The Youngest Mountain Man
By Gary Kelley
Published by Old Line Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2010 by Gary Kelley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9844768-0-0
ISBN-10: 0-9844768-0-6
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended solely to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
DEDICATION
This is dedicated to my Dad,
who didn’t live to see my first book published.
FOREWARD
I was born too late. I’ve been a mountain man at heart since fourth grade when I first read W. Ben Hunt’s books about woodcraft and Indian lore. In fifth grade I devoured every book I could find about Lewis and Clark, the fur trade, the Oregon Trail, and Indians. Unfortunately, it was hard to find books that answered some of my questions. I’ve spent the rest of my life reading, researching, collecting artifacts, and living the life of a mountain man in my quest to find those answers.
The Youngest Mountain Man is a boy’s story, full of danger, suspense, adventure, history, and nature lore. The story is fiction, but many of the characters are real and many of the events actually happened. As a fiction author, I’m a storyteller, but you can also learn a lot about the world of the mountain men from the true facts in the story.
As you read I hope, instead of skipping words, you will take the time to find words you don’t understand in the Glossary so you’ll better enjoy the story, and so you’ll really know what you are talking about when you discuss it with others.
When you read the mountain men’s jargon out loud just relax and try to talk their way. Say the words the way they are spelled. “If ye misses a word here an’ thar, it ain’t gonna matter none.” Have fun with it! Here’s a tip. Prophet has a deep voice and talks slowly. Four Toes has a scratchy, high-pitched voice and whines a lot by nature.
I wish I could sit around a campfire and tell each one of you the mountain man tales I’ve learned. Meanwhile, I’ll let Jacob do the telling.
Gary Kelley
Gary Kelley enjoys hearing from his readers. You may contact him at his webpage - www.garykelleywriter.com.
CHAPTER ONE – INDIAN ATTACK
Pa’s square shoulders swayed rhythmically as he led the double ox team that pulled our creaky wagon west along the new Oregon Trail. Flat explosions of dust spread each time his plow boots plunked down in the powdery ruts. Ma and little Hanna walked ahead of the wagon. Ma was picking up sticks for firewood and little Hanna was carrying her China doll. I’d led the mules most of the day, but now I dozed on the bouncing tailgate of the wagon, on a patchwork quilt Grandma gave us for the journey. My pillow was a dusty flour sack stuffed with dry grass. Through half-closed eyelids I watched a single cloud that seemed to be following us.
Suddenly I heard Pa cuss, which wasn’t like him. I swiveled around and looked between the front hoops in time to see a shrieking savage rise straight up out of the ground in front of the team. Then there came another one. They came without warning with dust streaming from their bodies. Their hideous faces glowed vermilion red in the dying sunlight.
A hummingbird sound whizzed by my ear, then another. I heard a loud “whunk,” as an iron-tipped arrow stabbed our grayed oak water barrel. Pa whipped the oxen forward and started to yell. Then he sort of sagged, and all that came out was a gurgling sound. I saw his hand relax as he and the whip both slumped to the ground. A dark red stain, like spilled ink with feathers in the middle, slowly spread on the front of his homespun shirt. Silently his lips formed words no one would hear as his eyes begged me for help. Ma screamed and ran with outstretched arms toward him but she never made it.
I was scrambling to climb forward and grab the reins when a big, hairy hand covered my mouth and jerked me backward off the wagon, scraping my leg in the process. Then a rough voice hissed in my ear. “Keep yer mouth shut ifen ya wants to keep yer hair.”
I was mashed flat on the ground by a sagebrush clump, and quickly covered over with brush and sand. I heard the wagon rattle ahead, but I was so scared I couldn’t move. I choked and struggled to breathe. I heard yelling and screaming and shooting, and then everything was stone quiet except for the prairie wind.
