Juniper Creed and The Legend of The Old Trapper

By Bruce Frazer

A young woman is left stranded in the wilderness twenty-five miles from the nearest road, with only the clothes on her back and a small woolen blanket. A tragic love and a mummified body, an Adirondack Legend dating back to the late eighteen hundreds, the legend of the "Old Trapper" will finally be revealed.

While recovering from a gunshot wound, Juniper Creed, a New York, Port Authority Police Detective, travels to the Adirondack Mountains to make a decision on what to do with her family home, the Whitetail Lodge. Once a thriving hunting lodge, the Whitetail had been closed for many years prior to her father, Harlan Creed's death. It has been six months since Harlan's funeral and it is finally time for Juniper to make a decision as to the Whitetail's fate.

Upon arriving at the lodge, ten miles from the nearest blacktop highway, Juniper gets out of her vehicle to unlock the driveway's gate, ony to be attacked from behind by an unseen assailant. While trying to fight off her attacker Juniper is knocked unconscious, tied up, and dumped in the back of her rental Jeep. Unknown to her, the lodge has been taken over by a crew of smugglers, intending to use the Whitetail as a temporary hideout while they transport illegal drugs across the border from Canada.

What the smugglers don't know is that Juniper grew up in the mountains and learned how to survive using nature's bountiful resources. She is determined to make it back to the lodge and hold those accountable for her plight.

In a stroke of luck she stumbles across the hidden camp of the "Old Trapper," an Adirondack Legend not seen in over fifty years. Finding the trapper's remains and his last wishes, along with some life-saving supplies and the trapper's 1886 Winchester rifle, Juniper sets out on the long trek out of the wilderness, intent on settling the score.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Frazer
• Release date: Dec 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393729402

Bruce Frazer

Bruce Frazer and his wife live in beautiful western Virginia. A diverse career doing many things, from farming to woodcarving has given him an abundance of experiences. His inspiration for writing comes from the beauty of his surroundings, and his enjoyment of creating a story from a singel idea.

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© 2020 Bruce Frazer

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To Marsha

Once again you have helped me to tell another tale. Your editing skills and inspiration give me the courage to continue down the path!

You are my Juniper Creed!

Thank you

Part 1

1869-1940

The Old Trapper

Chapter 1

The old man crawled up against the ancient oak tree and slumped against its trunk. He had been willing his way forward for the better part of two days and still had another mile to go. The pain was a constant reminder of his plight, as his strength ebbed with every hour. Two days ago he had abandoned his pack basket, its contents now left to the whims of nature. In his arms he cradled his rifle and a mostly empty canteen of water. It had been over 48 hours since his last bite of food. He had not packed any in his kit, as the hike from camp to his north ridge trap line usually took no more than two hours and he had enjoyed a hearty breakfast before he’d left. It had taken only a couple of hours to pull the line of fox sets that he had placed only three weeks ago, a real shame he thought, and he swore under his breath about the changes that had taken place over the last four decades.

As the years had gone by it had become increasingly more difficult to make a living as a fur trapper. The invasion of the logging industry had taken its toll on the great forest, and the loss of habitat had pushed the fur bearers to find new territory. This season, his fox line had not produced a single pelt, and the unusual warm spell in early March of 1940 had forced him to pull all of his sets. The sudden rise in temperature had put a premature end to the trapping season and now, he thought perhaps his life. Taking a sip from his canteen, the old trapper looked down at his shattered leg trying to block out the pain, and for a moment his thoughts drifted back in time. With a mile still to go, the old man took one last swig from his canteen and contemplated his destiny.

Two days ago the old man had awakened before first light, ate a breakfast of venison hash, coffee and hardtack, he then shouldered his pack and set out to pull his traps. The snow-packed trail was still firm, so he strapped on his bearpaw snowshoes making good time on the first couple of miles of his hike. He reckoned it was around 7:00 a.m. by the time he reached the first trap on the north ridge. The air was already starting to warm above normal late winter temperatures. Grabbing a loose branch he sprung his first trap. It was empty, so he threw it into his basket. Two hours later and another mile into his journey the old man tossed his last trap into his basket, shouldered his 40 lb pack and began the long walk back to camp. In a way he was disappointed that he had not trapped one fur, but with the snow pack melting by the minute, he was happy that he didn’t have the extra weight to carry. By now the trail had softened to the consistency of a thick and heavy slush causing his feet to sink below the surface with every step he took. The rough terrain, with its steep ridges and rock strewn gullies, was now without solid footing. The weight of the heavy wet snow continually sucked his snowshoe laden boots into the quagmire. With a shake of his head, the trapper unfastened the now useless bearpaws and tied them to his pack basket. His progress was slow, as his boots sunk below the surface with every step he took. It had taken an extra hour to get back to the beginning of the north ridge trap line. The old man could tell that it was almost noon. With the trail deteriorating by the minute he pushed on, there would be no time for rest until he was back in camp.

