The Story of Two Jakes

By Merlin C. Williams

Merlin C. Williams, a true outdoorsman
whose love of hunting, fishing, canoeing,
hiking, and a general love of being outside;
led him to write a story based in the Rocky
Mountains. Also known for his many travels
to various countries such as Australia, Africa,
Russia, and Europe for his work knowledge in
Weather Modification (NOAA) and Program
Managing (Ball Aerospace). He was also
a dedicated Christian and family man to his 4 daughters and their
families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462892341

Book preview

Chapter 1

Old Jake cautiously crossed the timbered ridge. He was moving in a crouch with his rifle held ready and his eyes searching the slope in front of him. Big Jake, his riding mule, and the two jennys used for packing, followed closely behind him. He dropped quickly into the heavier timber below the ridge line and began angling across the slope toward the edge of a large meadow with a stream running through its lower part.

Old Jake wasn’t sure why he felt the need for caution, but he felt it, and he had a distinct, uneasy feeling that ended with a small knot in the pit of his stomach. Funny how that knot came more easily in the last year. He ignored the feeling and noticed that his mules had sensed his uneasiness. They now moved through the timber with the care of wary bull elk.

Maybe Old Jake’s uneasiness came from the fact that he thought he had seen a thin line of smoke rising against the morning sky as he saddled and loaded the mules that spring morning. When he had looked a second time, he could see no trace of it, and had dismissed the smoke from his mind. The thought came back later in the day when he noted that the woods seemed unnaturally quiet for the warm spring day the mountains of the Wind River were enjoying. The westerly facing slope Old Jake moved down still held patches of old, dirty snow, but spring was definitely in the air in this year of 1842.

Now as the afternoon sun began its rapid descent, Old Jake slowed his seemingly shambling gait as he approached the edge of the trees. He had circled around a small stand of aspen that stood naked without its summer foliage. He preferred the improved cover provided by the pines that grew increasingly thicker as he descended. Big Jake did not approve of the longer route to the water and dried grass of the meadow, but patiently accepted the whims of the mere mortal man with a trust that came from long, shared trails. The two jennys, Jeannette and Janet, plodded behind Big Jake with the same acceptance and trust in the big mule that was shared between the mule and the man. Old Jake stopped within the screen of sheltering trees for long minutes, and carefully studied the meadow spread below him. The opening that met his eye was at least two miles long and one half mile wide. Thick dried grass covered the expanse, and the stream looped its way across it. Old Jake knew that the meadow extended north beyond his view for another mile and then bent westerly with the stream for four more miles. Six more miles to his destination. An easy trip down the broad valley if everything went according to plan.

Nothing in sight. Except—his heart jumped and his breathing ceased. Those black dots at the far end of the meadow nearly a mile away were mounted horsemen. Four of them, and four horsemen in a group without pack animals meant a hunting of a different type. They could be scouting for a larger party. They could be trappers, but in a whole winter of trapping, he had not seen or heard of any other white men in the area. Besides, they didn’t ride like white men, and they should have pack animals if they were trappers on the move at this time of year. They could only be Indians, and definitely not friendly to a single, white trapper with guns, mules and furs. They appeared to have crossed the stream and were moving up the meadow toward Old Jake’s small party. Damn. If they kept coming they would almost certainly discover him. Apparently they were traveling up the same route Old Jake had taken down the mountains for these last few miles. After all, he had been following a game trail. To try to move away now would invite disclosure, since any movement among the stationary trees would increase the chances of detection. The leisurely advance of the Indians was deceptive. Their movements revealed a definite hunting pattern. They were searching for someone or something, and they seemed definitely dressed for fighting rather than hunting.

Old Jake knew he had to prepare himself in some way in case his luck turned sour and the Indians kept corning. Speaking softly to the mules, and motioning them along he moved slowly backward into deeper cover and then moved to the right where he had seen a deadfall that would provide minimal protection. He tethered the mules individually to small branches on a cluster of pine that served to shelter their presence. He knew that if anything happened to him, the mules would be able to tear themselves free and fend for themselves. Big Jake had a healthy fear of Indians who always seemed to eye him as their next meal, and he could be expected to express his dislike in no uncertain terms.

Old Jake removed the spare rifle from Janet’s pack and carefully checked loads and priming for both his 50 caliber Hawken and the spare rifle. Unfortunately, the spare rifle was a 45 calibre gun which made reloading more complicated because of the difference in sizes. Once his check was completed he moved back to the deadfall and located the advancing Indians. Old Jake was puzzled. Why did they move directly toward him as if they knew where he was? He turned to place the spare rifle against the dead fall and there it was—a single moccasin print in the soft earth, and a hastily scattered bed of pine needles against the base of the log. They were chasing someone else! Old Jake’s luck had put him between the hunter and the quarry. Now he was sure it would not be a friendly visit.

