The Golden Fox
When John Stafford, a young man from a wealthy Philadelphia family, graduates from college in the 1860s, he ventures to the lawless Northwest to satisfy his basic urge to put himself to the test in meeting the challenges of a trying environment. Adventure is what he seeks, and adventure is what he gets. Stafford experiences many turbulent twists and turns in his life. He marries, Little Dove, a beautiful Indian woman of Hidatsa descent. He is accepted into her tribe following his ingenious strategy to defeat his wife’s wrathful Blackfeet suitor. And Stafford accepts a request by President Abraham Lincoln to form a highly proficient clandestine fighting force to help the Indians defend themselves against the widespread tyranny. His skilled force consists of several relatives and close friends—black as well as white, male and female, along with a number of Native Americans. Their exploits involve confrontations with river pirates, whisky peddlers, a tragic massacre by unauthorized military action an Indian reprisal, and a marauding gang of cutthroats.
1107531211
The Golden Fox
When John Stafford, a young man from a wealthy Philadelphia family, graduates from college in the 1860s, he ventures to the lawless Northwest to satisfy his basic urge to put himself to the test in meeting the challenges of a trying environment. Adventure is what he seeks, and adventure is what he gets. Stafford experiences many turbulent twists and turns in his life. He marries, Little Dove, a beautiful Indian woman of Hidatsa descent. He is accepted into her tribe following his ingenious strategy to defeat his wife’s wrathful Blackfeet suitor. And Stafford accepts a request by President Abraham Lincoln to form a highly proficient clandestine fighting force to help the Indians defend themselves against the widespread tyranny. His skilled force consists of several relatives and close friends—black as well as white, male and female, along with a number of Native Americans. Their exploits involve confrontations with river pirates, whisky peddlers, a tragic massacre by unauthorized military action an Indian reprisal, and a marauding gang of cutthroats.
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The Golden Fox

The Golden Fox

by Frank R. Kowalski
The Golden Fox

The Golden Fox

by Frank R. Kowalski

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Overview

When John Stafford, a young man from a wealthy Philadelphia family, graduates from college in the 1860s, he ventures to the lawless Northwest to satisfy his basic urge to put himself to the test in meeting the challenges of a trying environment. Adventure is what he seeks, and adventure is what he gets. Stafford experiences many turbulent twists and turns in his life. He marries, Little Dove, a beautiful Indian woman of Hidatsa descent. He is accepted into her tribe following his ingenious strategy to defeat his wife’s wrathful Blackfeet suitor. And Stafford accepts a request by President Abraham Lincoln to form a highly proficient clandestine fighting force to help the Indians defend themselves against the widespread tyranny. His skilled force consists of several relatives and close friends—black as well as white, male and female, along with a number of Native Americans. Their exploits involve confrontations with river pirates, whisky peddlers, a tragic massacre by unauthorized military action an Indian reprisal, and a marauding gang of cutthroats.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466920163
Publisher: Trafford Publishing
Publication date: 04/05/2012
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 700
File size: 1 MB

Read an Excerpt

The Golden Fox


By Frank R. Kowalski

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 Frank R. Kowalski
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2018-7


Chapter One

Who is she? Where did she come from?"

John Stafford drew close to the large fireplace where a blazing fire crackled cheerfully, and he fell into his old habit of staring into the glowing embers. He was very distressed this night, more than ever in his young life. A dim foreshadowing of frightful crisis, darker than he had yet experienced, weighed like lead on his heart.

The room was engulfed in the whisper soft firelight, and the shimmering shadows lurked dark and spectral in the dim corners, while the fire crackling and snapping was the only sound that disturbed the stifling silence of the grand log house.

The flickering firelight fell upon a pale figure, drawn and motionless; there on a bed placed near the comforting warmth of the fire, and whose laborious breathing evidenced how delicately was her condition, and how close to eternity she lay.

John was a handsome man of some twenty eight years. He was Saxon fair, with blue eyes that admirers loved to describe as violet; hair that was golden yellow, in a half, curling crop; and skin that would have been fair with half a chance, but no complexion retains its clarity under the scorching sun.

John sat quietly by her bedside, keenly watching her, as she lay in peaceful slumber, while he remained fully awake. Then he began, once again, staring into the glowing embers while his brain teemed with images of scenes at the river. The startling encounter had repeated itself till it burned indelibly in his mind.