The trapper had slogged his way back through the melting snow for over a mile, when he finally came upon the steepest part of the ridge. Before the sun had risen that morning the snow had been firm and the footing was stable, but now as he pushed forward his boots sunk with every step, causing him to slip on some loose rocks that lay hidden under the heavy wet slush. Losing control of his footing and with the heavy pack basket strapped to his back his right foot slipped on the unseen rocks sending the trapper tumbling down the side of the mountain. Trying desperately to correct his fall, the trapper extended his downhill leg pushing it forward, digging in his heel, in an attempt to halt the skid. Unfortunately the initial tumble down the steep slope had caused the heavy pack basket to shift forward on his back, causing the now unbalanced weight pushing him downhill at a breakneck speed. A second later his downhill foot caught on a hidden tree root and he heard a sickening snap much like a gunshot, followed by a wave of stomach turning pain as his tibia, or shinbone snapped in two. As he fell on his side, the pack basket dug into the slush slowing his momentum. He came to rest against a small fir tree one hundred yards down from the top of the ridge. Without a chance to catch his breath, the pain hit him like a thunderbolt causing him to double over and howl like a wounded animal. Looking down at his right leg he saw a dark red puddle of liquid appear above his boot top. His blood soaking through the fabric of his heavy wool pants. The trapper had certainly suffered his share of bumps and bruises during his fifty years in the forest, but now at the age of seventy-one years and being more than fifteen miles from the nearest road, he knew that this injury might be his last. Gathering his wits, the trapper realized that he had landed with his left side leaning against a small tree, that was about six foot tall, with the trunk about six inches away from a large granite boulder. Sitting up as best he could, the old man put both of his hands under his fractured leg, and lifted his now useless limb putting his foot in the gap between the trunk and the boulder. Now, with his boot wedged in the gap he knew what he had to do. He found a twig and gripped it between his teeth. As sweat poured down his forehead, he braced his left foot on the trunk. Taking a deep breath he pushed back with all of his remaining strength. Immediately the pain shot thru his leg, up his spine and into his head. The last thing he remembered was the sound of his broken bones grinding back into place.

Chapter 2

The old trapper was born in May of the year 1869 near the Trois-Riviers Territory of Quebec. The second son of an Abenaki canoe builder, the young boy was raised in the ways of the Abenaki people. His tribe was part of the Wabanaki Confederacy, the five tribes who coexisted in the region. The trapper had learned his craft of building the prized birch bark canoes from his father, and his father’s father, as the art had been passed down through the generations. His mother, the daughter of French immigrant farmers had married into the tribe and learned to weave the finely crafted Abenaki ash baskets that were renown for their strength and beauty. As a child the trapper had attended a tribal school for several years, but the four walls of the school house seemed to suffocate his spirit convincing him and his parents that he was meant to be free, to be able to roam the land as his ancestors had always done. At the age of fourteen he went to work with his father building canoes, and guiding the fisherman and hunters who came to test their skills in the rugged Saint Lawrence River country. By the time he was nineteen Roland LaFleur was a skilled woodsman, ready to go out on his own and test the world.

A handsome young man, with thick brown hair, brown eyes, and an engaging warm smile, he was adored by all of the young ladies in the village. At five foot eleven inches tall and a solid one hundred eighty pounds, Roland was constantly courted by the local girls, all trying to win his affection. Although he enjoyed the attention, he had yet to meet the one girl that would steal his heart.

