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    Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6
    Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6
    Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6
    Ebook778 pages26 hours

    Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6

    By Greg Strandberg

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    About this ebook

    Continue the journey with mountain man John Colter as he continues to tackle the Yellowstone River and beyond over the years 1809  to 1810.  

    Learn about the early days of the Upper Missouri fur trade in a fun and exciting way. Get volumes four, five and six of the Mountain Man Series right here!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Strandberg
    Release dateJul 30, 2016
    ISBN9781533723291
    Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6
    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.

    Read more from Greg Strandberg

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      Book preview

      Mountain Man Series, Books 4-6 - Greg Strandberg

      Mountain Man Series

      Books 4-6

      Greg Strandberg

      Big Sky Words, Missoula

      Copyright © 2015 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

      Colter’s Friend Table of Contents

      Map of Upper Missouri

      Map of Fort Three Forks

      Introduction – A Pryor Expedition

      Part I – August

      1 – Into St. Louis

      2 – Forming the Company

      3 – The Braves’ Return

      4 – A Trial

      5 – Picking Brains

      6 – Arguments

      7 – The She-Wolves

      8 – Drawing Battle Lines

      9 – In the Dark

      Part II – September

      10 – The Captain’s Return

      11 – Stocking Up

      12 – The Course of Things

      13 – The Miner

      14 – Business and Pleasure

      15 – Another Run

      16 – A Fast Pace

      17 – Fort Clark

      18 – Cedar Island

      19 – A Land Deal

      20 – An Enemy Tribe

      21 – Attack in the Night

      22 – Taking Leave

      23 – Upriver

      24 – A Reunion

      Part III – October

      25 – Lisa’s Return

      26 – To the Headwaters

      27 – A Request

      28 – Fort Three Forks

      29 – Downriver

      30 – Riding South

      31 – A Discovery

      32 – Hunting & Trapping

      33 – Promises

      34 – Second Thoughts

      35 – Planning the Attack

      36 – Hanging It Up

      37 – Out in Force

      38 – False Confidence

      39 – A Second Shot

      Conclusion – November

      Historical Note

      Colter’s Revenge Table of Contents

      Introduction – A Trophy

      Part I – Troubles

      1 – The Prisoners

      2 – The Captors

      3 – The Weak and the Weary

      4 – Drawing Lots

      5 – The Chosen Few

      6 – The Departure

      7 – Licking Lips

      8 – Fort Henry

      9 – Making Plans

      Part II – Overland

      10 – Cat and Mouse

      11 – Luring Them In

      12 – Springing the Trap

      13 – At Wits’ End

      14 – Finding Relief

      15 – Digging In

      Part III – Heading North

      16 – The Wharf

      17 – The Charred Remains

      18 – Overland

      19 – An Old Friend

      20 – A New Course

      Part IV – The Break-Out

      21 – A Burning Idea

      22 – Arguments

      23 – In the Air

      24 – The Break-Out

      25 – Ambush

      26 – Rescue

      27 – The Trapped

      28 – For Show

      29 – The Wise Ones

      30 – Into the Fray

      Part V – Revenge

      31 – Payback

      32 – A Warning

      33 – Back at the Fort

      34 – Revenge

      35 – A Letter

      36 – Weighing Options

      37 – Pitching an Idea

      38 – Divisions

      39 – Fire in the Night

      40 – On the Edge

      41 – Switching Sides

      42 – Worried Minds

      43 – Getting In

      44 – Staying Out

      Conclusion – The British Are Coming

      Historical Note

      Colter’s Escape Table of Contents

      Introduction – From His Majesty

      Part I – Picking Up the Pieces

      1 – Reunited

      2 – Following

      3 – Moving North

      Part II – Attack

      4 – From Afar

      5 – A Plan

      6 – Fire

      7 – Into Motion

      8 – A Retreat

      9 – In Ruins

      10 – Running

      11 – The Blizzard

      12 – A Survivor

      13 – Turning the Tables

      14 – Sticking It to ‘Em

      15 – Coming Out

      Part III – Diplomacy

      16 – A Sighting

      17 – Picture Talk

      18 – The Iroquois

      19 – Two Big Dogs

      20 – Of Chief Concern

      21 – A Legend on High

      22 – A King’s Man

      23 – A Company Man

      24 – On Sage Creek

      25 – Riding By

      Part IV – War

      26 – Fort Raymond

      27 – Riding Up

      28 – The Inferno

      29 – A Lost Cause

      30 – The Boat

      31 – Growing Restless

      32 – Recon

      33 – Held Captive

      34 – Off Guard

      35 – Slipping By

      36 – A Chaotic Scene

      37 – In the Cage

      38 – Reunion

      39 – Cutting Them Off

      40 – The Split

      41 – A Fight at Little Creek

      42 – Sheep Mountain Canyon

      Part V – Peace

      Conclusion – A Return

      Epilogue – The End

      Coda – Rising Up

      Historical Note

      About the Author

      Preview of Fortin’s Furs

      Map of Upper Missouri

      Introduction – A Pryor Expedition

      Sergeant Nathaniel Pryor put his foot up on the keelboat’s gunwale and stared ahead. He was a tall man, dark black hair cut short in the military fashion. His jaw was firm, his nose straight. It was the eyes that one would notice most if they were to look at him, however, for they stared out like a hawk at the river unfolding before them. This part of the Upper Missouri was calm and placid, the waters untroubled. It was a stark contrast to what he expected to find up around the bend.

      Pryor took in a deep breath and tugged at his military jacket. It was the first time he’d put the thing on since leaving St. Louis, though he’d been tempted to don it again when passing by the Sioux.

