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    Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9
    Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9
    Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9
    Ebook614 pages14 hours

    Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9

    By Greg Strandberg

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    About this ebook

    Continue the journey of the mountain men as the Astoria Expedition gets underway in the spring of 1811. 

    Learn about the disastrous journey west over the Rockies and through Hell's Canyon in today's Idaho. Experience Fort Astoria as the British close in, all in a fun and exciting fictional account.

    Get volumes seven, eight, and nine of the Mountain Man Series right here!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Strandberg
    Release dateAug 30, 2016
    ISBN9781536582260
    Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9
    Author

    Greg Strandberg

    Greg Strandberg was born and raised in Helena, Montana. He graduated from the University of Montana in 2008 with a BA in History.When the American economy began to collapse Greg quickly moved to China, where he became a slave for the English language industry. After five years of that nonsense he returned to Montana in June, 2013.When not writing his blogs, novels, or web content for others, Greg enjoys reading, hiking, biking, and spending time with his wife and young son.

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      Book preview

      Mountain Man Series, Books 7-9 - Greg Strandberg

      The Mountain Man Series

      Books 7-9

      Greg Strandberg

      Big Sky Words, Missoula

      Copyright © 2016 by Big Sky Words

      D2D Edition, 2016

      Written in the United States of America

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

      Connect with Greg Strandberg

      www.bigskywords.com

      Fortin’s Furs Table of Contents

      Map of Missouri River Region

      Introduction – Case

      Part I – In St. Louis

      1 – Quite the Characters

      2 – Backing

      3 – Talk of War

      4 – Christy’s

      Part II – Up North

      5 – Lono

      6 – Brock

      7 – MacDonald

      8 – Hunt

      9 – Marie

      Part III – Setting Out

      10 – The Wharf

      11 – Record Speed

      12 – The Mandan

      13 – Ahorse

      14 – Following

      15 – The Pass

      16 – The Snake

      Part IV – Overland

      17 – On Course

      18 – In Sight

      19 – The Divide

      20 – A New Plan

      21 – The Mad River

      22 – Caldron Linn

      23 – Hunting

      24 – Mountain Attack

      Part V – Fortin’s Furs

      25 – Pushing North

      26 – Another Tribe

      27 – Trail Attack

      28 – Friends Arrive

      29 – On Foot

      30 – Hand Talk

      31 – The Flathead

      32 – Maiden Rock

      33 – The Cache

      Conclusion – Scattered

      Historical Note

      Dorion’s Dilemma Table of Contents

      Introduction – A Cup

      Part I – Over the River

      1 – Hunt

      2 – Lono

      3 – Crooks & Mackenzie

      4 – A Fork

      5 – Along the Powder

      Part II – Through the Woods

      6 – The Dorions

      7 – The Kentuckians

      8 – Left Behind

      9 – Closing In

      10 – The Cabin

      11 – A New Arrival

      12 – Old Acquaintances

      13 – On the Trail

      14 – New Year’s

      15 – Suspicious Minds

      16 – Desperate Measures

      17 – Going After

      18 – Attack

      19 – Out of the Woods

      20 – Rude Awakening

      21 – Running

      22 – Dying

      23 – Living

      Part III – To Astoria

      24 – Hunt Again

      25 – Getting Worse

      26 – Falling Upon

      27 – Out of Nowhere

      28 – The Columbia

      29 – The British

      30 – Astoria

      31 – A Change of Mind

      32 – Impressed

      Part IV – Trouble

      33 – In the Hold

      34 – New Friends

      35 – Old Company

      36 – The Cayuse

      37 – Rushing East

      Part V – Taking Charge

      38 – First Light

      39 – From the Forest

      40 – Pandemonium

      41 – Out of the Hold

      42 – On the Bluff

      43 – On Deck

      44 – Explosion

      45 – In Shock

      46 – Payback

      47 – Ashore

      48 – Retribution

      Conclusion – A Cache

      Historical Note

      Brock’s Betrayal Table of Contents

      Introduction – A Letter

      Part I – Changing Plans

      1 – In the Snow

      2 – Out of Options

      3 – The Nez Perce

      4 – The Blackfeet

      Part II – In the Wilds

      5 – No Better Time

      6 – On the Columbia

      7 – Cries in the Night

      8 – Setting the Course

      9 – Coming To

      10 – Spring Thaw

      11 – A Reunion

      12 – A Bit o’ Crazy

      13 – Encroaching

      Part III – The Furs

      14 – The Maiden

      15 – Old Enemies

      16 – A Pitched Battle

      17 – An English Gentleman

      Part IV – Pursuit

      18 – Going After

      19 – The Run

      20 – The Chase

      21 – Taking Shots

      22 – Last Stand

      23 – Shots Fired

      24 – The Boiling Point

      25 – On Land’s Edge

      Historical Note

      About the Author

      Preview of Sun River Crossing

      Map of Missouri River Region

      Introduction – Case

      Case Fortin stared down the spear that was pointed at his throat.

