Yellowstone Brigade

by Alfred Dennis

Overview

A Native American Fiction Novel filled with adventure, danger, and romance - Yellowstone Brigade rides with these hunters into the High Lonesome, narrating the savage ferocity of hostile warriors, grizzly bears, and the harsh elements of winter storms. It shares a piece of history the mountain men called the Shining Times.

The Rocky Mountains of the early 1830s were as wild and untamed as the men who dared to venture into them. Trappers, hunters, men with adventurous spirits, and those known as mountain men rode undaunted and unafraid into the harsh domain of the hostile and war-like red man. Pinto Stade and Jehu Wolf were two such men- strong, brave hunters who entered the tall mountains searching out the unexplored valleys and crystal clear lakes that held the treasure they sought. It's not gold; it's something much more valuable to these men. Furs- beaver, martin, fox, and other critters- were what they came for, the furs that would bring cash money at rendezvous.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781942869146
Publisher:	Alfred Dennis
Publication date:	07/27/2016
Edition description:	2nd Revised ed.
Pages:	252
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.53(d)
Age Range:	13 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

YELLOWSTONE BRIGADE

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By Alfred Dennis

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 Alfred Dennis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-7947-3

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Misty fog lay thick and heavy across the wide Missouri as the large birchbark canoe slipped silently along the sandy banks of the great river known as the Big Muddy. Two buckskin clad men pulled heavily on the hand carved wooden paddles, their eyes and ears trained vigilantly on the near and far bank. Neither spoke, their bearded faces blank of any expression. Only the sharp eyes betrayed any movement on the strong solemn faces of the two trappers.

The bigger man in the rear of the heavily laden canoe scanned the river bank while the trapper in the front watched the muddy water making sure to spot any driftwood or floating logs that might punch a hole and sink the already overburdened craft. Laden down with their winter's cache of furs, the hunters were headed for the settlements to sell their pelts, trade for fresh supplies, and to wash off the burdens and camp smoke of a hundred lonely winter fires.

Casting his sharp blue eyes upward the bigger man nodded as he watched the setting sun slowly being blocked out by the taller trees off to their west. They were close to the settlements, but this was still the wild upper Missouri. Only a few miles ahead they would intersect the great Mississippi. Any man becoming careless along these shores could quickly find himself separated from his scalp and furs. Hostile warriors and renegade whites stalked the heavily forested banks of the great river in hopes of finding a lone hunter returning with a winter's catch of prime plews, exactly as they were doing now. Whistling softly the bigger man motioned towards the near bank, then felt the current rise against the boat as the smaller and younger of the two men nodded and steered the canoe into the shore.

Stepping lightly from the canoe as it rubbed softly on the sandy bottom the smaller man pulled the heavy craft farther up onto the shore. Retrieving his Hawken Rifle from where it rested lightly on the floor of the craft the hunter slipped quietly into the surrounding forests and disappeared. The other man waited, his own rifle resting lightly in the powerful grasp of his huge hands. Five minutes passed before the hunter finished scouting out the small inlet and reappeared along the tree line and walked towards the river's edge.

Giving the bigger man the thumbs up signal, the smaller man trotted easily back to the canoe. "Clean as a wolf's tooth Pinto."

"Good, but we'll keep a sharp eye out anyway." The one called Pinto studied the heavy forests that lay up and down the river. "From here on in Danny my boy, is the most dangerous part of this here trip."

Danny Sutton looked over to the big man and nodded, a slipshod smile spread across his handsome face. "And it's to be my last. You want me to start a fire?"

Pinto Stade rose slowly from the canoe and stepped onto dry ground. Six foot in his moccasin feet, it wasn't his height that made him seem so big; it was the broadness of the hunter. Tipping the scales at two hundred and twenty pounds the man didn't know his own strength. Shoulders broader than an axe handle, with powerful arms and hands the size of skillets, hands that could squeeze the life easily from a man, Stade was a mountain of a man.

"No Danny me boy, no fire." The voice was deep; a faint touch of Irish brogue betrayed the man's heritage. "Not tonight, we're almost home safe."

