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    Colter's Revenge: Mountain Man Series, #5
    Colter's Revenge: Mountain Man Series, #5
    Colter's Revenge: Mountain Man Series, #5
    Ebook226 pages3 hours

    Colter's Revenge: Mountain Man Series, #5

    By Greg Strandberg

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    About this ebook

    It's November 1809 and Mountain man John Colter is heading back upriver to the Three Forks of the Missouri. The Blackfeet are there. He'll get his revenge.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Strandberg
    Release dateFeb 9, 2016
    ISBN9781524245443
    Colter's Revenge: Mountain Man Series, #5
    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

      Colter's Revenge - Greg Strandberg

      COLTER’S REVENGE

      Mountain Man Series, Book V

      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

      Table of Contents

      Map of Fort Three Forks

      Map of Upper Missouri Area

      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

      About the Author

      Map of Fort Three Forks

      Map of Fort Three Forks

      Introduction – A Trophy

      Aaahhh! the Delaware Indian yelled out. Down the hill, Lost Deer rose up and shouted for them to head up.

      C’mon! he yelled, his eyes going to the younger braves, including Wolf Calf. C’mon!

      Wolf Calf gritted his teeth and rose up to charge the hill. He kept his hair unbound and flowing long, for he thought it made him look more savage. It swished about as he charged forth. He was a bit apprehensive, for just a few moments before Rushing Wind had done the same. He was a strong Wolf but he’d underestimated his Delaware opponent, who’d slammed his tomahawk down in Rushing Wind’s chest. After that another brave, someone much younger that Wolf Calf hadn’t know went rushing up and got gutted for his efforts. The young Pikuni could still hear the sound of the boy squealing for his mother. Two Siksika Wolves down in just two minutes, for River Reed had been laid low by the Shawnee’s gun. Now that Shawnee was out of bullets, and out of companions, too. One Delaware had run off and now the other was down, felled by Quiet Tongue, a Blood Wolf. Already the balance had changed, Wolf Calf thought, for he thought of that balance a lot, being the son of a chief and all.

      The Young Wolves rushed up the hill and reached it just as the Shawnee’s arm was cut off. Next came a tomahawk to the face and then the body went limp as the axes and war clubs bit into it. Soon there was a pulpy mass of flesh where a man had been and the braves were walking off, scalps in hand, laughing and joking and ready to tell all that’d happened to their friends back at the main Wolf encampment. That was the last place that Wolf Calf was going, however.

      What he’d quickly noticed upon coming up the hill was the Shawnee’s headcloth, that same yellow headcloth that he’d seen so many times over the past few years. Now it was there, laying on the ground a couple of feet from the bloody mess that used to be its owner.

      Wolf Calf smiled as his Young Wolf companions got in a few swings of their own at the body. He smiled as he picked up the headcloth, for it was quite the trophy, and would make for quite the story back at the main village of the Pikuni tribe of the Blackfeet Nation.

      C’mon, Lost Deer said, and Wolf Calf looked over to see the Young Wolf looking at him before he nodded. Laughing Face has called for a celebration of our victory.

      Wolf Calf nodded and began to rise up. As he did so he tied the yellow headcloth around his own forehead. Ever since the night three years ago when Sidehill Calf had been killed he’d been waiting to do it. It felt good and the Young Wolf smiled as he walked to the celebration.

      Part I – Troubles

      1 – The Prisoners

      The mood of the fort was glum. The men were on edge, out of sorts, and constantly looking over their shoulder. They were nervous and scared and the cause wasn’t hard to discern. It was the Blackfeet more than anything, and there was no end in sight to their presence.

      It’d started the day George had died. Even from the fort they’d heard the commotion two miles distant, the gunfire, the whoops and hollers. It wasn’t until the next day that they were able to find out exactly what’d happened.

      The men had wanted to go out right away, and had even tried for it. Right away one was shot through with two arrows, however, so they came rushing back. The wounded man died later that night.

      The next day a group of thirty had went out, just as Henry had originally wanted the parties to be. There’d been no Blackfeet then, though it could have been because they’d ridden off. It was easy, therefore, to go to the bluffs and the nearby hills. There was the scene of the carnage, Delaware body parts everywhere. Mixed in were those of the half-Shawnee George, his head laying here, his arms there and legs over yonder. Intestines were strewn about everywhere. Further on a bit they found Connors, the same fate, the same gory scene. All the men had been scalped, likely before they’d been dismembered.

      It was a sickening scene and more than one trapper threw up his breakfast at the sight of it. After that they’d gathered what personal possessions of the men they could and headed back to the fort. Not a single trapping party had gone out since then, now several days gone past. The businessmen in the supply room were worried.

      We can’t keep sitting here doin’ nothing! William Morrison shouted out. The French-Canadian trader was big of chest and big of head, though the latter had nothing to do with physical size. Morrison was a confident man, a braggart at times. It was how he’d risen up from the XY Company, where he’d started in 1802 at the ripe old age of 16, becoming a leading trader on the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers.

      What do you propose we do? Andrew Henry asked, giving the trader a hard look. He was growing sick of the man’s endless complaining. The leader of Fort Three Forks was tall, slender of build though muscular in the arms, with dark hair and blue eyes and quite the reputation for honesty. He was trusted, respected and looked up to, both in St. Louis where he’d recently arrived, back in his native Pennsylvania where he’d been brought up, and in Tennessee where he’d gone his twenties to become a lead miner in Potosi. He did so well in Potosi, in fact, that within six years he was able to buy a share of the mine. That’d afforded him a fair degree of financial freedom, and the ability to invest. He’d done so in the fur trade of the Missouri, and had already been well on his way to becoming quite the well-to-do man when he went upriver with Manuel earlier that year.

