooden counter spanning half the width of the room. Behind the counter someone was using a knife to cut a length of rope away from a large roll. He set the rope and knife down on the counter as William and James stepped into view.

Doc… William greeted.

William! the man returned, obviously delighted to see them. It has been too long. He moved out from behind the counter and advanced quickly toward them. Far too long.

Good to see you, Doc, William replied.

Well, look at what ya’ brought along with ya’, William! Doc said lively.

My son, James.

James. Well I’ll be…

Doc stopped short of William and greeted him with a vigorous handshake. James simply gaped. His first impression of Doc as he’d charged around the counter was that the French man should be wearing around his neck the cowbell that was suspended above the wooden door. He moved like an excited heifer.

As Doc greeted William, his deep, steel gray eyes, which were aiming steadily over wire rimmed glasses, penetrated James. He wasn’t a tall man, maybe five-ten, but he was a full barrel of lean meat, packaged tightly and solidly beneath a checkered flannel shirt and dark pants. He had short gray hair and a whisker stubbed face that looked round, happy, and full of the dickens. As soon as he released his handshake with William, he thrust his hunky hand toward James.

I’m Doc, he said vigorously, offering a handshake. You and me are gonna’ get to know each other real good while your father’s trompin’ ‘round the woods with Grizzly.

James hesitated a moment before reaching out his hand, thinking he was about to get his fingers crushed. Surprisingly, Doc shook James’ hand quite gently. You’re a fine looking lad, he said. Smart look about ya’, too.

James liked him right off.

Doc leaned closer to James. Hungry?

Sort of, I guess.

Ever eat deer?

James blinked. No.

You’re gonna’ love it. I’ve been simmerin’ up a kettle of venison stew all night, loaded with fresh potatoes and carrots and it’s just waitin’ to please ya’.

Doc stood upright. Could you use a bite to eat, William?

I could smell it cooking all the way back at the lake, and I can’t wait to settle into a heaping plateful, Doc.

Doc grinned, slapped William on the shoulder. Made it special for ya’. It was always your favorite. He turned away and headed for another doorway. You know where the stools are, William; grab a couple and set ‘em at the counter. I’ll be along in a minute.

CHAPTER 4

James hadn’t realized how famished he was until he smelled the aroma of stew rolling off the plate set down in front of him. His stomach grumbled hungrily and his mouth watered. He was sitting quietly on a stool in front of the counter beside his father while the manners he’d been taught held him back from tearing in.

What ya’ waitin’ on boy? Doc said as he removed the roll of rope from the counter. Dig in.

William nodded approval to his son and James attacked the plate.

There’s plenty, lad, so don’t be bashful, Doc said. He coiled the length of rope he had cut from the large roll and set it on the far end of the counter near a window.

Hanging someone, Doc? William asked, aiming a spoonful of stew toward his mouth.

James stopped chewing and gazed up at his father.

The rope is for Grizzly. He shot himself a bear that’s been getting into his things and he’s gotta’ skin ‘er out before you fellas head out in the mornin’.

How has the trapping been for him? William asked.

A bit thin. He’s been doing some logging as of late. They’re really chopping away at the forest. Out of control chopping. He likes to put all that aside to guide, though. More and more tourists are coming through the area and they pay him well.

He knows the woods better than anyone, William said.

That he does, Doc replied.

At that moment the cowbell clanged. Grizzly came through the cluttered maze and dropped three bags near a door behind the counter. He turned to William. Did I get it all?

That’s all of it. Thank you, Grizzly.

James was back in his awe stricken state again, with his mouthful of food shut tight while his eyes gaped at the giant bear.

Can I fetch ya’ some stew, Grizzly? Doc asked.

No thanks, Doc. I’d better take care of that bear if me and William are heading out in the morning.

Have the railroad people arrived yet? William asked.

They’ll meet us in the morning, Grizzly replied. They’re coming down from Grand Marais.

Good.

Got that rope I asked for? Grizzly asked Doc.

Doc nodded toward the end of the counter.

A sudden crack of a gunshot rang out from someplace outside, followed by whooping laughter. Grizzly walked behind William and James and made his way to the window where he snatched up his length of rope and peered through the glass.

Sawtooth and his pals? Doc asked, moving toward the window from behind the counter.

Who else would be drinking this early in the morning? Grizzly asked.

Sawtooth… William uttered with a disgusted sounding grumble.

Another gunshot crackled loudly, followed by more laughter.

James bolted off his stool and made for the window. He wedged himself between Grizzly’s massive legs and the counter and stood on tiptoes to peer outside.

