Mountain Children

By Merle L. Case

George Andersen is fourteen, and this little girl that follows him everywhere he goes is a neighbors brat of thirteen.
Our wagon train has finally made it to the great Rocky Mountains. Jim Court, our wagon master, led us this far from Iowa with only one skirmish with the Cheyenne on the flat plains.
Four good men died in that fight, and my dad was one of them. I am the man of our family now, and it is rough for us all.
Now eight months has gone by since his death, and a lot has happened. The brat and I are the only survivors of eighty men, women, and children. Will the mountains, the animals, or the red man kill me, or will I become a mountain man and a legend in my youth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483699028

Merle L. Case

I am a 61 year old semi retired general contractor in and around Des Moines, Iowa. I am semiretired because of a disability. I have been writing books for many years and it was just for fun and family. Now due to my disabilities, I have to rely on my writing. I look forward to a better life as a writer. Friends and family say that my books are quite good and that I should share them with the world. I have five children and twelve grand children, two great and two more great on the way. Everyday is an adventure that I choose not to miss.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

George Andersen is fourteen, and this little girl that follows him everywhere he goes is a neighbor’s brat of thirteen.

Our wagon train has finally made it to the great Rocky Mountains. Jim Court, our wagon master, led us this far from Iowa with only one skirmish with the Cheyenne on the flat plains.

Four good men died in that fight, and my dad was one of them. I am the man of our family now, and it is rough for us all.

Now eight months has gone by since his death, and a lot has happened. The brat and I are the only survivors of eighty men, women, and children. Will the mountains, the animals, or the red man kill me, or will I become a mountain man and a legend in my youth?

I want it to be known that I respect all Indian nations. I have described some of them as bloodthirsty and uncaring humans. It was simply this: I had to have unholy vicious villains for my book. I wish no ill will.

Merle L. Case

REMEMBRANCE

I write this book in remembrance of the father-in-law I once had.

He was a big, muscle-bound man who loved to hunt, trap, and fish. His jet-black hair and high cheekbones would make you think that he was an Indian. His skin was always dark from being out in the open, and the Raccoon River was his second home.

He showed me how to trap and take the hide from the furs without ruining them. Whenever I read a book about a mountain man, his face would come into my mind. He was the closest thing to a mountain man that I knew.

After work each day, he couldn’t wait to get home to his wife and eight children. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t know how to do, and he was willing to teach you if you were willing to learn.

CHAPTER 1

TO THE ROCKIES

Way off in the distance, we could see the green foothills and the dark forest of the Rocky Mountains. My mother drove out a team of six fine chestnut horses. They were hot and sweaty, and their white foamy lather dried on the harnesses as quickly as it was put there.

My mother is a handsome woman. She stands five feet four inches and has the prettiest brown eyes and smile. Her hair is dark brown, and she wears it in a ponytail most of the time.

We had been seeing the Rockies for the last four days, and they were endless, just like the plains had been before them. It was like God had taken all of the trees and rocks from the plains and dumped them in one place to form the Rockies. I am a boy of fourteen years, and I am short but stocky. My brown eyes and hair match my mother’s.

My only wish would have been that my father was alive to see them with me.

I now remember the past four weeks as if it was yesterday. My dad died then, which would have put it June of 1850. We lost four good men that day to the Cheyenne, my dad and three others. They had gone hunting before it got dark, and the rest of us were circling the wagons for the night. In the direction that they had gone, we heard a rider coming at a full run.

Some of the men grabbed the reins of the man’s horse as he came into the camp. This man I did not know, and he was a small man with an arrow in his chest. They lowered him to the ground and tried to take care of his wounds.

His wife came running as soon as she was told, and she had two children trying to keep up, a boy of about eight and a girl of six, I would guess.

Three of us were caught off guard and jerked to the ground. The man coughed up some blood.

I was at the rear of the other men, and I took off to warn the train. The devils shot me in the back.