In thinking about it, he had been lucky throughout the long autumn and winter of trapping and hunting. He had been able to find a spot on the ridge above this valley that provided both shelter and food for the mules. It had not been difficult to avoid the few Indians that traveled during the season of cold and snow. Trapping had not been as good as he remembered in previous years, but he had occupied the extra time with hunting, and between the two he had managed to accumulate a fair cache of furs and beaver pelts. But, now, with the warmer weather, entire villages of Indians would be on the move to the hunting grounds. Shoshone, Ute, Arapahoe, Sioux, Crow and occasionally, Blackfoot all used these grounds for hunting. That was why he had chosen this place for his trapping ground. It was rumored that a few places remained where beaver could be found if you were willing to risk the war parties. They had been right, but he had waited too long to leave.

Wal, nothin fer it now but tuh make the best uv it. It was surely not his first tight spot, nor his first Indian fight. He laid out his knife, tomahawk, or Hawk as it was called by the trappers, and rifles with care and settled down to wait. Meanwhile, he quickly set his strategy first for reducing the odds, and then to develop an escape plan. If he could kill or seriously wound two of the Indians with his first shots, he might gain enough time to reach the mules and escape back up the slope. If not, it would be a long afternoon. His best bet, and distinct advantage, was surprise. His first choice was to stay hidden and hope to avoid detection, but he had to be prepared for the worst.

The Indians were now just over three hundred yards away and still proceeding at a slow searching pace with their weapons held ready. They moved in the manner of a hunter who has not spotted his quarry. He could try a shot but would run a higher risk of missing and springing the trap too soon. He waited. While he waited he studied the approaching hunters. Crow. No doubt about it. They appeared to be mostly young and not garbed for war. Almost like a hunting party. And yet, not quite. If they were hunting game at this time of day, they would be in the timber near one of the watering spots rather than openly riding along the trail. They were also making no effort to be quiet.

Nope. They ain’t huntin’ game. Huntin’ man. And not expectin’ tuh hev much big trouble. Must be jest one feller they’re lookin’ fer or thar’d be a lot more uv ’em. Sumpin’ got em mightly upset though. The leading Crow was heavier, taller and appeared to be the leader. Everything in his manner and bearing showed anger and fight. He would have to be the first target. The hunting party was now two hundred yards away and moving steadily. Still too far for a certain kill.

Old Jake’s finger wandered nervously to the trigger, but he held back. Patience! Instead he set the rear trigger and waited. At one hundred and fifty yards, he took careful aim at the leader and began to count the steps. The leader was wearing a white, feathered medallion on the chest of his buckskin shirt—a real aiming point. At one hundred and twenty yards Old Jake squeezed the trigger and the 50 calibre ball smashed into the Crow’s chest just right of center of the medallion. Old Jake didn’t see him fall. He was squinting through the smoke, sighting the second rifle, and squeezing off another shot. The lighter 45 calibre ball threw higher and took the second Indian through the throat. The other two Indians had dropped quickly behind their plunging horses.

Old Jake knew it was time to go. Quickly! Scooping up his weapons he scuttled back to the mules. Gathering lead ropes of the pack animals, he stopped long enough to reload the Hawken. He was certain that the confusion resulting from his shots would delay the two remaining Crows. That was his mistake. As he mounted Big Jake and started him up the slope at a run, one of the Crows stepped from behind his horse and fired. The combination of the plunging movement of Big Jake and the jennies, the hurried aim and intervening trees gave a less than satisfactory result for the Indian. The ball passed through the fringe of Old Jake’s leggings and plowed a furrow across Big Jakes front shoulder. The ensuing pain set Big Jake to even more frantic plunging. Janet and Jeanette were hard pressed to keep up. Old Jake knew his chances of escape were much better. With two of the hunting party down and one loaded rifle between the other two, he began to breathe again. Unfortunately, he underestimated the determination of the young hunter. As the laboring Big Jake reached the top of the ridge, Old Jake pulled him to a halt and scanned his back trail. He noted movement in the trees and swore softly. The young fool was chasing him on foot. The quarry they sought must really be big trouble. Dismounting and leaning the rifle across Big Jake’s saddle he once again waited patiently. He knew once the rifle discharged Big Jake would bolt, but he had carefully looped his lead rope over his left arm. Setting the trigger, he sighted on the spot where he expected the Crow to appear. Sure enough, the hunter stepped between two trees with his tomahawk clutched in one hand and the empty rifle in the other. Old Jake’s eyes narrowed. It was a boy not much older than Tim had been. He hesitated, but knew that despite the Indian’s age he was a determined and formidable foe. His finger tightened on the trigger and the Hawken’s bark broke the silence. Damn! He had compensated too much for the down slope and the ball hit the Crow in the upper left leg. No matter, he would be out of action for a long time after Old Jake’s departure. But where was the fourth Crow? He must move again. Quickly!

Once again in the saddle, Old Jake started northward down and along the eastern side of the ridge. His mind moved rapidly over the choices he had. He could not travel down the valley as planned. The Crow party had to have a camp somewhere down the valley. They were not carrying the baggage necessary for long travel in this country overnight. The question was, Were there more Indians in the camp? If he were to reach his destination at the far end of the big meadow, he would have to circle the meadow itself, and come into its lowest point from the north. To accomplish that, either the camp would have to be unoccupied or located somewhere else. Everything depended on having encountered a small isolated hunting party rather than a part of a larger band located near the lower reaches of the meadow. If such a band existed, the chances were that the fourth member of the Crow party would soon be on his way to get help. Then the chase would be on his way to get him for his shootings.