Oh, if he could but sleep, and put it out of his mind, instead of this weary feeling of despair, but no, he must remain fully awake, and he dare not stir, but how was it all to end? What should he do?

His whole body, relaxed in every muscle, and every nerve. To be awake and still motionless, to do absolutely nothing, not even sleep, seemingly the simplest feat in life, it is one of the most difficult. Wild creatures can do it when need is sufficient; but only a few men can.

Slowly the night waned, as John watched her warily, his thoughts were interrupted periodically by insistent anticipation of some comforting sign of improvement, however, the drowsy warmth of the fire and weariness began to engulf him.

Gradually the lids of the mindful, but weary watcher drooped heavily with slumber, and he was soon floating, drifting placidly, his drifting thoughts and images, more confusingly on his brain, soon focused clearly; he could again visualize the previous day's events.

John usually awakened at the first glimpse of dawn. This particular morning, having spent a restless night, he arose much earlier. It was fully dark and uncomfortably cold. The early autumn night had hosted an unrelenting rain.

Reluctantly, he rose from the cozy comfort of his bed, and in the murky darkness, groped his way to the great stone fire place, and threw in a few knots of cedar on a bit of fire. Within moments, the fire burst into hot and brilliant flames, bathing the room in a quivering half-light, while its pleasant warmth melted his frozen ambitions.

John dressed hurriedly and without hesitation, scrambled about the cabin, methodically performing his morning tasks, which included the most important of all; breakfast for his faithful canine companion, Arnold

Arnold, a huge, muscular and powerful creature, of mixed ancestral parentage, was a most gifted animal with an instinct and intelligence that might be looked upon as supernatural. John considered him the finest dog that ever lived.

Arnold lay comfortably, stretched out before the hearth, soaking up its cheery warmth, while John was wholly occupied with preparations of the morning fare.

After much hustling, all was ready, and he turned to Arnold with a pleasing smile.

"Well, boy," he said in a calm, gentle voice. "I suppose we had better finish off our breakfast. We have a long day a head of us."

Arnold raised his head and sniffed deeply of the delightful aroma. There was no mistaken that odor, yet Arnold, leaving the comfort of the pleasing warmth, was painful, but to miss a good meal would be unthinkable. He slowly hunched to his feet and briskly approached John, whining his approval.

When the last morsel had disappeared from the table, John stopped eating, but not before. His appetite was sharpened by the thought he would not have an opportunity to eat a full meal until late evening. Arnold ate his meal heartily also, but he didn't need any reason; he ate heartily all the time.

Finally, John leisurely pushed the chair back from the table, gave Arnold a lively massage behind the ears, slowly rose, and unhurriedly shuffled across the room to the window and tensely peered out at the somber, grey dawn, as the first steaks of light began to usher in a new day.

Then he promptly hastened to the door, thrust it open, and Arnold scurried out, with tail vigorously wagging, quickly disappeared into the gloomy dawn to answer nature's call.

John, yawning widely, stretched energetically, and then lazily ambled out the door into the drenching chill of the autumn morning. Momentarily standing at ease, carefully took note of the heavens above, intently watching the low, hanging clouds, of leaden hue, drift slowly across the western sky, threatening to be a day of cold rain.

The late October air was cool and crisp, carrying an unmistakable warning signal. The deer must make for their winter ranges, and it triggered the movement of bears to their den sites. John, wilderness wise, was ever mindful of the urgency for early preparations for the long cold winter, and had carefully stored most of his winter provisions; only occasional foraging would be necessary. He watched intently the dark foreboding clouds, while, he seriously pondered the prospects of a worthwhile venture to the Yellowstone River in quest of river trout.

Fully aware of the diminishing day light hours that autumn provided, he set forth to hastily perform only the essential tasks, then promptly sought the necessary equipment and supplies required for the day's outing. When the carefully selected paraphernalia was made ready, he briskly placed the equipment in his small canoe, glanced about and called, "Arnold, come." Arnold had not ventured unduly far this particular morning; perhaps he too, had unconsciously perceived the strange premonition that this would not be an ordinary day, but one which would affect their lives, significantly.

John let out a long sigh of relief as Arnold quickly approached; body and tail wagging vigorously, for the thought of embarking on one of John's wilderness adventures excited him. After a brief, playful scuffle, and a final cursory inspection of the premises, the two adventurers spiritedly boarded their sturdy little craft, and slowly began their journey to the Yellowstone River, some five miles down stream.

