Read Online The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men) by Terry Grosz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Grosz
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Harlan, Big Eagle, and Winter Hawk packed and on the move. By ten that morning the rendezvous grounds were in sight. Sitting high in their saddles, the boys searched eagerly with their eyes and ears for the sights and sounds coming from the trading grounds.
Approximately one hundred Indian tepees in two big camps dotted the meadows near a small creek. Around them swirled proud Indian men, brightly dressed women, Indian slaves carrying bundles of firewood for cooking, and scores of children, all interspersed with numerous barking camp dogs.
“Those be the Northern Cheyenne,” Harlan stated flatly, deeply aware of the connection between that tribe and the demise of the boys’ Crow clan. Both boys looked long and hard at the tribal members they passed, looking as if they might show some reaction to the destruction of their family. They wondered if any gathered there that day had been part of that sad moment from their past.
“Those tepee stands over there are of the Northern Utes,” Harlan informed them with a lighter tone. Forgetting the Northern Cheyenne for the moment, the boys looked at the other large Indian encampment that Harlan had pointed out. That camp also swirled with human activity in preparation for the trading to come. Pack strings of trappers with their pelts were streaming into the area from all points of the compass, making the meadows come alive with enough humanity to almost overwhelm the boys’ senses.
As they moved closer with their own pack string, the boys could see the trading wagons in a semicircle, with blankets and buffalo robes scattered around on the ground. Laid out in gay profusion were that year’s trade items and necessities. There were brass and cast-iron pots, frying pans, Dutch ovens, trade muskets, and a few Hawkens.
Scattered near that assortment of goods were numerous fowling pieces, horse pistols, and kegs of powder. Next were barrels of Green River skinning knives intermixed with bolts of brightly colored cloth and spools of rope and brass wire. The next wagon over was surrounded by piles of beaver traps and barrels of things neither of the boys had ever seen.
Those barrels contained hard candy, an item the boys had never tasted. On the other side of the trading lane were small mountains of sacks of coffee, pigs of lead, more kegs of powder, bags of flints, sharpening stones, fish hooks, and fishing line. Next on several buffalo rugs were axes, tomahawks, blankets from the Hudson Bay fur company, bridles, kegs of rum, and barrels of horse and mule shoes.
That array was followed by mounds of spare rifle and pistol parts, kegs of horse and mule shoe nails, tin pans, looking glasses, and everything else in between. At the end of the trading path were stacked bags of flour, cornmeal, raisins, more hard candy, sugar, dried fruits, coffee beans, and everything else a trapper could want for his next year of isolation.
At the end of this display were five blacksmiths, all with ringing hammers. They were repairing the trappers’ equipment or fashioning horse and mule shoes to fit particular animals brought forward by the trappers for specialty shoeing. The boys, never before having seen anything so grand or overwhelming, could scarcely contain their excitement.
Off to one side, Fraeb’s buyers were grading beaver plews and furs from other furbearers as trappers stood expectantly by, eyeing the grading process. Much talking was going on as the trappers tried to sell high and the buyers traditionally bought low. The talking got even more intense as the firewater slammed into empty bellies, with predictable results. However, the bottom line always remained the same.
This was the only “store in town,” and if you needed supplies for another year, it was either get them here or get them nowhere... Ultimately, transactions were made, and in most cases the trappers found themselves breaking even or in debt for the next year to the trading company. Few got rich other than the
Approximately one hundred Indian tepees in two big camps dotted the meadows near a small creek. Around them swirled proud Indian men, brightly dressed women, Indian slaves carrying bundles of firewood for cooking, and scores of children, all interspersed with numerous barking camp dogs.
“Those be the Northern Cheyenne,” Harlan stated flatly, deeply aware of the connection between that tribe and the demise of the boys’ Crow clan. Both boys looked long and hard at the tribal members they passed, looking as if they might show some reaction to the destruction of their family. They wondered if any gathered there that day had been part of that sad moment from their past.
“Those tepee stands over there are of the Northern Utes,” Harlan informed them with a lighter tone. Forgetting the Northern Cheyenne for the moment, the boys looked at the other large Indian encampment that Harlan had pointed out. That camp also swirled with human activity in preparation for the trading to come. Pack strings of trappers with their pelts were streaming into the area from all points of the compass, making the meadows come alive with enough humanity to almost overwhelm the boys’ senses.
As they moved closer with their own pack string, the boys could see the trading wagons in a semicircle, with blankets and buffalo robes scattered around on the ground. Laid out in gay profusion were that year’s trade items and necessities. There were brass and cast-iron pots, frying pans, Dutch ovens, trade muskets, and a few Hawkens.
Scattered near that assortment of goods were numerous fowling pieces, horse pistols, and kegs of powder. Next were barrels of Green River skinning knives intermixed with bolts of brightly colored cloth and spools of rope and brass wire. The next wagon over was surrounded by piles of beaver traps and barrels of things neither of the boys had ever seen.
Those barrels contained hard candy, an item the boys had never tasted. On the other side of the trading lane were small mountains of sacks of coffee, pigs of lead, more kegs of powder, bags of flints, sharpening stones, fish hooks, and fishing line. Next on several buffalo rugs were axes, tomahawks, blankets from the Hudson Bay fur company, bridles, kegs of rum, and barrels of horse and mule shoes.
That array was followed by mounds of spare rifle and pistol parts, kegs of horse and mule shoe nails, tin pans, looking glasses, and everything else in between. At the end of the trading path were stacked bags of flour, cornmeal, raisins, more hard candy, sugar, dried fruits, coffee beans, and everything else a trapper could want for his next year of isolation.
At the end of this display were five blacksmiths, all with ringing hammers. They were repairing the trappers’ equipment or fashioning horse and mule shoes to fit particular animals brought forward by the trappers for specialty shoeing. The boys, never before having seen anything so grand or overwhelming, could scarcely contain their excitement.
Off to one side, Fraeb’s buyers were grading beaver plews and furs from other furbearers as trappers stood expectantly by, eyeing the grading process. Much talking was going on as the trappers tried to sell high and the buyers traditionally bought low. The talking got even more intense as the firewater slammed into empty bellies, with predictable results. However, the bottom line always remained the same.
This was the only “store in town,” and if you needed supplies for another year, it was either get them here or get them nowhere... Ultimately, transactions were made, and in most cases the trappers found themselves breaking even or in debt for the next year to the trading company. Few got rich other than the
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