He coughed up some more blood, and the other men standing around were shaking their heads. They knew that he wouldn’t make it. The sky was turning darker by the minute, and these men didn’t know what to do. Jim Court came running up and knelt down by the dying man. Court is a big man, six foot two if an inch, and he is not fat, just muscular. He has long blond hair under a black hat. The women think that he is quite handsome.

Jim looked him over and said. Bennie, how many Indians were in that party that got you? I could see worry in his face.

He thought for a minute. There were at least fifty, he said in a whisper.

Court stood up and walked off with some of the men right behind him.

They started talking, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying. My ma came running up, and I took her aside and told her what Bennie and Court had talked about. She started crying and hugged me to her breasts. Her hug was so tight and strong that I could hardly breathe. Finally, she let me go when Court came over to us.

He said to Ma, Mrs. Andersen, I’m sorry, but we just can’t go out after your husband. They are too many, and it is to dark. More men will die trying to get your man, and he is probably dead already. I am truly sorry. Court turned away. He had others to talk to.

My mother turned around also and walked back to our wagon. As soon as she got there, she went inside, and I could hear her crying.

I walked a little ways from the circle of wagons and sat down and cried. I must have sat there for an hour, and soon, I heard someone come up behind me.

When I turned to look behind me, it was that eight-year-old boy whose dad had been shot. He was crying, and I was sure that he didn’t know where he was going. He walked right by me like I wasn’t even there. I stood up and grabbed his arm. He didn’t struggle, and we sat down on the ground together.

The little boy looked at me and said, My dad just died, and my momma took my little sister and walked away, leaving me there with Pa. He was sobbing so much that it was hard to understand him. He looked away. My ma doesn’t love me now that Pa is gone.

He turned and buried his head in my lap. I didn’t know what to do, so I patted his head like I would a dog’s to get him to settle down. I let him cry and then told him, I don’t think that your momma has forgotten you. I think that she thought that you were man enough to say some last words with your dad without anyone around. I hoped this would work. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

This little boy straightened up and stared at me, tears still flowing from his red eyes. He had hope in those eyes. I did say some last word, but it wasn’t what I wanted to say. Should I go back and tell him?

I told him that he should before someone takes him away. The little guy asked me a question I didn’t have an answer for. He asked if his dad could hear him even though he was dead. I could see that he didn’t really know anyway.

Yes, I told him, he can still hear you until they put him into the ground. I was hoping that I was right. After all, who really knew?

Thanks. He got up and ran away.

I just sat there because I needed some alone time, that is why I came out here. As I sat there, I got to think of the stories that Joe Black had told us. Joe Black was a true mountain man, and he said that he had seen it and lived it. He even lived with some of the Indians from time to time.

Sometimes the Indians would hold a person captive for ransom. I had to hope that this was the case for my dad. With this in mind, I got up and headed for our wagon. I stuck my head inside the wagon, and I could hear my mother sobbing her heart out. I told her, Ma, I got to think of the stories that Joe had told us kids, and they may be holding dad for some kind of ransom. Our conversation was along these lines.

Really, George, they do that kind of thing?

Yes, Ma, they really do.

Let’s hope so. She wiped her tears on her apron. Our nightly meal had been forgotten.

Are you hungry, son? She sat up and threw her foot over the tailgate. I stepped out of the way to let her get down.

You know me, Ma, I could always eat. I wanted to give her something to do. I was told once that if someone stayed busy, they would forget the troubles at hand.

I started a fire while Ma opened our food box and started fixing a meal. We still had some meat leftover from the kill of a deer my dad shot the day before. It didn’t take long, and we were eating out fill. I was starting to get another plate full when we heard a scream in the far distance. It was the scream of a man being tortured. There was no doughty. Our fears hit us right in the face, and we both knew that there would be no ransom. My ma put her plate down, and it was half eaten. She then went to the wagon and crawled inside.

