Absaroka War Chief - Bryan Ney

American Historical Fiction Based On A True Story

Absaroka War Chief by Bryan Ney

Book excerpt

Chapter 1

St. Louis, 1824

James Beckwourth chugged uphill toward the master blacksmith’s shop. He was late. Late for another day of wielding hammer and tongs, sweat stinging his eyes as it poured from his brow. His head throbbed and his stomach churned; a small price to pay for an evening of revelry with his beloved. He burst into the shop and slapped on his leather apron, glancing at his fellow apprentice.

“I hope she was worth it,” said the other.

Beckwourth plucked a pair of tongs off the wall, but as he scanned for a hammer, he sensed a presence behind him.

George Casner thought of himself as a fair master to his apprentices. But with this one, his patience was wearing thin. “Beckwourth,” he said, “what excuse do you have for me this time?”

“I think I will finish up these beaver traps today, sir,” Beckwourth said, evading the question. Cinders crunched under his boots.

“You lazy bastard,” said Casner.

“I am not,” said Beckwourth.

“You lazy, half-naggur bastard,” growled the smith.

Beckwourth stiffened and turned to face his boss.

“You may call me lazy, though I am not. But I will not stand the rest. Take it back.”

“Oh, you won’t stand it, eh?”

The other apprentice faded into the wall behind him as best he could.

“Take it back, or I will make you eat those words.” Beckwourth tossed the tongs on the floor between them.

“Pick that up,” said the smith.

“Take it back,” said Beckwourth.

“Pick it up now.”

“Go to hell.”

Casner grabbed a hammer and threw it at Beckwourth. He ducked, and the hammer hit the wall behind him with thud.

“I’ll call you what I want, when I want, boy,” said Casner. “And you will do what I say, when I say.”

Beckwourth felt his face flush. He scooped up the hammer and in the same motion fired it at Casner with all his might. Casner fell to the floor, and the hammer clattered into a bank of half-finished grappling hooks. He rose with a snarl and charged Beckwourth. Taller and wiry, the master smith grappled the younger man to the ground. Beckwourth twisted this way and that until he was able to free his right arm and land a powerful shot to the master’s face. That stunned him and gave Beckwourth the opportunity to land a few more. Casner released him and sprang away.

“Beckwourth, I have tolerated you long enough in the name of your father. But this is it. You are fired,” he snarled, wiping blood from his mouth, and cinders from his clothes.

“Suits me just fine,” said Beckwourth. “I would sooner burn in hell than work for you another minute.” He threw his apron at Casner and walked out of the shop.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the fracas through the gaping door. Beckwourth pushed past the disparaging looks of well-to-do merchants and the jeers of the ragged boatmen and roustabouts. He scooped water from a rain barrel, splashed it on his face, and ran downhill toward the ramshackle grog shops. A cluster of Indians, partially shaved heads protruding from their buffalo robes, regarded him with regal indifference. There was his boarding house, pinched between the grog shops. He burst through the doorway.

“Greetings and salutations, Mrs. LeFevre,” Beckwourth said.

“Lord above, James, what happened?”

“Mr. Casner and I had a disagreement,” he said. “I am no longer in his employ.”

“My word! Your face!”

“Psh. He looks worse.”

“That’s not good either,” the woman said, dabbing at his face with a cloth. “Not for the likes of you.”

There was a knock at the door. LeFevre opened it. It was Casner.

“There he is,” the smith said. “Evict that scoundrel, Mrs. LeFevre. I will no longer be paying his bills.”

“My affairs are no longer of any concern to you, sir,” Beckwourth replied. “I will pay my own way.”

“Then you owe me for the unfinished time in your contract,” said the smith. “You will pay for that.”

“You may stuff that contract up your bung, sir, or if you prefer, I will gladly do it for you,” said Beckwourth.

Casner’s eyes widened, and he charged Beckwourth again, but he received such a beating that he retreated outside and stormed down the street, slurring curses through swollen lips.

“It is probably best now that I depart for my father’s place, ma’am,” said Beckwourth to LeFevre. “I will miss your cooking greatly, and our evenings of speaking French together.”

“Go. And quickly,” she said.

