Read Online The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men) by Terry Grosz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Grosz
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merchants bankrolling the rendezvous because of the 70 to 700 percent or higher markup the fur companies were raking into their coffers.
Watching these transactions, Harlan thought, Living in this beautiful land sure carries a high price… in more ways than one. To his way of thinking, the price could be found at the end of a speeding lead ball, at the point of an arrow or lance, under the cold steel of a knife or the killing force of a tomahawk, or in the clutches of a mean-ass varmint, including a high-dealing trader.
Many times your own kind saw to it that you died in the traces, he thought as he saw the pelt scalping between buyers and trappers at every processing station.
Then it was Harlan and the boys’ turn to move into the active trading zone.
“I don’t trade with no stinkin’ damn horse-stealin’ Crows or their Injun-lovin’ kin,” growled the fur company representative as he looked up from the pile of furs he had just purchased and stacked off to one side in anticipation of the next seller. He gave Harlan and the boys an angry look as if to emphasize his point.
In one quick, explosive movement, Harlan was off his horse and had his knife at the fur buyer’s throat before the man could even blink.
“Them is my boys, and if one is mean-ass to them, then he is mean-ass to me. Do you read me right, friend?” Harlan asked coldly as the knife began to cut into the man’s skin and small droplets of blood rolled down the side of his neck.
“Put that knife away,” yelled a nearby fur buyer as he and another buyer quickly hoisted their rifles and aimed them at Harlan.
“Not a good move,” shouted Big Eagle as he and his brother covered the two with their own rifles and a look just as deadly as the Hawkens.
“Shoot them damn Indians,” yelled another fur buyer, coming to the aid of his buddies with a rifle in hand.
“Don’t reckon this needs to get any bigger or bloodier,” said a calm voice from the edge of the crowd.
Glancing quickly backward at the speaker of those words, Big Eagle spotted Joe Meek emerging from the crowd with rifle in hand and a killing meanness he had never seen on that man’s face before.
A blacksmith stepped forward with his hammer raised as if to strike Meek from behind when another voice said, “This here has gone far enough. Put that hammer down or, my friend, you have hammered the last nail into your coffin if Old Betsy here has her say.”
The boys would later learn that this man was Jim Bridger.
“Hold it right there!” yelled Henry Fraeb as he pushed his way through the crowd into the battle zone. “What the goddamned hell is going on here?” he demanded.
Harlan, still not letting go of the offending fur buyer, said, “Henry, I came here to trade in peace with my two sons. This here piece of buffalo crap had the gall to deny me and the boys from trading. Seems he hates Crows, and as I said, these here’n are mine.”
“Damnit, Harlan, I have known you for many years. What made you blow up like that? You usually are calm as the waters of the Missouri in the summer heat.”
“Maybe it were losing my brother up on the Yellowstone, or maybe it were being an orphan myself. Or maybe it were the fact these two young’uns saved my life after a griz worked me over. But whatever way, no man is going to insult me or my kin,” Harlan said in a killing tone.
“Put down that knife, Harlan. And you, Dan, go collect your wages, take a horse and saddle from my string, and draw the grub and necessities you need to get back to civilization. Now, get out of my sight,” growled Fraeb, who could be just as mean as Harlan.
Harlan removed his knife from the man’s neck, and the fur buyer scurried away, glad to be out of the clutches of one very angry and apparently crazy mountain man.
Looking over at Meek and Bridger, Harlan said, “Thanks for backing my play.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for all the world,” Meek answered with a smile.
Seeing that the
Watching these transactions, Harlan thought, Living in this beautiful land sure carries a high price… in more ways than one. To his way of thinking, the price could be found at the end of a speeding lead ball, at the point of an arrow or lance, under the cold steel of a knife or the killing force of a tomahawk, or in the clutches of a mean-ass varmint, including a high-dealing trader.
Many times your own kind saw to it that you died in the traces, he thought as he saw the pelt scalping between buyers and trappers at every processing station.
Then it was Harlan and the boys’ turn to move into the active trading zone.
“I don’t trade with no stinkin’ damn horse-stealin’ Crows or their Injun-lovin’ kin,” growled the fur company representative as he looked up from the pile of furs he had just purchased and stacked off to one side in anticipation of the next seller. He gave Harlan and the boys an angry look as if to emphasize his point.
In one quick, explosive movement, Harlan was off his horse and had his knife at the fur buyer’s throat before the man could even blink.
“Them is my boys, and if one is mean-ass to them, then he is mean-ass to me. Do you read me right, friend?” Harlan asked coldly as the knife began to cut into the man’s skin and small droplets of blood rolled down the side of his neck.
“Put that knife away,” yelled a nearby fur buyer as he and another buyer quickly hoisted their rifles and aimed them at Harlan.
“Not a good move,” shouted Big Eagle as he and his brother covered the two with their own rifles and a look just as deadly as the Hawkens.
“Shoot them damn Indians,” yelled another fur buyer, coming to the aid of his buddies with a rifle in hand.
“Don’t reckon this needs to get any bigger or bloodier,” said a calm voice from the edge of the crowd.
Glancing quickly backward at the speaker of those words, Big Eagle spotted Joe Meek emerging from the crowd with rifle in hand and a killing meanness he had never seen on that man’s face before.
A blacksmith stepped forward with his hammer raised as if to strike Meek from behind when another voice said, “This here has gone far enough. Put that hammer down or, my friend, you have hammered the last nail into your coffin if Old Betsy here has her say.”
The boys would later learn that this man was Jim Bridger.
“Hold it right there!” yelled Henry Fraeb as he pushed his way through the crowd into the battle zone. “What the goddamned hell is going on here?” he demanded.
Harlan, still not letting go of the offending fur buyer, said, “Henry, I came here to trade in peace with my two sons. This here piece of buffalo crap had the gall to deny me and the boys from trading. Seems he hates Crows, and as I said, these here’n are mine.”
“Damnit, Harlan, I have known you for many years. What made you blow up like that? You usually are calm as the waters of the Missouri in the summer heat.”
“Maybe it were losing my brother up on the Yellowstone, or maybe it were being an orphan myself. Or maybe it were the fact these two young’uns saved my life after a griz worked me over. But whatever way, no man is going to insult me or my kin,” Harlan said in a killing tone.
“Put down that knife, Harlan. And you, Dan, go collect your wages, take a horse and saddle from my string, and draw the grub and necessities you need to get back to civilization. Now, get out of my sight,” growled Fraeb, who could be just as mean as Harlan.
Harlan removed his knife from the man’s neck, and the fur buyer scurried away, glad to be out of the clutches of one very angry and apparently crazy mountain man.
Looking over at Meek and Bridger, Harlan said, “Thanks for backing my play.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for all the world,” Meek answered with a smile.
Seeing that the
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