The Old Mountain Man Laments

In his twilight years, Sam Potter remembers his adventures as a Mountain Man and how he met his wife, Shirley.

The “Tales From Wyoming” are a collection of interconnected short stories of the Pioneers and the Old West. Each story combines some fiction with some legend with a liberal dose of real history. The stories are standalone adventures.

This story continues the romance between Morgan and Abigail. Check out the entire collection here:

“Happy 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 Thorne’s 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 Sam’s 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 didn’t 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 surveyor — whatever that was.

“Here,” Morgan said, and passed a glass containing two fingers of whiskey to Sam. Morgan was Abigail’s 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 Ezra’s death, but Sam wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 Frémont 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 Rockies — South 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, I’ve said his name. Perhaps the specter would leave him now. “Anyway, ole John Frémont 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 Frémont Peak like no one else had ever been up there. Of course, that wasn’t 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 wouldn’t inherit the farm, and the baby was my mother’s 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.” Sam continued his narrative for a time as he ate his cake.

“That is impressive,” Morgan said, when Sam paused. “I didn’t know the keelboats went upstream. I thought they only went downstream.”

Sam ate the final bite of birthday cake. He washed the sweetness down with a sip of bitter whiskey. He contemplated Morgan for a moment. He didn’t know the man well, but he liked Morgan. With the onset of winter, Sam and Shirley had invited Abigail and Ben to live with them in the rooms behind the General Store. The tiny cabin they had been using was so drafty a mountain of firewood would not keep it warm. Thus, with Abigail living under his roof, Sam had to accept the visits from Morgan.

“Son, it’s gonna be a cold night,” Sam said, as he poured another two fingers of whiskey in Morgan’s glass. “Why don’t ya stay the night?” Recalling how cold he had been those winters in the mountains, he saw no reason to force Morgan to ride back to Atlantic City in the cold night.

Morgan glanced at Abigail, but she displayed no reaction.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter, I believe I will take you up on that offer,” Morgan replied. “But, can you tell me more about Fort Union?”

“In answer to your question, in those old days, the keelboats went both ways. There weren’t many steamboats that could make the trip up the Missouri River. The first steamboat on the Missouri got as far as what is now Omaha in 1819, but it took them longer to make that trip than I spent in the keelboat to get to Fort Union. In the later years, say 1845 or a bit later, there were some steamboats on the Missouri reaching all the way to Fort Union, but the keelboats were still the primary means to get the hides downstream.”

“What about Indians, Mr. Potter?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, yes, there were lots of Indians. They considered us to be a comical troupe. Not at all hostile, they often helped to pull the rope to drag the boat. While friendly enough, they were a thieving lot. They knew nothing about the Ten Commandments and stealing was not a sin for them. Anything ya laid down was fair game to them. Once we did encounter a troubling tribe. This chief wanted to charge us a toll to proceed.”

“They spoke English?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, no, but we had an Indian guide with us. He only knew a few words spoken by this specific tribe, but with some pantomime gestures their meaning was clear. Captain Farling, commander of our flotilla, brought a hundred men from our boats — some with rifles and all of us were carrying knives. Captain Farling smiled and gave the Chief an iron hatchet.” Sam chuckled. “Well, that chief looked us over. Then he laughed and accepted the gift. No more was said about a toll.” Sam drew a swig from his whiskey glass. “Of course, years later most all the Indians turned hostile.”

“So, you stayed in Fort Union and became a fur trapper?” Morgan asked.

“That is the way it worked out. Karl and I each drew twenty dollars and an extra five as our share of the profits from selling the cargo. We pooled our money and bought rifles, traps, and heavy winter clothes. There was already snow on the ground when we arrived in Fort Union, so we were in a bit of a hurry to get into the mountains. We met up with Kit Carson and a few others, and for the next six years we worked those Rocky Mountains from here at South Pass to the Canadian border.”

“That would be, uh, 1845? What happened then?” Morgan asked.

“That’s when he met me,” Shirley Potter answered for her husband.

“You were in Fort Union too?” Abigail exclaimed.

“No, I didn’t get that far upriver. You see, I was the governess for the five children of a lord and his lady from England. We traveled to America to hunt the big game animals of the West. Lord Gifford, that was his name, had already filled his manor with the heads of animals from Africa. This was long before the railroad trains. We traveled by steamboat up the Missouri River to what is now called Omaha. This is where we met Mr. Potter and his friend, One-Eye Jack.”

Sam chuckled. “Indeed, those were the good ole days. His name was really Charles Dubois, and he had two eyes, but — ”

“He had the annoying habit,” Shirley interrupted, “of squinting his right eye nearly closed and causing his left eye to bug outward when he talked.”

The two looked at each other as though they were sharing a secret. Sam swallowed the lump which had formed in his throat. The memory was not a pleasant one.

✽✽✽

Continue reading the adventures of Sam and Shirley in A Mountain Man.

✽✽✽

Abigail exclaimed, “That’s an incredible story! Is that how you two really met?”

“Indeed,” Shirley Potter answered. “Sam took me to Fort Randall. After a few days we hitched a ride on a keelboat. As we passed the mouth of the Niobrara River, the riverboat was gone.”

“But, we found it docked in Council Bluffs,” Sam said, picking up the narrative. “Captain Hampton told us they had seen Charlies body. They had snagged it out of the river and buried it. Lord Gifford and Patrick made several trips into the wilderness looking for us and Juliette, but they found no sign of the Indians. I doubt Lord Gifford knew what he was looking for.” Sam didn’t add that Charlie’s body had been entangled with that of an Indian. Sam had been glad to hear Charlie gave as good as he got. The Indian had captured his trophy, but it had cost him three braves.

Everyone was quiet for a long moment, and then Shirley said what they were all thinking. “Lord and Lady Gifford hastily returned to England never knowing what had happened to their daughter. Joe had suggested she had been killed, and it was probably best they were left with this notion.”

Morgan nodded. “Yes, that would have been best.”

Abigail said, “Didn’t anyone call upon the Army to search for her?”

Shirley patted the young woman’s shoulder. “Dear, this was in the days long before there were any settlers in the Indian Territory. There was no Army, or any law and order.

“Do you think she survived?” Abigail asked.

Sam answered, “I’m sure the Indians raised her as one of their own. After a time, she probably forgot where she had come from. A lot of women and children were killed along with the braves during the Indian Wars, and life as an Indian has always been a hard existence. Thus, it’s unlikely she is still alive.” He sighed. “Anyway, Joe had saved my kit. It still contained the money we earned from selling the hides. Joe gave me Charlie’s kit too. So, Shirley and I had quite a bit of money.”

“We got married, and…” Shirley smiled, but didn’t add that nine months later their eldest son had been born.

Abigail asked, “But, did you ever get back together with Karl? And how did you get to Wyoming?”

Sam chuckled and a faraway look shaded his eyes. “It’s late and I’m a tired old man. That tale will have to wait for another day.” He rose from the table and turned away from his guests. The soft voice of little Juliette was playing in his mind. He was thinking about how much he had enjoyed talking with her. He prayed she had found happiness in her life. Tears welled in his eyes as he walked toward the bedroom.

“Abigail,” Shirley said, “please get some bedding and fix up the couch for Mr. Sandburg.”

Sam turned in time to see his wife give the young woman a sly wink. He chuckled and went to bed.

Sam’s story continues with The Old Mountain Man Tells Another Story

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

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