In his upstairs room, Beckwourth poured black powder into the muzzle of his pistol, then rammed in a wad and a lead ball. His few clothes went into a sack, on top of which he laid the rawhide pouch that held his papers. His precious, despised papers. The pistol went in his belt.

Beckwourth heard loud voices downstairs. It was Casner and another, and he had a notion who the other was. Mixed in with the swearing was that racial epithet. Twice in one day. The last time he had heard that had been a few years ago, from a schoolmate whom he had made swallow those words and spit a couple teeth. He nodded to himself and tossed the sack on his bed. Ear to the door, he drew his pistol.

“Beckwourth, it’s Buzby,” said the second man.

“Yes, Constable?” said Beckwourth.

“I would like a word with you.”

“What about?” Beckwourth asked.

“You know what. Come on down.”

Beckwourth kissed the coin that hung on a lanyard around his neck, the one possession he had from his mother, and then opened the door to his room. He pointed his pistol down the stairs at Buzby. “Come any closer and I will shoot you dead.”

“Don’t be a fool there, son,” said a startled Buzby, backing up a step.

“Don’t ‘son’ me.”

“Careful, Beckwourth,” said Casner. “You would hang for it.”

“Just leave then. The both of you.”

“All right then, let’s cool down, Beckwourth,” said Buzby as he backed away. “I’m leaving.” He tossed his head towards the door, and the two slunk out.

Beckwourth followed them and watched as they two scurried away, mention of the sheriff wafting in their wake. He hustled upstairs to grab his things, thrust coins into LeFevre’s palm, and was soon outside, headed out of town. But first, a hurried goodbye. The grog shop where his love worked was steps away. The bartender gave him a nod and motioned to a back room. There was Eliza, sound asleep. He shook her shoulder.

“My love,” she said. “Your face! What happened?”

“I traded blows with Casner.”

“Oh, James, why?”

“He called me a name I allow no man to use.”

“You are such a hothead sometimes. I am proud of you for standing up for yourself. I am. But now what?”

“Well, I also held Buzby at gunpoint. So, I can’t stay.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. So, I came to say goodbye, for now.”

“No. Take me with you.”

“Wouldn’t be wise. Besides, I have a better plan for us.”

“Us? What plan?”

Beckwourth grasped her darker hand in his. She entwined his fingers.

“I will seek my fortune trapping out West. Our fortune.”

“Wait. How long would that be?”

“A year. Or so.”

“A year or so!” She pulled her hand away.

“I know. I know. But think of it. I can come back wealthy.”

“I love you. As you are. I don’t want wealth. We could go to New Orleans.”

“It will tear at me forever if I don’t try.”

“I don’t know,” she said.

The moment was right. He had given it some thought for weeks now.

“Eliza, dearest,” he said, falling on a knee. “Marry me.”

Eliza dabbed blood from Beckwourth’s lip and kissed him gently.

“Go,” she said. “I will wait.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That is a ‘yes’.”

Chapter 2

Jennings Beckwourth winced as he shifted in his chair. “So now you come back home, hounds at your heels,” he said.

“I won’t be here long, Father.”

The elder Beckwourth twisted in his chair again, trying to find a comfortable position. More than forty years ago, when he was barely more than his son’s age, Jennings had taken bullets in his knee and his backside from the redcoats. Every movement now reminded him that he still retained those lead souvenirs.

“I paid for four years of schooling, and then got you that apprenticeship,” said Jennings. “Now what? It’s all going to be wasted?”

“Not wasted. But as you say, Father, the hounds are at my heels.”

“So where will you go then? Eh? Downriver and hide in the Louisiana swamps?”

“No, sir. General Ashley…”

“Ashley? Ashley? Is he trying again after last year’s disaster? And what makes you think he would take you on anyway?”

James stiffened, then took a breath. He needed his father’s help. “As you say, last year was a disaster, so maybe he can’t afford to be too choosy.”

“Dangerous work.” Jennings shook his head. “Ashley stirred up the Arikara last year, so this year he is headed to Blackfoot country. They’re worse. Damned dangerous.”

“What about your sweetheart?” asked James’ younger sister, Lou, pouring coffee.

“You mean my fiancé?” He gave her a sidelong smirk.

“Ooh,” Lou squealed. “A wedding when you get back!”