Big Jake was feeling the pain in his shoulder and beginning to make his feelings known. He kept reaching around and trying to bite at the pain. Old Jake pulled his head around each time and kept him moving northward. It was hard work on the side hill and he knew he should find shelter soon. However his desire to put more distance between himself and the site of the fight, however, was greater. Meanwhile, the sun was beginning to disappear behind the ridge to the west.

As the shadows grew deeper and the temperature dropped, Old Jake saw his chance. The side of the slope to his right dropped of fin a sheer rock wall. The drop off was no more than two hundred feet, but at its base, a small cup covered with trees had been formed when a portion of the rock slope had sheered away leaving a rounded depression with a flattened area. In the failing light he could see patches of unmelted snow and the glimmer of melted water in a few depressions in the trees. Not really what he needed for the mules who had spent a long hard day, but it would have to do.

Old Jake backtracked for a hundred yards until he reached a point where he could descend to the cup. Once there he unsaddled and unloaded the pack mules carefully laying out the loads such that he could reload and be on his way quickly. Having tethered the mules near the water pools and the sparse grass in the cup, he now felt he could take care of Big Jake’s wound. Big Jake had sampled the melt water as only a mule can do being careful not to drink too much too fast as a horse might after a hard ride. Now he stood head down. Big Jake was nearly 16 hands tall and one of the more intelligent animals Old Jake had ever encountered. In fact, a sort of partnership had sprung up between the two in the two years they had been together. Big Jake seemed to be able to sense the moods and needs of the old man. Since the jennies faithfully followed Big Jake, such a bond with the man was not necessary.

Now, as Old Jake looked at the wound, his heart went out to the big animal. The wound was deep and jagged but had not hit a major blood vessel. The rough travel had kept it open and oozing blood, and from experience Old Jake knew it must be burning like fire. His limited medical experience said he needed to clean and cover the wound or risk problems with infection. Big Jake objected to the examination, and lunged to the end of the rope. When that failed, he threatened his partner with his teeth. Finally, Old Jake decided that he must risk a fire to heat water and prepare a covering. He searched through his packs until he found the small keg of trade whiskey and a small bag of bear fat that he kept for a variety of purposes including waterproofing and lubrication. He heated the bear fat over the fire until liquid. He then added a bit of the raw trade whiskey and headed for Big Jake. Yer goin’ to hev tuh stand still if’n I goin to hep ya Now—whoa! Big Jake reacted by taking a piece of flesh on the man’s shoulder between his teeth and holding it tightly without actually biting hard enough to break the skin. When he was through washing, Old Jake took a handful of the foul smelling bear grease mixture and quickly rubbed it over the wound. Big Jake erupted violently for a brief period and then settled down. The rueful look he gave the man fully conveyed his feelings about the abuse he had suffered in the past few hours from the human species. Old Jake decided he had done all he could. He hurried back to the fire and began dousing it with snow and dirt. No use putting out an engraved invitation to any unfriendly eyes in the area. It was then that he was aware of the vague shape at the edge of the trees highlighted by the fading light.

Chapter 2

Old Jake lunged for the Hawken and moved out of the light with the rifle trained on the shape. Whoever it was hadn’t moved. As he inched closer in watchful readiness, he noted that the figure stood with head bowed and arms clutching its middle in a pose of complete dejection and acceptance of whatever was to come. Who are yuh? What do yuh want? No answer. Only an outstretched, pleading hand. It was then Old Jake noticed the figure was an Indian woman—a squaw, and she appeared weak and sick.

He signed the question again. Old Jake was not good with any of the Indian dialects, but he was very good with the common means of communication—sign language. The answer, however, was so quick and fluid that he was forced to ask the question again. Even then he was not sure. As best he could piece together, she was called Spotted Deer Woman, and was fleeing from her Crow husband. She had born him a son while under brutal slavery as a captive third wife. Her husband had been an important warrior of the tribe, and been the first to die under Old Jake’s gun that afternoon. She had watched Old Jake’s fight from the ridge top, and followed him after his escape. She could go no farther. She had no food left and no weapons. She was ready to accept whatever the man decided her fate would be. Wal, Old Jake reflected, Thet answers the question of who the hunters were lookin fer. What am Ah s’posed tuh do now? He signed for her to sit next to the still smouldering fire, but she shook her head and turned back to the trees. His hand tightened on the rifle, but she returned immediately with a small boy. Old Jake groaned, Damn, that cuts the ice. Not one problem, but a passel uvem. She signed her helplessness again, and sank wearily to the ground crooning softly to the child who clutched tightly to her. Old Jake shrugged moved to the small remaining fire and began reheating the water used for Big Jake’s wound. While it was heating he unwrapped his last smoked venison ham and cut a small pile of thin slices. The venison had passed its prime and didn’t smell too good, but would provide nourishment. When the water was hot, he dumped a double handful of parched com obtained months before into the pot. Not much, but it would have to do. When the water and com boiled, he dumped the venison into the pot and boiled the rather slimy mess for a few minutes. He divided the rough meal between his two cups and the pot, gave the cups to the woman, completed putting out the fire and squatted with the pot to eat the meager meal.