On a warm summer day in his 20th year, 1889, Roland was out on the St. Lawrence River testing a canoe that he had built for a Northern Quebec fur trapper, when he noticed that two people had entered his camp. While paddling to shore, he was surprised to find his client standing next to his cook fire, along with a very pretty young woman. Roland pulled the canoe out of the water with the intent of showing off his newest creation, but lost all his all focus, when he had set his eyes on Emma O’ Shea. Emma, the daughter of Jamie O’ Shea was a slender young girl, with long red hair and dark green eyes. Though slight of frame, she was as tough as her father, a product of her upbringing in the wilds of Northern Quebec. When her mother had taken ill and passed away, Emma had taken over her duties, working along side her father trapping, tanning pelts and cooking the meals. Their home was where the trapping was profitable at any given time. Several times during the year Jamie would gather up some furs and take Emma with him to the local trading posts that had been set up along the St. Lawrence estuary. Emma relished the opportunity to get away from camp and travel to town. With every trip into civilization, it was not unnoticed by Jamie that he would no longer be able to keep Emma from the outside world. He remembered the first time he had seen Isabel, Emma’s mother, while he was buying supplies at a trading post north of Montreal. How smitten he had been, and the three year courtship that had ensued. Jamie had no doubt at all that it would soon be time for Emma to sprout her wings and leave the nest. She had grown up into a beautiful young woman and he wished a better life for her.

Roland was smitten at first sight, and Emma had felt the same way, starting on that very day when the O’ Shea’s had walked into Roland’s camp to pick up their new canoe. Over the next year whenever Jamie traveled south he made sure that Emma, now seventeen years old was with him. During that time he allowed Roland the opportunity to properly court his daughter. Jamie respected Roland as a fine young man, to be worthy of Emma’s interest. He had known the LaFleur family for many years and knew that Roland would be a great catch for his daughter. The courtship lasted almost two years due to the infrequent trips Jamie and Emma made to the Trois-Rivieres area. Jamie would usually give Roland an estimate of when he and Emma would be coming into town so that Roland could plan for a few days time with the girl he loved. Every couple of months Roland would trek upriver into the rugged back country to spend time with Emma and Jamie, usually staying for a week and helping out with their daily chores.

In August of 1891 the couple were married in a traditional Abenaki wedding ceremony. Even though Emma was not of the Abenaki people, her outdoor skills and knowledge of their traditional way of life had so impressed the elders that she was welcomed with open arms into the Trois-Rivieres Nation. Roland and Emma exchanged small wooden boxes as was the custom; the boxes were decorated with images portraying the skills and accomplishments of each person. As the wedding pole was set and the ceremony had begun, and when nobody hit the pole to object to the union, the ceremony moved forward and the couple were wed. After the wedding feast the elder woman of the tribe prepared Emma for the wedding night. They escorted her to Roland’s cabin, carrying with them the ceremonial bed cloths Emma would be wearing on her first night of marriage. It would be the happiest day of Roland LaFleur’s life.

1893

The search had lasted three days and nights, the results a tragedy. The men and women of the tribe had walked both banks of the river, ranging as far as four miles downstream. It was early evening on the third day when word spread that the canoe had been found, apparently snagged by a dead tree on the river’s south bank, almost three miles from the village. The canoe, crafted in the finest Abenaki tradition was found half submerged sitting in a tangle of dead limbs, with a large jagged tear apparent in its hull. The best guess was that Emma LaFleur had decided to go out fishing on that warm April day, while Roland was away on a supply run. An unlikely warm spell in late March had caused the river ice to melt rapidly, allowing people to put in their boats and canoes for spring fishing. Unaware, the locals had no idea that heavy ice flows had broken off from the north and traveled downstream, lurking dangerously under the surface. The men of the search party had guessed that a solid chunk of jagged ice, just below the waterline, had slammed into Emma’s canoe, gouging a hole into its side, thus sealing her fate. The search party sent a runner to town to locate Roland. With great haste Roland borrowed a horse from the livery and galloped back to his cabin, a distance of fifteen miles. Four more days were spent searching the river with nary a sign of Emma. On the fifth day Roland called off the search and thanked his friends and family for their efforts. He knew that the chances of finding his wife had grown very slim. It had taken a week to locate Jamie O’ Shea, Emma’s father, and by the time he arrived the search had come to an end. Jamie spent the next few days with Roland reliving memories and assigning no blame, as he knew the hazards of life on the frontier. Jamie departed five days later and was never seen again.

