S. M. Revolinski - A Mountain Man (Tales From Wyoming Book 3)

A Mountain Man

Tales from Wyoming

S. M. Revolinski

A Mountain Man Copyright 2020 by S. M. Revolinski. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by S. M. Revolinski
Cover image by David Mark from Pixabay.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
S. M. Revolinski
Visit my website at www.AuthorName.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: Jul 2020
Sterling Publications

T he Tales of Wyoming are a collection of interconnected short stories of the Old West. Each story is a standalone adventure. A Mountain Man builds upon the characters and relationships in A Good Man and A Good Woman .

H

appy Birthday.

Sam Potter looked up into the smiling face of the young woman as she placed the cake on the table. He dug himself out of the doldrums and returned Abigail Thornes smile.

Thank you, he said. But he would have preferred everyone forget the passing of another year of his long life. What had deposited Sam into such a foul mood was an article in the Rocky Mountain News, a newspaper out of Denver, Colorado. While the event had occurred a month earlier, it was on the day of Sams sixtieth birthday that he learned of the death of his old friend Karl Kursk. Karl had been three years older than Sam, and the two had trapped beaver and such animals in the Rocky Mountains as young men.

With the death of his friend, Sam was now the oldest person he knew. Certainly there were older people in America, and in the Wyoming Territory, but Sam didnt know any of them. Any funeral he attended from this day forward would be for a younger man. And this thought brought him back to Abigail. It had only been a few months since her husband had died, and Sam had attended that funeral.

His eyes scanned the faces of his dinner companions. Besides Abigail and her toddler son, Ben, there was his wife of 39 years, Shirley. And then there was Morgan Sandburg, a man barely twenty years old just beginning his career as a surveyorwhatever that was.

Here, Morgan said, and passed a glass containing two fingers of whiskey to Sam. Morgan was Abigails fancy man. He had been the one who had found her dead husband. Many people thought it a bit strange that he would be courting the widow so soon after Ezras death, but Sam wasnt one of them. While Abigail was his employee, he cared for her as though she was his own daughter. She needed a good man to take care of her and Ben.

Sam forced another smile and nodded; he didnt trust his voice at this specific moment.

So, Sam, what has you so lost in thought, Shirley asked, as she deposited a slice of cake on his plate.

At times like this, one cannot help but think about the old days, Sam replied.

You sure must have seen a lot, Morgan said. I heard you were with John Frmont laying out the Oregon Trail. Is that true?

Yes, it is. We walked through these very hills and decided the passage south of here would be the best means through the RockiesSouth Pass, they came to call it. But, you know that. Sam swallowed.

When was that? Abigail asked.

Why Sam stroked his beard, oh, golly, that must have been 1842. I was eighteen years old. My best friend in the world, Karl Kursk, and I were traveling with Kit Carson. There , Sam thought, Ive said his name . Perhaps the specter would leave him now. Anyway, ole John Frmont was looking for a way to get wagons and settlers from Missouri to Oregon. We showed him the pass between the Wind River Mountains and the Great Red Desert. John, well, he climbed all over these mountains. He climbed up the big peak a few dozen miles to the northwest and called it Frmont Peak like no one else had ever been up there. Of course, that wasnt true.

You were only eighteen? Morgan said, and then added, How did you come to be in these mountains so long ago?

It was the river. I was a river rat. He contemplated life for a few moments. My father was a farmer in Illinois. I was the middle son. I wouldnt inherit the farm, and the baby was my mothers favorite. I just fell through the cracks, as it was. So you see, I walked to St. Louis and started working on the docks. Mostly, I worked on the steamboats going up and down the Mississippi River. This was, uh, 1839; I was fifteen years old.

H

ey, lad, you lookn for work?

Sam was sitting on the pier using a crust of cornbread to scoop cold beans from a tin cup. Discerning the question had been directed at him, he looked up to study the barrel-shaped man on the deck of a keelboat.

I got a job, Sam answered.

While Sam worked loading and unloading cargo for the steamboats on the Mississippi River, the allure of the Wild West and the lands visited by the keelboats on the Missouri River drew him to pay attention to the boatmans words.

Yeah, you have a job for today and tomorrow, but I can offer you a job for the next four months.

This was a true concern. Sam did have to look for work continuously.

Where are you going? Sam asked.

West, young man, west across the Great Plains with grass as tall as your chin stretched out for a thousand miles, and then on to the giant Rocky Mountains beyond. That is to say, were bound for Fort Union. Come along, son, its the future.

Sam had heard these tall tales before, but this was the first time he had been offered an opportunity to see this vast land for himself. John Jacob Astor had founded Fort Union in 1828. At the junction of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers, it provided a focal point for the trappers to sell their furs. Fort Union was a civilian establishment fashioned after a military bastion. Originally, it was nothing more than a trading post, but the nearby Indians had become hostile towards the paleface invaders and the forts cannon protected the American Fur Company headquarters.

Sir, let me finish my job today and I will join you tomorrow, Sam said, deciding to test his fate.

In the morning, Sam returned to the pier with a small bundle containing the sum total of his worldly possessions. He found not one, but five keelboats and more than a hundred men. It took him several minutes to locate the man who had offered him the job.

Aye, sir, Sam Potter reporting for wok, he said to the muscled boatman.

Aye, lad, youll get twenty dollars and a pence for every ten dollars earned when we sell our cargo in Fort Union. Fair enough?

Sam nodded. Twenty dollars was far more money than he had ever seen before; however, he didnt understand the second suggestion of more money. But, he would figure it out later.

Im Jack Trawick the bosseman of this here keelboat. He pointed to the first of the five tied to the pier. Stow your kit and meet some of the lads. We shove off in an hour.

The fact Sam had never worked a keelboat before did not seem to matter to Jack. Sam jumped aboard and came face to face with a man a few years older than himself. This man had an unmanaged mass of blonde curls atop his head, but no facial hair. Sam was also too young to grow a beard.

Excuse me, Im Sam Potter. Where do I stow my kit? Sam asked, adopting the name Jack had used for the bundle of his goods.

Over there, in the box at the bow. The names Karl Kursk. He stuck out his hand and the two young men shook. You ever ride one of these before?

No, afraid not. You?

Nope, never, but Ill show ya what I know. Karl toured Sam around the boat. This here boat is called a keelboat on account of the keel running from stem to stern with both ends tapered. Shes seventy feet long and eighteen feet wide at the center. This monstrosity is the cargo box. Karl rapped his knuckles on the four foot high structure which occupied the majority of the deck. They continued around the box along a narrow walkway. Sam looked down; the deck was no more than two feet above murky water. Compared to the Mississippi River steamers, it was quite small. Having apparently run out of things to say about the boat, Karl changed the subject. Are ya heading to the mountains to try yer hand at fur trapping? Thats what Im gonna do.