As he ate, Old Jake, thought about how much he appreciated a hot meal, even if the taste was a bit strong and the use of the fire might increase the chance of detection. He always had liked a hot meal. Especially back on the farm when Alma had done the cooking, and he could relax with his pipe afterward. The woman and child ate noisily and hurriedly however. Obviously, it had been a long time since the last meal. Once done, she wiped the cups clean with a handful of grass and placed them in front of Old Jake. She was better trained than most.

Must hev had contact with white settlers somewhar, he thought. When Old Jake’s pot was empty, he again arranged his gear and packs for an early and quick departure. Only this time he removed the two buffalo hide pack covers and placed them under one of the pine. In the near total darkness, he grunted at the woman and pushed her toward the hastily made bed. Taking his own sleeping robe he retired to another tree separated a good six paces away, certainly not trusting his new guests.

Wrapped in his robe with the Hawken loosely covered beside him and his hawk under one hand, he was determined to stay awake until satisfied that his guests were completely settled for the night. His thoughts moved to plans for the coming day. The woman and her son presented a big problem. He could leave them, as he knew many of his fellow trappers would do, possibly brutalizing the woman before doing so. She really could expect no more. To be caught by her pursuer would have meant the loss of her son and death or mutilation. To steal a warrior’s son was not a small matter. Something within Old Jake could not accept the thought of abandoning her to the cruelties of the tribe over the ridge. As he lay waiting for sleep, his thoughts turned again, to his wife, Alma. Fifteen years ago, Old Jake had farmed a small piece of land in Tennessee. Alma, although not a pretty woman, had an invariably cheerful nature and an unfailing inner courage that had carried them through the tough times of frontier farming. She had given him a son, Tim, and a daughter Annie. Their farm had prospered although not in terms of hard cash, but Old Jake’s persistence and careful husbanding of possessions had permitted enough return from the land and animals to provide a degree of comfort unusual for the times and frontier conditions. Old Jake was also not ignorant like so many of his fellow wanderers of the mountains. His mother had spent four years teaching him his letters and how to cipher before her untimely death. He had also read a few of the rare books available in the settlements during his younger days. Sometimes he wondered if the reading hadn’t made him weaker than he should have been for this life he had chosen. He did know that he was more inclined to think about consequences and feelings than his fellow trappers.

Then, 15 years ago, the fever came, spread throughout the Tennessee countryside by the constantly moving settlers and their own ignorance of any sort of disease prevention. It had taken Annie first at the age of six despite Alma’s ministrations. Their daughter was followed within days by Tim at age eight, and finally Alma herself, fatigued and worn out by her constant efforts to aid the children. At age 33 Old Jake was left without the things he loved most on this earth.

The tightness and pain returned to his chest as he remembered digging the grave for his wife’s body in the cold wetness of the morning following a Tennessee winter rain. No one else was there. The fear of the fever that had afflicted so many of their neighbors kept them behind the tightly shut doors of their cabins. Once he had completed his sorrowful task, he retired to the once cheerful cabin he had known as home and began drinking from the jug he had kept in the lean-to. For three years he alternated between insensibility and recovery while his farm fell into ruin and his possessions disappeared to pay for the whiskey.

Until one morning, he regained consciousness only to recognize that the shaking skin and bones, trembling arm and hand was his. He knew he must do something or die. Forget, he could not, but restart, he might. He gathered his rifle, the few remaining personal items, mounted the one remaining horse and headed west.

Old Jake was not really old at 48. But he had survived the solitary existence of the high western mountains for twelve years. That fact had earned him the name Old Jake at a time when the average longevity of a trapper was not more than four or five seasons. Those that had achieved a similar longevity had done so by retiring to guiding. trading, settling in one of the growing number of forts, returning to the quieter eastern life or ending up buried in a nameless grave. No matter, the name had stuck, and now, he knew no other.

Actually Old Jake’s arrival on the trapping scene in 1830 had occurred after the peak period. Now, 12 years later, the beaver population had been seriously depleted and the market gone. Old Jake met his frugal needs by the same persistence and hard work he had put into the farm so long ago. The trip to the meadow on the previous day represented the end of his most recent trapping season. He had traveled to the high country to retrieve the small cache of bear and elk hides so carefully hidden late last fall. Now he was on his way to retrieve the small cache of beaver, fox and otter pelts at the lower end of the big meadow. His need to retrieve them and trade them for supplies including powder and lead, was acute, since his current supplies were nearly exhausted. He was not worried about where to go. There were many more traders and settlers coming into the area than there had been 12 years ago when the big event of the year was the trading Rendezvous, or Ronnyvoo as it was called by the trappers. All he had to do was head south to the trail west, and wait to contact one of the traveling groups.