I dumped the rest of our food on the ground next to the tongue of our wagon. With this done, I took our pot and put water in it from the barrel on the side of our wagon. I put the pot on the fire to heat the water so that I could wash the dishes.

There was a ruckus by our wagon tongue, and I knew what the disturbance was without looking, but I turned to watch anyway. Two dogs were merging together and fighting over our discarded meal, and their uproar was noisy. There was a big long-haired collie, his name was Shep, and a black mutt. Everyone liked the collie, and no one would take owner ship of the mutt. The collie won out, and the mutt ran for safety somewhere else.

I was left alone again, and the dishes were finished and put away. I tried to block out the screams that I keep hearing, but it was impossible. No one could sleep this night, I was sure.

I rolled up in my sleeping blankets and tried to block out the death sounds of the man being tortured. I prayed that it wasn’t my dad. After all, he had a one-in-three chance that he had died fighting.

I put my mind into thinking of the good times my dad and I had back in Iowa. I wished now that we had never left there, but my dad didn’t want to work for someone else when there was a chance to own his own land. In Iowa, my dad would take me fishing every Saturday after the chores were done.

We lived in a small field hand’s shack about fifty feet from the middle Raccoon River.

Just as I was about to fall asleep thinking of my dad with a fishing poll in hand, the tortured man would scream again. I didn’t know when it happened, but the screaming had stopped, and I was able to get a few hours of sleep.

The next morning was bright and sunny, and I heard the men in camp preparing to ride out and retrieve our three dead men. I crawled out from under our wagon and stretched my aching muscles.

The men who were riding out checked their weapons and saddled their mounts. My job would have been hitching up the team, but I would disobey my mother this time and ride out with these men.

I jumped onto Hickory’s back and waited for them to ride out. Hickory is our lead horse for the team. He is not to fast, but he is very strong. I had ridden him many times before.

I would have to wait for the men to ride out of camp. If I tried to go now, they would just make me stay. When they were about two hundred feet from camp, I headed Hickory out to catch up with them. The men were twenty strong. They did not hurry, and they cast about with roving eyes to head off any surprise.

When I got close enough, they could hear my approach, and they turned as one to see who it was. I waved, and they stopped long enough for me to come alongside of them.

Joe Black just shook his head and gave me a smile. You shouldn’t have come, boy, but I guess that you are old enough, he said.

I had to come and see my dad, dead or alive. Nothing more was said, and we rode onto a little draw no more than 250 feet from our camp. I guess that they wanted to make sure that we heard what they were doing throughout the night.

Two men were dead and scalped. They had at least ten holes in their bare chests. Their fingers had been removed, and I couldn’t understand why, and neither could Black.

These two men had been killed during the fight and then were used as a pin cushion. I remember Joe saying as he pointed at them.

There’s another man over here, what’s left of him anyway, a man yelled from behind some trees.

Neither one of these two men was my dad, so I hurried off to where some men were standing.

One of those two men I knew as Bud Caster. He had a pretty wife and two small boys. The other men I had seen many times, but I didn’t know their names.

When I came to the crowd of men, I had to push my way through. Joe Black was on his knees beside what I once knew as my dad. Black looked up at the group of men.

Let the young man through. This is his dad, Black said sadly. There on the ground was a blackened body of a man.

Most of his shirt had been burned off him, and he was naked. He was staked out on the ground, his arms above his head and his legs spread wide.

His manhood was cut off and stuffed into his mouth. His fingers were missing also, and I could see where they had built a fire on his crotch and chest. His feet had been cut off and put by his head.

My dad’s thick black hair had been burned off after they had scalped him. This form of blacken meat would give me nightmares for the rest of my life. I was glad that my mother wasn’t here to see her beloved husband.

The Cheyenne, if that is what they were, were good at keeping a man alive for long periods. And they could make the bravest of men scream from what they called as fun.

What I couldn’t understand is that these men that had been murdered had families and probably the Indians who had done this had families also.

