On the Way to My Wedding

By G Russell Peterman

Tom Brown helps his Uncle Helmut farm in Lemhi Valley, Idaho and hunts when he can. Each spring he takes his furs over the Bitterroot Mountains to sell in Bannack, Montana. The spring of 1875, Tom finds work for three months snaking logs in for the construction of the county courthouse. On the last day, Tome agrees to skid the last log down and in before payout, buying supplies, and starting back to marry Junie Joy.
In Tom’s absence, Rancher Elbert Vansack orders his men to burn out the homesteaders and chase them away. This accomplished, he puts into action plans to stop Tom from returning or becoming a problem. It became known as the Lemhi Valley War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G Russell Peterman
• Release date: Oct 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463271414

G Russell Peterman

G. Russell Peterman is a graduate of Thomasville, Missouri High School, Southwest Missouri State College, and Vanderbilt University. After retiring from teaching after 30 years, he turned to writing. Gene Russell Peterman writes as G. Russell Peterman. He collected up his forty years of poems and published them. Also, he co-authored with his daughter Kriston Peterman-Dunya four novels (two Historical fictions and two science fictions) and three short story collections. Writing his first novel alone was Luck's Wild, a Civil War story. This novel, Blue, is his second novel written alone and his tenth offering. G. Russell Peterman is married, a father, grandfather, and great grandfather. He believes in community service and has been a volunteer for 41 years. He was elected to the Fire Board of Directors , served 20 years as Treasurer and fire fighter, and earned the Missouri State Certification as a level 3 Fire Instructor. He was appointedTreasurer of the local water district and served for 19 years. He was appointed to the Cape Girardeau County Planning Commission, elected Chairman, and served 2 years.

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On the Way to My Wedding

The Hooknose Brown Legend

A novelette by G. Russell Peterman

Self Published by G. Russell Peterman

Copyright 2018 G. Russell Peterman

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retail and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my son Brock, a fellow writer

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Just about

Chapter 2: Headway

Chapter 3: Headwind

Chapter 4: Interrupted sleep

Chapter 5: Devil to pay

Chapter 6: Beginning of right

Chapter 7: Presence of mind

Chapter 8: Call into question

Chapter 9: Cat’s paw

Chapter 10: Out of the storm

Chapter 11: Blood trail

Chapter 12: A Hobson’s choice

Chapter 13: After all is said and done

About the Author

Other Books by the Author

1

Just about

Thinking I head home today to marry Juniejoy, I woke. Instead of smiling or grinning, I tried not to open my eyes, but did. Staring up at graying tent canvas changes, I thought about staying in bed and wondered why I had such thoughts. I should be excited and happy. Today is payout, buy supplies, and head home to marry Juniejoy. Realization came to me that there is only one log, a long ridgepole, still up on Cameron Hill to be dragged down. Is that what is nagging at me.

Hoping all this nonsense will end, I glance around the tent at both my snoring companions. Even that does not keep an even more terrible idea from sneaks in that he’ll want me.

Trying to chase away the fog of sleep and clear up my thinking a hopeful maybe he’ll get someone else pops into my head. It feels cowardly and no man trusts or works with a coward.

That forces me to flip back my blanket and swing my bare feet over on the dirt floor. Saying quietly to myself, I’d best get at it, brings me upright.

With that nudge, I pull on my old scarred leather shirt and floppy brown hat to start the last day of June certain the boss will want me to snake down his last log. A night’s dew on spruce needles will make it slick. It will slip down almighty fast—maybe too fast.

Around in my fool head rattles, he’d want the fastest runner. Shaking my head, I stand hoping it is a good argument to get me out of risking injury or death. Wondering about who’s the fastest leads this fool to whisper, Me?

Shaking my head over another failure, I step into and pull up my canvas pants thinking about getting back in bed and hoping he find some other fool. This fool knows that is good unspoken and untaken advice. All my life I have faced things and will this time too.

Not wanting to wake Carl or Erland, two hard workers sharing a Bannack Mining and Ditching Company tent, I quietly pull my pullover shirt out of and over my pants. Being an early riser my left hand grabs boots with a pair of dry socks already inside and this careful person goes armed.