Just before falling asleep, Old Jake made his decision. He would proceed north and west around the base of the ridge he now occupied until he reached the end of it, then move directly south until he came to the lowest point of the meadow. By keeping the ridge between himself and the meadow, he would be somewhat screened from prying eyes of anyone traveling on or near the meadow. Unfortunately, taking this detour would also force him to travel an extra day without known sources of water. He had decided to take the woman and her son as far as the cache, if she chose to come. With these matters in order, Old Jake slept.

He awoke an hour before dawn to the cold, dark predawn so familiar to mountain dwellers. The woman arose immediately as if she had been waiting. She stood to one side and watched the man carefully. She appeared to be stronger and more alert.

Wal, a bit of rest always helps, thought Old Jake as he cut more slices of the venison, and placed them in three piles on a piece of bark with a little parched com by each. He motioned to the meager food, and then began gathering his equipment preparatory to loading the mules. As he worked he noticed the woman feeding herself and the small boy who was still seated on the pack covers that had served as a bed.

Old Jake picked up the remaining food and munched on it as he went to Big Jake to check his wound. The big mule was alert but less hesitant about the man’s examination this morning. During the night he had been able to rub off most of the foul smelling bear fat and whiskey mixture covering the wound. Old Jake returned to the packs and grabbed a handful of the mixture remaining from the previous night and proceeded to spread it over the wound. Big Jake snorted and stamped nervously, but did not fight as on the first application. The pain must have subsided.

Once Big Jake was saddled, Old Jake moved to the task of loading the two jennys. He was surprised to find the packs formed and the woman waiting with the covers and tie down thongs. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Squaws were taught that chore early in life. Apparently, however, she had decided to throw in her lot with the trapper.

Pushy. he thought. Ah ain’t even asked yit. Oh, wal, it ’ll save a lot uv time signin’. He did not fail to notice that with help, the task of loading the mules was quickly done and they were ready to move. By now, there was enough gray light in the east that he could get a better look at his two guests. The women’s buckskin garment was in tatters, with numerous tears indicating hard travel through the rocks and brush of the countryside. Her moccasins were mere shreds, and her feet showed signs of having bled recently.

Damn. Another problem. Obviously any attempt to walk would result in a slower space than Old Jake was willing to accept. How she could have gotten very far from a main camp of Crows was another mystery that he had neither the time nor inclination to pursue. Oh well, he would have to put her on Big Jake until something else could be arranged. He didn’t want to overburden all three animals on what amounted to a dry march.

He signed for the woman and child to mount the mule. Her reaction surprised him. Eyes round with apprehension she shook her head violently. While mules were not unknown to the Indians, riding one as large and independent as Big Jake was apparently intimidating to the woman. Old Jake’s patience was growing thin. He signed angrily to the woman to do as she was told, and she moved to comply. Now Old Jake had another problem. Big Jake was distinctly unhappy at the approach of two strangers smelling strongly of Indian camps. In fact Big Jake objected violently, confirming the woman’s doubts. Having his wound smeared with foul smelling grease was a severe indignity, but accepting an Indian was beyond enduring. Completely beyond the limits of his patience, Old Jake grabbed the mule’s bridle, and planted a moccasined foot in the mule’s ribs with all the authority he could muster. However, the mule, undeterred, laid back his ears and lunged with teeth bared. Clinging to the bridle, the trapper jerked the mule’s head to one side and grabbed his ear in a horny hand. His anger temporarily overcome by pain, the mule stood eyeing the trapper balefully during the temporary truce. Old Jake hoarsely said, Git in the saddle ye danged idjit all the while jerking his head toward the saddle. When the woman began to move slowly toward the mule, too slowly, Old Jake increased both his cursing and head movement. At that point, Spotted Deer grabbed the boy and climbed aboard the now trembling mule. The trapper sighed heavily and released his grip on the mule’s ear, and was immediately forced to duck to avoid losing part of his scalp to a large set of yellow teeth. Keeping a tight grip on the bridle and lead rope, Old Jake tied the pack mules’ lead ropes to the big mule’s saddle and began moving along the bottom of the slope in the chosen direction. After a few unsuccessful attempts to remove portions of the legs of his unwelcome riders, Big Jake decided to bide his time and follow the only human he trusted even if he disagreed with him at times.

Old Jake knew he could move through the heavy timber covering the lower slope almost as fast as a mounted horseman. He set a pace that he felt he could comfortably maintain all day and still carefully observe his surroundings. Lead rope in one hand and Hawken in the other, he picked a course that balanced an avoidance of obstructions with cover from intruders’ eyes. The zigzag, up and down travel necessitated by the tree cover and numerous small ravines quickly took its toll on both man and animals. At the end of an hour, Old Jake estimated that they had traveled no more than a mile or a mile and one half His estimate of a day and a half to cover this longer more difficult route might have to be revised. The little party kept pushing along at a grueling pace, urged on by Old Jake. He noted with some satisfaction that the woman rode well.

