The Trapper’s Lesson
The clouds above swirled like dancehall girls showing off their legs beneath frilly dresses in a jig of white undergarments. Seeing shapes in the clouds was a child’s game, but the trapper had the time and inclination to indulge himself. It was early afternoon, and he’d finished his chores for the day. He lay on his back in a sloping field of tall grass, basking his old bones in the warmth of the spring sun.
The clouds told him which way the wind blew and when it might rain, but they also presented him with a mystery: you can see clouds, but like ghosts, you can’t touch them. They’re like the dreams of the earth; only when it rains does the soil remember they’re there.
He cackled to himself. Ruminating on the nature of nature was like spitting with the wind at your back: it just kept going and going without ever returning. He never needed answers, anyway; he just liked discovering new questions. One day, when he could find the time, he’d write them all down in a ledger.
Of course, he didn’t have a ledger or even a pencil. He owned only what he needed to survive, and he stored his meager possessions in the log-frame cabin he’d built himself. His most treasured possession was his freedom. He answered to no man.
Birds laughed in the distance, reveling in their own freedom. The trapper’s lips stretched into a sated grin. Here was the reason he left the infantry, the towns, and the rotting stench of humanity behind. He didn’t need their so-called civilized ways, so long as he could have this simple hillside on a sunny afternoon.
For twenty years, he’d lived on this mountain. By day, the sun warmed the grass and drew the scents from the meadow flowers. By night, the sky opened up to the stars, shining with a brilliance that made them seem a mere outstretched hand away. When the weather cooperated, this hillside became his favorite place. The smell of the grass, the feel of the sun, the games in the clouds. And no one else for miles.
The trapper raised himself up on his elbows. Stretched out below lay a valley of green plains and wooded hills. A small river meandered through. That river and the fertile land had fed him, clothed him, even made him fat for a couple years.
But when the first settlers arrived, he lit out for the mountain. He watched as one house after another sprouted in the valley below. He saw the woodlands shrink and the first roads appear. He was smart enough to know the valley was doomed. The trees that offered shade and home to owls and raccoons would become the building blocks of a pitiable little town. The river, now fresh and full of life, would eventually turn brown with human waste.
These days, he returned to the valley just once a year, to sell his furs and tell his tales. They called him crazy, but he kept them off of his mountain with stories of Indians and grizzly bears, some of which were even true.
His mule Tangerine snorted nearby. He’d named her after an exotic fruit he’d once tasted on an Army excursion into Florida. “What’s the matter, girl? Do we have company?” He bounced up into a crouch, scooping up his rifle. Even here, he knew to be on guard. He scanned the shadows of the far trees, but saw no movement. He listened and sniffed the air. Through the freshly blooming flowers, he caught the scent of bear. Even Tangerine seemed wary. Her long ears were up and searching for a sound.
The trapper grabbed his mule’s lead and coaxed her toward the trees nearby, away from the bear. She didn’t resist. After they reached safety a few yards into the wood, he stroked her nose bridge and whispered for her to stay quiet. He wrapped the lead around a low branch, then double-backed to the edge of the field. He took shelter behind a spruce and raised his rifle. He was downwind, so the bear likely hadn’t caught his scent.
His sight line darted from shadow to shadow. As the sun began to slant toward the mountain’s crest, the woods beyond the clearing darkened. He could take down a 300-pound bear with one well-placed shot. He’d done it before. Their coats were thick and warm and fetched a pretty penny.
At the far edge of the clearing, he saw movement and aimed for it. The head and back of a small bear came into view, low in the high grass. A cub meant the mother wasn’t far behind, and the mama bear was his target. He spotted movement in the shadows thirty feet away on the left. The mother. He aimed at the movement, waiting for her to appear. Then he noticed movement thirty feet away to the right of the cub. Another cub? Or something else?
The trapper lowered his gun. The small bear suddenly stopped moving, something no bear would ever do. It’s a clever Indian trick, though. One brave draws attention while his friends move in unnoticed.
He began to back into the woods, but then stopped himself. What were they up to? Why sneak around on the mountain they shared? His Indian friends mostly kept to themselves, but they weren’t sneaky about it. He crouched low and waited, barely breathing. He was in no immediate danger—he was still downwind—but now he was curious.
A bearskin-covered Indian stood upright, arms extended to the sky, and gave a short shrill cry. Two others appeared from the shadows. Their war vests revealed their tribe: Sioux!