“My congratulations,” Jennings huffed. “Well, my boy is a man.”

“I want a real start for us. Ashley is splitting whatever a man traps, 50/50.”

“Half what you can trap in a whole season? More than just a good start.”

“It is not without danger, I know.”

“Well, you do come from a long line of military men.”

“Back as far as the battle of Hasting in 1066; as you have told me a thousand times, Father. Two knights in my lineage, and your grandfather was a baronet.”

“You have the combativeness, but you don’t have the discipline, flying off the handle at every little thing like this.”

Beckwourth gritted his teeth. “Nobody at the Battle of Hastings was called a half-naggur bastard.”

“Ah, so that’s what sparked your fury. That’s not something you try to kill a man for. A white man, mind you.”

“Didn’t try to kill him, really. Otherwise, he would be dead.”

“James, your temper,” said Mathilda, his older sister.

“Yes, Mother.” She had taken on their mother’s role after her death, and he looked up to her so.

“You mock me,” she said. “But I only want what is best for you.”

There was a long pause. Jennings twisted his wedding ring.

“Oh, I know,” said the old warrior. “I can’t ever know what it is like for my mulatto children. Well, don’t you ever forget, I was disowned for marrying your mother. Mind you that.”

“You made sacrifices,” said the younger Beckwourth.

“Try to imagine what your life would have been like if we had stayed in Virginia.” He sighed and looked at the girls. “So, you are going to see Ashley?”

“Can’t go back to St. Louis. Not anytime soon.”

“Well, let’s outfit you like a modern knight then. Take my best horse, my best rifle, and powder and lead enough for a year.”

“I am grateful, Father.”

“And take your papers, of course. And remember, there is always a copy with my lawyer.”

His emancipation papers, the ones he had packed so carefully when he left LeFevre’s. Beckwourth bristled at the very thought of them, of the day they had gone to court and had them drawn up. Of the way he was described in them as if he were a horse; enumerating his scars, describing the birthmark above his eye so that if there was a question of his identity, some white man could poke him and prod him to find hidden proofs of his identity.

“I won’t need my goddamn papers in the mountains. All the more reason I’m going there.”

Beckwourth swung a leg up onto his father’s best horse. He took the reins from Quincy, his father’s slave on the one hand, on the other his best playmate growing up.

“I spoke to father,” Beckwourth said.

“I appreciate that, James,” said Quincy.

“He will free you in his will. He promised me.”

“I thank you for that, James. You know I do.”

The family gathered outside the rustic but comfortable main house, smoke curling from the chimney. Beckwourth glanced at the slave’s quarters attached to the stable and pondered what a huge difference the accident of birth made in a life. He surveyed the sorrowful faces of his sisters and studied the deep lines of his father’s face.

“Do you remember the first time I took that old swayback on this trail?” James asked Jennings.

“I do,” answered his father. “You were about nine.”

“That day will forever be etched into my being. Fare thee well, one and all.”

Beckwourth saluted his father and turned his horse to the trail. Coming to the edge of the clearing, to the stumps of trees he had felled as a boy, he turned to take one last look at his father’s farm, his family, his home. He waved and set his horse at a trot. That first time on this trail, his heart had sung with pride, for father had entrusted him with a great responsibility for a lad of nine; a sack of corn to take to the mill. Halfway there lay the Jackson place, and he had looked forward to showing off for Amanda, the girl on whom he had a budding crush.

Here it was. The forest had reclaimed the Jackson homestead, but he could see it in his mind’s eye as it had been that day. Beckwourth dismounted and picked a bouquet of wildflowers. He walked toward the ruins of the home, remembering the pungent smell of the smoldering log cabin. This was the spot. This was where he had first seen them: the lifeless bodies of eight children, an infant the youngest, the oldest fourteen, and their parents, strewn about where they had fallen, wounds fresh, blood pooling. A few steps now, and he was where he had found Amanda, her face turned toward him. A knot formed in his throat and his vision blurred. Only an inhuman being would kill such an innocent child. And only the most perverse savage would scalp her, would consider her soft blond hair a trophy to be flaunted, an emblem of pride and revenge. Fright and alarm had struck him so hard that day that he had no recollection of how he got home, no recall of what he did with the sack of corn. Mother, still alive then, had comforted him, while Father had quickly gathered men and pursued the Indians. These were backwoodsmen who had adopted many Indian ways. They knew how to track the enemy, and when they found them, they took no prisoners. Theirs was an Old Testament sense of justice. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. And a scalp for a scalp.