Sutton laughed good naturedly. "Now you know you're too dang old to be sleeping on the cold ground with no fire."

The sharp blue eyes looked off towards the heavy woods. "Never you be minding my age, you young whipper snapper, help me unload our furs."

The furs were bundled into bales, each weighing close to two hundred pounds. Both of the men handled the heavy bundles as easily as if they were feather pillows. Stacking the bundles the two hunters retreated to find themselves a smooth place up against a driftlog. Scooping out a soft place in the sand for their tired backsides, the two sat with their backs almost together permitting them to have a good view in both directions of the forests and river bank.

"How far you reckon it is to Cloud's Trading Post?"

Pinto pulled off a chunk of jerked meat and handed it to Sutton. "Mid morning will see us there, I reckon."

"Thank ye kindly." Danny eyed the coarse meat. "I'll tell you for a fact; this is the last jerky I aim to eat the rest of my life."

Pinto looked at the chunk of dried meat and nodded. "You're really quitting for good, are you?"

"I am, my Arabella is waiting for me in St. Louis, and with my share of the money from this season's catch I'm gonna buy us a small farm." The younger hunter looked over to where the bales of plews rested near the bank. "Yes sir Pinto, I'm through with this life for good."

Pinto nodded and smiled. "We've fit injuns, grizzly bears, and had the hair of the wildcat in our teeth for three seasons now Danny. You sure you're gonna be able to settle into the quiet life of a farmer?"

"I'm sure Pinto." Sutton leaned back and smiled knowingly. "I'll have Arabella, she'll keep me happy."

"Uh huh." Pinto smiled. "She must be quite a woman."

"She is that, you should come to St Louis and meet her, before you head out again."

"Wish I could at that, but we're running real late this spring, told old Taff Lowrie I'd meet him at the rendezvous come late summer."

"You're really planning on hooking up with his Brigade and hunting with them this fall?" Sutton couldn't believe Pinto would do it.

"Thought I'd give it a whirl."

"But dang it Pinto, we've always been independent hunters, not company men."

"We, you're fixing to get yourself hitched." Pinto laughed. "No boy, I'm getting a mite old to be traipsing around the Rocky Mountains alone forever."

"Old, pssh you ain't old Pinto." Sutton scoffed. He'd never seen the day Pinto Stade was scared of anything, man nor beast. The worse or scarier things became, the calmer old Pinto would get. No three men could pin him to the ground in the rough and tumble matches that were held each summer at rendezvous. Men walked around him with respect and women eyed him with awe.

"I feel old boy, this Pawnee arrow in my back hurts more every season." Pinto stretched his back slowly.

Sutton nodded slowly. "How you know it's a Pawnee arrow? You done told me yourself you didn't see what kind of varmint it was what shot you."

"Feels like a Pawnee arrow to me, that's how." The big man raised his right arm and winced. "Yep, she's Pawnee alright."

"Why don't you come to St Louis with me, sell your plews and have a real sawbones take a look see at your back?"

"Done told you why." Pinto shook his head. "Taff will be waiting for me at the Judith with his Yellowstone Brigade."

"We're independent trappers, by golly." Sutton growled between bites. "Independent."

"Were maybe, we ain't no more. Them big set ups have done did away with us little fellers."

"We got plews this year ain't we?"

"For a fact Danny boy, we do." Pinto shook his shaggy head. "But you better wait until we get the cash in our hands before you go to crowing a whole lot young un."

"You a thinking we're gonna have trouble at the post?"

"I heard tell we might."

"And you're just now telling me?"

"Didn't want to worry you none." Pinto laughed quietly. "You're fixing to get married up, and get yourself a piece of ground."

"This Hawken will guarantee a fair price for my furs." Sutton rubbed his hand along the smooth finish of the rifle. "I'll be having Arabella and my land."

"I hope ye the best Lad, the best."

"Thank you Pinto; I know you mean it." Sutton studied the riverbank. "Tell me old hoss, why didn't we just sell our plews to David Miles instead of toting them to Clouds, if'n you're worried about us being cheated?"