      Well, he said, are ya gonna do it or what?

      Tell me where they are, the reply came.

      Case narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the man on the other end of that spear. He was a Blackfoot Indian, Case knew that much, but what he was doing this far west the trapper had no idea. He now had an idea what’d happened to Charles, Champlain and Beuvais, however, one look at the Indian’s belt and the three scalps hanging there gave him a real good idea. Whatever became of Old Dorion was anyone’s guess.

      I ain’t tellin’ you noth–

      Before Case could react the Indian flipped the spear around and slammed the butt-end into the trapper’s mouth.

      FWAP!

      Ugh! Case went, his hands going up to his bloody mouth. A few moments later he looked up, venom in his eyes, and spat out several broken teeth.

      Where are they? the Indian asked again, and flipped the spear back around point-end first to level at Case’s throat again.

      Case curled up his lip in his best sneer. Go to hell!

      No, a new voice came from behind Case, that’s where you’ll be going – now tell us!

      Case turned his head and angled about, hoping to get a better look. He knew that voice...knew it well. It can’t be, he thought, turning about, please tell me it can’t be...

      But it was.

      Where are they! the Indian shouted again, drawing Case’s eyes from the white behind him. This time the Indian poked the spear into Case’s throat, just slightly, enough to make a small prick. The trapper put his hand up and it came away with blood.

      Tell us or die like your friends, the man behind him said, the voice of the traitor.

      Case firmed his jaw, looked back at the man. William Clark will find out about this.

      The man laughed. More’n two thousand miles to the south of us in St. Louis? He scoffed. I don’t think so. Now, where are those furs, damn it?

      Case spit a mouthful of blood at the man’s feet, the man that he’d thought was his friend.

      That man curled his lip in scorn and looked to the Indian with the spear, nodded. The Indian firmed his jaw and tightened his grip on the spear. Case spit a bloody mouthful of spit at him as well.

      SCRISH!

      The Indian plunged the spear forward and its razor sharp tip slid easily into the soft flesh of the trapper’s throat, slid in and came out the other side. Case’s eyes went wide and a shocked expression came across his face. The Indian didn’t give him time to raise his hands up to grasp at the spear, however. Instead the Indian twisted the shaft, and thus the tip as well.

      SWISH...SCRUCH!

      Blood shot out from the wound as the hole in the throat widened and tore. The trapper’s eyes glazed over in death and the Indian tilted the spear in such a way that the trapper slid off, crumpled onto the ground in a heap. Behind the Indian, another brave scoffed.

      Still don’t know where those furs are, he said in his native tongue.

      The Indian that’d killed the trapper let out a sigh, looked to the white amongst them. No, and it doesn’t look like we will.

      We’ll find them, the white said in the Indians’ language, nodding to himself. To the Blackfeet Indians it looked like he was trying to convince himself, however.

      The brave that’d killed the white shook his head. "Could be anywhere along the Divide, any spot for hundreds of miles in either direction, north or south. How long will we look...how long will you look?"

      The white turned about and looked at the brave. For as long as it takes.

      Part I – In St. Louis

      1 – Quite the Characters

      The Grand rushed southward toward the Missouri, carried on toward the Mississippi, and then finally saw her waters empty into the Gulf down by New Orleans. Sal Jessup wasn’t much thinking about that, however, not as he swiped his skinning knife down and cut another portion of the fur from the beaver he was on. Another swipe there, a turn, then a final swipe along the midsection and the men had another pelt, a good one too by the looks of it, perhaps two pounds. That’d bring ‘em about $6, the price being what it was in St. Louis these days.

      The men of course were Sal, Schaefer, Rose, Daniels, and Jeffrey. All five of them had done time upriver, time at Fort Raymond, and for four of ‘em at least, Fort Three Forks and Fort Henry also.

      Sal Jessup was tall with short hair and a weatherworn face. He was 28-years old now and with his time trapping on the Tennessee and Arkansas River before coming up to the Mississippi and Missouri, all the way to Fort Three Forks, he could count himself as an old hand. Despite his youthful appearance, most others did so as well.