The trapper didn’t know much about the Sioux. He knew no white man had ever befriended one. They were a warrior tribe dedicated to protecting their lands. They lived on the plains to the north, hunting buffalo and wreaking havoc on the white settlements there. The trapper felt a pang of sympathy; protecting their way of life was a lost cause with settlers moving farther and farther west every year.
The Sioux rarely ventured this far south, except to cause trouble, yet their ferocity was renowned, even here. A fellow soldier once told him that Sioux go on the war path not because they needed food for their families or because they wanted new territory—land ownership being a concept no Indian understood—but to prove their manhood, to pass a test. If a Sioux brave had a feather tied in his hair, that brave has killed a man with his bare hands. So they said.
He squinted into the open field at the five Sioux braves who’d emerged from the wood. They didn’t appear dangerous. They jostled each other in innocent camaraderie. They were just boys; he guessed 15 or 16. All but one wore a feather in his hair. These were the first flesh-and-blood Sioux the trapper had ever laid eyes on. He maintained a line of sight through the trees as he backed away. He retraced his steps to where Tangerine waited, untied the mule’s lead, and got her to follow. Maybe she sensed the danger too.
Behind him, he heard a sharp whistle. An icy finger traced a path up his spine. He realized they’d found the spot where he’d lain. The grass was probably still warm. They’d reconnoiter the area, find his tracks, and be after him. They’d want his mule, his furs, … and likely his scalp. His only advantage was his knowledge of the mountain. He quickened his pace; the Sioux were rumored to be excellent trackers.
The passage through the woods left him breathing hard, in spite of his best efforts to stay calm and quiet. He regularly checked the wind direction, the path ahead, and the view behind. He scrambled off the path and over the rocks, trying to hide his trail. He found the lonely Watershed Creek and followed it upstream. Tangerine wasn’t pleased, but he hushed her and kept her moving. He felt safer as he put distance between them and the savages.
He finally made it to Noble Rock, about fifty yards beneath his cabin. He realized he couldn’t keep ahead of the Sioux with Tangerine in tow. After he caught his breath, he whispered a farewell into her ear, urging her to get home to safety. Then he smacked her on the backside, sending her running up the slope, toward the shack he called home. He was certain she’d find the way. He wasn’t certain she’d be any safer there. He brushed the thought and her tracks away, then turned downhill and scurried along, leaving a trail the size of a stagecoach. It wasn’t much, he thought, but it was all he could do for her.
He scrambled down the slope about twenty yards, then cut behind a stand of oak. Staying low, he turned to peer back uphill. The trail he left looked too easy to spot, but maybe the Sioux would think him a nervous white man and take the bait. Indians weren’t stupid, but they could be misled.
He leaned his rifle against a trunk and unsheathed his knife. After cutting a strip off his wool shirt, he frayed the edges. Then he nicked the back of his arm enough to draw blood and rubbed the cloth into the wound. Perfect. He ripped a rough strip and placed it on the branch of a nearby tree so it looked like it had been torn away. The trapper hadn’t lived all these years without picking up some Indian tricks of his own. He smiled at his cleverness.
He returned to collect his rifle and was about to leave when he heard voices—Indian voices. Too late! He took a breath to steady himself. He’d seen worse situations than this, he told himself. He crept to the opposite edge of the tree stand, lay prone, and took aim. His sightline danced along the ridgeline around Noble Rock, waiting for a target.
He distinguished four of the Sioux braves by the feathers they wore. They popped up here and there along the ridge like anxious turkeys. It sounded like they were arguing, in their way.
He recognized that he was in an unfavorable position for a gunfight. A plan took shape. If he could hit one with a well-placed shot, they’d scatter, and he might be able to get away while they worked their way around to his stand of trees.
But he needed to get off an accurate shot. With the sun beginning to sink and the leafy trees blocking what little light remained, he’d need some luck. He relaxed the rifle into his shoulder and clicked back the firing rod. He slowed his breathing and waited. One of them had to peer over the ridge. One of them had to take a look. It’s what he needed to get his shot.
The bobbing Indian feathers disappeared. Sweat stuck to the trapper’s brow like sap from a spruce.
Then a face appeared over the ridge—low, but visible. The trapper adjusted his aim deftly and pulled the trigger. BLAM! The recoil helped him fall back behind the trees; he didn’t try to fight it or control it, he just let it carry him.
He heard shouting, but wasn’t sure if he’d hit his target. He found a heavy stone and heaved it to his right, near the path. It landed with a thud, followed by the fire of Sioux rifles.