The terrain is too rocky and thickly forested for horses, so the best means of transportation is by canoe. On a clear, sparkling stream that came down from the snow-clad mountains. The creek course traced its course over a pebbly bed and leisurely meandered, winding through a narrow valley, densely timbered, and luxuriantly grassed. It was shut up on both sides by pine, cedar-clad mountains. The stream was narrow yet sufficiently deep enough for John's small canoe.

Slowly adrift with the unruffled current, the canoe silently glided downstream. Here and there, the velvet moss carpeted the ground and cushioned the brown rocks. The ferns, waved their long, fragrant palms, and dipped the tips of their fonds, in the clear stream.

The two adventurers occasionally noted the seemingly endless array of fascinating woodland creatures. The deer, motionless among the pines and rocks, gazed with astonished eyes, as if they had seen humans for the first time. Then their fears suddenly aroused, they disappeared, bounding into the obscure depth of the forest.

They continued to briskly drift downstream. By mid-morning, John clearly heard the roaring noise of the water falls ahead, and knew he had at last reached the disembarkment point, where the confluence of several sparkling rivulets came tumbling out of the nearby mountains and united to form one swift, rushing stream. For one arduous mile, the swollen stream surged through a maze of rocks and boulders, with a never-ending roar and turmoil, finally merging with the mighty Yellowstone River in a frothy current.

John nudged the little watercraft against the bank, and carefully drew it up on the embankment, and immediately unloaded his various cargos, then painstakingly hid the canoe amid a thicket of dense brush and scrub trees, in hopes of protecting it from detection by any of the many Indians that roamed the area.

Next, with small saplings, he adeptly fashioned a small travois, which was necessary to transport the supplies for the trip, and because dog power was being substituted for horse power, the burden fell on Arnold's hefty shoulders, much to his displeasure.

All in readiness, they immediately headed for the river. Unfortunately John had trouble finding the trail. The under brush had thickened in many places and became almost impenetrable. They promptly altered course, creating a new trail to the river.

The under-brush was still dripping wet from last night's rain. Wild rose bushes and an ever present mat of berry vines tore at John's clothing, while the low-hanging branches of cedar and pine deluged him with water.

"Might as well be raining, Arnold," said John sourly. "A fellow gets just as wet."

Doggedly, they challenged those seemingly endless arrays of obstacles; stumbling on unyielding rocks, tripping over thick tree roots and occasionally sending John sprawling on his backside.

Despite the grueling woodland jaunt, the long and painful hour passed by, and at last they delightedly came to the edge of the dense woods, bordered by a grassy clearing that was scantly strewn with thickets and small groves of stunted pines. It was here amid the miniature pine grove edging the creek bank that the exhausting expedition came to an abrupt halt.

John removed the burdensome travois at once from weary Arnold and slowly sank down, utterly exhausted. Arnold, tired as he was, bounded excitedly along the river-bank, poking his nose in every bush.

John sprawled out on the plush grass to rest, his head in his arms in comfort, his broad, brimmed hat, amply, over his face. The murmur of the water rushing down the little stream, was so delightfully soothing, it did not take long to lull John into peaceful slumber.

While John slept peacefully, he was not aware of the sudden change in the weather. The unpleasantly dismal conditions dissolved as if divine providence had graciously intervened. The brisk chilling wind elapsed to a soothing breeze, while the gloomy, grey sky gave way to patches of purple-blue sky, and the sun, obscured by an impenetrable veil of dark clouds, bathed the earth with its cheery radiance.

When John finally awoke from his short nap, as if by instinct, raised his head a little, and stared bewildered at the sudden change in the weather conditions. A quirk of nature he thought in amazement. This may be a good omen, he thought.

Now fully awake with the sun's pleasant warmth mellowing his weariness, he was quick to realize there was no time for loitering. Time was of the essence if they wished to make the return trip before nightfall.

He sprang to his feet and scanned the nearby territory for Arnold, finding him racing up and down the creek bank with the eager and restlessness of a wild caged animal. John, with a shrill whistle, caught Arnold's attention, and the frustrated hunter came bounding briskly to John's side.

"Good Arnold," he said, with a pleasant smile, and the two adventurers slowly ambled off to the river bank to search for their aquatic quarry.

As John paced up and down the river bank, hopeful, that with a little patience and a pinch of luck, the venture would prove fruitful; while Arnold dutifully followed.