If that was the case, I was sure that they wouldn’t like it if we did that to some of their men.

The rescue party had brought shovels, and four men started digging the graves. My dad was brought over and down beside the other two. In that way, they could all be buried together. The men formed a circle and stood guard while the digging was done. No one wasted any time. They wanted to get back to their women and children.

When they were in the ground, a pastor read some hurried words over them out of his Bible. The graves were filled in and the men mounted up. No one spoke a word after the reading.

Joe Black had seen dust off to the east, of many horses coming our way, and it was time to get back while we could.

My dad had no marker, and neither did the other two men. Joe said it was best this way because a wooden marker would just rot anyway or someone else would use it for firewood.

We rode hard for our camp because the dust was getting thicker and more spread out. We spread the word that Indians were coming, and everyone got ready for an attack. We waited all the rest of the day, and the dust cloud had disappeared as if it had never been there.

We sent out three men to check our road ahead of us, and Joe Black was one of them. They weren’t gone long when they came riding back. Joe reported that there was a large force of Indians ahead of us. No one knew what to do, except Joe.

Court called a meeting to discuss what we should do next. The men were talking all at once, and they weren’t getting anywhere.

Quiet please, Joe said, but no one paid him any mind. I said quiet please, he yelled this time.

A silent hush came over all of the men. Joe then said, Some of you men want to make a run for it, but run to where? He shook his head.

Your horses would wear out before you could get to trees and rocks. Now listen up, alls we have to do is let them come to us. Braves have great patience for hunting and fishing, but not for war.

It was decided that we would wait them out, and that night, I heard my mother crying again. When morning came, my ma’s eyes were bloodshot, but she tried to put a smile on her face anyway. That day, my ma tried to act like my dad was just hunting, and she went about her business as usual. That night, she would cry herself to sleep again.

We waited for three days, and on the evening of the third day, they attacked us. Our nightly meals were forgotten, and every man grabbed his weapons and put their children in their wagons. The women would load their extra guns and stand by their men. Some women joined in the fight by firing guns that they knew how to handle.

A large warrior was riding a magnificent black stud. It was a beauty to behold. Its black mane and tail flipped about in the wind that it was making as he ran by the wagons.

The warrior rode his horse and guided him only by his knees because he was shooting arrows as fast as he could. This warrior had to be some kind of chief because he had a feathered bonnet on his head. The feathers were plastered out behind his head because he was moving so fast. This bonnet had a feathered tail, and it would flop in the wind also.

This warrior was naked, except a loin cloth, and his muscular chest had a red hand on his left breast and a black hand on his right.

He continued to yell at his men to get them to fight. Joe stood by my mother, and when she wasn’t firing our pistol, she would help me reload for Joe. The chief had made his warriors circle our wagons. Some were riding to the left, and others were riding to the right. In this way, it was hard for our force to fight in just one direction. These Indians had old guns if they had one, but mostly, they were using bows and arrows.

Here comes the head bull, someone give me a gun. If I can nail him, the fight will be over. I remember how excited he was.

He had to yell above the noises of so many people. The Indians were yelling their war cries, and our people were yelling from their own excitement.

I gave Joe his own gun, and he smiled at me. I said a silent prayer that Joe would hit what he aimed at, and I was sure that it would be that chief and nowhere else. I watched this brave, and it seemed like no bullet or ball would strike him down.

Joe sighted in on the chief and followed him as he was riding by. Even though there was so much noise, it was hard to think I heard the unmistakable click of the first trigger of his Hawkins. I watched him take in a breath and the Hawkins boom.

The chief was thrown off his horse like a giant fist had hit him in the chest.

It was like everything was in slow motion, and I could see a big red hole where the ball had went in. Some braves had seen him fall, and they rode by and picked him up without even stopping.

If they had stopped, they too would be dead.

I got the son of a gun. I got him, Joe yelled as he did a jig around my mother.