Not like a danged sack uv grain like so many do. he thought. She also kept a sharp watch in all directions. He was grateful to be relieved of the full burden of avoiding any searching Crow. During his hurried inspections while traveling, he had also noted that the woman was attractive in a strong featured way common to those of her ancestry. Her skin was somewhat lighter than those of the Northern tribes, and she had an erect, graceful bearing astride the mule. She also didn’t affect the shy, modest glances common to the times. Instead, her bright, dark eyes were alert and direct. She had a small boned, but well muscled frame—probably the result of the grueling work usually imposed on Indian slaves. She had a somewhat haggard appearance, and her face showed lines around the mouth and eyes. Again, it was the result of captivity and constant worry. All things taken into account, he placed her age at mid-twenties. The boy, too, was an attractive Indian child with bright, dark eyes, chubby round face and a quiet, cheerful disposition that was unusual in Jake’s experience. His clothes were the usual Indian child’s buckskins, not particularly suitable for rough travel, but in much better condition than his mother’s. It was apparent that she had carried, cared for and protected him during their flight. Well, it appeared she had some better than usual qualities, but the big question was where in the heck she was going.

At noon Old Jake stopped to rest near a melt pond and allowed the mules to drink. He did not permit the woman and child to dismount, but rather brought them water in his skin bag and a handful of parched corn each. He did not relish the thought of a repeat performance of the man—mule disagreement of the morning. Big Jake suffered in silence and patiently waited for an opportunity to get even. The noon stop was brief, and Old Jake set out at a brisk pace again with no comment or complaint by the woman.

Once during the afternoon, the woman hissed a warning, and Old Jake froze. There was movement on the ridge. Old Jake followed the look of the woman without moving, and detected the flashes of movement. It could have been wild game or Crow. They took no chances, but remained still for a long half-hour. Even the mules sensed the mood and remained still. When Old Jake decided it was safe, they moved on once more.

The sun was a hand’s width above the ridge on its long descent when the trapper began his search for a safe camp for the night. Luck was with them. Just as the sun touched the ridge line, they rounded a bend, and there it was. It consisted of a rock wall extending nearly to the top of the ridge with large boulders scattered throughout a small meadow in front of the wan. The meadow had enough dried grass from the previous season to keep the mules satisfied for several days if needed. The only worrisome problem was that the scattered boulders would provide cover for an attacking party as well as for Old Jake and his group. He decided, however, that any approach by hostile Crows would be detected by Big Jake with attendant warning. The lack of water also bothered the trapper, but there was no other choice.

Old Jake quickly selected the site, and was pleased to find that it included a deep vertical split in the rock that would serve to hide a fire. With no wind, it was hard to imagine anyone detecting smoke rising vertically through the split. He quickly moved the party into the rocks and began the task of setting up camp. He noticed that when the woman dismounted, she staggered and almost fen. Oh well, a fun day in the saddle would do that to anyone. It did not, however, stop her from pitching into the chore of making camp. Old Jake chuckled.

Good training he thought. In any event the camp was quickly established with the squaw’s pack covers that served as sleeping robes placed near the split in the rock, the mules tethered in reach of the grass and the packs stored in the nearby rocks. Old Jake signed a need for a fire and the woman quickly gathered the necessary dried branches and pine knots.

Old Jake glumly sliced the remaining venison reflecting on the worsening smell and wishing he had a fresh venison steak. The squaw having started the fire in the rock as shown, moved to gather a few leaves of unknown origin, and added them to the water just then beginning to boil. When the trapper added the venison and parched corn, he noticed a pungent odor coming from the pot. The meal that night lacked much of the rotten smell and taste of the previous night. Water still remained a problem. Old Jake was forced to give each of the mules a small drink of the precious supply in the water bag.

The fire added a pleasant note to the camp, and each in his own way began to settle down. Reluctantly, Old Jake rose, drew his skinning knife and walked to the woman’s sleeping robes. Her apprehension for herself and the boy were apparent as he neared. When he reached the robes he carefully placed one foot and then the other on the edge Of the thick hide and traced the pattern of each foot with his knife. Once completed, he gestured for the remnants of the woman’s moccasins and returned to a position near the fire. There he applied the awl he had managed to save from the long abandoned farm to the task of patching the moccasins to the new sole. When she realized what he was doing, the squaw quickly sat down next to him, signed for the tool and began the repair. She was done in about half the time it would have taken Old Jake. With a slight and fleeting smile, she returned the awl, and returned to her robes.

Old Jake remained by the fire to contemplate the coming day. They had probably not covered more than six or seven of the fourteen miles needed for the detour. The going had been very rough, with frequent detours around rocks and deadfalls. In some spots they had been forced to travel around steep cuts in the rock. They would need another day as good or better than the one they had just made to reach the spot where his winter’s furs were buried. The task of digging up the stored pelts and equipment would require three to four hours, thus it would be necessary to camp at the cache site for the night if they proceeded directly. Despite the almost desperate need for the few balls and the extra powder horn stored with the cache of furs, he decided that they would try for the small, secluded bowl high above the cache where he had wintered. It would give them a chance to examine the countryside near the cache for Indians before approaching the site. The sod and log shelter in the bowl had been dismantled when he left:, but there was grass and water, and the bowl provided excellent shelter from anyone’s searching eyes. It was also closer to their present location by virtue of being near the crest of the ridge they would need to cross.

