“It’ll be hard men, I can’t lie to you there, but then I told you much the same in St. Louis. Hell, some of you know this firsthand, having lived through it with the men that came before, Captains Lewis and Clark.” He nodded at George and Colter and Potts and several others. “But know that I won’t put you in danger, never,” he continued, and again the men nodded their assent – Manuel was telling them exactly what they wanted to hear, exactly what they needed to hear in order for him to remain in control out here in the wild, over the winter, and so far from the regular rule of law and requisite systems of order it was built upon. For just as a ship caught in the doldrums at sea, it’s crew growing listless and bored and looking for any excuse to mutiny against their captain, so too could the mountain men and fur trappers do the same, if given the reason, excuse, and chance. Manuel was ensuring neither of those things would come about, and he was making that clear now.

  “We’ll build the fort and we’ll build it quick,” Manuel said, turning back to look at the location and the mountains that lay beyond, “for we’ll need it come winter. The area largely holds friendly tribes, but as we saw coming upriver, there are others that aren’t so friendly.” Manuel paused again to let his words sink in, and Colter took note that the Spaniard didn’t bring up the surrounding tribes’ hunger for arms, whether rifle, musket or the crudest of pistols. An image of a Spanish or Italian arquebus came to the mountain man’s mind and he smiled – he didn’t doubt for one second that some desperate brave would instantly trade in his trusty bow and arrow for the thing, likely leading to his death as the gun no doubt misfired. The mountain man chuckled inwardly, just as Manuel began to wrap it up.

  “It’s the friendly tribes that we’ll rely on,” the Spaniard said, turning about once again, this time meeting the men’s gazes firmly, and not so abstractly as before. “Those friendly tribes will supply us with the knowledge of the best trapping spots, the best hunting spots and the areas we need to stay away from come spring. Remember, the beaver toughens up over winter, and that leads to an oilier fur. The fine ladies of Paris and London and Madrid don’t want that at their fancy balls, now do they men?”

  There were laughs and shouts of “oh no” and “oh my” to that, and quite a few backs slapped as well as the rugged men let what they thought of the dandies across the ocean be known. Colter was smiling pretty widely himself.

  “So we build the fort and we wait until spring, getting as many furs until winter sets in as we can,” Manuel said, more seriously now. His tone caused the men to do the same, and they perked up and stood a bit straighter. Manuel didn’t need to say that furs meant money, and the more a man could find, the more he’d make. It was why they were here, after all...the beauty and majesty of the land was just an added benefit. As Colter knew, it could prove to be one helluva curse.

  “Well men,” Manuel said at last, clapping his hands together, “you know your jobs and why you’re here – snap to it.” And they did.

  7 – Fort Raymond

  Living out in the wilderness wasn’t for everyone, and as the days passed and the fort began to take shape, the wide variety of men now calling the location home took the change differently. Colter knew that the military men among them would do the best, for they’d been put through such rigors before, spending time in forts back East. It was the new men, those that came on in St. Louis, many having come up in Tennessee and Kentucky and the territories that bordered them, that might take it the hardest. These were men like Bouche, who never went an hour without complaining about something, and not a day without doing less than everyone else. Edward Rose was becoming a pain to Manuel as well, the mountain man saw, for the man just wanted to get out and explore, he didn’t want to do any work. It was work that was required, and most did their part willingly.

  Colter took it all in stride, most days going out to hunt. Getting through a winter in the wilds was no easy thing he knew, and Colter had done it once with the Mandans and once one the Pacific coast before doing it solo or near enough just a few months before. Something told him he’d be doing another solo winter as well. His opinion was affirmed a couple days later when Manuel came up to him one day after he’d come back from some trapping.

  “Days are growing shorter, John,” he said in that southern accent of his, the rich flavors of New Orleans coming off his tongue. The mountain man only nodded before looking out at the landscape, so Manuel continued. “Won’t be much for you to do here soon.”