      Schaefer was certainly an old hand. About 43-years old now, he came from Pennsylvania. He was about as ugly as they came, with a large burn down one cheek, several missing teeth, and breathe that smelled like a brothel’s chamber pot. Despite that he was a helluva shot with his 1805 Kentucky Rifle, yet another gun that he called ol’ Gertrude – he’d lost the first when Fort Henry had burned to the ground, hadn’t found it on the dead Indian women either. So he replaced her with the same make and model, a fine rifle that was 33 inches in length and came in at .54 caliber, giving her a range of 100 to 120 yards. He used her to good effect, had saved the day many a time because of it.

      Daniels was one of the greenhorns that Manuel had recruited in St. Louis to head up to Fort Raymond and the Three Forks in 1809. He’d been one of the more competent ones at least, and now two years later he was still around because of it. He was about as average as you could get, young to boot. Straw hair that stuck out straight in all directions, a freckled nose that had yet to be broken, and lips that had probably been callin’ for momma just a few years before.

      Rose and Jeffrey were the other two, two that weren’t among them at the moment. They were downriver a day trapping a plum hole they’d come across, one that didn’t require five men to go at her.

      Edward Rose was a man’s man. Rough, rugged and resisting all calls to tell him what to do. The mulatto’s muscles bulged from his tight shirt and his face hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. He smelled like a man, too – dirt, smoke, blood, and muck. Yep, Rose was a trapper. Anyone ten feet off would know it in an instant.

      Jeffrey Smith had a calm face, the kind you’d expect on a clerk or maybe even a banker. It was a face that said, ‘trust me, everything’s gonna be alright.’ Like with a clerk or a banker, however, best to keep one hand on your wallet while those calm and kind eyes smiled at your passing.

      Jeffrey was the newest among them, the most recent at least. Daniels was too, but he’d done time up at Fort Three Forks and Fort Henry after it, nearly lost his hide at the side-hole in fact. Jeffrey had done well getting them through on the keelboat, however, and despite his loose tongue and penchant for saying the damndest things, he was a good trapper that knew how to bring in the furs. That’s what it was all about – furs. The price was low now, what with the increased competition and the increased number of men plying the rivers. The trade embargo was to blame as well, as was the lower demand because of it. Talk of war didn’t help none, nor did the closure of the Upper Missouri due to Blackfeet hostilities. It was hell, actually, and times were damn tough. Despite that, they still went out, still went trapping. They had to get furs, had to keep Manuel Lisa’s St. Louis Missouri River Fur Company in the black. Lately it’d been in the red, and despite their forays a few hundred miles upriver, the color on those balance sheets didn’t look ready to change. Times were tough, damn tough.

      Sal stopped his skinning and looked up. He turned his head this way and that, narrowed his eyes and generally gave the appearance that he was listening.

      What the– Schaefer started to say, but Sal cut him off with an upraised hand. The scarred and grizzled trapper frowned to that but held his tongue, though he did spit angrily over his shoulder.

      Sal kept his hand up for several seconds, kept his head cocked to one side, the left side meaning something was to the west of ‘em, maybe on the other side of the river 30 yards away. Finally the trapper lowered his hand, shook his head.

      Thought I heard something but I guess it was nothin’, he said, looking back at Schaefer there on the bank with him, then over at Daniels in the boat. He shrugged. Just jumpy, I guess.

      Daniels got a laugh out of that one, rose up to better secure a pack of furs in the rear of the craft. Ain’t no reason to be jumpy around here – this ain’t the Upper Missouri full o’ Blackfeet, now. He laughed again. Hell, I figure–

      The other two didn’t hear what Daniels figured. Just then the bushes on the other side of the bank began to rustle. There came a horse from behind them right as the men looked over, a rider atop her.

      A Fox, Schaefer said, dropping his skinning knife and reaching for his rifle.

      Beside him, Sal knew his companion spoke true – the Indian was decked-out in the ornamental shoulder-shawls the Fox Tribe favored, numerous feathers coming off of it, most painted red or blue. The Indian’s hair was painted red, done up in a Mohawk-style with one large eagle feather sticking up from the back. The Indian’s deerskin leggings were tasseled with red and blue beads and even his horse was draped with ornamental garlands of beads and tassels. It was the rifle in the Indian’s hand, however, that got Sal’s attention the most. It was a Northwest Trade Gun, likely received for twenty pelts from one of the many trapping parties operating in the area, perhaps even the French or British further north. The Indian brought that rifle up just then, brought it up and aimed it right at Sal.

      Get down! Daniels shouted from the canoe, reaching for his own rifle. That got the Indian’s attention and he swiveled the gun that way, taking aim at Daniels in the canoe.

      BOOM!

