Mountain Man Escapes Fort Union

April 16, 1848

Fort Union, Northwest Wilderness

The heavy wooden door swung open, allowing the north wind to wreak its cold vengeance upon the log cabin’s interior. Edgar Millar had found the long January nights along the Canadian border to be unbearable. It had been a cold which could leave you frozen and dead, lost until the spring thaw and wild animals found your remains. Although warmer temperatures had accompanied the arrival of spring, the strong wind blowing down from the ice capped Rocky Mountains still chilled him to the bone.

The intruder stood, holding the door open. Edgar squinted as the bright sunlight silhouetted the figure of a man. Edgar opened his mouth to tell the man to close the darn door, but the stranger spoke first.

“Bart’s dead.”

Edgar sucked in a breath. While the cold air stung his nostrils, his sinuses were grateful for the brief reprieve from the stench of the drying buffalo hides.

“What? Dead?”

“Aye, he drowned.” Edgar recognized the voice of Alistair McKinsey, one of the few old-time mountain men still fur trapping.

“Bart drowned? How?”

“He tried to walk across the Yellowstone. The ice gave way.”

During the long winter, both the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers had frozen over, allowing men to walk over them. However, with the early spring the ice covering had thinned and would no longer support the weight of a full grown man.

“What made him do that?” Edgar asked. Bart was a very experienced mountain man not prone to foolish risks.

“Because he was a dern fool.” McKinsey stepped across the threshold and closed the door. “He shot an elk on the other side, and thought he could walk on water.”

Bart Adams had hired Edgar Millar down south, in Independence, Missouri. “Watch my back, boy. Make sure no one stabs me in my sleep,” the burly old mountain man had said.

Edgar had little idea what the man would require of him, but he had been down on his luck and in bad need of a job. Edgar learned later that Adams had just sold his collection of hides and furs. The sale had garnered Bart hundreds of dollars in gold coins which filled a canvas money belt the older man stashed inside his shirt. Adams bartered with several merchants for supplies and trade goods. With their heavy load, the two men had boarded the steamboat bound up the Missouri River to Fort Union.

Located at the junction of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers, Fort Union was the northern most inhabited town in the territories now owned by the United States. With the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, the land drained by the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers had become part of the young North American nation. Upon their arrival in Fort Union, Edgar learned he had been hired to operate the trading post owned by Mr. Adams.

Millar shook the memories from his mind and returned his attention to McKinsey as he continued, “He ain’t been all together since Wyalla died,” McKinsey said of Bart’s state of mind.

Wyalla, Bart’s Indian wife, had caught the fever and died in February. Edgar had observed the steady waning of Bart attention on the business of the trading post, but his lack of sensibility had begun months before Wyalla had died. “The fur trade is dead,” he had said to Edgar in January. “I’m gonna sell out. I’m taking Wyalla south to Texas. Gonna buy a ranch and grow old. You’ll be wise to do the same, but tell no one else.”

John Jacob Astor had founded Fort Union back in 1828, at the height of the fur trade business. Fort Union was a civilian establishment fashioned after a military bastion. In the old days, its cannon protected the American Fur Company headquarters from Indian attack. Now, it was a sanctuary settlement. It was a place where English, French, Americans, and Indians of various tribes could come and go freely despite the changing political winds of their respective homelands. Without regard as to who may be at war with whom, the settlement was currently at peace.

Fort Union had grown from its original 300 square-foot encampment to a town of more than a hundred citizens. These included carpenters, blacksmiths, Jesuit priests, and saloon girls. Unfortunately, civilized fashions had changed and the demand for beaver and other furs had fallen. In 1842 Astor sold the trading post to Bart Adams. Not only a hunter and tracker but also skilled at bargaining, Bart had been able to maintain a good living trading food and supplies for deer and buffalo hides. He had haggled and bargained with the Indians and the few mountain men who remained. As time went by, Bart had seen the end of their business was near. He had wisely decided to quit, but just not soon enough.

“Where is he now? His body?”