      Pryor took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Was that already three weeks ago now, our passage of the Sioux?

      The sergeant shook his head. It seemed like just yesterday, in fact, that he was with Captains William Clark and Meriwether Lewis, coming back down this very river in the autumn of 1806. Well, here it was now, May 1809. Pryor was at his wit’s end with the U.S. Army – he had another eighteen months to go and then his commission was up. He’d be mustering out, mustering into the trade.

      The trade was of course the fur trade, and on the Missouri it was flourishing. Close to St. Louis the Osage tribes were the main producers of furs – that far south and trapping rarely took place anymore by whites, at least those working for the companies. Instead they traded with the Indians for the furs. It worked out well – the Indians got their trinkets and baubles and the whites got their furs. Both were happy with the arrangement, both thought the other was getting the bad deal.

      Pryor knew all this because he’d married an Osage girl. Already they’d had several children who were all given Indian names. Yes, this area was in Pryor’s blood now, and he doubted he’d be heading back East.

      Lodges up ahead, sir.

      Pryor turned about, his thoughts interrupted. Private Brent was there, pointing upriver. He turned back, saw the first of the large lodges and teepees sticking up over the bushes and trees that dotted the river’s banks.

      Very good, Pryor said, giving a nod to the man. Brent nodded as well, went back to his poling.

      Most of the men were poling just now, and there were quite a few of them. It’d all begun the previous March when Secretary of War Dearborn had instructed Captain William Clark to get Chief Big White home. Chief Big White was called Sheheke by his people but the whites had called him Big White because of how tall he was. Captains Lewis and Clark had been impressed with the man, and he with them. It’d been agreed Big White would head downriver with the Corps of Discovery, eventually making it to Washington. There he’d meet President Jefferson and other important officials. It was seen as a way to bolster the nation’s relations with the western Indians and nearly everyone had agreed it was a good idea.

      Alas, it’d turned into a nightmare of bureaucratic incompetence, ineptitude, and rigmarole. Pryor supposed they should have seen this coming from the start, for right when Big White had made it clear he wanted to go downriver, the problems in the tribe had begun. The Captains’ diplomatic gesture had ignited old animosities and rivalries among the leading men of the tribe. It’d only been through the careful diplomacy, and interpretation with trader Rene Jusseaume acting as mediator, that the Indians and the whites had been able to sort it out at all. In the end it was agreed that Big White could go so long as his family could come along, and Jusseaume and his family.

      Pryor rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. He’d left St. Louis to take Big White back to the Mandan Villages. Also along was Pierre Chouteau. He represented the traders along, many of the trappers too. His family was the money behind the fur trade, after all. Pryor wasn’t that fond of having civilians along but the truth was that he needed them for word on the river was that the Arikara were not happy with the whites. Why he had no idea, though he suspected the damned Spaniard Manuel Lisa deserved the lion’s share of the blame.

      Pryor frowned when he thought of the Spaniard. Manuel Lisa didn’t have the best reputation in St. Louis, either among the Americans or the French. To both parties he represented the Spanish intrusion that’d lasted but a time, from 1762 to 1800. Be that as it may, Manuel had been cunning, ruthless, but most of all first. He’d been the first to see the potential of the Upper Missouri trade and the first to take a stab at it commercially. It’d paid off, too. He must have set up his fort, for he hadn’t been heard from since he left the city the previous spring, Pryor thought. It could also be that the Indians got him, particularly the hostile Blackfeet that were known to inhabit that land.

      The sergeant frowned again, something he was becoming increasingly good at. After all, he hadn’t asked to spend the last three years of his life escorting a Mandan chief around. The frown was also for the land, however, for most of the men along had no real idea what that land looked like or who lived there. Pryor knew – he’d seen it firsthand with the Captains. Most white men couldn’t say the same. That’s why men that’d been with Captains Lewis and Clark were so valuable. More and more traders like Manuel and the Chouteaus were trying to secure the men that’d gone on that expedition, adding them to their own rolls. The institutional knowledge those men possessed about the Upper Missouri wilderness was priceless, and certainly worth the $150 a year the men expected in salary. It was a sight more than the $60 a year they’d earned in the Army – that was for sure!

      Alas, once again the Spaniard had been first. He’d hired most of the former Lewis and Clark Expedition’s men and many were up at his fort now...it was assumed. Pryor shrugged at the thought. Perhaps the man had been killed by the Indians, either the Arikara or the Sioux.

      That was the real wildcard, the sergeant knew – the Indians. Secretary of War Dearborn had made it clear that relations with the Upper Missouri tribes were still important, critically so. To help with that he’d authorized $400 worth of gifts from the War Department’s own budget, as well as whatever else was needed for the men to get Big White home. Still, it hadn’t been enough. The Army was short-staffed out on the western frontier and worries over the quarrelsome nature of the Arikara had everyone on edge. They’d need more men, everyone knew it, a lot more than they had now.

      The group had ninety-five men stretched over three keelboats, three pirogues, a flatboat, numerous canoes, and even a few dugouts. It sounded like a lot but there were just two non-commissioned officers and eleven privates – all the rest were civilians. Pierre had thirty-two traders. William Dorion was another trader who had ten men with him, all originally going to the Sioux to trade though the trading had been so good they’d kept on with the party, hoping for the same with the Mandan. They weren’t the only ones with those thoughts, either. There were eighteen Sioux with them, who also had their own escort and their own appetites for trade. Besides that they’d picked up nineteen random trappers and traders that’d been canoeing, walking, or bull-boating up the river when the joint military-commercial venture passed by. Even if Pryor didn’t want them to tag along behind there was little he could do to stop them. He didn’t mind all that much, however, because they just increased his numbers. They didn’t decrease his concern though – most of the men weren’t military-trained and he didn’t know how they’d fare in a fight. He expected many would turn tail and run. What he wouldn’t give for more men!