      The rifle fired and Sal saw the plume of smoke go up. His eyes darted to the canoe. Daniels was still standing there, patting his chest and stomach and looking quite in shock. The Indian had missed, Sal saw. Somehow from just 30 yards away, the Indian had missed!

      Get out of that canoe! Sal shouted next, looking from Daniels to the Indian and back again. As he shouted he started forward, making to go to his friend and trapping partner.

      Watch out! Schaefer shouted a split-second later, and Sal looked over at him just before the man fired.

      BOOM!

      A plume of smoke went up, blocking Schaefer from Sal’s view. Sal’s feet were still moving, however, reversing quickly from their forward momentum to a backward stance. He lost his footing, started to stumble.

      Whoa! Sal shouted, then hit his foot on the rock the canoe was tied to. He hit it in such a way that the rope started to unravel, then came undone. As he fell to the rocky riverbank Sal looked over and saw the canoe start downriver with the current, Daniels falling backward as he too lost his footing. The trapper managed to roll over in the boat and give them a shocked and surprised look as the current carried him swiftly from the scene. That’s when another shot came.

      BOOM!

      Damn! Schaefer said from his spot on the bank, already furiously reloading his rifle. He could see the second plume of smoke from behind the bushes, could see that another Indian had been aiming right there at Daniels in the boat. Sal’s stumbling over the bowline’s rock had likely saved the man’s life. As it was, however, they had at least two Indians on ‘em – Schaefer’s shot had missed as the Fox Indian had heeled his horse out of the way – and there were likely more past the bushes and in the tree line.

      We gotta get out of here! Schaefer yelled as he got his rifle loaded and brought it up to his face to aim.

      What about the furs! Sal shouted back at him.

      Leave ‘em! Schaefer shouted back, then fired.

      BOOM!

      He’d been waiting for the Indian in the bushes to show himself, and the brave had, slightly, and just by shaking the leaves a little too much. It’d given him away and the scarred and grizzled trapper smiled as his shot caused a limp arm to fall past one side of the bush and into view.

      "Leave ‘em?" Sal shouted, though he was already running from the riverbank and toward safety of the trees. He laughed. Manuel ain’t gonna like that, ain’t gonna like that one bit!

      Schaefer frowned, though not at his companion’s words. On the other side of the bank the mounted Indian had faded back into the trees. There were whoops and shouts from those trees, however, and it was clear more Indians were almost upon them.

      To hell with Manuel, Schaefer said, spitting over his shoulder as he gripped his rifle, bent down to pick up his possibles bag and the essential items it contained. He gave one last look at the bloody rocks, the dead beavers lying about, many of them still awaiting a skinning. It pained him to leave ‘em, but not as much as a Fox arrow in the chest would. Then he looked back at Sal. C’mon – let’s go.

      The two ran for the trees, the whooping and hollering still loud behind them. They ran and ran, turning south to follow the river, hoping to eventually hook up with Daniels and, further on, Rose and Jeffrey. Behind them the noise faded then stopped altogether. The Fox Indians had the furs and didn’t need to pursue the whites. A white scalp might bring prestige, but a fur pelt brought trade goods. To the Indians of the Missouri River, it wasn’t even a contest anymore – the furs won out.

      Times were changing, they were changing a lot.

      2 – Backing

      Manuel Lisa sat at his warehouse desk. The trader’s eyes were beady and black, owing to his Spanish heritage, and his complexion was dark as well. His black hair was combed back on his head and his forehead had a distinct widow’s peak. Most of all, Manuel looked tired. Staring at the St. Louis Missouri River Fur Company’s account books splayed out in front of him had a tendency to do that lately. The accounts were not looking good, not looking good at all. It all came down to events over the past year.

      After the disaster upriver over the winter of 1809-10, Manuel had decided that section of the Upper Missouri was simply too dangerous. Other sections weren’t he’d also decided, and beginning the previous March Manuel had entered into negotiations with the Chouteaus on gaining hold of Fort Mandan, which they’d built just the year before. Much to the Spaniard’s delight they’d jumped at the idea. It was easy to see why – the $15,000 loss with the Cedar Island fires, the worries over British incursions into their territory, then the increased hostility of the Blackfeet had all convinced them that they needed to focus on areas closer to home, which was St. Louis. They’d started the city after all, and even though Auguste was getting up in age, leaving more to Pierre and Pierre’s son A.P., he still held sway. It was with happiness, therefore, that Manuel had gained hold of the fort from them, though at the ungodly sum of $20,000. By his reckoning he’d get that paid off in three years, maybe sooner if something good came through. Until then, it was the creditors.