From under my pillow, my right hand lifts and pushes behind my belt a single shot .44-rimfire derringer. Next, I palm my night gun, a .46-caliber rimfire five-shot Remington converted to metal cartridges. Before I step barefooted out through the tent flaps, my thumb cocks my night gun. The click tells me, I am ready for surprises.

Outside under a graying eastern sky no one is up and stirring. Looking around I realize that midnight will see half of 1875 gone.

Anyone outside would not see much, just a tall lean man standing four inches over six foot with a weathered bronzed long narrow Nordic face sporting a bent to the left hooknose earned fighting. They’d see at an old floppy brown hat pulled down tight over long black hair in need of its summer trimming, and stare at a pair of broad shoulders made strong from working summers in mines, logging, hauling, clearing land, and snaking logs stretch out an old scratched leather Shoshone warrior’s shirt. An onlooker might grin over seeing a poor man in old faded canvas pants patched on both knees and standing barefooted, holding a pair of old low-heeled scuffed walking boots and a cocked pistol.

Being a trapper and hunter I am always out at first light for hunting is best early and late. I would be doing that full time up in the Lemhi Mountains but Uncle Helmut is getting old and needs help. Times are a-changing for Lemhi Valley skins are fewer and lower priced. The last four years, three in Lemhi Valley, I have worked part of the summer to accumulate enough cash money to buy our fall and winter supplies. This spring and summer, I’m skidding logs into Bannack, Montana.

Touching my old leather shirt, a gift from Chief Tendoy, I remember my spring hunt with the Shoshone as my wary and cautious eyes take a last search of the area. Bending slightly to stand stooped, I prepare to cross the dirt wagon path and avoid all horse left surprises.

On bare feet I cross, take a seat on one of the five pealed logs by the cooking fire’s ring of stones. Thinking about this spring’s hunt, I ask myself in a low voice, Who would not have helped them? They were in starving time. Our hunt filled bellies. Anyway I had to wait for more snow to melt in Lemhi Pass.

A careful man and a poor one, I keep watch of the area looking for movement, town behind and to the east with open land north. This poor one knows he will not pay extra for it. That kind of thinking makes me shake my head to clear it and wish I was back at my cabin in that little bowl I call Wessen Canyon. It is a grand sounding large name for a small pretty place. Instead, I am here in Bannack in Grasshopper Creek bottom with hills on both sides pockmarked with diggings and mines.

No one looking can see an abundance of possessions. However, back in the Lemhi Mountains hunting its beauty more than makes up for having a few pieces of silver in my coin purse instead of gold. A contented man, I put up with people and follow orders two or three months a year, so I can enjoy the high and lonesome the rest. Today is the last day of this summer’s work of snaking logs into town so the Bannack Mining and Ditching Company can fulfill its contract. In fact, I am hoping this morning for payout, buy and load supplies, and head home.

Yesterday, on my last skid of the day the company had three men and teams on top and four logs. There is one left—a ridgepole. Last night’s heavy dew will make it dangerous to get that one down. They will not wait, builders never do. It will slide down over wet slippery spruce needles like its greased. The fool that does this one had better be a fast runner or cash in his chips.

Easing back the hammer on my .46-caliber night-gun before laying it on the log beside me, I remember when it stopped a black bear on a morning raid into camp. Sitting in front of cold ashes of a rock-ringed camp cooking fire my ever watchful and darting eyes study again the tent area, but see no movement. Looking out and around at the countryside my eyes see nothing suspicious. I listen and hear only usual sounds.

Satisfied, I rub dirt off the bottom of my right foot, pull on a twice-patched gray cotton sock, push that foot partway into a boot, both hands grab a pair of mule-ears, and pull on my right boot. The same procedure pulls on a once patched second sock and a left boot. As is my habit, I stand and loudly stomp each foot to get comfortable.

Hearing a running horse, I turn toward the sound. A big northern bay carrying my boss bursts out of the cedars and charges downhill. I watch the Boss’ big bay turn toward camp. Without any sense of alarm, just wondering why this fool did not stay in bed, I wait for Nat Gildcomb.

For expected orders, I wait on this last day of snaking logs down into Bannack, Montana, for the construction of a county courthouse. I know what he will ask and know I will agree. To refuse might mark me a coward and no one hires a coward. Knowing I could have stayed safe in bed, but doubt that would have made any difference.