      He’d been able to secure thirteen soldiers and an interpreter for the military expedition. That wasn’t going to cow the Arikara, however, and probably not even the Sioux further downriver when they passed by again, their gifts now gone. Pryor had said as much to Captain Clark in a letter – the man was still back East, enjoying the pleasantries of Washington – and the Captain had come through for him. Clark let it be known, as Indian Agent for the Louisiana Territory, that he’d grant a two-year trading monopoly for the Upper Missouri beyond the Arikara to any companies that signed on to go upriver with Pryor. On top of it the government would furnish their ball and powder.

      Pryor had been impressed when he’d heard the news. Clearly Dearborn’s decision to install Captain Clark as Indian Agent had been a good one. After all, what man knew more than he about the area he was to govern...besides Meriwether Lewis perhaps?

      Pryor frowned. Captain Lewis hadn’t been doing well lately. Following their expedition to the Pacific the captain had gone back to Washington but then had slowly drifted back west. Pryor wasn’t sure what his position was yet exactly, but he had it on good authority that it wasn’t anything close to the $1,500 a year plum Agent of Indian Affairs spot Captain Clark had been given.

      Well, there was nothing to do for that. Lewis, like everyone else on the frontier, would have to take care of himself. Pryor had no doubt the man could do it, especially with the rush of commercial activity on the river. Already that spring of 1809 there’d been three American fur companies heading upriver and a British group heading down from Canada. Most were sticking around the Knife River 900 miles upriver from St. Louis

      Pryor shook his head at the thought. The river wasn’t tame, the Indian threat was all too real. Too many trappers would upset the balance, anger the Indians, disrupt all trade. But what could you do?

      Nothing, Pryor thought as the keelboat turned around a bend, made it past a small copse of trees that’d been blocking the way, nothing at all.

      Those thoughts were dispelled when the Arikara villages suddenly came into view. Lodges and tepees stood all about. Women and children were everywhere. Dogs barked constantly. The villages were bustling with activity, and also with trouble. That was clear right away, for that many braves didn’t gather in one spot for no reason.

      There were hundreds of Arikara on the riverbank, braves decked out in war paint, feathers and holding weapons. Pryor was good with math and quickly began sorting the Indians in his mind. He came to a final tally of 650, most with guns and other hideous, warlike weapons. There was the double-headed tomahawk, or at least ones with a spike at the butt-end. Rifles were in clear abundance, as was the dreaded gunstock club. The latter was like a rifle butt, just decked out with sharp cutting ends and festooned with knives. Indians often waved their weapons about overhead when they wanted to draw a trader’s attention. Rarely, however, did they shout and make such savage faces. No, Pryor knew, this was not good.

      Don’t look good, sir, Brent said.

      No, it sure don’t, Pryor said. He took his foot from the gunwale and turned back to the boatmen. Put us ashore – let’s see what they want.

      There were some murmurs to that but not a lot of grumbling. The men knew full-well that they couldn’t get past the tribe, not with the current the way it was and how they had to paddle, push or pull the boats. Their best course of action would be to drift downriver, but Pryor wasn’t giving up on their mission that easily.

      The boat pulled ashore. Grey Eyes, the young chief of the Arikara, came up to them. He wasn’t that tall but had his hair pointed upward to make up for that. He just stared, a blank look on his face, though one that didn’t impart confidence.

      We’re not strangers to you, Pryor said to the chief. On a former occasion you extended to Lewis and Clark the hand of friendship.

      Chief Grey Eyes said nothing, just kept staring ahead.

      Here, Pryor said, stepping forward. He had one of the government’s peace medals on him, and he hung it around the chief’s neck. He stepped back, though the chief remained impassive.

      I’ll stop at the other villages and visit their chiefs too, Pryor said, and turned, started back to the boat.

      Think that’ll do it, sir? Brent said when Pryor was back onboard.

      Pryor looked around. He wasn’t so sure it had done it, but a moment later the Arikara braves on the bank waved him on.

      Hop to it, men, he called out, and they were soon poling off the bank, back up the river.

      ~~~

      Further back, Pierre Chouteau was standing with his own boot on the gunwale, though on his own keelboat. He was on the River’s Kiss, the main supply and trade boat his family used for trading on the Missouri. Up ahead he’d seen Pryor’s boat stopped and began to worry. A smile had come to the Frenchman’s face, however, for now the Arikara were waving the boat on.

      Keep us moving, he called back to the men poling the boat, the way’s clear.

      It was clear, very much so. Pryor must have decided to pick up the pace, for his men were poling something fierce. That was all fine and good, but now the Indians that’d been waving turned their attention back to Chouteau’s boat.

      Pierre grew nervous. He didn’t have the soldiers on his boat like Pryor had on his. Still, the Indians were waving them to shore, most likely because they were eager to trade.

      Put us in, Pierre said after they’d gone a ways closer.

      There was some grumbling, but the men did so. They were getting paid to get upriver, and the only reason they were going upriver, after all, was to trade.

      The boat came in easily, its bottom scraping against the stones and sand of the river bottom. Pierre smiled down at the Indians, who held out arms to welcome him. The men lowered the gangplank and Pierre and several of his most trusted men came ashore. They were Curts, Fitz, and Roberts and each would have passed muster at West Point.