I lay like that, gagging on dust, and shaking inside until I heard soft footsteps shuffling toward me. I expected to feel an Indian’s tomahawk in the back of my skull any second, but the same big hands dug me out and brushed me off. I jerked away coughing, and clawed my eyes with gritty fingers. When I had most of the sand out I squinted up at a tall man with a full salt-and-pepper beard, and a big slouchy gray hat bent up in the front. I could see daylight where an arrow had pierced a hole clear through the crown. There were smile wrinkles at the corners of his worried pale blue eyes. His smoky-smelling old buckskins were missing fringe here and there, and one of his big moccasins needed some patching at the toe. Around his waist, a wide leather belt held a huge beaded knife sheath, a tomahawk, and a single-shot pistol. From his shoulder hung a leather bag with a powder horn attached. His left hand grasped a well-used plains rifle.
He squatted down next to me on his toes, Indian fashion, where he could look straight into my face. He studied me as I brushed myself off with trembling hands.
“I got bad news, boy.” His voice was deep and mellow now, and not so stern as before. “Yer ma and pa are dead, and the redskins took yer little sister. Yer the onliest one I could save.”
An icy fist twisted my insides. Ma and Pa dead? Hanna taken by the redskins! I shuddered as I remembered gruesome tales of what the Indians did to their captives. “Are they going to torture her?” I asked the man.
“Ain’t likely,” he said, as he pulled an arrow from the sand and studied it. “These were Blackfeet. We might find what’s left of her by their trail, or they might adopt her to some squaw that lost a young’n. Not all Injuns are bad, an’ they’re not all alike, but this bunch is sure on the warpath.”
“Lucky fer ya I come along or they would have kilt ya all. Ol’ Thunder here scared ‘em off.” He patted the big rifle as he spoke.
I looked down the trail toward the wagon. The oxen were gone and our stuff was scattered everywhere. I spotted Ma’s body on the ground, then Pa where he had fallen. I could tell by the jagged blotchy-white places on their heads that both had been scalped.
Suddenly I realized that my whole body was shaking. A great invisible hand was pushing me down. My knees gave out and I felt sick in my stomach. I just wilted onto the ground. My family was all gone in a few heartbeats. I was wearing all I had left. I didn’t know where I was, or what to do or say. I was lost and empty inside.
“Ya come with me boy,” the man said. “We ain’t got no time to waste. Them redskins might come back. It’s near dark and we got a ways to go.”
“What about Ma and Pa?” I said, thinking of them lying there like that.
“Not now,” he said. “We can bury ‘em tomorrow when it’s daylight. I’ll wrap ‘em in the wagon sheet to keep the critters away ‘till morning.” He worked fast. Then he said, “Foller me,” as he darted away, running quickly for such a big man, zigzagging between clumps of sagebrush. I got up and did the best I could to keep up, but he was an antelope and my leg hurt. Finally he slowed to a walk, and I caught up, wheezing for breath. As he carefully peeked over a little hill he pushed me down behind a juniper tree and whispered, “Stay low boy.” I heard him make a whistle sound like a desert quail. Instantly there was an answering call. “Hello the camp,” he called.
“Come on in,” a voice answered.
I followed him down into a tiny camp hidden in a thick clump of choke cherry bushes deep in a rocky gully. There, huddled over a fist-sized twig fire, sat the meanest, ugliest, orneriest looking man I ever saw, and he had a pistol the size of a cannon aimed straight at me.
CHAPTER TWO –MOUNTAIN MEN
“Easy, ol’ hoss,” the first mountain man said to the one with the pistol. “This here boy is the onliest survivor of that wagon we seen.”
The man by the fire thumbed the hammer of his pistol down gently, with a click, then thrust the weapon beneath his wide belt. He was the dirtiest man in the world. Over his bowed shoulders hung a walnut-stained buckskin shirt. Loose hanks of greasy raven hair cascaded to his shoulders, to join his shaggy, gray-streaked black beard. A filthy, sweat-stained skunk skin hat sat low on his skull. His hawk-like face turned my way and for a long moment he stared at me with piercing black vulture eyes. When he spoke his voice was a high-pitched cackle, like an old witchy woman. “Reckon ya bought yerself a peck of trouble savin’ that pilgrim pup,” he whined. “Think ya shoulda orta left him be. Man orta mind his own business.” He looked disapprovingly at me.