      We’ve got to get word out of George’s death, word out about the Blackfeet surrounding us, Morrison said, looking at the others.

      Each time we send a man or a group of men out those walls they get hit, the lot of ‘em killed, Pierre Menard said, shaking his head. How do you plan to get word out? Menard had black hair, wavy in the front. His eyes were deep-set and his brows full. His nose was as well, and jutted from his face, though not in a bad way. Below it the stern mouth told all that this was a man of sobriety and propriety, a businessman through and through. He’d been born in Montreal in the 1760s, his father a French soldier stationed there. By that time the British had been in charge for a few years, what with their successes in the Seven Years War, or French and Indian War as it was called in America. He was certainly the oldest of the investors, and one that had quickly realized he didn’t like being upriver all that much.

      Downriver, Morrison said, nodding to Menard’s question as if it was all clear. We’ll take a couple canoes and send a few men down the Forks and to the Missouri, right on through the bluffs.

      You mean the bluffs that the Blackfeet are staked out on? Rueben Lewis said, one eyebrow going up. The trader was a spitting image of his more-famous brother, though without the melancholy tendencies, or the early graying of the hair.

      Morrison frowned to that, looked at the brother of the famous co-captain of the Lewis and Clark Expedition as if it was his fault they were there.

      Anyone heading downriver through those bluffs is a sitting duck, Henry said after a few moments of silence, saving Morrison the dignity of having to come up with an answer where there wasn’t any.

      What if we try by night? Menard said, raising his brows and looking around at the other three.

      It’s a possibility, Henry admitted, but I can’t help think they’ll see us.

      We could try, Morrison said.

      Yeah, are you gonna do it? Rueben said, then immediately put up his hands in a defensive gesture. Hey, I’m all for getting word out, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I don’t want to be a pincushion for the Indians either.

      With three or four men I could do it, Morrison said, nodding to himself as he looked off to a corner, looked with his mind’s eye to how it would go. We’ll stay down, stay quiet, let the current carry us past. Even if there is firing we’ll just stay down and let the current do the work.

      Buffalo robes could help with that, Henry said, cocking his head a bit. A few of those’ll be thick enough to stop an arrow from that range.

      And what’s to stop them from getting on their horses and riding downriver, pulling you to shore and hacking you to bits like they did George and Connors and the two Delawares?

      Nothing, Morrison said, giving Rueben a hard look. But I sure as hell ain’t gonna sit around here ‘till spring, hoping Manuel sends some keelboats upriver.

      Way the creditors are getting anxious about war, there won’t be no keelboats, Henry said, looking at the others. All three nodded to those words. At last he gave out a sigh. I suppose it’s worth a try...if that’s what you want to do?

      He looked at Morrison, who nodded. I wanna give it a shot.

      Henry nodded. New moon’s tomorrow – that’d be the time to do it.

      Got some men lined up? Menard asked.

      Morrison frowned to that, but only for a moment. No, but I have a fair idea.

      2 – The Captors

      Laughing Face stared down at the fort, then back up at the sky. It was big and blue and changing fast. A storm was coming, black clouds far off to the east and approaching fast. They’d be there in an hour, raining down their displeasure. It wasn’t cold enough for snow, at least this time of day. Closer to dawn, however, and it very well could turn to such.

      Laughing Face sighed. There wasn’t much to distinguish the leading Wolf from the others. His hair was long and black, his eyes brown and his face plain. He had the Plains Indian look, no doubt about it. He stood up from where he’d been crouching on the cliff, the other leading Wolves all around him doing the same. The fort he’d been staring at was hemmed in by cliffs on two sides, its north and west, but those cliffs were a distance off, two miles in the one case and more than a mile in the latter. Bows, rifles, even those large wall guns the fort sported...none could travel that far.

      So here the Blackfeet sat, waiting, day after day waiting and watching and hoping for a change, a screw-up, or something else that’d give them a shot at the whites. None had come, none since that day they’d taken down the Delawares, the Shawnee, and the white that was with ‘em. That’d been ten days now, and the Wolves were hungering for blood. Laughing Face was hungering for it most of all.

      Nothing, Slow Runner grumbled as he got up from his spot, dusk a few hours off and now this storm coming in – nothing, that’s what it gives us, another day of nothing. Slow Runner had a long scar under his neck, the kind a rope would produce if it’d been trying to hang you. In this case Slow Runner had been drug behind a horse when he was a teen, punishment from his father for riding off toward a Crow village unannounced. He’d had been lucky to come back alive from that foolish quest to kill Crow, he said so himself, and also said the scar was a good reminder to not lose one’s head.

      Oh, sit down and stop bellyaching like the women back at camp, Quiet Tongue said, shaking his head. He had long black hair that was kept tied in a knot at his neck. With an angular nose and narrow eyes, Quiet Tongue often looked confused. He liked it when others thought so, too, for it meant they were underestimating him. His words got a few laughs and chuckles from the other Wolves gathered, and the Young Wolves that hung on their every word, but Slow Runner was not impressed.

      You’ve been talking a lot since you took down that Shawnee, talking like it was some big thing. He gave him a hard look. It wasn’t.

      Hm, I know, Quiet Tongue said, nodding and looking down at his feet before looking up again, not as hard as what you were stroking back in your tent when I was charging that hill.

      Why... Slow Runner started to say. Instead he reached for his belt tomahawk and started forward.

      Enough! Laughing Face shouted. Enough!

      That stopped Slow Runner, and also Quiet Tongue, who’d been reaching for his own killing weapon, a particularly nasty-looking knife.

      Moments passed, moments of tense silence. They were broken only by River Otter’s murmuring. The Wolf’s gunshot wound from the attack on the small group of whites in the wetlands had grown worse, was beginning to fester. It was clear his arm would have to come off, though so far he’d resisted.

      "Enough of this squabbling and nipping

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