Five men were staggering around in the street, all carrying rifles and bottles and looking pretty filthy. One of the men had his head tilted back and was emptying the contents of a bottle into his mouth. He was an ornery looking sort, tall and wiry. He had long, stringy red hair dangling to his shoulders and a pinched face loaded with pockmarks. A pronounced hooked nose reminded James of a hawk’s beak.

Now there’s the sort you want nothing to do with, lad, Grizzly said quietly to James.

The wiry redhead lowered the bottle, tossed it down the street, and as it bounced over the dirt, he took aim at it with his rifle and fired off a shot. The bottle exploded into fragments and splinters and seemed to completely disappear.

His companions cheered. The man then turned toward the window where Doc, Grizzly and James stood watching. He smiled, as if knowing he was being watched.

The smile is what snagged James’ attention most. The man had sharply pointed teeth, caked yellow and looking sinister within an evil grin. Look at those teeth, James muttered automatically. Who is that?

Sawtooth, Grizzly replied.

Sawtooth?

Sebastian Scrimshaw, Doc said. Everyone calls him Sawtooth and you can easily see why.

Those teeth are scary looking, James said.

And vicious, Doc replied. Those teeth once bit a man’s ear off during a fight over a card game.

James tilted back and looked over at Doc with horror stricken eyes.

He chewed the ear up and gulped it down like a chunk of jerky, Doc added.

He was going to bite the man’s nose off, too, until someone pulled them apart and broke it up, Grizzly said.

James was dumbfounded. In a daze he turned back to look at Sawtooth. Who would be brave enough to break it up?

Doc and Grizzly turned from the window and looked toward William Youngest but they didn’t say anything. James followed their gaze, confused.

Come back and finish eating, William ordered his son. We’ve got to unpack, show you around a bit and lay down some rules before I leave with Grizzly tomorrow.

Grizzly walked away from the counter and made toward the door. He held his rope in the air and said without turning around, I’ll square this with you tomorrow, Doc.

A chunk of that bear meat will do just fine, Grizzly, Doc replied.

Grizzly acknowledged Doc with a shake of the rope as he opened the door to the clanging cowbell and disappeared outside.

Come on, James, he heard his father say. Finish eating and let’s get unpacked.

CHAPTER 5

Doc, as it turned out, was quite the storyteller, with a fondness for embellishing facts with his own fanciful, exotic concoctions. After an early evening supper, while Doc, William and James were sitting around a small table in Doc’s cluttered kitchen, James asked Doc about Grizzly.

What do you want to know about Grizzly? Doc asked in return.

Where’s he from?

I don’t rightly know his origin, son. All I’ve heard are stories.

What kind of stories?

Lots of ‘em. I do know for certain that a long while back he did some trapping up north for Hudson Bay, but I don’t rightly know where he came from. The only man that would know any details of his past would be Charlie Bates.

Who’s Charlie Bates? James asked.

He was an ol’ hermit who lived back in the woods. A trapper. He and Grizzly were good friends.

What’s a hermit?

A recluse, or loner if you have it; it’s a person who lives alone and doesn’t wanta’ be ‘round anyone.

Do you know him? James asked.

I knew him quite well, Doc replied. He brought his furs here for trade. He never said a word unless he was asked.

Did you ever ask him about Grizzly?

A couple times. He’d known Grizzly longer than anyone.

What did he say about him?

"It was tough getting any information out of ol’ Charlie; he mostly said yes and no. On one occasion, though, after I gave him a good sampling of my freshly brewed medicine, he babbled on with quite an incredible tale about the big bear."

What tale?

Doc smiled and leaned back in his chair. William shook his head, rose from the table and went to the stove to fetch another cup of coffee. As he walked behind Doc, he gently tapped his shoulder and said softly, You are truly the master of the set up.

Doc took a healthy swig out of a metal cup and grunted with satisfaction. It wasn’t coffee he was drinking, as near as James could tell; Doc had been filling his cup from a dark brown jug he had set on the floor by his feet. The French man set his cup down, leaned forward again and rested his arms on the table.

Long ago, Doc said to James, when Grizzly was a young man, he got trapped in a violent snowstorm while alone in the middle of the woods. He nearly froze to death. The snow came so fast and got so deep, Grizzly couldn’t move. He was stuck chest deep with no way to get out. The temperature dropped to over forty below zero and Grizzly was stranded in the middle of nowhere without another soul around for miles.

What did he do? James asked.

He didn’t do anything. He couldn’t. He simply stood there and froze. He got the shakes so bad they knocked him out.

What happened to him?

Don’t know. When Grizzly woke up he was inside a cave.

Inside a cave? How did he get there?

"Don’t know that either. But when he woke up, he managed to light a fire with some brush and sticks that were lying near the mouth of the