Here is non-fiction work I just finished. I hope the formatting is Ok, if not, I can post a link to the Word document. Enjoy.
Don’t Take A Man’s Rifle
Forward
Today, we take many things for granted. Where our food comes from, where our clothes come from, transportation, shelter, water, heat and air conditioning. Factories the world over churn out synthetic materials and other factories convert them into useable product, sometimes without involving much human interaction. A handful of farmers and ranchers can produce more food of higher quality today than was possible to produce with hundreds of laborers in years past. Railroads and high speed highways transport goods and services across our continent in days and communication is effectively instantaneous. Most of us are pre-occupied with our creature comforts and only experience the outdoors and “primitive” lifestyle for relaxation and entertainment. Our right to bear arms is under attack as our society is considered too civilized by many for such individual freedoms. This is a modern affliction. There was a time when it took real men, working in adverse conditions, to provide the necessary materials for survival and for the society of the times. These tasks required men with a certain resolve and certain tools. A good rifle was paramount, along with a good flint and steel, and the skills to use them. This is a story of one such man and his rifle.
“The subscriber wishes to engage one hundred men, to ascend the Missouri River to its source…”
So began the advertisement in the Feb. 13, 1822 edition of the St. Louis Missouri Gazette and Public Advisor. Interested persons were to contact Major Andrew Henry near the lead mines in Washington County, Missouri. Henry, along with General William Ashley had concocted a scheme to escort trapping parties into the fur bearing areas of the upper Missouri and return to St. Louis where they could turn a very nice profit on their much sought after beaver pelts. Up until this time, fur companies depended on trading with the Indians. This enterprise would cut out the middleman and the trappers would be working directly for them.
St. Louis is known as the “Gateway to the West” largely because of its unique location at the junction of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. At a time when most goods were hauled by boat, the Mississippi was the Interstate Highway of the 1700’s through 1800’s and the Missouri was becoming the Interstate Highway of the Northern two thirds of the newly acquired Louisiana Purchase. Almost 20 years after practically doubling the geographic area of the United States, the new territories were mostly unsettled and, other than the areas explored and reported on by Lewis and Clark, mostly unexplored except by fur trappers and traders and, of course, several various tribes of Indians. Some of which fought each other and some of which traded with each other. Some helped the strangers who spoke strangely and others not so much.
Only a few short years earlier, in 1819, President Monroe had sent Colonel Henry Atkinson with the 6th U.S. Infantry and the 1st Rifle Regiment along with numerous civilians, including women and children, to establish forts along the upper Missouri River to support and defend the fur trading enterprises. One of the first forts established, in 1820, just west of the site known as Council Bluff, where Lewis and Clark had their 1804 meeting with two Indian tribes, was Fort Atkinson near modern day Fort Calhoun, Nebraska. This territory was indeed the very definition of wilderness.
Into this new enterprise entered a man who had lived in this wilderness. He had spent some time with the Pawnee, learning their ways and exploring their territories, hunting, trapping, trading and surviving. At one time he had a run in with some not so friendly Pawnee. He had watched them strip his companion, hang him on a pole and set him on fire. He avoided the same fate by gifting the chief with a pouch of vermillion dye, which he knew from his earlier time with other Pawnee, was very favored by them.
Hugh Glass was of good stock, rugged and hardy. Educated well enough, he could read and write “real good”. He stood straight, tall and powerful, carried himself well and was equipped with the necessary accoutrements of the frontiersman. Dressed in buckskin and fur, coon skin hat, powder horn, possibles bag, where he carried his flint and steel (essential for fire building), large skinning knife hanging off his belt, a graying beard and a shock of hair that hadn’t seen a razor in some time and the rifle. That beautiful rifle. Nearly as long as he was tall, his rifle had served him well for many years. She shot straight and true and felt good in his hands. Good heft but not clumsy. She was well balanced, well sighted and well maintained. He made sure to keep her clean and coated with just the slightest bit of bear grease to protect her fine skin.
By the time he came to sign on with Major Henry, he was over 40 years old, almost twice the age of most of the others in his group but much more experienced. There was Jim Bridger, 19 years old and excited to earn some money exploring this new frontier. John Fitzgerald, who had a bit of experience, but still only 23. Also along was William Sublette, Jedediah Smith and James Beckwourth. Not sure what to think of this old ‘coon, they loaded up the boats and set out to the west.