They continued their unrelenting vigilance for some time, and then John stood upright against a large tree, noting everything surrounding them. Arnold crouched quietly at his feet.

A low whine and a soft bark from Arnold, quickly, caught John's attention. There was something wrong, John was certain. Arnold looked up at him intelligently and then trotted a few yards along the bank and crouched with ears pricked up and the nose pointed directly up stream, watching intently and listening.

John always, had paid great attention to Arnold's behavior, trusting in the great dog's instincts to forewarn him of danger. Taking keen note of his companion's nervousness, he queried, softly. "What is it, Arnold?" The perplexed dog bounded towards his master, seemingly to be very uneasy, and again rushed toward the bank.

Sensing the possibility of some unknown peril lurking about, John hastily gathered up his belongings and carefully concealed them in a thicket.

John then strolled to the edge of the bank and stood for a moment, looking at the swirling water. Although there was no visible sign of trouble, as a precaution, John and Arnold quickly withdrew into a patch of thick underbrush. From this well-concealed vantage point, their heads barely visible, there eyes ceaselessly scanned the river ahead, intently searching for the danger.

A minute passed, and another. Arnold uplifted his ears and growled softly. John suddenly caught a distant glimpse of a small canoe peacefully meandering with the slow moving current, making its way from a slight bend in the river. As it inched nearer, John recognized it as belonging to a down-river band of Crow Indians. A tribe of plains Indians who utilize the horse for transportation. Canoes were readily available but used sparingly, and never this far west.

The canoe, drifting with the listless current, continued its silent approach as the two onlookers watched anxiously. John seriously pondered what form of peril the intruder would present, and at that moment they were still crouching close to the edge, gazing intently, and one hand nervously grasping the branch of a tree, the other clutching his rifle.

As the alien craft drifted closer, John was startled to note; there were no occupants. John was not naturally nervous, but did not like suspense. Almost unconsciously he quietly paced back and forth, painstakingly searching as far away as he could. His thoughts were a little confused, but he thought the wandering derelict canoe, would pose no serious threat.

John studied the slowly moving craft and calculated the current would sweep it far down-stream, and he could safely return to his business. Suddenly the little canoe abruptly altered course and became hopelessly ensnared within the watery web of a swirling eddy.

John stood, staring at the canoe, pondering the situation and trying to plan his next move, when suddenly his gaze fell upon an object in the whirling craft.

"Dog-on-it, Arnold," he said woefully. "I forgot to bring the telescope, and there is something in the canoe. Can't make it out from here. Looks like it could be a body."

For some minutes he anxiously watched the mysterious craft, while Arnold bounded aimlessly, just as perplexed as his master. The distance was much too far for positive identification, but John was reasonably certain the object he was gazing upon was human form.

After much thought, John concluded the errant canoe would remain hopelessly enmeshed in the watery grip of the whirlpool. He was overcome by curiosity. He decided it was up to him to perform the burdening task of dislodging it.

Unable to wade across the creek he advanced a short distance along the bank, and located a huge log lying across the gurgling stream, providing a suitable bridge.

With deliberate balance, John managed to across over, and then he hastily scampered, down to the river bank. He stood motionless, gazing upon the revolving canoe.

He began to wonder, idly, how the unfortunate soul had met his untimely end, sending him on his celestial journey to the happy hunting grounds. Finally he settled in his own mind, that the answer might be revealed after he retrieved the floundering vessel, and the lifeless remains of its captain.

Removing his boots and stripped down to his woolen underwear, John stepped into the cold water, occasionally slipping on the slimy algae covered rocks, while the powerful current sucked his knees and battered his balance.

He lingered a brief moment in the cold water, shivering with a horrible vague fear. Then almost imperceptibly, doggedly reached the canoe, grasping it firmly, and with relentless effort, wrested it from the river's swirling embrace, and gradually inched his way back to shore.

Successfully beaching the canoe, John paused momentarily to catch his breath, at which time he cast a single scrutinizing glance at the motionless visitor, lying face down, in the bottom of the small vessel. Not comforted by the sight of a dead person, he scratched his head, kicked away an annoying stone with his bare foot and turned away.

"Arnold it looks like we best send this poor soul on his way. Most likely he will reach his own people, and they can give him a proper burial."

(Continues...)



Excerpted from The Golden Fox by Frank R. Kowalski Copyright © 2012 by Frank R. Kowalski. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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