  “Suppose not,” Colter said.

  “I’ve already spoken with George,” Manuel said, shifting a bit and then turning to look back at the village. His tone changed too, from one that was more asking to more telling.

  “Oh, about what?” Colter said, his interest now piqued.

  “He wants to go out, scouting and charting the area around the Big Horn and further east.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Manuel said as he turned back to look at Colter, “and I also think it’s a good idea you do the same.”

  “With George?” Colter said, surprise in his voice. He doubted the half-Indian scout would want him tagging along, announcing their presence a mile-off for all the unfriendly tribes to hear.

  “No, in the other direction – south on the Yellowstone and then overland, charting the mountains and what passes may lay between them.”

  There was a long pause as Manuel looked at Colter, and finally the mountain man scoffed and said, “why?”

  “Because we need to move further south, we will move further south,” Manuel said. “We need the trade with the Indians, and the friendly relations that’ll bring. Already the British and French are crowding in on us and in Washington Dearborn does nothing at the War Department and Jefferson lets him get away with it.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you, John, unless we get a firm border with the British to the north, there’ll be war here, there’s just too much money at stake.”

  Colter let the words sink in for a moment before turning around to look at the Yellowstone behind him, the one he’d just come from and the one he’d spent so much time on as of late. Manuel was telling him to go back to that river, yet farther afield as well. Out into the wild really, the unknown, and with no way to know what would be out there. Colter had already seen some strange things, had encountered some strange characters. He didn’t know if he wanted to see anymore.

  “You’ll be going it alone,” Manuel said after Colter had been staring at the river for awhile, coming up to stand beside the mountain man, “at least until you get into Crow country.”

  “Oh?” Colter said, turning to face him. That did surprise him.

  Manuel nodded. “The Crow have already agreed to guide you south, through the pass between the Absarokas and the Wind River Range and then back up to the Yellowstone from the other side, at least that’s what I was told at the Mandan villages. They want trade, need it bad in fact, in the face of the Iron Confederacy’s grip on the waterways to the west of them.”

  “I see you’ve been planning, Manuel,” Colter said.

  The Spaniard smiled. “Always.”

  He gave Colter a clap on the back and then started to walk back to the fort, calling over his shoulder, “think about it, John, think about it.”

  Colter kneeled down on the rocky shore of the river and chewed his lip. He would think about it, but not for long. He didn’t need to.

  8 – Around the Fire

  The fire crackled and popped and shot embers soaring into the night sky. Up above were Orion the hunter and Gemini the twins, two constellations of many that touched the edges of the Milky Way Galaxy looking down. Colter traced them in his mind’s eye and remembered the nights the captains had explained them, and the many nights he’d seen others just like them, both on the expedition and on his own.

  The mountain man looked around at his companions, men that were hard at work building Fort Raymond, gathering winter stores, and of course trapping beaver on both the Yellowstone and the Big Horn. It was night now, however, and a special one at that – Colter and George would be leaving in the morning, each heading off in different directions, each tasked with opening up trade with the Indians. They’d taken too long coming up the river, both because of the earlier incident with Bissonette and the trouble with the Indians on the way. Colter supposed it wasn’t so much trouble as time – the tribes all expected shows of respect and the giving of many gifts. The troublesome tribes usually took the least amount of time to impress, or cow, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Colter knew that the Missouri River was truly to blame for the winding waters were difficult to traverse, especially when you were trying to push three keelboats up it, literally. All the men around the fire that night were well-muscled and fine specimens of what a hard day’s work could bring.