Quietly, I ask myself, Am I a ...?

To clear my head I close my eyes and think about standing in Lemhi Pass and looking out over Lemhi Valley. If the weather holds, late tomorrow I will shake Uncle Helmut’s hand, unload my supplies, and go see Juniejoy—the girl I plan to marry.

Remembering riding up in front of the Jaxon buildings, a bright morning sun bursts over the Bitterroot Mountains behind me. Dawn splashes sunlight over the land and Juniejoy, creating for me a remembered image of a tall smiling husky square-faced girl wearing farm chore clothes. Unashamed of being seen in work clothes Juniejoy stood smiling warmly in a faded and patched pair of her dad’s hand-me-down overalls tucked into the tops of old muddy low-heel work boots, her dad’s old blue shirt, cuffs rolled up, and an unbuttoned homemade patch-quilt jacket. Her long straight brown hair parted in the middle with a little braid on each side tied in back with a piece of wrapping string to keep it out of her eyes as she works.

With a joyful expression on her pleasant square face, Juniejoy Jaxon changes hands with her half-full egg basket. Riding up, she gives me a little right-handed wave and smiles warmly.

Tom, are you going, she asks with a sad tone creeping into her voice.

Yeah ... its time, I reply. My face tries to smile and frown at the same time for I am not sure how this is going to go.

Passes are still snowed in aren’t they?

Yeah, but Chief Tendoy invited me to hunt with ‘em. They are in need of meat. It’s starving time.

Wish I could go with you, Juniejoy says with a little pouting expression.

Unsure which she means, the hunt or trip to Bannack, I reply hopefully, Maybe next year. Quickly so as not to give the wrong impression I add, But, you know I can’t take a seventeen-year-old girl off anywhere without us being married.

Oh Tom, Juniejoy sighs taking my statement as my promise that we will be married when I get back or before the year is out.

Seeing the flush spots on both cheeks of her happy face, I know that I have promised to ask her on my return. Strangely pleased and confused I manage, Well, I’d best be on my way.

With that statement, Juniejoy utters an Oh, drops her egg basket, and rushes down to stand beside Jake.

Astonished by the dropped egg basket, certain some or all are broken I can only grunt my surprise. At this moment, any complaint would ruin everything. Forcing a smile, I look down at beaming Juniejoy.

Timidly she reaches up to touch my hand and lifts her flush-cheeked face to be kissed.

My weather darkened tan face feels warm as I lean over to get it done.

Her soft warm hand insistently grabs my neck for a longer than usual caring kiss full of promises. Parting breathlessly, Juniejoy steps back saying, Hurry back, Tom.

Be back August...at the earliest, I reply lifting the reins and bump Jake’s ribs with my heels.

Taking a large turn to return to the wagon-track trail and not tangle up my three pack mules, my warm face smiles at Juniejoy and returns her wave. I yell, When I return.

Loudly, Juniejoy laughs, blushes, and repeats, When you return.

Curving back toward the fork, trees soon block my view. Hoping she understands my intentions, I suddenly feel alone and lonely. Turning Jake downhill at the fork but increasing sounds of a running horse crowds my memory.

As the Boss’ big bay slides to a stop with a snort and creaking saddle leather, my mind returns to the tent filled Bannack Mining and Ditching Company camp. After the worse of the dust, I open my eyes and look up at my brown suited boss.

Thomas Hooker Brown, you’re the man I need. Tom, I’ve got one last log to snake down this morning before payout. It’s a big ‘en. Heavy dew will make it scoot. I need a fast runner. You’re fastest.

It was what I expected even before I saw his bay. My nod agrees that he has a last log on Cameron Hill and that he needs a fast runner, but it does not mean I volunteer.

I need a fast man. Will you do it?

Instead of answering, again I nod agreement to him needing a fast runner but add a comment to suggest there might be a condition. It’s a bad morning for it. You’re right. It’ll run...might run too fast.

It’ll be risky. You’re my best chance. Will you do it?

Again, I nod in agreement to his statement knowing that it will be less dangerous after the dew dried, but Nat is in a hurry. He, like all builders, does not