Mountain Man John Colter Pt 1: Into the Yellowstone

The Yellowstone river ran high with spring melt as it cut through the valley, its current pushing cold and fast beneath the cottonwoods along the bank. The ground rose gently to the east, rolling up toward a long e that held snow in its shadows even this late in the season. To the west the land opened wide beneath a pale sky, broken by dark timber and the distant movement of animals that drifted across the flats. The river bent and turned through it all, carving a path that had not changed in generations.

Water moved steadily over rock and gravel at the foot of the valley. Somewhere ahead a herd moved along the flats, the sound carried unevenly by the wind slipping through the grass and low branches. The shape of the valley made it hard to judge the distance.

The tracks along the river told a different story. Cloven prints cut into the soft earth near the waterline, then crossed and recrossed the bank. Something heavier had come through as well, the marks pressed deep where it had stepped in the mud before climbing back toward the trees.

John Colter shifted the rifle on his shoulder as he studied the tracks. He followed them along the bank, his moccasined feet quiet against the damp ground. He paused for a moment to listen, letting the valley settle around him as the river moved steadily behind his back and birds worked through the trees above. He was alone in the wilderness. 

Colter removed his moccasins and rolled his trousers before stepping into the river. The current pressed hard against his legs, cold enough to take his breath for a moment as he worked his way across, placing each step carefully against the uneven rock beneath the surface. He kept the rifle high and dry, angled across his shoulder as the water pushed past him and carried downstream. Midway across he paused and turned slightly, looking back along the bank he had just left before continuing on without hurry.

It was another day’s walk to the Three Forks. The Flathead would be there when he arrived. A herd was moving somewhere out on the flats, and it would be worth finding. He would mark the ground, carry the sign with him, and bring them onto it. Meat like that did not go to waste.

He climbed out on the far side and stood for a moment on the gravel bar, letting the water run off before pulling his trousers back down and slipping his moccasins back on his feet. The ground rose gently toward the trees, the tracks cutting a clear line out of the mud and into the shade. He studied them again, then followed, moving off the river and into the timber.

The tracks tightened as he moved into the trees. The edges were still clean where they cut through the damp earth, the impressions deep and recent. Colter slowed his pace and let the ground tell him what it could, following the line as it angled back toward the river.

He heard it before he saw it. Water shifted somewhere ahead, not the steady movement of the current but something heavier working against it. He stopped and stood for a moment, letting the sound settle into place. The trees thinned just enough along the bank to give him a clear line of sight of the water.

A bear stood in the shallows, its back dark against the moving water, head low as it worked along the edge of the current. It moved without hurry, stepping forward, then pausing as it reached into the water. 

Colter watched for a moment, then eased his weight forward.

The bear paused and turned toward him. It rose onto its hind legs, lifting out of the river with a slow, deliberate motion. Water fell from its coat as it stood there, broad and heavy through the shoulders. One ear was gone, the other ragged along the edge, and a long scar ran down the side of its face. The fur along its back was matted and thin in places where old wounds had taken hold. It stared in his direction, then roared.

Colter rested his hand on the rifle for a moment, then let it go. He eased back a step at a time, giving the bank to the animal before slowly turning and moving off through the timber in the opposite direction. He would hunt buffalo another day. 

He angled away from the river and worked his way up through the timber, the ground rising steadily beneath his feet. The trees thinned as he climbed, the undergrowth giving way to open patches of grass and rock that offered longer lines of sight across the valley. He moved without hurry, picking his way along the slope until the ground leveled enough to give him a clear view out over the country below.

From there the valley opened wide beneath him. A band of elk worked the edge of the timber below him, drifting in and out of the trees as they fed, their movement uneven against the darker ground. Farther out on the flats a herd of buffalo moved slow and steady across the open country, a low line pushing through the grass with a faint haze of dust hanging over them in the last light. The Bridger Range held the shadows longer than the rest of the valley, its outline fading as the sun dropped lower. No sign of the grizzly fortunately. 

Colter stood for a moment and read the ground between them, the distance, the wind, and the space where movement would show itself first. Then he lifted his eyes beyond the herd and searched the far side of the valley for anything that did not belong. Something along that edge caught his attention.

A small group of men moved along the edge of the timber. Their horses picked their way across the slope beneath them, stepping carefully over the uneven ground. He traced their route along the ridge and saw the outline of teepees in the distance. Thin lines of smoke drifted into the evening air from their camping fires. These were not men searching or pushing through the country. They were coming home.

He studied them for a moment longer, narrowing his focus as they worked along the ridge. At that distance it was hard to tell what tribe they belonged to. They could have been Flathead. Crow, maybe. He watched their movement and the spacing as they worked across the slope. They could have been Blackfeet, but it did not seem like it. Hopefully not. There was only one way to find out.

He eased back from the rise and dropped into the timber, keeping the slope between himself and the ridge as he worked his way down. The ground fell away steadily beneath his feet, the trees closing in again as the last of the light slipped through the branches. He moved without hurry, angling toward the far side of the valley where the camp sat just beyond the timberline, careful to keep his approach open and visible enough to be seen before he was heard.

Colter stepped out where he could be seen, keeping his hands clear and his pace steady as he closed the distance.

The riders saw him at once. They came down fast across the slope, spreading slightly as they moved to cut him off well short of the camp.

Colter stopped where he stood, letting them come to him. He made no move for the rifle and kept his hands clear as they closed the last of the distance, the sound of hooves carrying through the still air. He said nothing, waiting to see how they would take him. Hopefully these were Crow or Flathead. Or else these next few moments could be his last.

Story continues in part 2: Mountain Man John Colter: The Long Ride East