"I would have liked to sell to David, but with you needing the money and all, he just ain't big enough yet to pay top money." Pinto moved about removing a small stone from under him. "Next year maybe."

The two hunters snuggled up comfortable on the soft sand, but each man was alert, listening as frogs croaked out their love songs down along the water's edge. The gloom of the dark night and heavy fog was broken only by the far off call of an owl or the nearer whippoorwill. The splash of a catfish sounded out on the river as it cleared the water, reaching for a low flying insect.

Pinto felt his scalp tingle as Sutton without muttering a word slipped suddenly from his sandy bed, disappearing into the darkness. Retreating quickly to where the canoe rested the big hunter quietly reloaded the bundles of furs, careful not to make any noise. He knew here along the banks of the huge river the slightest sound would carry far out into the night or across the water.

Sutton seemed to vaporize out of the gloom as silent as a ghost. "We got ourselves some company."

"How many?" Pinto whispered, stepping close to the boat.

"Too many." Grabbing the canoe the two hunters backed it out into the river until it floated on the current, then climbed quietly into the craft.

Only the sound of water running from their moccasins could be heard as the men settled easily into the canoe rowing as it slipped silently away from the sandy banks. Stroking powerfully, Pinto and Sutton had the heavy canoe several hundred yards down river when gunfire exploded from out of the night.

"They dang sure had us located fore they came in." Sutton whispered. "We sure let one of them slip up on us too close; maybe we are getting a mite old."

"Pawnee scout." Pinto grunted as he dipped his oar mightily into the muddy water. "Only one of them red devils could have slipped in on us that close without our knowing it."

"Pawnee?' Sutton whispered back over his shoulder. "Ain't a Pawnee scalp within three hundred miles of here, sides a Pawnee ain't near as slippery as a Cheyenne?"

"It were Pawnee I'm telling you, a Cheyenne can't hold them Pawnee varmints a light to go by when it comes to sneakiness."

The smaller hunter shook his head and smiled. If an Indian was involved, Pinto swore it was always a Pawnee. The big hunter hated the whole tribe. Man, woman, or papoose, it didn't matter. Shoot, he wasn't even sure the arrowhead he carried under his shoulder blade was Pawnee, but that didn't matter either; he despised the Pawnee Nation with a passion. On several occasions Sutton had questioned the old hunter how he came by it, but only received a sullen look for an answer. It were sure nuff a curiosity, but Pinto wouldn't say a thing, only that it were Pawnee. On that score, he was plumb, sure nuff certain.

The gunfire had quieted as suddenly as it had started along the river's edge. Sutton nodded; again they had barely escaped harm as they had on so many times the last three years. He thought of the beautiful woman he had waiting, and the peaceful farm that he would buy with the money the furs would bring. He was ready to settle down to a quiet life, he wanted to sleep sound, eat hot meals at a table, and hopefully raise a batch of younguns. No sir, no more cold camps, cold coffee, or Indians trying to lift their scalps.

Following Pinto into the Rockies these last three years had been an experience that he wouldn't have missed, but one he was ready to leave behind. Danger, even death lurked behind every tree, sprang up every morning with the new sun, went to bed with you every night. He was ready for the simple life of a farmer. He was ready to wake up with Arabella who he had met the previous summer and fell in love with, in his arms instead of his Hawken Rifle. Too many of his friends had been killed or had simply disappeared somewhere in the rugged mountains, never to be seen or heard from again. A hunter had to be on the alert, cautious, wary as a wild animal to survive in the vast reaches of the Rockies.

Mandan's, Nez Perce, Sioux, Cheyenne, even grizzly bears and rattlesnakes with the whispering kiss of death rode with you everyday along the wild mountainous trails. No sir, Sutton shook his head. He had cheated death; had left his tracks through the Rockies, along the Madison River, the Gallatin, the Jefferson and so many others, now he wanted to live the gentle, quiet life away from danger. He had become fond of the big hunter behind him, but he knew Pinto would always return to the mountains, it was in his blood. After a few days of carousing and drinking in the settlements, the big hunter would disappear back into the vast reaches of the mountains as silently as he had come. Somewhere along the steep rocky trail the old trapper would one day disappear, just like so many before him. But, it was the big hunter's way, he preferred the lonely and silent life of the mountains, he would never change, he didn't want to change. He was as wild, maybe even wilder, than the Indians or varmints that made the Rockies their home.