Beckwourth laid the flowers where he had found Amanda’s crumpled body.

Chapter 3

“I believe I am just the sort of fellow you are looking for, General, sir.” Beckwourth leaned on his rifle, as if to emphasize his familiarity with it.

Mackinaw boats were being loaded for the expedition; open, shallow-drafting boats with a platform on the back. Ashley put his boot on a barrel, rested his elbow on his knee and examined Beckwourth.

“Could be. You look like a sturdy fellow.” He had been appointed his rank in the War of 1812, and the title still stuck now after more than a decade of civilian life.

“I am good with a rifle, and a good tracker,” said Beckwourth.

“I hear you near finished a blacksmithing apprenticeship. Tell me about that.”

“I can shoe a horse or repair a beaver trap, if that is what you mean.”

“I mean, how did that come to such an abrupt end?”

“I get along fine with everyone, as long as they don’t abuse my good nature.”

“Hm. Well, Beckwourth, I can use another pair of hands on this little expedition. But make no mistake, I maintain military discipline.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Your duties will be hunting, blacksmithing, and chores around camp. Pay is three hundred dollars for the season.”

“Pay, sir? I thought the pay was half the pelts we catch.”

Ashley frowned. “That’s not what I’m offering you.”

Beckwourth flinched. The pay was trifling compared to half the take from pelts. “I can do twice the job of any other greenhorn you hire, sir.”

“Let me be blunt then, Beckwourth. I know you,” said Ashley. “Or I know of you. Pointed a gun at a white man.”

Beckwourth was crestfallen but struggled not to show it. He quickly recalibrated his position. Ashley was much like his father; a patrician slave owner from Virginia. Such a man held nothing in higher regard this side of heaven than his own word.

“I can earn your trust, sir. If I sign on for pay, will you give me a chance to earn partnership?”

“You have your own horse?” Ashley asked.

“I have a good horse, sir. My own gun and my own ammunition.”

“I make no promises. We leave Monday.”

When Monday came, his horse was packed with a blanket and a few blacksmith tools. Across one shoulder was his powder horn, on the other was his ‘possibles’ kit: a leather case containing an awl for repairing leather clothing, flint, a handle-like steel bar for striking it to spark a fire, a pliers-like bullet mold, and a surgeon’s lancet for removing bullets. Then there was his shooting bag, which contained everything needed to load, fire, and clean his gun, including a hollow antler point that he knew from long practice would measure out just the right amount of gunpowder, and beeswax for wet days. On his saddle pommel hung a hatchet. In his belt was a knife, long enough to reach the heart of a bear, should he ever have the misfortune to need it for that purpose. On the other side of his belt went his pistol. There was little room for non-essentials, but tucked inside the ‘possibles’ kit was the waterproofed leather envelope that had previously held his papers. Now it held a thin volume from his father’s library; a biography of ancient Greeks and Romans.

They followed on horseback as the boats were laboriously poled and roped up the Missouri River. The plan was to continue that way as far as Fort Atkinson, where they would head west along the Platte River for much of its length, ultimately heading north into the foothills and mountains. The territory beyond the headwaters of the Platte were largely unknown, but one of Ashley’s men from the 1823 expedition was to meet them at Fort Atkinson after having traversed it from the opposite direction. It was risky, but the Arikara were aroused now and threatened traffic on the upper Missouri. Besides, the American Fur Company already had posts on the lower Missouri where they traded with the tribes. Ashley’s plan was to avoid the expense of building a fortified post and instead have his men do the trapping, wandering from stream to stream. And to motivate them, he would split the profits with them. They would also rendezvous with the 1823 men who had remained and obtain their furs. Then, after the rendezvous, each man would decide if he wanted to head back to “the settlements” or continue their adventures, to rendezvous again the following year. Beckwourth planned to return to Eliza, rich or not, but better rich.