      It was a shame, really, as Fort Lisa – he’d begun calling the fort that as soon as the ownership had changed hands – was quite the place, perfect for some small trapping teams. The fort by this point was a square block-house, the lower part for furs and the upper for the trappers. There were two outhouses and the 15-foot piquet wall surrounded it all. That past summer they’d even started a garden of peas, beans, salad, radishes, and quite a few other vegetables. Situated as she was near the Little Missouri and Big Knife rivers, the fort was assured plenty of trade with the nearby Gros Ventre, Arikara, Sioux, and Mandan tribes. For the year that she’d been under Manuel’s control, things had gone well. He hoped they continued that way, hoped this talk of British incursions into the area was just that, talk.

      Manuel leaned back in his chair and thought of the sixteen men that’d made it down from the Upper Missouri, sixteen out of the 190 that’d started out the dreaded winter of 1809-10 upriver.

      John Collins was still around, as was Edward Robinson, John Hoback, and Jacob Reznor. The last three, Kentuckians all, had signed on with a fellow named Wilson Price Hunt, one working for a new outfit called the Pacific Fur Company being run out of New York City. They had good backing and were well-supplied, had gone upriver late in the season with a bunch of hired hands, the three Kentuckians among them. Last Manuel had heard they’d wintered around the Nodaway River 350 miles to the west of St. Louis and were probably already moved out by now.

      Peter Weiser was another of the Lewis and Clark veterans still plying the rivers for pelts. Most of the time he worked for the Chouteaus and stuck to the trapping spots on the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers.

      Rueben Lewis had gone back East to Washington, both in an attempt to clear his brother’s good name, and the accounts he’d left behind. The War Department and their damn Secretary William Eustis were still dragging their feet, but if anyone could get to the bottom of it Rueben could.

      Andrew Henry, the ‘captain’ of so many forts, was another that’d gone. With the disastrous losses at Fort Three Forks and then the fort that bore his name – not to mention the slaughter at Fort Raymond a short time later – the miner had decided to hang it up, going back to Potosi and the lead business. Far from suffering in the mines like most in the industry, however, Henry had become an investor and was actually doing quite well for himself, at least according to what Manuel had heard.

      Pierre Menard was still in St. Louis, had recovered enough to get a job as a clerk in a trading office. He was still out of sorts most of the time, jumpy as well really, but could hold it together...unless talk of Indians came up. Then he’d often be rushing to the nearest desk to hide under, though most were saying he was coming out within five minutes these days instead of the hour or so it’d been last year.

      Pierre Cruzatte had moved along as well. The half-blind half-French-Canadian, half-Omaha was getting on in years and decided to take what savings he had, which wasn’t much, and head on back down the Mississippi to see what life had in store for him. No one had heard from him since.

      Daniel Boone was still around too, upriver 25 miles at Boone’s Lick, wiling away his days and reminiscing on the ones he’d already seen. Most agreed, including himself these days, that his adventuring days were finally at their end.

      And lastly there was Colter, the legendary mountain man. He’d up and found a woman and a bit of land too. Last the men had heard he was living the life of a gentleman farmer, pretty good at it too.

      Manuel smiled and shook his head when he thought on them all, great men and hard workers, the kind that made America what it was and would continue to make it, make it the greatest nation on earth, as the Spaniard knew it was destined to become. He smiled again, then looked down at the account books. That wiped the smile from his face real quick. More than $28,000 in the hole with the Fort Lisa debt, nothing coming in either. Credit hard to come by and those that he’d taken loans from nearly knocking on his door. Yes, times were tough and there was no end in sight.

      With a scoff, Manuel closed the account book and settled on the one thing he could do something about – getting drunk. He’d been excelling at it lately, as had many of the traders in the city. Christy’s was the place for it and Manuel rose to head there now.

      3 – Talk of War

      Manuel walked along Rue Royale past Market and Walnut streets. As usual, he noted the new construction...and how it was still barely able to keep pace with the houses, shops, warehouses, smithies, and other places of business crowding in. Yes, the city had grown considerably over the past decade, the five years since Captains Lewis and Clark had gotten back especially.

      Manuel pushed those thoughts from his mind as he went past another block and found himself at the Chouteau house, the marvelous and grand structure that it was. He scoffed, not really surprised his restless mind had taken him to the large brick house with high walls around it and a large garden in the back. It was built in the style of Quebec, the Caribbean, and New Orleans, which consisted of a central chimney, windows facing outward along the front door, and the same rough design on the second floor. A sloped roof covered it all and Manuel hoped to have similar for himself one day...should his finances ever pan out. Those finances, as usual, depended much upon what the Chouteau family would do. Forgetting Christy’s for the moment, Manuel started up the steps, eager for a chat.