The trapper moved to his sleeping robe and laid out his weapons preparing for sleep. As he did so, he noted the gleam of the woman’s eyes in the fading firelight. Still awake. Not much trust there either. The sound of the mules eating the dried grass had stopped. They must have eaten their fill of the supply of grass, and were now waiting for morning.

Old Jake was up and stirring at his customary time before the first gray of dawn began to show. Breakfast required very little time since it was no more than a handful of cold, parched corn. Saddling, packing, loading and getting under way was quicker this morning. The woman had grasped the routine, and in true fashion of nomadic women had shouldered her share of the work. When they were ready to leave, she placed the boy on one of the Jenny’s and prepared to walk. The trapper shook his head, and signed her to mount Big Jake. The mule went through a token show of resistance, and then began following Old Jake. He had decided to forego the indignities suffered on the previous morning.

The second day was a repeat of the first with the exception of a lack of food for both the travelers and the animals. By mid-afternoon they were tiring rapidly, and it was now time to climb the ridge and drop into the bowl as the light faded. As he started up the steep slope, he noticed that the woman dismounted and walked beside the mule. Big Jake resisted an urge to apply his teeth, and concentrated his efforts on following the man up the slope. He did however, aim a half-hearted kick at her that was easily avoided. By the time they reached the top and passed above the tree line they were breathing heavily and struggling. Suddenly, the squaw moved back into the trees, and began searching the ground. She returned with two stout sticks about a foot and a half long and two inches in diameter. She began a slow stalk up the remaining rocky slope. That’s it! Old Jake understood! During the warmer afternoon, ptarmigan had moved onto the north slope in search of food. The ptarmigan had not lost their winter white totally, and were hard to detect among the patches of snow, but within a short time she had killed two of the slow moving birds with her makeshift throwing sticks. The action on her part demonstrated a complete understanding of the need for meat and the necessity to avoid a rifle shot. When the woman returned with the birds, Old Jake signed his approval and took the sticks from her. He had been given another idea by the woman’s action.

As they quickly traversed the rocky ridge and moved down the other side, he not only scanned the big meadow in the distance but searched the moss covered rocks surrounding the crest. He noted two things. One with alarm! The meadow had a number of moving figures on it. Their 9500 foot elevation gave him a clear view of the expanse of the meadow below. The second thing he saw as they moved across the bare rocks was a small colony of marmots. He motioned the woman to take the mules to the trees, and then moved toward the rodents in a half crouch. When he was close enough he flung one of the throwing sticks without success. Missing the target widely, the stick disappeared in the rocks. His second throw had more success. The stick struck the marmot a glancing blow with sufficient force to stun it. In his haste to get to the animal and complete the kill, he lost the other stick.

When Old Jake hurried to the trees with the dead marmot the woman was waiting. In true squaw fashion she took the animal from him as was her duty; and, he thought, smiled. Whether at his ineptness, the thought of the tough, strong tasting meat or just the prospect of more fresh meat he didn’t know. He didn’t care. They had food.

Chapter 3

Old Jake led the small party across the south slope, and through the trees to the bowl he had been seeking. The mules, sensing a familiar spot that represented as much of a home as they would know, moved with renewed strength. On reaching the lip of the bowl they scrambled over the edge and dropped into the safety of the bowl itself. The bowl was about 50 paces in diameter with small trees scattered along its edges and a thick growth of last year’s grass that would be adequate. At the edge of the bowl bordering the ridge was a small pool formed by a combination of melting snow and a small spring that fed the meadow. They were safe! Mighty forces that created this haven had gouged a depression in the side of the rocky ridge some four or five thousand feet above the valley below. Over the years the cycle of snow and melt with the attendant runoff had deepened the depression at the back of the bowl and accentuated the ridge at its exposed front. The bowl had been covered by a tough grass cover and a small stand of pine. The spring that fed the small pool also contributed to the runoff, forming a small stream that ran from one comer of the bowl in springtime. From the valley below, the only thing visible was the sheltering ridge at the front edge. Old Jake had no worries that they would be seen, unless someone climbed the ridge, and stumbled into the bowl by accident. Old Jake had explored all possibilities the previous autumn.

Old Jake and the woman quickly made camp after watering and tethering the mules. Then, while it was still light, the trapper moved to the lip of the bowl and searched the area below. There were at least four parties of horsemen on the meadow. In the growing dusk he counted a total of 14 points of light at a location that appeared to be a large camp. As a rough estimate that number would represent nearly 70 warriors and 90 or 100 women and children. A large camp. Most likely a hunting camp, because at this time the Crows were generally friendly to the more numerous Shoshoni who inhabited this particular part of the Rocky Mountains. Their relationship to the white trappers was more uncertain. Increasing pressure by traders, soldiers on mapping incursions and settlers the previous year had caused strong resentment on the part of some of the younger Crow. Isolated raids on trappers by Crow warriors in the past year had caused Old Jake’s caution and response of two days earlier. Now that fight and the presence of the woman and child presented a major rift between himself and the Crow. The passage of the first wagon train the previous year with more to come, and the hostile actions of many of the western tribes all made for an even greater need for caution.