      We have many goods, enough to... Pierre started to say in French, but then trailed-off when the chief started forward. He had one of Pryor’s peace medals and he reached up and tore it from his neck in one violent grasp. He threw it to the ground next, then spit upon it for good measure. After that he looked back up and met Pierre’s eye.

      Our chief, Grey Eyes said, stepping forward once again, you killed Chief Ankedoucharo!

      Pierre narrowed his eyes. Chief Ankedoucharo...died in Washington...in our capital – you know that. There was no hostility involved...he simply fell ill and passed away.

      Grey Eyes scowled and took another step forward. You killed him!

      And you trade with the Mandans, trade with them more than us! another brave shouted out, his English horrendous but understandable.

      That elicited another cheer from the mob on the riverbanks. Further upriver, Pryor looked back at Pierre stopped there, looked back with quite a bit of unease.

      On the riverbank, Pierre was completely beside himself, shocked beyond belief. Before he could act, however, one of the Arikara braves standing near him came forward and hit Curts upside the head with his rifle butt.

      YEE-YEE-YEE!

      The Indian called out savagely and the cheer quickly went up among all gathered on the shore. The sound those hundreds made was immense and rattled Pierre to the bones.

      Fire!

      BOOM!

      Pierre stood and stared in amazement as a enfilade of rifle fire tore into the front ranks of the Arikara. He looked back and saw George Shannon on the boat. Their eyes met and Pierre nodded – my, he was glad to have a Corp of Discovery veteran along!

      To the boat! Pierre shouted, and went for Curts. Thankfully the rifle blow had only stunned the man and hadn’t knocked him out. He staggered up and the two started back, Fitz providing cover with his pistol and Roberts with his knife.

      Go, go, go! Pierre shouted after he was up the gangplank and had looked back to see Fitz and Roberts up as well. One of the polemen pulled it up and the others got them shoved off.

      Fire! Shannon shouted at just that moment

      BOOM!

      Another enfilade of rifle fire tore forth into the front ranks of Arikara, a little more than twenty seconds after the first. It slowed them, but it wasn’t going to stop them.

      George, Pierre shouted up at him from his position near the cargo boxed, you’ve got to get down!

      Got to keep firing, got to–

      BOOM!

      Ugh! Shannon went, reaching down to his leg before staggering and falling over on the boat’s bow. Pierre’s eyes went wide and he went for the man.

      Keep firing, he yelled to the trappers and traders amongst him, then he reached Shannon.

      How is it? he said, looking down at the bloody leg.

      Hurts, hurts bad, Shannon said, now give me my rifle.

      Pierre scoffed. He admired the man’s courage, if not his intelligence. Instead of reaching for Shannon’s rifle, Pierre turned and looked back at the banks. They were out in the water about twenty feet now, the current beginning to take them downriver. The Arikara were regrouping though, for the scattered fire was nothing compared to the enfilades that’d assaulted them. Worse, a string of braves on the bank was pointing his way just then.

      Take cover! Pierre managed to shout out before he jumped down.

      BOOM!

      Pierre pulled his hands from his head and felt around his body. He broke out into a big smile – he hadn’t been hit! Looking back at the bank, he saw the string of braves down on the ground.

      Pryor, that rascally dog! Shannon shouted out, banging his fist on the boat. Pierre looked over. Sure enough, there was Pryor’s boat, now within rifle range.

      BOOM!

      Anther round of bullets went out, about a dozen, the trader estimated. He looked over on the banks and saw the Arikara running.

      Ugh!

      Pierre looked back over and saw Shannon there, holding that bleeding leg. The wound looked bad.

      Get us downriver and pull us ashore when you can, Pierre shouted back to the polemen, we’ve got a wounded man here!

      Part I – August

      1 – Into St. Louis

      Manuel Lisa smiled as St. Louis came into view. My how fine the city looked after the winter upriver!

      The main street, Rue Royale, ran parallel to the river at a distance of forty feet above the water and there was one cross street, Market Street. There was a sand towpath along the river for men to pull the boats, though it was submerged completely at high water. Located 700 miles up the Mississippi from New Orleans, and 17 miles south from the mouth of the Missouri, St. Louis had gone from a collection of fewer than two hundred stone and timber houses and other buildings sitting atop a perpendicular limestone bluff extending for two miles along the Mississippi in 1803 to something he’d expect to see in New Orleans, and just six years later. The largest houses had high walls and large gardens and were built in the style of Quebec, the Caribbean, and New Orleans. The main streets of Rue Royale, Market and Walnut were barely able to contain all the houses, shops, warehouses, smithies, and other places of business, and pleasure. Manuel had already counted two new taverns since he’d arrived, though he knew only one could claim to be the best. He expected he’d end up at Christy’s Tavern here real soon – its back rooms were where most of the city’s serious business took place.

      As the keelboat glided downriver with the current Manuel looked out over the town, city really at this point. He knew its history well. It’d all started in June of 1763 when Louisiana Governor Jean Jacques D’Abbadie introduced policies to stimulate trade on the Missouri. That November Pierre Laclede Liguest and his stepson, 14-year old Auguste Chouteau, reached Ste. Genevieve. Auguste had been born in 1749. His father was Rene Chouteau, though he’d left the family in 1752. Laclede had been born in the French Pyrenees in 1729 and by 1755 he’d come to New Orleans. Though he never married Auguste’s wife they had several children together. One was Jean Pierre Chouteau who’d been born in 1758. The half-brother of Auguste, the two would eventually come to control trade in St. Louis.