He wasn’t used to working with a group as he preferred to be on his own or with just one or two good men. But he saw this as an opportunity to make sure these scalawags didn’t botch up his beloved lands and just maybe he could be of some use and make a little money too. He also knew the best trapping was up in Ree territory.
The Arikara
The Ree were the worst of the lot. Arikara or Rikaree or just plain Ree, were a loose group of semi nomadic Indian tribes, sometimes friendly to other tribes such as Mandan, Pawnee and Sioux, but more often than not, very untenable. Definitely not friendly to the white man, excepting the rare occasion when they thought they might gain something more easily by being friendly than by force. Generally, they were just plain inhospitable, duplicitous and to be avoided.
By now, it was June of 1823 and they had reached well into what would be modern day western South Dakota. Suddenly, shots rang out. The men sprang into the bushes along the river and began returning fire. Glass, seeing a fellow trapper pinned down and frozen with fear, sprang over a downed tree, gathered up the young fellow and got him to safety. “It’s ok young fella, brave men should not be ashamed to show fear.” Glass told him. In the process, he took a ball in his upper thigh. He never the less continued to fight on and shout instructions to others and organize the good defense. When the smoke cleared, almost a score of their men lay dead or dying and several wounded.
Glass, ignoring his own wound, set to work tending to the injured. Someone noticed he was injured. “Hey old coon, you done been shot.” Someone said. “Damn Ree got me right in the ass!” Glass yelled. Even the wounded and injured had a good laugh and Glass had gained a new level of respect and reverence amongst the group. Their progress slowed while they waited for the wounded to recover and took care of their dead.
A dispatch was sent and 230 soldiers, 750 Sioux warriors and 50 trappers were sent out of Fort Atkinson under the command of U.S. Army Colonel Henry Leavenworth to quell the Arikara. They arrived in early August, burned the Arikara village, killed 50 of the Ree warriors and left. The group was incensed at the Army for not finishing the Ree off when they had the chance. History records this incident as the first battle in the long campaign of what would come to be known as the Plains Indian Wars.
Beware Of Mama Grizzly
Late August and Ashley’s group of trappers had made little progress since their encounter with the Ree back in June. Between having wounded to tend to and assisting the Army in retaliation, going was slow. Major Henry had insisted only two men be designated hunters. This was wise precaution so as not to cause much ruckus and attract the attention of the remaining Ree. With so many injured and dead their numbers had dwindled and he didn’t know if they could survive a concerted attack.
Glass was out hunting and scavenging for food. He had a tooth for the plums and was approaching a thicket when he noticed two grizzly cubs saunter out in his path. Knowing cubs don’t get far from their mama, he began to raise his rifle in defense. Mama had already spied Glass and had maneuvered to his rear, intending to take the man as food for her and her cubs. He heard a sound behind and spun, raising his rifle to fire. Too late, mama had already moved too close and as he spun ‘round, the bruin stood head and shoulders over him and swept his rifle away with a huge paw. Incensed at the nerve of her he drew his knife. “C’mon you old sow!” he said. She took another swipe and nearly cut him in two with her other paw. Glass fought back, stabbing over and over at her head and neck. She took a chunk of flesh from him and spat it to her cubs. She knocked Glass to the ground, grabbed him by the leg and shook him mightily, breaking his leg. He continued stabbing and thrusting at her with his knife.
The commotion got the attention of the camp and Bridger and Fitzgerald arrived in time to see the she bear, nearly exhausted and gasping for her own life, lying on top of Glass. They dispatched the bear and drug the old coon from her grip. Glass was a sight. Bloodied from head to toe. Ribs exposed both front and back and chunks of flesh missing. Broken leg, unconscious and bleeding, the men thought for sure he was a goner. More men arrived and they managed to get some of his wounds covered and move him back to camp. He lingered, in and out of consciousness, barely breathing. They fashioned a litter and drug him along for two days with the expedition.
The Major decided the group needed to move on. Knowing Glass was done for, he asked for two men to stay with him until he died and then bury him and rejoin the group. The offer of bonus pay spoke to Fitzgerald and Bridger and they volunteered to stay with him. They knew it would be but a day or two and they would be able to easily rejoin the group.
The days moved on and Glass still didn’t die. But he didn’t come around either. Still barely breathing and no noticeable movement.