      Edwin, the Chouteau household slave, greeted him after his first knock and pointed him toward the parlor. There the Spaniard found Auguste, his interpreter and son-in-law Charles, as well as Auguste’s brother Pierre and Pierre’s son, A.P. Chouteau. William Clark was also present.

      Ah, Manuel! Auguste said, getting up from behind his desk. "Ça fait longtemps qu'on s'est pas vu!" He didn’t see as much of the Spaniard these days as he’d used to, not since they’d gone their separate ways on the Missouri, Manuel taking the Upper and the Chouteaus taking the Lower. Besides that, Auguste’s brother Pierre carried out most of the day to day business.

      Tu as bonne mine, Manuel replied, remarking on how well Auguste looked. The co-founder of St. Louis was 62-years old, his widow’s peak hairline more receded than ever. He didn’t need to powder it much in the French fashion for it was quite gray. Despite that, there was still a sparkle in the man’s eye and Manuel could see him living another twenty years, possibly.

      Auguste smiled at the compliment, clapped Manuel on the shoulders and stared into his eyes happily for a moment, then looked over at Charles. It was no secret that Auguste didn’t speak English and used Charles to translate for him.

      So, what brings you here today, Manuel? Auguste said through Charles while making his way back to his desk. Manuel sat down on one of the fine-felted sofas and, after filling a glass from the carafe of wine, leaned back to speak.

      Money, what else?

      What else! Auguste said, smiling.

      We’d be doing better if we weren’t on the brink of war.

      How are the Indians upriver faring? Charles asked on his own, though Auguste nodded afterward. That was another sign the elder Chouteau was winding down, as Manuel saw it.

      They’re growing more erratic, demanding more in trade. Manuel sighed. I have a feeling the British are prodding them.

      And the Sioux? Auguste asked. Further east, they’re the ones that are rising up so much...thanks to that Tecumseh of theirs.

      Manuel nodded, drank his wine. Tecumseh would give him problems with the Sioux, there was no doubt about that. "Already the Missouri Gazette is reporting what I’ve been saying about several tribes talking tough toward America, threatening to go to war."

      Which ones were they again? A.P. asked.

      The Arapahoe, Cheyenne, Arikara, Gros Ventre, and even the Crow.

      That damn North West Company up there has embroiled our people with the savages and those savages are constantly urged to cut us off, Pierre said.

      We might even see raids on Boone’s Lick soon, Clark said.

      The Sac and Fox tribes are very hostile, that’s for sure, A.P. added.

      That’s making travel and trade on the Mississippi especially tough, Manuel said, shaking his head. Already we’ve had a large portion of our former areas cut off to us."

      How’d it all start? A.P. asked.

      Oh, it’s a long story and you don’t want to hear it, Clark said, waving his hand.

      Better tell ‘em, Pierre said, if we’re gonna be serious about this venture, that is.

      Clark sighed, but then Auguste spoke up and Charles let it be known he’d translate. The men set in to listen as Charles translated Auguste’s words.

      The troubles started several years ago, though the Americans did their best not to notice. August scoffed at that last and Charles had to pause for a moment as the old Frenchman shook his head. He came from a nation that respected the Indians, or at least listened to them. The Americans, however, only seemed to despise them.

      The Prophet, Charles said again as Auguste picked up the tale once more, it all comes back to him. His name is Tenskwatawa and he’s a 40-year old Shawnee medicine man who’s taken to calling the Americans the children of the Evil Sprit or some such, telling the tribes that they have to be destroyed.

      Then who’s this Tecumseh we’re beginning to hear about? A.P. asked, taking a sip from his wine.

      Auguste nodded. Tecumseh’s the Prophet’s older brother by three years and he’s capitalized on his brother’s fame using his own oratorical skills. That smooth talk’s allowed him to form what’s referred to as ‘Tecumseh’s Confederacy,’ a collection of several thousand Shawnee warriors.

      "Several thousand?" Manuel said, his mouth dropping open.

      August nodded. The confederacy was largely made up of Shawnee, Lenape, and Miami originally, tribes that’d been kicked from their lands after the 1795 Treaty of Greenville.

      The treaty came about after they’d lost the Battle of Fallen Timbers the previous year, Clark added as Charles paused in the translation, and they lost their native lands as well.

      The Americans organized them into their Ohio Territory, Auguste said, picking up the story again. The tribes moved west, into the lands held by the Pottawatomie, Wea, Kickapoo, and Piankeshaw tribes. These lands eventually became Indiana and Illinois and the tribes were pushed further. They joined with the Sac, the Fox, Wyandot, Winnebago, Odawa, Mingo, and Seneca tribes. Leadership arose among the mixed tribe, most fueled by the hatred and anger at what the whites had done to them.