      Manuel smiled at the thought. Even though it’d been 45 years ago he didn’t have a doubt that Auguste knew where he’d end up. That’s the thought that would have propelled Laclede and Auguste upriver from New Orleans back in 1763, both men intent upon claiming some of those lands that’d just been opened up. To many their choice to travel up the Mississippi seemed strange. The garrison at Fort la Reine was withdrawn around the same time. Clearly that meant the French would not be a factor in the area for much longer.

      Laclede hadn’t been one to see it that way. After waiting out the winter at Ste. Genevieve he and Auguste had traveled 80 miles further upriver in the spring of 1764, finally reaching a point 700 miles from New Orleans and just a few miles down from confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi. It was February 13 that St. Louis was sited and then founded the next day by Laclede and Auguste. The two had begun clearing the land that afternoon.

      It took time, but the city began to form. The settlement had been carved out of a great stand of trees – oak, black walnut, ash, hickory, pecan, cottonwood. The forests stretched far south in the hills and low mountains of the region the French called Aux Arcs. Hemp grew wild and thick among the trees. The main streets would all be facing the Mississippi, the source of the city’s being. For without that river there’d be no trade and without trade there was really no reason to be this far west, butting-up against Indian territory, not all of them friendly.

      That trade was controlled by the Chouteaus. They were the main competition for Manuel, though they’d grown lazy, Manuel thought. After all, why else would they have turned a blind eye to the Upper Missouri trade? Surely their trade with the Osage Indians and other local tribes wasn’t so much that they’d just write-off the most lucrative area of trapping in the country. They had, however, though the Spaniard knew they wouldn’t do so for long, especially when word got out of the bounty he was bringing back into the city. The wily and cunning trader had brought in more than $15,000 in furs, perhaps a bit more with the Indian-traded buffalo pelts thrown in. Still, the Chouteaus had known plentiful bounties for years. Auguste had been but a teenager at the time when he first started trading in furs and pelts but he’d stuck around, acquired land, and then taken on more land for his services to Laclede. Over time those services centered on banking, a very profitable enterprise in an area that was scarce of cash. Soon Auguste’s half-brother Pierre was operating as well and the men were considered the unofficial bankers to the community. Oftentimes cash was so short in the area that furs were the common medium of exchange. The two men saw their wealth grow through the careful handling of fluid capital, long-term credit, and what cash they could manage to hang onto.

      It was a combination of cash and credit that enabled the men to expand their reach. And in 1790s St. Louis, expanding your reach meant trading with the Indians. In May of 1794 the Chouteaus got a big break in that department when they signed an exclusive trade agreement with the Osage. A fort was built at the Osage village to show the long-term commitment of the whites to the region’s trade.

      Trade created growth and St. Louis became a city, one that was called the gateway to the west. In 1766 the town had had seventy-five stone buildings and 300 residents. By 1803 there were 200 homes in St. Louis and when the nearby villages of Carondelet and St. Ferdinand had counted their people the population came to 2,780 plus another 500 slaves and mulattos. The nearby district of St. Charles had 1,400 whites and 150 blacks. Surrounding the area were another 1,200 settlers living on small farms. It was a spectacular level of growth, one that did the nation proud. Trade and commerce were winning the west and it’d be a blueprint the nation would follow for decades.

      Manuel shook his head at the thought, the sheer amount of activity that’d happened over those 40 years. Still, all of that had taken place long before his time. The Spaniard first came on the St. Louis scene in 1798. He wasn’t noticed until 1802, however. The reason for his rapid rise had of course been a woman. Manuel’s wife was Polly, or had been before she died. It’s one of the reasons he’d gotten his start, his big break, for many looked up to him with a great deal of respect. It all came back to Polly.

      Polly Lisa had originally been Polly Chew, the wife of Samuel Chew. Together they’d had a young daughter and made for the Indiana frontier. There Indians had attacked, killed Samuel, and taken Polly and the baby captive. Three long years they waited until a ransom came through, and then they were quite the sorry things. Manuel had taken pity on them, and married Polly so they’d have some support, even though by that time her youthful beauty was long gone.

      It’d paid off, for the townsfolk of St. Louis had been impressed by the honor of the Spaniard from New Orleans. In July of 1799 Lisa was granted a petition of land equal to about 75 acres. Then three years later he’d been granted an exclusive trading right with the nearby Osage Indians. Manuel still remembered the date – June 12, 1802. Manuel Lisa, Benoit and Company was formed right then and there to trade with the tribe. Yes, Manuel was on the move.

      He wasn’t the only one. Jacques Clamorgan was a Haitian refugee that’d also made a name for himself. He’d been a slave trader in the West Indies before he made his way to America. After that he’d tried his hand at being a merchant, church warden, a land speculator, and explorer. He’d proven successful, so much so that in time he was the keeper of a Negro harem and bachelor father of four children.

      Manuel had learned much of the Missouri fur trade from the man, and the peculiar ways of it. Clamorgan, for instance, was the first to give presents to the Indians, something Manuel noted and later followed.

      By the summer of 1804 Manuel had arrived, becoming a member of the landed aristocracy of St. Louis when he was deeded an additional 6,000 acres. It’d come from his brother, leftovers from the 1799 deal.

      Landed, moneyed, and with good credit, Manuel had set his sights on the Santa Fe Trail trade. The Spanish to the south were rich in gold and Manuel and plenty of others on the western frontier wanted a piece of that action. Alas, it was not meant to be. That bastard Wilkinson, governor of the Louisiana Territory, had taken a disliking to Manuel. It all stemmed from his men challenging Zebulon Pike’s men, the explorer that Wilkinson had sent out. In the end Manuel’s desire to get a few hundred dollars had likely cost him thousands. The southern trade was cutoff to him, for Wilkinson had made it plain that Manuel was not to make a single business connection in Santa Fe.