“He’s done fer.” Fitzgerald said.
“Not quite, yet.” Retorted Bridger.
“We gots to move. It’ll be a week to catch the rest and I don’t aim to die at the hands of the Ree for this old coon.” Fitzgerald argued. “They’ll find us and kill us all. We need to think of ourselves.”
Bridger agreed to move out. But he insisted they move the old man close to water just in case. They found a spot near a berry bush and laid him out as comfortable as they could make him. Bridger grabbed his gear and rifle and began taking it over to leave it with him.
“Whatchu doin’?” Fitzgerald spouted.
“We can’t leave a man to die and take his rifle and powder. What if he comes to? What will he do?” Demanded Bridger.
“He ain’t comin’ to. He’s dead and that’s what we’re tellin’ the Major. We got ambushed by Ree, Glass is dead and buried and that’s it. Now git!” Fizgerald commanded.
Being young and bowing to the older man’s wishes, Bridger gathered up the rifle, possibles bag, powder horn, knife and the rest of Glass’s gear and they set out to rejoin the main body of the expedition. You don’t leave a rifle and gear with a dead man. In the wilderness, they are too valuable. Dead men have no need of such things.
What they did not know was Glass, in moments of furtive consciousness, could discern some of their conversation. Still in terrible pain, unable to move, he grew angry and resolved.
ORDEAL
He awoke. Alone. Left for dead. His throat was dry, parched. His lips cracked and bleeding. He felt the water. He moved. Cupping his hand he managed to scoop enough to wet his lips. Just a sip or two. Every movement sent shooting pain through his body. “Sum*****” he thought, “Am I to die like this? Am I dead already? No! I got to get up.” The pain in his leg was terrible. He gave up on that idea, for now.
He saw the berries hanging low. He took a few, crushed them in his hand with some water and managed to force them down his dry and damaged throat. He began to get some strength back. A rattler slithered into his view. He reached for his knife. Not there. He found a sharp rock and dispatched the serpent. He managed to get it skinned with his teeth and the rock and mashed its meat into edible pieces.
He was beginning to gain strength. He had to. Those bastards wouldn’t get away with this. And he wanted his rifle.
He began to stand. No good. His broken leg wouldn’t take it. He set his leg himself. Excruciating pain shot through his body and even though he knew he should be quiet, he couldn’t hold back the scream.
He knew he couldn’t follow up river to rejoin Henry’s group. Too rough. Plus they were moving. He would never catch up. Fort Henry, the original destination, was too far over too rugged terrain. He turned his goal to Fort Kiowa. Almost two hundred miles back down the Missouri. Barely able to pull himself along with one good arm and one good leg, he began. Moving across country. At first only a few hundred yards a day, then a mile, then two miles as he began to regain strength. Eating grubs and worms he dug from the earth as the Pawnee had taught him oh so many years ago.
Buffalo. A herd of buffalo can grind down the plains in a miles wide swath. They were headed his way and he had no way to get out of their path. He managed to find a wallow and stow himself away until they passed. He moved on.
Wolves. A pack of wolves were scrapping over a buffalo calf carcass they had managed to bring down. Buffalo can be very nasty beasts for even wolves. This little one fell behind and the rest of the herd, being intent on their move, must have allowed it to be sacrificed. Even the calf had plenty of meat and fat for the wolves, and for a man. He rose up as best he could and wailed. The wolves, being totally immersed in the consumption of their kill, had barely noticed him. Now, they saw and did not know what it was. A thing smelling of the earth and buffalo dung. A wail like nothing they had heard. They had no use for a fight with an unknown and with bellies full anyway, they backed off. Glass took his fill of organs and blood from the still warm dead calf and moved on.
Indians. It was now October. The chill was in the air and he knew he had to move faster. He spied a group of Indians. Ree? No, Sioux. They took him in, wondering how any man could be in this shape and not be dead. They cleaned his wounds. Some full of maggots, which was good as they kept the infection down. They took him to Fort Kiowa and the French fur traders.
REVENGE
Recovered, now, from his wounds and strenuous journey, Glass signed for a new kit and rifle and joined a group of fur traders headed upriver to re-open the trading business. They were heading up to the mouth of the Yellowstone and Fort Henry. Seven men set out from Fort Kiowa in a boat. At one camp they decided Charbonneau should scout on ahead as the Mandan had decided to allow the Ree to settle in an abandoned village. A few days later, while Glass was out hunting, a group of Ree attacked the boat. They killed all aboard and were coming for glass. Unable to run well because of his leg, the Ree were closing fast. Suddenly a group of Mandan came riding up and swept Glass onto the back of a pony and rode away to safety.