It was 1894, and Roland had been married less than two years at the time of his wife’s death. All of his hopes and dreams had been destroyed on that April day and his life would never be the same. One year later, on the exact day of Emma’s disappearance, Roland loaded his meager possessions into his pack basket, along with a few days rations. Heartbroken, he picked up the 1886 Winchester .45-70 rifle that had been a gift from his wife and set out in the direction of the Adirondack Mountains. He couldn’t bear the thought of remaining in the land where his Emma had been lost. Clutching the rifle close to his side Roland caressed its stock and played his fingers over the wood where he had carved Emma’s name. She had surprised him with the rifle on their first wedding anniversary, it was a much needed upgrade over his old single-shot muzzle loader. Although it wasn’t new, it had been well cared for. Emma had worked many hours to produce the white-ash baskets she used in a trade for the Winchester. It was Roland’s most prized possession, and he treated it like a rare jewel.

Chapter 3

Slowly, Roland’s eyes began to focus and the fog in his brain cleared as he started to regain consciousness. The initial jolt of pain, caused by his broken bones grinding back into alignment had been so intense that every animal in the forest had notably heard his screams before he had passed out. Roland had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but guessed that it must have been close to an hour. He had some memory of a dream, as if he had been reliving the past, but his thoughts quickly returned to the pain in his leg and his current predicament. First thing, he unhooked his pack basket and dumped its contents on the ground. Pulling his hunting knife from his belt Roland cut several of the vertical ash-wood slats from the basket’s frame and trimmed them to length. He next cut the leather strapping into lengths that could be tied around his leg. Using the wood slats and leather strips he fashioned a serviceable splint and secured it to his lower leg. Slowly, using his hands as a cradle he lifted his leg from the space between the rock and tree and was satisfied that the splint would be up to the task. His next thought was of shelter, as it was already late afternoon with only a couple of daylight hours remaining. Now, looking up at the top of the slope, he realized just how far from the trail he had tumbled. He knew that it would take all of his remaining strength to claw his way back to the top of the ridge and he hoped he could make it before sundown. To remain where he had fallen was not an option, as nightfall would bring the return of freezing temperatures. With no shelter and wet clothing he would succumb to the elements and perish in the ravine where he now lay. Suddenly, Roland looked about in a state of panic, taking a deep breath when he located his beloved Winchester, sticking out of the snow ten feet above him on the hill. Gathering himself, Roland pulled his body forward and began to crawl back to the top of the ridge. Three hours later he finally pulled himself back onto the trail, the Winchester clutched tightly in his hands. That first night Roland took refuge under a large spruce tree at the top of the trail, only a hundred yards from where he had fallen. It had been an arduous climb back to the top of the ridge, taking over three hours. Fortunately, Roland carried a waterproof container of wooden matches in his coat pocket which let him build a fire using dry spruce needles and branches that were scattered under the tree. At least on that first night he would be warm enough, although his decision to not pack any food would soon take its toll.

For two days he crawled and clawed his way along the trail, up and down hills, across ravines, fallen logs, and thru deep wet slush, until he finally reached a familiar way-point, a half mile from his camp. He was able to stand with the help of a sapling he had fashioned into a crutch, but only then on the few level areas of the trail. For the most part he had been forced to crawl along, his broken leg dragging behind like a boat anchor. Every movement of his body telegraphed up into his leg causing him to grimace in constant pain. By the time he had reached the familiar oak tree that marked his distance to home, Roland was near the point of no return. With no food for almost three days his energy reserves were depleted and his mind had begun to play tricks on his reality. He could feel the ever more serious changes in his damaged leg. The pain was different, more of a burning ache, he had also experienced chills, and his vision had at times become blurry. His knowledge of wounds told him that infection had set in and given his state of exhaustion, his body no longer had the strength to fight it off. Resigned to his fate, Roland set one goal, and that was to make it back to his home where he would make his final peace and reunite with his Emma.

It took another five hours for Roland to reach the entrance of his secretive camp. As he worked his way through the obscure passage in the cliff’s face, he had a vision of the day, over forty years past, when he had fallen on a rain soaked deer trail and slid fifty yards into the base of a giant granite outcropping. Cussing his clumsiness, Roland had reached out to grab a branch on the large hemlock tree next to where he had come to rest. Pulling himself up he realized that his pack basket, with all his possessions had slid to the far side of the tree. Again, cursing his luck, Roland got down on his hands and knees and crawled in under the tree’s dense cover, working his way forward against the solid rock face of the cliff, feeling for his pack. The tree was enormous and he had crawled almost forty feet under its branches when he finally broke out into a small clearing. Seeing his pack on the