      The Spaniard had long ago learned to read a compass and therefore knew that there were always other directions to take. The southern route cutoff to him, Manuel then set his sights on the fur trade on the Upper Missouri. His aim was to move past the Osage, perhaps as far as the Mandan Villages 1,100 miles upriver.  In April 1807 he’d set out, found the half-blood trapper Francois LeCompt and then mountain man John Colter, finally arriving at the Yellowstone and Big Horn Rivers to establish Fort Raymond.

      Manuel smiled, nodded his head a few times at the memories. He’d come far in those ten years, far indeed. The river unfolding before them, Manuel eagerly awaited getting back to the city, his first chance to tell his backers the wonders that lay to the north of them.

      2 – Forming the Company

      Manuel walked down the street briskly, trying his best to keep the mud off his pants. Rue Royale Street was busy this time of day, the St. Louis traffic moving up and down it as business and life’s errands took up the citizens’ time. For Manuel it was all about business – today was the day they’d incorporate. With his recent take of $15,000 and change, it was no surprise. Clearly there was money to make on the Upper Missouri and many men would want a piece of it.

      Manuel continued on, crossing Market Street before coming to the house he was looking for. It was one of the brick buildings, one of the permanent ones. Bounding up the three steps to the door, Manuel knocked firmly yet politely a few times and then waited. A moment later the door opened.

      Well, if it isn’t our Creole braggart and bewilderer.

      And if it isn’t one of the glorious captains, openers of the upper river.

      Meriwether Lewis smiled at Manuel and opened the door fully. It’s been years, he said, looking the Spaniard up and down.

      Manuel gave his own smile. The co-captain of the Corps of Discovery was tall and strong of face, with a sharp nose and heavy brows. Only 35-years old, Lewis’s hair was nonetheless starting to gray. The rigors of Washington social life, Manuel thought to himself.

      Oh, at least since 1803, the Spaniard said to the Virginian as they stood in the doorway, when your co-captain called me a ‘bastard’ and nearly had me run off the river.

      Yes, and his failure to do that has been costing my city money ever since, a voice came from inside. Manuel’s brows furrowed and Lewis stepped out of the doorway so the Spaniard could see inside.

      Why, Pierre, Manuel said with a laugh when he saw the second-leading Chouteau sitting inside on a chaise lounge, "it hasn’t been your city since the Americans took charge near six years ago."

      Pierre scoffed to that, but a moment later broke out into a smile. Just over 51-years of age, Pierre still cut a dashing figure, still had his black hair. He got up from the lounge, grabbed the carafe of liquor that was sitting on the table in front of it, his glass and a fresh one from the cabinet near the wall, and started toward the Spaniard.

      Manuel, how the hell have you been? he said with a bright smile when he reached the trader, embracing him on both arms despite having his hands full. He smiled up at the man, looking him up and down. Clearly, Lewis thought from his spot near the door, here was one influential St. Louis man that didn’t have a bad opinion of Manuel Lisa.

      Good, good, Manuel said, taking one of the proffered glasses from Pierre and then holding it steady while the man filled it. Manuel went ahead and took a healthy drink. Aaaahhh, he said with a smile, that’s a good port.

      I should hope so, Pierre laughed, it came all the way from Portugal’s Douro Valley!

      Manuel cocked his head and looked at the glass in his hand in a whole new light, then drained the rest of it. Already he could feel a bit lightheaded – on the river he and the men had confined themselves to a dram a day, maybe two if the situation warranted it. Suddenly Manuel had had more than twice that, and my how his stomach had warmed to the idea!

      So what’s new? Manuel asked, eager to make some small talk before getting to business. Warm weather wasn’t the only thing that broke the ice on the Missouri.

      Pierre stood and thought a moment, then lit up as he thought of something. The first post office was built.

      Oh? Manuel said, his interest piqued. How longs it take to get a letter back East?

      Takes six weeks for Philadelphia or New York and three months for headin’ to Europe.

      Fast, Manuel said with a whistle, and Pierre nodded along with him.

      Besides that we had the first election on July 23.

      Well I’ll be – who won?

      Why, the Frenchman among us, of course! Pierre laughed. Somethin’ that helped with turnout was the new newspaper.

      That stopped Manuel dead in his tracks. He’d been talking with Vasquez over the winter, discussing how easier it’d be to get the men they needed if they could put an advertisement in the paper. Now maybe that’d be something worth looking into.

      "Called the Missouri Gazette, run by Joseph Charles, Pierre said Says he’s gotten up to 120 subscribers already."

      One hundred... Manuel said before trailing off and shaking his head. He couldn’t believe how much the city had grown.

      Have the tribes on the Upper Missouri warmed to you anymore? Lewis asked after a few moments of silence had fallen.

      Manuel shook his head. No, no they haven’t. He recounted the tale of the previous winter, the one with Colter and the Frenchman and the Blackfeet that’d been hunting him. Lewis and Pierre listened, nodded, asked questions when appropriate."

      And the Arikara? Lewis asked when the tale was done. He was vitally concerned with white-Indian relations on the river, especially now that Jefferson had appointed him territorial governor of the Upper Missouri. It was quite the useless title – no such territory existed – and one that was more honorific than anything. There was nothing that far north to govern.

      Manuel sighed. We made it past them just fine, though I think that was due in large part to our two boats and the fact that I had the men put down their poles and pick up their guns as we passed by.

      A wise choice, Pierre said, we had an entirely different reception in May.

      Oh? Manuel said, cocking his head.