He swung up on his steed, rifle cradled in his arm, and kissed the coin that hung around his neck, minted in the year of his birth. Tucking it into his woolen shirt, he was off; one of twenty-nine of Ashley’s men, on an exciting journey into the unknown.

At Fort Atkinson they unloaded the boats and enjoyed their last taste of whiskey for as long as they might be out. Bracken, the 1823 man, had arrived before them. All was going according to plan. Then one fair autumn day they pulled out, heading west along the Platte River. The next stop was to be an Osage village a couple weeks upstream, where they would trade iron goods and beads and such for horses.

They headed up the Platte. The river was spread out over hundreds of yards; dozens of interlaced streams separated by shifting sandbars, its brackish water supporting only stunted brush. Ashley had indeed scraped together a rough lot for this expedition. Only three had much experience in the mountains. One, “Black Harris” was a surly fellow of uncertain ethnicity. The second was Bracken, an energetic Irishman, who largely ignored Beckwourth. The third veteran was Caleb Greenwood, an intelligent fellow with a great sense of humor. Nights around the campfire Greenwood taught Beckwourth and the others sign language. He described how tribes that could not understand a word of each other’s spoken language would ‘listen’ to sign for hours in total silence except for gasps of disbelief or laughter at a joke told only with deft hand motions. Beckwourth had a knack for languages, being already fluent in Spanish and French, and he picked up sign quickly. Greenwood also taught them some words of the Crow tribe’s language, and the ways of Indian maidens, for he had a Crow wife. “She took the disagreeable streak right out of me,” he liked to say.

A greenhorn named Pappen was friendly. One evening around the fire, he asked Greenwood how he had come by his wife.

“Well, they just sort of come with the trapping business,” Greenwood mused. “Just keep this in mind. If you are ever offered a gift by an Indian, take it. You refuse a gift at your own peril. And the bigger the gift, the greater the peril.”

Greenwood figured out by Beckwourth’s manner of speech that he had some education. When he learned that Beckwourth had packed a book, he inveigled a reading of it. Around the campfire one evening, Beckwourth read them a passage from Caesar’s campaign against the Gallic tribes, complete with grand theatrical gestures.

“Tribes like Indians?” asked Bracken.

“They were barbarians, they say,” said Beckwourth.

“I never heard of no Gaelic tribes,” said Bracken. “Weren’t no Irish Injuns.”

“No, no, my good man,” said Beckwourth, suppressing a smirk. “The Gauls were in France. And they were not Indians either.”

Bracken looked daggers at Beckwourth. There was a tense silence.

“Anyhow,” Greenwood offered, “Indians don’t fight nothin’ like that, pitched battles and all. Every Injun is out to prove his bravery first and kill you second. If he can touch you in battle with his coup stick while you still got breath in you, well, he will tell about that for the rest of his life.”

The next morning, Bracken approached Beckwourth with his horse. “Here. Needs a new shoe,” he said.

Beckwourth examined the hoof in question.

“The shoe is fine,” he said.

“No, it’s not. Change it.”

Beckwourth sized up the man. “It’s your eyesight needs fixing.”

“You refusing?”

“What if I do?”

“I hear you pulled a gun on a white man.”

“Your hearing is better than your eyesight.”

“You pull a gun on me, Beckwourth, and you had best use it. You won’t have any time to just wave it in the air.”

“I will remember that.”

“So, I want my horse back in half an hour with a new shoe. Right?’

Beckwourth lacked a good option. “Half hour. Sure.”

“That’s better,” said Bracken. He leaned in. “You watch yourself, Beckwourth.”

“I will. And you do the same.”

“Anybody who enjoys a good adventure yarn packed full of interesting and often charismatic characters will fully enjoy this”

— Wishing Shelf Review

“Absaroka War Chief catapults the reader from the onset into a mysteriously different time and world about which little is known and recorded today... Historical fiction at its finest”

— Amazon Review

“I liken this novel to Amy Harmon’s “Where the Lost Wander”, as both novels are absorbing and filled with wild west history... If you enjoy novels that provide true insights of the culture and history in the story line’s backdrop, you will be rewarded”

— Amazon Review

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Bryan Ney

BOOK TITLE: Absaroka War Chief

GENRE: Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 268

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