Mountain Man John Colter Pt 2: Better to Travel Together

The riders came on without breaking stride, spreading just enough to take the ground in front of him. They descended in a loose line, not rushed but not cautious either, riding with the kind of control that came from long habit in the saddle. Their horses were small and hard, built for distance, heads low as they moved across the slope. The men sat easy in their seats, weight balanced, hands light on the reins as they let the animals pick their way forward.

The one in the center reached Colter first and drew his horse up short a few paces off. He was older than the others, his face cut deep with lines that ran from the corners of his eyes down along his cheeks. His hair was drawn back and bound, streaked with gray, a single feather worked into it. A strip of red cloth hung from it, faded from long wear. His eyes stayed on Colter, steady and without hurry.

He wore a buckskin shirt worked with porcupine quills across the shoulders, the pattern tight and deliberate. A knife rode at his belt, the handle polished smooth. 

Two younger men flanked him, one to either side, holding back just enough to keep space between them. They were built lean and hard, their faces still carrying some of the sharpness of youth. One had a line of black paint drawn across his eyes, the mark clean and straight. The other wore his hair loose, falling along his shoulders, a necklace of bone and claw resting against his chest. They wore a mix of buckskin and cloth, patched and mended where needed. One wore a blue wool coat cut short at the waist, the edges frayed. Both carried bows, short and recurved, with quivers slung at their backs. 

Colter kept still as the two groups stared each other down. He raised one hand slowly, palm out, then touched his chest. He added the word friend in Flathead. 

The older man shook his head and said something then, a short phrase Colter didn’t understand. The tone was flat, not a challenge, not yet. 

One of the younger riders shifted slightly in his saddle at the sound of it. He leaned forward just enough to see Colter more clearly, his eyes narrowing for a moment before something in his face eased.

“Koltar,” he said. “Is that you? We’ve been expecting you for three days!” 

His English was rough, but clear. He tilted his head.

“Where is your horse Koltar?”

Colter smiled faintly. “Good to see you too, Charlie. You know I move better on foot.”

Charlie Broken Hand gave a soft whistle and shook his head.

“You keep old friends waiting that way. We will fix that.”

Charlie Broken Hand let out a short breath that might have been a laugh and said something quick to the older man in Flathead. He gestured upslope with a turn of his chin.

“Come on. Camp’s just over the rise.”

They settled near one of the fires as the last light slipped off the ridge and the cold came in behind it. A woman brought a wooden bowl and set it handed it to him without a word, the meat still warm and slick with grease. Colter nodded his thanks and took a piece, eating slowly while the camp shifted around them, men moving through the firelight, voices low, the rhythm of the place settling for the night.

Charlie smiled, a quiet satisfaction in it. “I shot that rabbit myself, Koltar.” He said the name slow, the sound thick on his tongue like coal tar.

“Thanks, Charlie.”

Colter took another piece. It was tender and perfectly seasoned. Much better than anything he’d eaten on the trail. He couldn’t help but smile. After a moment he noticed Charlie hadn’t taken anything for himself. The bowl sat between them, but Charlie’s hands were empty.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Colter asked.

Charlie shook his head and leaned back slightly, resting his hands on his knees. “No. I’m good. You’re our guest. Eat.” He gave a small nod, like that settled it.

Colter didn’t argue. He kept eating, though slower now, aware of the eyes moving through the firelight, the quiet rhythm of the camp folding in around them.

After a while he said, “I saw a small herd of buffalo west of here moving in this direction. Can’t be more than a few hours ride.”

Charlie looked up at that, the smile returning, easier this time. He glanced past Colter toward the dark beyond the fire, as if he could already see them.

“That’s great news Koltar,” he said.

He shifted, drawing one knee up, and poked at the fire with a stick, sending a small drift of sparks up into the night. “We’re still waiting on the Crow to get here,” he went on.” His voice carried less ease in it now. “We head east up the Madison when they arrive with our families.

He let the stick rest across his knee, his eyes still on the fire.

“Our scouts tell us there are Blackfeet nearby,” he said after a moment. “More than there should be this time of year.”

The words hung there. Around them, the camp moved quietly, a few men passing through the edge of the firelight, voices low and indistinct.

“Better to travel together,” Charlie added.

He set the stick aside and stood, brushing his hands against his legs. The smile came back. He clapped Colter once on the shoulder. “Yes, better to travel together Koltar.”

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow we eat better than rabbit.”

Charlie turned and moved off into the dark, leaving Colter by the fire with the last of the meat and the low crackle of the coals settling in.

Colter sat there a while longer, listening as the camp eased toward rest. When he finished eating he set the bowl aside and reached into his bag, drawing out a small piece of wood he had cut earlier in the day. He turned it once in his hands, feeling its weight, then took out his knife and set the blade against it.

He worked it slow and steady, shaving thin curls from the wood and letting them fall into the dirt at his feet. The shape came on its own, not planned, the figure emerging a little at a time beneath his hands. He smoothed the edges with his thumb, then set the knife again, refining it where it needed it and leaving it alone where it did not.

The fire burned lower as he worked, the voices around him fading one by one until there was only the soft crack of the coals and the quiet sound of the blade moving through the wood.