“Uh, I expect it’s half way to Independence by now.” McKinsey smirked. He made a motion with his hands indicating that Bart’s body was flowing with the river, under the ice.

Edgar spotted the rifle slung across McKinsey’s back.

“Is that Bart’s Hawken?” Frowning, Edgar extended his hand and waited. The Hawken rifle was valuable. Most mountain men carried a nearly four-foot long Kentucky style rifle. While known for their accuracy, the long rifles were heavy and difficult to reload. Adams owned a newer Plains style rifle produced by the Hawken brothers. This rifle was distinctive in that it was 18 inches shorter.

Adams had no next of kin, thus, Edgar reasoned what Bart had owned was now his to inherit. Edgar had worked for Bart for the past year and they had become trusted friends. He had used his education to work as Bart’s accountant in addition to clerking in the trading post. He had augmented his income with some hunting of his own.

McKinsey licked his lips and adjusted the strap weighing on his shoulder. “Aye, it is.” He made no move to hand it over.

“I’m much obliged to you for bringing it to me.” Edgar stared into the man’s dark eyes. “We were partners, Bart and me. Signed the papers and all,” Edgar lied. However, he imagined that if Bart had ever given the matter a moment’s thought, he would have willed all of his property to Edgar.

“Aye,” McKinsey swallowed, “that’s what I done. I brung it to ye.” He passed the rifle to Edgar.

Examining the weapon, Edgar wondered how it was that Bart Adams had fallen through the ice while his rifle remained high and dry. He thought of what other valuables Bart might have been carrying. Thinking of nothing specific, he did not press the issue with McKinsey further.

“Thank you.”

“So, what will ye be doing now, with all this?” McKinsey swept his arm across the cabin, gesturing to the piles of hides and the stacks of trade goods. Edgar realized the true purpose of the man’s visit. He had probably murdered Bart, or at least hastened his death, with the intention of taking possession of the trading post.

“I reckon, it’s all mine now.” Edgar knew he would be getting rid of as much as he could and taking the hides south on the first steamboat once the ice broke. He would not be coming back, but he was not going to tell Alistair McKinsey that tidbit of information. “I expect that I will be needing to acquire a partner though.” To buy time, Edgar needed to give McKinsey a reason not to murder him as well.

Alistair’s face brightened. “My brother might be interested. He’s not much for the hunting anymore.”

“Hmm, yes, Corbin would be a fine man to take on. Does he have the cash to buy in?”

Edgar reasoned that McKinsey had murdered Bart. The man wanted the trading post for himself, but had not anticipated Edgar’s resistance. With the invitation to become partners, Edgar was forestalling a confrontation with the brothers. They would eventually drive him out or murder him, but they would bide their time. This would allow Edgar to make his departure with Bart Adams’ hidden stash of money.

THE END

This segment introduces Edgar Millar, a protagonist in my book Widow’s Trail.

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Lovers find each other on the Oregon Trail…

Following a hasty marriage of convenience, Gertie joined her husband on the life changing journey to the Oregon Territory. Like the thousands of other pioneers, the newlyweds sought to capture a slice of fertile land in the Willamette Valley for themselves. The promise of a homestead in the temperate climate along the west coast proved to be irresistible. However, the trip was not without peril, and many failed to arrive. As the mind-numbing drudgery of the Trail became the new bride’s daily routine, life dealt Gertie a harsh blow and launched her into a struggle to survive.

After rebelling against his father, Edgar headed west from Pittsburgh. Although trained as a lawyer, he began his travels working as a crewmember aboard riverboats. When he learned of the gold discovered in California, he joined the rush to the west coast. Working as a scout for a wagon train on the Oregon Trail, Edgar found himself responsible for three widows.

The future of these women was uncertain as only men could claim the free Oregon land.

A romantic adventure story, this book is spiced with Indians, shoot-outs, murder, and hangings — along with the dull daily routine of survival on empty American Frontier.

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Copyright ©2023 by S. M. Revolinski All Rights Reserved

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