      And now this anger has cemented itself in the Prophet, Clark said, a man who rose up upon the death of the great chief Buckongahelas of the Lenape tribe. He waved his hand in a grand flourish, chuckled afterward.

      But how does this concern us here, in St. Louis? A.P. asked. After all, the Lenape tribe is hundreds of miles east of here on the Ohio.

      August nodded. Beginning in 1805 the Prophet began filling the spiritual vacuum and by 1808 his brother Tecumseh was filling the military urges of the warriors. They’ve steadily been pushing west, and that’s not what’s most alarming.

      Oh? Manuel said, raising an eyebrow.

      "By 1810 when the British first came looking for an alliance with the Prophet...just a few months ago now...Tecumseh already had 5,000 warriors at his command, it’s rumored, and that at a time when both the British and the Americans are barely capable of fielding a thousand."

      We’re beginning to realize we have a problem, Clark said, speaking up with a little less agitation than before. It was just this spring that the government in Washington took note of Tecumseh, began to realize the threat he posed. By that time he was of course openly talking of travelling further south along the Mississippi, drumming up support among the Five Civilized Tribes.

      Five Civilized Tribes? A.P. said, cocking his head and looking about.

      Manuel nodded. The Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek and Seminole. Should Tecumseh garner their support then America would lose the frontier and all the gains that she’s made since 1764 and the conclusion of the French and Indian War.

      And we can’t have that, Clark said, looking over his glass at the Spaniard.

      Manuel nodded. What do you propose we do about it?

      There was silence to that, and finally Auguste blew out a sigh. "What are we to do? Credit is tight, the Indians are riled up, and now we’re getting even less attention than before...all because war is on the horizon."

      Where there’s war there’s money to be made, Manuel said.

      Auguste scoffed. Not around here.

      No, but maybe further north, on the Upper Missouri...on the Three Forks.

      There were groans to that, for the men all knew what the Three Forks contained – death and destruction and lost profits with only piled-high expenses to show for it. No one wanted to go back up to the Three Forks again. Finally Clark sighed, threw up his hands.

      All this talk of war and trade and the lack of credit have put me in a foul mood. Come – let us go to Christy’s and drown our sorrows.

      He was already up and moving toward the door, so with a shrug – very half-hearted at that – the men made to join him.

      4 – Christy’s

      Sal, Schaefer, Rose, Daniels and Jeffrey walked up the short set of stairs leading from the city’s wharf and took in all that was St. Louis. She was a city of 5,600 people according to the 1810 Census and that was evident in all who bustled about. Traders yelling what they wanted from shops, movers hollering as they pushed through the muddy streets, and women trying to avoid it all by staying on the raised wooden footpaths that connected one area to another. The city had imports of $250,000 per year now and that meant quite a bit of industry, a lot of business, several different trades. Trapping was one of those industries and several businesses had risen up to cater to it, and to what the men did in their free time. It’s what economies were made from and the men stared at the biggest on America’s western frontier.

      So...right to Manuel’s then, huh? Sal said after they’d taken it all in for a few moments.

      Aye, right after a wee drop from Christy’s first, Schaefer said.

      There were murmurings of agreement to that from Rose, Daniels and Jeffrey so Schaefer nodded and set them off that way.

      But...but...what about– Sal said.

      Now, now, Schaefer said, turning and putting his hands on his hips, that bad breath of his just inches from the other men’s faces, "we’ll get the news to Manuel all right, but first let’s stick our noses into ol’ Christy’s and have a smidge of a drink first, eh...eh? Good."

      He said that last with a nod and turned about, started walking again. The other men gave a half-hearted shrug – who had a problem with a little drink before noon, after all? – and quickly made to follow.

      Schaefer took them past Rue Royale and Market Street and they were soon at the first bar St. Louis had ever known, Christy’s. The scarred and grizzled trapped threw open the door and was a few steps toward the bar when he stopped dead cold.

      "Well, Schaefer, Manuel Lisa called out, rising up from the table that he, Captain Clark, Charles Gratiot, as well as Auguste, Pierre and A.P. Chouteau were sitting at, and...the men with you too, I see. My, is this a pleasant surprise or isn’t it? And here I thought you’d be heading to my offices first thing to tell me how your trapping venture had gone." He crossed his arms, though still smiled all the while.

      "Uh...we...you...that is...uh..." Schaefer went, looking down at his feet as he circled his toe in the furrows of the floorboards.