  Around the fire that night were the whole lot of them, all wishing the two explorers well. Manuel had also loosened up with the fort’s alcohol stores, which weren’t plentiful and now flowed freely, or at least as free as the men’s advanced wages allowed. Edward Robinson was playing the fiddle and Potts was drumming along in time. The men were pretty good, or at least the alcohol was, for John Hoback, Jacob Reznor, and Francoise LeCompt were all dancing and clapping and having a good ‘ol time. LeCompt was a half-blood trader that was almost as good at tracking as George, and Colter figured he’d be put to good use over the winter, finding game for the hunters. Edward Rose would probably be at his side, the mountain man knew as he looked over at the mulatto, or half-white half-negro that’d served as an interpreter while living with the Osage Indians around St. Louis, for the man was also a good tracker. The men who weren’t would be doing tasks around the fort, and they were happy to be away from them that night. They included John Collins, Pierre Cruzatte, George Gibson, Hugh Hall, and Joseph Whitehouse. All had been privates along with Colter on the expedition with the Captains, and all were a bit saddened to see Colter leave their midst so soon again. There were forty-one others just like them gathered round the fire, many unknown to Colter save through small bits of conversation here and there. There were two others that weren’t present – Nathaniel Pryor and George Shannon – and Colter wondered how their quest to get Chief Big White back to the Mandan Villages was going. Supposedly they’d been having a helluva time of it, something that irked Captain Clark to no end it seemed.

  All those thoughts were of little concern to Colter and George, two men on the edge of freedom, tasting it, and eager to dive right on in. The other men knew it, and they did much to change the subject, speaking of things closer to the fort, mainly so they’d be able to stay there and not wander off. The men discussed the area they were in and the problems they might face. The winter was viewed as the greatest hazard, for a man caught alone in the elements wouldn’t stand a chance for long, what with the wind causing temperatures of fifty below at times. The surrounding tribes were another. Manuel didn’t much figure the Assiniboine would try anything, not after the show on the river several weeks before with the swivel guns, but the Blackfeet were another matter. All the men knew of the run-in the small group led by Captain Lewis had had back in July 1806, and since then there’d been no contact with that tribe. They were out there, however, and it was likely that Colter, heading west, would encounter some of them. He hoped not, and he hoped the Crow contingent he was to travel with would offer at least a modicum of protection. All the mountain man could do was wait and see and hope that he found them soon after leaving the fort.

  Manuel came up to Colter and sat down, passed a bottle over, and stared into the fire. Colter had a healthy drink before handing it back, and then the Spaniard had one himself.

  “I want you to ask about Francois-Antoine Larocque,” he said after a few moments had passed.

  “Larocque?” Colter said. “The Frenchman that wintered with the captains and us at Fort Mandan?”

  Manuel nodded. “He headed back up to Fort Montagne La Bosse on the Assiniboine River after that, but I know from talking with the Mandan that he was back that June, trading again, and this time moving further south as well, down the Big Horn.” He nodded his head at the distant river, still audible at night and in the darkness, a constant droning rush that always let the men know that travel and business and danger were close at hand.

  “What interest do you have in a Canadian North West Company trader?” Colter asked after a moment.

  “He visited the area with a group of Crow in September 1805, a full year before your Captain Clark had been in the area.”

  Colter narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Most aren’t” Manuel said with a nod and a smile. “What it means for us is that a white has already ventured where you’re to go, opened up relations, perhaps stumbled into dangerous situations...all so you don’t have to.”

  Colter shrugged – there was that, but one thought couldn’t leave his mind. “What happened to him?”

  The Spaniard frowned. Larocque had told the Crow he wanted bear and beaver furs and would trade with them until their heart’s content. As far as anyone knew, the Frenchman had not yet returned. The Crow Indians knew full-well the predilection for furs among the whites, and they’d already built up a good supply to trade with the men. What had happened with the Frenchman might not be that important to them, but for Manuel it was. Information was more valuable than currency at times in the wild, and there were few whites about. Regardless of nationality or business affiliations, those men were out there in the elements, out of their own element, and they had to look out for one another. The Spaniard knew without a doubt that it could be he that went missing tomorrow, just as the Frenchman had done some time ago. Finally Manuel answered the mountain man’s question.