      Pierre nodded, frowned, then started searching for the carafe again so he could fill his drink.

      "Oui," he said, falling back into his native French for a moment, a habit he had when he got nervous or angry.

      Pierre was with Nathaniel Pryor when the sergeant tried to get Chief Big White home, Lewis said, drawing Manuel’s attention. The men got as far as the Arikara before they were attacked and had to turn back.

      Just 200 miles from the Mandan too, Pierre said, shaking his head, so close. Pierre recounted the events of that day in May, the attack on his boat, the wounding of George Shannon, and their retreat downriver.

      So now what? Manuel asked when the tale was done and he was heading to the carafe again himself. Wasn’t the president adamant that the chief be returned, the favor of the Mandans maintained?

      That’s the plan, Lewis said, and those were Jefferson’s orders.

      Orders? Manuel scoffed. How the hell does Jefferson think Dearborn’s gonna get those orders carried out this far west, where his troops are thin...and let’s not even get into how they’re going to get upriver!

      Pierre laughed. I forget that you’ve been upriver since late last year.

      Manuel’s brows furrowed. What do you mean?

      Henry Dearborn isn’t the Secretary of War anymore, Lewis said as he went to the carafe for a refill – he’d had his own glass ever since Manuel had come to the door, something the captain was rarely seen without these days – hasn’t been since Jefferson stepped down in March.

      Stepped down... Manuel began, then trailed off. It was 1809 now, wasn’t it? An election had occurred.

      Auguste nodded. Secretary of State James Madison is president now, elected with 124,000 votes in November, nearly twice as many as his rival, Pinckney.

      He’s got William Eustis of Massachusetts serving as head of the War Department now, Lewis said. As far as we’re concerned, the man is more concerned with the British up in the old Northwest Territory and the Canadian Great Lakes than he is with anything that’s going on way out here.

      Manuel looked at Lewis and frowned. But the British are all about on the Upper Missouri, especially if you head past the disputed parallel – it’s even worse on the other side of the Rockies!

      Lewis nodded, frowned, and drained the rest of his drink. It’s that parallel, he said as he got himself a refill, it’s that parallel – the 54’40 will be the death of us out here, and when I say the death of us, I mean the trade.

      Pierre turned to Manuel. He means the upper river trade will be cut off to us should war break out.

      How could it not? Lewis thundered, taking another drink – clearly the alcohol was having an effect on him – we’re stretched so thin out West here that it’s amazing we have any trade at all!

      "Oh, I don’t think it’s that bad, Pierre said with a shake of his head at Lewis’s outburst, and besides, when Captain Clark gets here and starts issuing licenses to trap and trade, the amount of British that we have to contend with will go way down."

      The British won’t be issued licenses? Manuel asked, his brow furrowing.

      Any foreign citizen, Lewis said, "that’s what Clark wants – any foreign citizen cut off from the trade."

      Don’t worry, Manuel – you and I are safe...we’re Americans now.

      Manuel looked at Pierre, nodded after a moment.

      That’s why we invited you here today, Manuel, Pierre said after another few moments had passed, we want to enter into a business arrangement with you.

      The Missouri River Fur Company, Manuel said, and Pierre nodded.

      We’ve discussed it before, around the time you headed upriver last year. What are your thoughts on it now?

      It’s the right choice, the Spaniard said to the Frenchman’s words, and one that will allow us to compete with the British.

      Not to mention all the smaller, independent trappers and traders that are already heading upriver, Lewis said.

      We had three new companies start up this past spring, Pierre said, though most confined themselves to the Lower Missouri.

      I’d imagine so, Manuel said. What are the plans for getting us past the Arikara...and what does your brother think of our business plans?

      Pierre scoffed. You leave my brother to me. As to the Arikara...Meriwether? He looked to the captain and Lewis nodded. He set down his drink, sat upon the lounge and started to outline what they were to do.

      When Captain Clark gets here next month we’ll get the mission all squared away. Suffice it to say, we’ll be joining with the military expedition of Pryor to get Big White back home. That’ll give us the protection we need to get past the Arikara easily and without incident.

      Or loss, Pierre added.

      Or loss, Lewis echoed.

      The men looked at one another with frowns, then quickly filled their drinks. It took the edge off, if none of the risk.

      3 – The Braves’ Return

      The drums beat, the braves whooped, and the maidens danced. It was a celebration that night at the sprawling summer encampment of the combined tribes of the Blackfeet Nation and nearly all were living it up.

      Nearly, for the Siksika brave Little Jaw wasn’t one. Another was the Blood brave and Wise One Soaring Eagle. More and more Soaring Eagle was assuming the qualities of a Wise One, shunning those of a warrior. That’d been clear on the day he and Little Jaw had come walking back into camp, two of nearly a dozen that’d gone racing out more than two weeks before.

      There was no guessing at why those two were sitting off to the side of the festivities – opposite sides, of course, for the venom between the two men had increased substantially since they’d gone out, and everyone had heard that story.

      It’d split the combined tribes, split them right down the middle. It wasn’t Soaring Eagle’s decision to bop Little Jaw over the head and drag him away from the whites’ fort – nearly agreed to that, all except the most knee-jerk of the Siksika braves. No, it’d been the course the tribes should take when it came to the whites.

      While it was true that some wanted nothing more than to stop fighting and trade with them – Stone Bear and his Pikuni tribe were becoming the laughing-stock of the gathering for just that fact – the vast majority wanted nothing more than to hunt down every last white and make them pay for what they’d done. That’s where the split had come, between those that wanted to take the course of Little Jaw – tearing in and attacking pell-mell, to hell with the consequences – and those that wanted to take the course of Soaring Eagle – one of strategy and planning and the minimum of losses.