Old Jake prepared to move back off the rim and noted that the woman had joined him. As he turned she signed rapidly. Her husband’s band. Crow. Hunting party. Young braves urging war against whites. All whites. Old men speak patience. Wait. Much trouble. The trapper sighed, signed that he understood, and began to move back to camp. When he looked back at the camp, there was no sign of the boy. His gaze swept the bowl, and his breath caught in his throat. There he was, standing next to Big Jake with a bit of dried grass held up for his consideration. Old Jake lunged for the mule and then stopped. Big Jake’s ears were pointed forward in interest, not laid back. His neck was stretched as far as possible as he took the preferred morsel. The delighted boy ran forward and grabbed one of Big Jake’s front legs with both arms. Old Jake held his breath again, but the mule merely pushed the boy away with his nose and backed politely away. It was going to be all right.

When the sky had darkened to the point where the smoke would not be seen, the trapper made the fire. He built the fire behind a screen of logs remaining from the winter shelter to avoid having the light seen from the valley. The trapper led the mules to the water for a last drink before tethering them on more grass for the night. He also spread the sleeping robes and rechecked the covers on the furs and supplies. Last of all he checked the priming on the rifles in case of the unlikely event of unwanted visitors. He hoped none of the Indians would wander about at night and did not really expect it. No use taking a chance though. A gunshot fired at an intruder in these mountains would set the entire area alive with searching Indians at first light.

The woman had expertly cleaned the ptarmigan and fashioned a crude tripod for broiling the meat. The meal would consist of freshly roasted meat, boiled parched corn and a mixture of seeds and roots collected in the bowl. The woman, not too sure of the use for marmot, had also skinned and prepared it. Old Jake signed that it would be cut in strips and smoked for travel.

The ptarmigan roast, tough and stringy after the winter’s cold, was a welcome addition after the meager diet of the previous days. Old Jake had tried to put one of the roast birds in the pack for the next day, but the woman had insisted they eat their fill. There would be more. And there were. When the trapper awoke in the cold, dark before dawn, she was gone, and the boy was still asleep in the bed of robes. She had returned by the time the sun was a hand width above the mountains, and she was carrying four more of the birds. These she began cleaning and preparing for the next meal.

Old Jake decided it was time to take care of personal needs. His boyhood training and family life had left him with a habit of personal cleanliness and neatness uncommon to most of his mountain comrades. It was not an easy habit to accommodate in a life filled with dirt, blood, grime and vermin common to the outdoor life he lived. Yet, he took every opportunity he could to wash both himself, and the inside of his buckskins. For one thing, he found that it reduced the number of lice, ticks and assorted other unwanted fellow travelers.

The trapper had already checked the Indian encampment from the rim of the bowl below several times, and determined that there would be no movement today. All that could be done was to keep a sharp lookout to ensure that overly curious Crows did not approach the bowl. Not that he expected that to happen, because the approaching slope gave no hint of the bowls presence and game would be scarce at these altitudes in this season. Accordingly, he took the last small block of lye soap he had obtained from the trader the previous fall, and went to the lower of the two pools to avoid spoiling the drinking water. The boy went with him to watch curiously. He stripped off his worn, greasy buckskins and began to scrub himself with the strong, harsh soap. The water was freezing, but after the first shock, he began to enjoy the feeling of tingling skin. Once scrubbed, he moved to the grass and began rubbing the insides of his buckskins lightly with the soap. It would help to remove both the grime and the crawling varmints that had joined him. If too much were used, it would be hard to remove and cause chafing of his skin as he worked and traveled. When the buckskins were lightly coated, he began to rub the soap off with a damp piece of flannel cloth from an old shirt that had long since worn out. He wished he could find an active anthill. Placing the buckskins over the anthill as the Indians did would not only remove the lice, but blood as well.

As he finished, he looked up to see where the boy was, and was shocked to see the woman standing nearby, watching and smiling broadly. Old Jake quickly grabbed the buckskins and covered himself, the woman laughed softly. Nudity was not a cause for embarrassment in her life. Growing up in her tribe, bathing and nudity were common. Her life as a slave had not changed that. She was amused at the man’s reaction, but it also pleased her that it was so different from the reaction of the other white men with whom she had had contact.

When Old Jake returned to the camp, fully dressed, he avoided looking at the woman. He did notice that the four ptarmigan by the cold campfire were completely dressed and ready along with two new throwing sticks. Two of the birds were prepared for roasting while the other two were boned and cut in strips prepared for smoking. She was getting ready for the trail. Old Jake had a partner—one he was not sure he wanted after all these years of being on his own, but it appeared that the choice had been made. As he squatted by the campsite, toying idly with the cooking utensils, the woman signed a request. Could she use the soap? Surprised, the trapper agreed before he realized what he had done.