      We went to your offices just now and found you weren’t there, Rose said, coming inside and saving Schaefer from further embarrassment.

      Oh, yes...well, Manuel said, ...come then, join us and tell us how it’s went. He looked over at the bar. Jacques, another carafe of... he looked back at Schaefer and the others.

      Whiskey, Schaefer said, and spying the spittoon near the bar, let one fly, hitting it with a resounding ‘ping.’

      Very good, Manuel said, and held his arms out for the men to sit down. So, he continued when they’d done so, the others making room for them by pushing another table into theirs, how did things go?

      Done alright, Rose said with a shrug, picked up four packs.

      That’s good for that stretch of the Missouri, Clark said, looking from the men to Manuel then Charles. Just yesterday a small party came back with five packs.

      Probably would have got more if the damn Fox didn’t attack us, Sal said.

      Fox, huh? Manuel said, looking over at Clark, then Auguste. It’d been those two that’d done the massive land deal with the tribe several years earlier. Seems there were still some rough feelings over it with the tribe and the Prophet probably wasn’t helping things either. Both men just stared into their drinks, however, didn’t say a word. Manuel sighed, looked back to Rose. Four is good and five’d be better, he said, "but neither would prove even close to enough to see us through this credit crunch."

      There was silence for a moment, then a bit more as Jacques came over with the whiskey. The thirsty trappers set to filling their drinks, and that’s when Sal nudged Schaefer, something that Manuel couldn’t help but notice. He raised his eyebrows at the man.

      We heard more about that Frenchman by the name o’ Case Fortin, Schaefer said as he took a drink, rolled the liquor around in his mouth, raised his eyebrows satisfactorily at the taste, and then took another. His party of four was around the Three Forks, supposedly collectin’ quite the batch o’ furs.

      That Case Fortin character...him again, Manuel scoffed.

      Who’d you hear about him from? Auguste asked.

      Small party o’ three led by a man named Simmons, Rose said, and Clark nodded.

      Licensed them last summer, the Indian agent said. They likely wintered around the Mandan.

      Manuel rolled his eyes, looked to his men. Did this Case Fortin ever come back with that bounty of furs of his? He scoffed and nudged Auguste next to him. Had twenty packs by the fall of 1808...or so I was told by Benito Vasquez when last I saw him at the Mandan.

      Sal nodded. "Word was also sayin’ the men would have up to fifty packs by now...should they still be alive."

      And if they’re not those furs will still be around, Rose said, either taken by the Indians and traded to the British, taken by the British outright, or perhaps even by a miscellaneous French outfit...even another tribe.

      Fifty packs? Clark scoffed, took another drink. At the typical ninety pounds a pack that’ll come in at... he looked up as if calculating, ....four thousand and...five hundred pounds.

      Schaefer and Rose both whistled at the same time.

      Still, A.P. said, drawing the men’s eyes, fifty packs would be worth twenty-five thousand dollars. There were a few whistles to that.

      Who are the men he was with? Pierre asked after those numbers had set in for a few moments.

      Sal nodded at the question. Men by the name o’ Jean Baptiste Champlain, Charles Sanguinet, and Jean Baptiste Beauvais...so I’m told.

      Heard that Old Dorion might have been with ‘em too, Schaefer added.

      Clark nodded. Headed to the Pacific with us, that one did. Good man...I’d hate to learn anything happened to him.

      Might have, Rose said. He went missing the same time ol’ Case Fortin and his men did.

      Auguste narrowed his eyes, looked around at the others. Anyone ever heard of these men? There was silence to that, a few shakes of the head. The businessman looked to Clark.

      The famed explorer and Indian Agent shook his head. They’d likely have headed upriver before I got back to the city.

      Auguste nodded. "Very well...at least we know we won’t be angering anyone too important when we recover those furs."

      If they even need recoverin’, Manuel said.

      You don’t think the men are still alive up there, do you? Clark asked. It’s been more than two years!

      Manuel shrugged. Who’s to say? Could be dead, could be captured...could have gone back to civilization another way.

      Hell, they could have even gone right on over the Divide and to Kalispell House on Flathead Lake there, Schaefer said.

      Could have even hooked up with the Snake, taken it all the way to the Columbia and then to the Pacific, Jeffrey said. A few of the men chuckled and he frowned and Jeffrey crossed his arms. "What? Stranger things have happened."

      That they have, Rose said. Never thought I’d see Colter in a cage, myself, but there he was. He looked around at the others. Wouldn’t surprise me if it happened to another.

      "And it wouldn’t surprise me if those men simply cached their furs somewhere,

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