Sutton knew he wouldn't be with the big hunter this time, and it worried him immensely. He had come to think of the man as his own father, but it was time for them to go their separate ways. Pinto had said he would ride with Taff Lowrie into the Yellowstone Country; there they would trap the valleys and streams of the upper mountains. Lowrie led a Brigade of men, maybe thirty hunters with skinners, cooks and wranglers, all rough and rugged men, but the upper Yellowstone was Sioux Country and the Sioux and their Cheyenne cousins didn't cotton to intruders in their hunting grounds. Farther west was the terrible Blackfoot Tribe, possibly more ferocious than even the Sioux.

Riding alongside Pinto into the rugged wilds of the mountains Sutton had learned firsthand about Indians, their cruelty and moodiness. Even with the many rifles and brave men Lowrie had with his Brigade, it would be a long hazardous hunting season for his friend. Setting up a base camp the trappers would then separate in pairs to set and work their trap lines. This was the most dangerous times, alone they would be vulnerable, and the hostile warriors knew it. Many's the time Sutton had luckily avoided the war parties that had set a trap, then laid in wait for him and Pinto.

"You dead set on going with Lowrie this year?" Sutton whispered quietly.

"Yep, gave him my word." Pinto pulled mightily on the oars. "Me and Taff go back a long way, we came out here together you know.'

The younger man shook his head. "Alone you've got a chance of not being discovered, with a whole Brigade, them heathens will know exactly when you ride into their hunting grounds."

"When I cash in my chips Danny boy, I want someone to throw some sod over me." Pinto smiled. "You know how it is, but if it's not to be, so be it."

Sutton didn't bother to answer or even turn his head. He knew Pinto was starting to show his years, the hardness of the mountains; the years spent shadowing death could put uncertainty in the bravest, would age a man beyond his years. The wildness of the Rockies had placed their heavy hands on many a brave soul. And he knew what Pinto was thinking, each man wanted to be buried, put in the ground proper with words read over him when he went under.

But still these old hard crusted trappers turned their faces into the high lonesome when the leaves started to turn colors and the air started to have a bite to her. Sutton had followed Pinto west into the Rockies to trap and hunt, but it was for the money he would earn for a farm, not for the adventure and wildness that Pinto craved. He smiled, Pinto would swear he wasn't going back, but the call of the mountains was just too strong.

CHAPTER 2

Cloud's small settlement and trading post came into view as the canoe rounded a broad bend. The tall stockade fence loomed high in the distance surrounded by tepees, tents and rough hewn lumber shacks. Pinto and Sutton had traded last year with the trader, but the settlement had changed. Sutton blinked; the trading post had grown three times the size it had been last spring. He was astonished; the flat grounds along the river were covered with horses, cattle and people. He couldn't believe his eyes, what had brought all these people together?

"Fort's grown some."

"Some?" Pinto swore quietly. "I've seen less people in St. Louis."

Sutton laughed. "Yea, but that was maybe twenty years ago."

"Didn't say when." Pinto spit disgustedly into the water, one thing he hated was big cities or large gatherings of people. And to him any bunch of city pilgrims counting over twenty was way too many.

The canoe slipped easily into shore alongside one of the many wharfs that held boats, barges and rafts of different shapes and sizes. Several black men stepped forward ready to help unload the furs. The blacks were Charlie Cloud's slaves, waiting here to make sure he had first bid on the hides the trappers brought into his trading post. Cloud controlled most of the fort's fur trading and was the biggest buyer of pelts, but there were a couple of other buyers in the settlement, and Cloud didn't want to lose any business he didn't have to. One of the huge blacks reached for a bundle of the heavy plews, his hand stopping in mid air as the hammer of Pinto's Hawken rifle cocked loudly in the morning air.
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from YELLOWSTONE BRIGADE by Alfred Dennis. Copyright © 2013 by Alfred Dennis. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
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