He made it to Fort Tilton, still 250 miles from Fort Henry. The traders ferried him to the east side of the river where he would have less chance of running into the Ree and wished him good luck. It was the 20th of November, 1823.
Now he had to trek the 250 miles, alone again, in the bitter late November weather. When he finally reached Fort Henry, the fort was deserted. Somehow he discovered Henry and his men had moved up the Yellowstone and were heading to the Bighorn. He resolutely followed. Still full of revenge at the men who had left him and took his rifle. He was bound and determined to get that rifle and to exact his pound of flesh.
Once again he found himself having to scavenge for food and shelter. Although much easier with two good legs and arms and upright with a rifle and kit, it was still arduous. It was the end of 1823 when he walked into Henry’s camp at the Bighorn River.
They were celebrating the New Year when Glass crashed through the door. Most stared in amazement as the ghostly figure, long dead, stood glaring at them all. Then it spoke. It was Glass! He recounted his journey and demanded Fitzgerald and Bridger. Bridger stepped up, apologizing. He convinced Glass he really didn’t want to do it and was swayed by Fitzgerald. He would carry the weight of that action the rest of his life and never let it happen to anyone again. Glass forgave him and let it stand at that since he was young and easily influenced. But there was still Fitzgerald to deal with. “I’ll rip that brigands insides out and shove them down his gullet.” He exclaimed. But Fitzgerald had left with two other trappers. Forsaking this difficult life and heading back down river to Fort Atkinson, along with Glass’s rifle. They must have passed each other at some point.
At the end of February, 1824, Glass was with 4 other trappers running a couple of bull boats with a dispatch back headquarters. They were going to float down the Platte, to the Missouri and up to Fort Atkinson. Perfect for Glass and his intentions to find Fitzgerald. On the way, they came across a village of what they thought were Pawnee. One man stayed at the boats with the guns. Glass and the others went to barter for food with the Indians. Upon entering the village, Glass realized these were not Pawnee. “Rickaree!” he yelled. The men scattered as the Ree gave chase. The men became separated but he saw two of them go down from a barrage of the Ree. They then swarmed the downed men and proceeded to mutilate the bodies. “Poor bastards.” He thought. Not knowing the fate of the others but assuming the same had happened to them, he was once again alone. Having no rifle now as they had left them in the boats, at least he had his knife and possibles bag.
He headed north up to Fort Kiowa, again. This time he would take a float down the Missouri and arrived in Fort Atkinson around May. Two of his boat mates from the Ree encounter had escaped and brought the news of Glass’s ordeal to Atkinson ahead of him. Fitzgerald had enlisted with the Army but was still there. Finally, he could exact his revenge on the no good coward. “I’ll shoot him, scalp him and slice him open!”
The Army was having none of it. They could not allow one of their enlisted to be executed by a civilian. They did, however force Fitzgerald to return Glass’s rifle and others made sure everyone knew the tale and Fitzgerald would forever live branded a coward, thief and traitor. A collection was taken up and Glass left Fort Atkinson with a hefty sum and his beloved rifle and headed back up the Missouri. He would have to be satisfied with the outcome as there was nothing he could do. He may come across the coward later and he could exact his revenge then. For now, he would bide his time.
YELLOWSTONE 1833
By now, Glass had become legend. But he still had to earn a living. Glass had returned to the trapping grounds. In the winter of 1833, he and two other trappers were walking down the frozen Yellowstone River when they were attacked by a small group of Rickaree. In his fifties, Glass could barely run and being caught out in the open left little choice. They stood ground and fought as the Ree kept coming. They killed them all and rode off with the rifle Glass had so cherished and fought so hard for.
A few years later, while camped, a group of trappers were approached by a few Indians trying to pass themselves off as Pawnee. One of the trappers recognized old coon’s rifle and the men swiftly captured the Ree who had killed their old friend. They tried them, sentenced them and hanged them on the spot. No one knows today what became of that rifle.
Today, a monument stands near Shadehill, South Dakota, memorializing the encounter Glass had with a bear almost 200 years ago.