I watched the Indians ride from where they had come, and they had stopped their yelling also. A great cheer rose from all who were in the circle of wagons.

Listen, I said listen, Jim Court yelled.

When it got quiet to suit Jim, he yelled again.

They won’t be back tonight, so everyone get something to eat and take care of any wounds you might have. They have lost their war chief, and it will take some days for them to mourn and elect another to take his place. Get your rest, because we will be pulling out in the morning, and I mean early.

Ma asked Joe if he would have supper with us, and he said that he would be delighted. To this day, he eats his meals with us. She stated, That is the least we can do for you for fighting by our wagon. She gave him a smile, the first smile that I had seen in a while. He told us that he had better walk around the wagons first and see if he can help anyone, then he will be right back. He then blushed and gave her a wink.

I asked Joe if I could go with him. I had Ma’s pistol in my hand. I had just forgotten that I had it. He looked at me and said,

First, young man, don’t be waving that piece around, and second, ask your ma, not me. You’re hers.

My ma stuck her hand out, and I gave it to her.

Okay, just don’t get in the way, Ma said.

This fight couldn’t have lasted an hour, and as I passed the wagons, I could see out defenders. Three men had been wounded and one woman. None of the wounds were death threatening, and the people would be as good as new in a few days.

As I looked between the wagons and out of its circle, I could see the ground. The once-tall grass was now trampled, and dirt was thrown here and there. I could see the bodies of many warriors that had fallen in this senseless fight. Many families would be without a man to provide for them, and I was glad. These same Indians didn’t care about my pa and whether he had a family.

When Joe wasn’t looking, I went between the wagons and out among the dead. I studied each one as I went, and each one had red and black paint on their faces and somewhere on their bodies.

I had counted seven when I came to a young man no older than myself, and he had a bullet hole in his side. I thought that he was dead and started to walk by. He must have heard my passing and opened his eyes in a pleading frown. Blood came from his mouth as he tried to speak. I couldn’t understand him, and I looked for a weapon. I thought to myself that I must kill him. He is the enemy, and his people took my father’s life.

I saw an end of a spear not more than ten feet away. I ran and grabbed it. When I came back to this young man, he held up his hands. He knew that I was going to finish him off, so he put his hands down and just waited. I knelt down over him and brought the spear up over my head for the final strike. I looked into his eyes, and I didn’t see a killer, only a boy. If they had been friendly, I could see myself liking him, and maybe we could have gone fishing together.

I had to get that thought out of my head. If I was in his place and he in mine, I would be dead already. I started to bring the spear down again to bury the point into his flesh when he closed his eyes and the air came out of him. His chest didn’t rise and fall anymore, and I knew he was dead. I heard Joe’s voice.

It’s hard to kill someone when they are looking at you and you know that they are helpless.

I hadn’t heard him come behind me, but when I turned and stood up, he was smiling. I was confused and had mixed thoughts, so I asked him if I was a coward. He stepped up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said,

No, lad, you knew that his time was up, and he knew it also. Think no more about it. I’m sure your ma has supper ready, and I could eat a bear.

I walked over to Joe, and he put his arm around my shoulder. We walked to our wagon this way. Ma saw us coming, and she dished up two plates of deer steaks with potatoes.

She asked us if any of our people died today. I could see that Ma was worried, the way she was acting.

No, there are some wounded, but they will be all right in a day or two, Joe said with his mouth full.

While we were eating, Jim Court came by. Ma got up and fixed him a plate of food and poured him a cup of coffee. The conversation went something like this.

Thank you, Pearl, it sure smells good, Jim sat down next to me on an old log.

Yes, this woman here sure can cook. Joe was on his second plate of steaks and potatoes.

Ma and I didn’t mind feeding them because Joe always shot the meat and Jim gave us a one-hundred-pound bag of potatoes when we had stopped at the last trading post. They both were right in saying that my ma sure could cook. The meat was always cooked just right so that it was still juicy, but not raw. She had cut the potatoes in