      It’d been that last that’d appealed most to Big Dog, the final arbiter and decider in the matter. He’d lost a lot of braves already, and some of the leading ones of the tribes. Thankfully those losses had been spread out over the tribes, for such a blow to a single one would have been truly devastating. One just had to look at the Pikuni to see that, to see how soft it made them.

      Softness was not what was called for, that was clear. To deliver the hard blow that was called for, however, would indeed require a soft touch. Already Big Dog was using all of his diplomatic, political, and persuasive skills to keep the tribes together. It’d been tough, but the return of the Wolves had made it easier.

      That’s why they were celebrating, after all, for the Wolves had returned.

      They were men like Slow Runner, River Otter, Wide Eyes, Jumping Horse, Quiet Tongue, and Laughing Face – Blood braves the lot of them. For the Siksika there was Rushing Wind and River Reed while the Piegan had Silent Hawk. There were a lot more of course, for it took a lot of men to hunt down and kill the buffalo...using the old ways, at least.

      It was the old ways that the Wolves used, one that had them donning the whole wolf skins the tribes possessed then chasing after the buffalo on the first hunt of the year. It was the way the Blackfeet had done it for thousands of years until the horse had been introduced to them just a century before. The introduction of the rifle had further reduced the need for the old ways. Still, those old ways had hung on, though now they were more an honorific than a necessity.

      Run the buffalo would, stampeding across the plains in their blind and foolish rush from one feeding ground to another. Herding and cajoling them were the youngest of the Wolves – those still serving as apprentices for the most part – who would steer the buffalo toward the narrow section of plains that led to the jumps. It took communication and coordination, timing and luck. The Wolves would be spread out over long distances, dozens of miles sometimes, and to steer a herd of hundreds required daring, cunning, and skill. Horses were the only exception given to the old ways, used by the younger Wolves to rush over those distances, toward the jumps.

      It was the jump that was the most critical, and that was where the leading Wolves were at. They’d wait and hide down in the high grass or behind lone boulders, waiting for the ground to tremble and the air to thunder around them. They’d feel it in their heart first, the thrill, the fear, the pure adrenaline of hundreds of animals rushing right at you. Then they’d spring up, wolf-pelts covering them, to scare the animals to run harder, faster, and then right over the edge of the jump. For the jump wasn’t a jump at all, but a cliff that dropped a hundred feet or more to a rocky and bone-strewn ground below.

      Dozens if not a hundred or more of the dumb animals would typically go over before the creatures realized what was happening. The herd mentality would take hold in a sensible way once again and the buffalo would turn and head back on down the plain. By that point the Blackfeet had enough food for a year.

      The drums beat, the braves whooped, and the maidens danced, all in thanks for the success that the Wolves had experienced that year.

      Far off to the side, Little Jaw scowled and Soaring Eagle fretted. Big Dog watched it all, knew that he’d have to act soon.

      4 – A Trial

      Manuel dodged horses, jumped over mud puddles, and scurried around those walking through the St. Louis streets.

      "Bouger, Bouger! he shouted out in French, Move, move!"

      For the most part people jumped out of his way, though often with a few choice words muttered under their breath. Mostly it was in French but more and more it was in English. St. Louis was changing, Manuel knew, had been ever since the transfer to the Americans in 1803.

      Pardon! Manuel yelled as he went around a corner, narrowly missing a pair of bedecked women as they came around the opposite side.

      "Well, I never!" one of the women half-shouted half-gasped as the Spaniard nearly ran into them and then jumped down into the muddy thoroughfare from the walkway.

      Pardon! he said again, now over his shoulder and with a yell, for he was already twenty feet further on.

      More corners, more streets, and more startled and angry people. Finally Manuel had reached Rue Royale Street. Up ahead was the majestic home of Pierre Chouteau. Manuel charged up the porch steps and gave a fast knock on the door before throwing the thing open.

      Pierre, Pierre!’ he shouted, looking in the drawing room, the hallway, and then up the stairs. Jean-Pierre, Pi-"

      What is it! someone shouted out and Manuel turned around to see a woman, Brigitte, Pierre’s wife.

      Where’s Pierre? Manuel said, rushing over and grasping her by the shoulders.

      He’s out visiting with the Osage Indians, she said, clearly disturbed by the frantic nature of the Spanish trader, what is this all about?

      George, George Drouillard, Manuel said, letting go over her arms to pace back and forth in the foyer. One of my men has been arrested and is about to be put on trial.

      Why, whatever for? Brigitte said with a laugh. You’ve been upriver for the past year!

      "Oui, Oui, Manuel said, but we had a deserter, one that took off with some of our goods. I ordered George to bring him back...dead or alive."

      Brigitte frowned and crossed her arms. Oh, Manuel...you should know better than that.

      Manuel’s face reddened a bit and he ducked his chin into his chest like a boy that’d been caught taking a pie from the window ledge.

      "Well, Pierre’s gone so he can’t help you...not that he could anyway. You need a lawyer, not a trader. She gave him a hard look up and down, one of judgment but then pity. Thankfully, she continued as she reached for a coat on the rack by the door. I know just the man you need – c’mon.

      ~~~

      George Drouillard was standing up, his hands on the bars of his cell. He couldn’t move his hands too far apart, however, as they were chained together. His feet were chained too and the half-Shawnee, half-French-Canadian thought he knew what a slave must feel like. He was thinking on that when the door of the jailhouse burst open to reveal Manuel Lisa, another man coming in fast behind him.

      George,

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