  “No one’s sure, but it’s supposed he died out there sometime in 1806 – no one ever heard from him after he left the far-northern fort, at least not any whites.”

  “Well, then the Blackfeet most likely got him.”

  Manuel nodded. “Most likely, but I want you to ask around, especially with the various Crow villages you come across. Tribes talk, even when they’re at war, and news of a lone white travelling in the wilds wouldn’t have stayed secret for long.”

  “Unless he just up and had enough of it and got on the river and headed back to civilization,” Colter said, thinking of Joe Dixon all the while. Colter hoped the trapper he’d been with for a few months had made it back to St. Louis alright, but he had no way to know.

  “Could be,” Manuel said, but if so, he’d likely have travelled back up north and taken the Ottawa River east to Montreal. As he should – the French don’t belong here anymore, this land is America’s now.”

  “That may be,” Colter said at last, knowing the conversation was near its end when Manuel pulled out his bottle and passed it over for Colter to enjoy a bit more of.

  As he took that drink of whiskey he couldn’t help but think of the river that they were on and all the others he’d pass by over his winter alone. It was late in the season and hunting and trading opportunities had been missed, so there really wasn’t much for him to do around the fort. The wilds it was then, another solo-trek out there were few if any whites had been before. The thought warmed the mountain man more than the whisky, and once again he let his thoughts wander as the fire crackled and popped and he looked up at Orion and Gemini above.

  9 – The Blackfeet

  The fires crackled and the sparks flew up into the night sky, but no one heard nor saw them, so intent was their focus on the drumming. Dozens of Blackfoot braves were gathered around the fires, beating their drums, creating a cacophony of sound, inviting the warrior spirits to them. That’s what Chief He Who Shouts said ought to happen, after all, and he was right.

  BOOM BA-BOOM BA-BOOM!

  Wolf Calf looked over at the tribe’s leader. Chief He Who Shouts was the only chief the young brave had ever known, was the only chief most of the Piegan Blackfeet tribe had ever known. He’d been ruling over the tribe for more than 30 years, though some of the older women sometimes hinted that he’d had a hard time coming about his position. He was old and wise and quiet now, more apt to listen than to shout, but in his younger days he’d earned his name well, so critical had he been of his elders. Now he was the elder, and it was up to others to be critical of him. Those others were the Wise Ones, and currently the tribe had three. They were Silver Heart, Buffalo Child, and Stone Bear. Each had their own unique characteristics and their own way of ruling their bands of warriors. Each also knew that they would make the best chief, when He Who Shouts finally passed on to Above World...if he ever passed on. Many wondered if he ever would, and not a month went by anymore without some of the younger braves talking about their chief’s younger days, and what he’d seen when he’d been out in the wilds. Some said he’d come face to face with the Sky People, others said he’d gone up to Above World himself. Perhaps most fanciful of all were the tales that had him fighting Manitoin, the hairy man of the mountains that chilled even the most hardened warrior to his bones.

  BOOM BA-BOOM BA-BOOM!

  Wolf Calf stared up at Chief He Who Shouts and wondered how those tales could even have started. The chief of the Blackfeet was old and decrepit and ready to die. Wolf Calf hoped he would die, and soon, the better for his own father, Stone Bear, to take over the top spot. He was a Wise One, after all, though even Wolf Calf had to admit that his father’s chances at the top spot were probably the lowest of all the three Wise Ones. Still, they were much better than the previous leader of the Skunk Band’s had been. River’s Kiss had led the Skunk Band before Stone Bear had taken over, and the warrior had been old and cautious. During his last few years the Skunk Band had lost steadily more ground to the other bands in the tribe, even some of their fellow Blackfeet tribes, the Piegan and the Blood. That’d all changed when Stone Bear had come to power over the previous winter. While some said the circumstances were a bit mysterious, and that River’s Kiss had still been in good health when he passed on, Wolf Calf knew that no matter how his father had come to power, it was the best thing for the Skunk Band. It was the best thing for him.