When they didn’t, they groused about the country’s being trapped out. Mac didn’t care. The place—the high, sun-struck summits of the Tetons, the cold cricks, the alpine meadows rich with elk, the mountain buffalo, the majestic waterfalls, the delicious hot springs—these meant everything. Mac learned the country, learned the Indians, learned the ways to survive. He ceased to be a pork-eater, the term for a greenhorn, and became an honest pilgrim.
Then by luck he took the step that made him a mountain man.
That second autumn in the mountains, Skinhead, Jim, Til, Mac, and the bunch took the old Indian trail from Togwotee Pass north into the Yellowstone high country, one of Mac’s favorite places. Out exploring late one afternoon, Mac simply got lost. He never did figure out how he did it. Didn’t know where camp was. Rode around in big circles for a couple of days through the complicated high country and never did see it. So he swallowed his fear and set out on his own to get to winter camp at the mouth of Clarks Fork.
He struck out north across some of the continent’s most rugged and most beautiful country. Keeping the valley of the Yellowstone in sight far to his left, he followed the ridges. When he saw the big canyon of the Yellowstone, with what seemed like the two biggest waterfalls in the world, he knew where he was. From last autumn he knew the Indian trail crossed the river near another falls not far downstream. He followed parallel to that trail toward Clarks Fork.
During those sunlit days he unconsciously changed from afraid to at home. He became aware of the benevolence of the earth. The nights frosted, but the days were pleasant. He saw game galore. Twice he stopped at hot springs and eased his body with the warmth. He felt that this adventure alone was worth coming to the Rocky Mountains for.
At the mouth of Clarks Fork he was in country to live in, not just travel through. He hunted every day while he waited for his companions and made plenty of meat. Since Skinhead and company had wasted a week looking for Mac, they turned up irritable. But Mac had grown from pilgrim to mountain man, and found his home country in the mountains, the Yellowstone River.
Yes, he’d found a home, and now he would build a house. Right here at the mouth of the Big Horn. Wouldn’t be traveling so much—have to stay home to trade. A good place to call your own.
3
It was nearly dark. The three would be moving out soon, down the Yellowstone, looking for Strikes Foot’s Cheyennes. They were gnawing at the bones of two sage hens Jim had killed that morning, pip-squeak bones, Skinhead called them. And Skinhead, prompted by Mac, was telling tales of this spot where the Big Horn flowed into the Yellowstone.
Manuel Lisa built a stockade when he came into this country in ’07. Crazy thing happened. Lisa sent a man named John Colter out to spread word of the trading post among the Indians. Colter took off alone and disappeared for months. Walked all this country just for the hell of it, clear to Jackson’s Hole, even saw the high Yellowstone country, saw the boilings over on the Stinking Water River, brought back tales no one believed. Exploring new country. Alone. Crazy beaver, Colter.
“What happened to the fort?” Mac asked.
“Wagh!” grunted Skinhead. “Blackfeet kicked Lisa’s tail out of the country. Kept kicking everybody else out, too. This nigger helped Major Henry build a fort here in ’23, the year Glass got et by Old Ephraim and showed up months later, riz from the dead. Pilcher had made a fort here a couple of years before. Blackfeet burned both of them. Blackfeet was rambunctious in them days.”
“What about Fort Cass? Today I saw what’s left of it.”
“Damn Company. Finally got the Blackfeet peaceable and went off and left the fort. Good spot for it—Company don’t know nit from gnat.”
Mac stuck to his decision to say nothing of his plans to Skinhead or Jim. Skinhead would blab it all
Then by luck he took the step that made him a mountain man.
That second autumn in the mountains, Skinhead, Jim, Til, Mac, and the bunch took the old Indian trail from Togwotee Pass north into the Yellowstone high country, one of Mac’s favorite places. Out exploring late one afternoon, Mac simply got lost. He never did figure out how he did it. Didn’t know where camp was. Rode around in big circles for a couple of days through the complicated high country and never did see it. So he swallowed his fear and set out on his own to get to winter camp at the mouth of Clarks Fork.
He struck out north across some of the continent’s most rugged and most beautiful country. Keeping the valley of the Yellowstone in sight far to his left, he followed the ridges. When he saw the big canyon of the Yellowstone, with what seemed like the two biggest waterfalls in the world, he knew where he was. From last autumn he knew the Indian trail crossed the river near another falls not far downstream. He followed parallel to that trail toward Clarks Fork.
During those sunlit days he unconsciously changed from afraid to at home. He became aware of the benevolence of the earth. The nights frosted, but the days were pleasant. He saw game galore. Twice he stopped at hot springs and eased his body with the warmth. He felt that this adventure alone was worth coming to the Rocky Mountains for.
At the mouth of Clarks Fork he was in country to live in, not just travel through. He hunted every day while he waited for his companions and made plenty of meat. Since Skinhead and company had wasted a week looking for Mac, they turned up irritable. But Mac had grown from pilgrim to mountain man, and found his home country in the mountains, the Yellowstone River.
Yes, he’d found a home, and now he would build a house. Right here at the mouth of the Big Horn. Wouldn’t be traveling so much—have to stay home to trade. A good place to call your own.
3
It was nearly dark. The three would be moving out soon, down the Yellowstone, looking for Strikes Foot’s Cheyennes. They were gnawing at the bones of two sage hens Jim had killed that morning, pip-squeak bones, Skinhead called them. And Skinhead, prompted by Mac, was telling tales of this spot where the Big Horn flowed into the Yellowstone.
Manuel Lisa built a stockade when he came into this country in ’07. Crazy thing happened. Lisa sent a man named John Colter out to spread word of the trading post among the Indians. Colter took off alone and disappeared for months. Walked all this country just for the hell of it, clear to Jackson’s Hole, even saw the high Yellowstone country, saw the boilings over on the Stinking Water River, brought back tales no one believed. Exploring new country. Alone. Crazy beaver, Colter.
“What happened to the fort?” Mac asked.
“Wagh!” grunted Skinhead. “Blackfeet kicked Lisa’s tail out of the country. Kept kicking everybody else out, too. This nigger helped Major Henry build a fort here in ’23, the year Glass got et by Old Ephraim and showed up months later, riz from the dead. Pilcher had made a fort here a couple of years before. Blackfeet burned both of them. Blackfeet was rambunctious in them days.”
“What about Fort Cass? Today I saw what’s left of it.”
“Damn Company. Finally got the Blackfeet peaceable and went off and left the fort. Good spot for it—Company don’t know nit from gnat.”
Mac stuck to his decision to say nothing of his plans to Skinhead or Jim. Skinhead would blab it all
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