No time to lose. The Sioux were already on their way to surround him. He leapt downhill, keeping the stand of trees between his back and Noble Rock. For the first half-mile, he ran with the energy of a frightened deer. When the slope leveled off, he headed west, toward the setting sun, into the thick wood on the opposite side of the mountain. If he could swing around and then climb back up on the western rise, he’d stand a chance. He knew of a spot that offered shelter and an advantageous sightline. If he could get to it in time.
He heard little behind him., but he knew they were on his trail. Even if he’d killed or wounded one of them, the Sioux weren’t known as caregivers. If one of their own were dead or wounded, they’d leave him for later.
The trapper kept moving through the uneven terrain, thick with virgin shrub between the hardwood trees. Neither man nor beast had come this way before. He had to pick his spots with skill to avoid finding himself at a dead-end grove of ash.
He cursed himself for forgetting the machete packed on Tangerine’s back. Of course, he wished he could’ve taken her as well. They were an indestructible pair together. Between his experience and the supplies she carried, they could last for days, weeks if necessary, on their own. Without her, he had to rely on his wits and the little he carried. Still, he liked those odds.
Sunlight disappeared, but he pressed on, stumbling for a while, looking for a familiar landmark, listening intently whenever he paused to catch his breath. His eyes, but not his imagination, gradually grew accustomed to the darkness. Shadowy figures leaped out at him from behind trees. Hungry wolves, wet mouths baring sharp teeth, crouched behind every rock. Rattlers and copperheads waited to spring from every crevice.
He reloaded his gun during one of his infrequent breaks and held it at the ready. One carefully placed shot could bring down a bear, stop a wolf in midleap, or skewer a rattler. He couldn’t repel four Indians at once, but a good shot could buy him time to continue his escape.
In the darkness, he feared straying too far from the mountain. When he figured he’d traveled a good mile or so from Noble Rock, he stopped to rest on a fallen tree trunk. As his breathing slowed, he listened for sounds in the wilderness. An owl hooted nearby, searching for a meal of field mice. A wolf howled in the distance, but the trapper placed the animal a couple miles farther west, not the direction he was heading.
Then he felt—felt more than heard—a swish of something fly past his ear. An arrow? He ducked, fell really, behind the log, his rifle swung around to face the direction the arrow came from. He stopped breathing and listened. Nothing. He smelled the air. Nothing. Away from the mountain he knew so well, he felt unprotected and as alone as never before.
He pulled off his ragged fur cap and placed it on the fallen trunk above his head and crawled away, careful not to snap a twig. After slithering about twenty feet away, he sidled up behind a great oak. He readied his rifle and waited. He could play the Indians’ game, chopping their number down one by one until they were all dead.
He smiled to himself. The townsfolk thought he was crazy, but they didn’t mess with him. Nobody ever got in his way. Nobody ever cheated him. Not the crazy trapper with nothing to lose but his own skin … which wasn’t worth much anyway. He knew it, and he knew they knew it.
A sudden soft sound brought his attention to bear on his target. He focused on his fur cap, set his sight just above and to the left of it. He would shoot for the heart of anyone or anything that approached. He clicked back the firing rod of his rifle and waited.
Off in the distance, the wolf howled again, maybe looking for a mate.
The trapper wiped his brow and leaned against the tree, lowering his rifle. He needed to continue his trek away from the Sioux. He was certain they were tracking him, especially since he hadn’t been so careful in his retreat.
He released the firing rod with a faint click, waited a moment more, then crawled on his belly back to the fallen trunk. Crouched behind it, he reached up and pulled his cap back down. After a brief inspection for biting insects, he pushed it back on his head. He started to crawl from the log when he heard it again—the soft whoosh of an arrow. He was sure of it! Keeping low, he made it to the safety of the oak without worrying about the noise he made. He crouched behind the tree and raised his rifle again, but he didn’t linger. They knew where he was. He had to run. Again.
He gathered his wits and began to make his way away from the oak that served as his protection. Using all his cunning, he crept further into the darkness of the forest. He didn’t look back—he wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway—but he kept an ear cocked.
He twisted his way back toward where he thought his mountain should be. Once he’d gained enough distance, he ran through the scrub without worrying about the noise he made. He felt fear for the first time in years. He’d heard what the Sioux did to white men they captured. That kept him moving forward, past exhaustion, past hunger, past hope.
Finally, he stopped to catch his breath again. He must have traveled another mile or so. He thought he was headed north, back toward his mountain. But he should’ve been climbing by now. He dug around in his pockets for his compass, got his bearings, and headed east, back toward his mountain. He listened to the wind, but heard nothing past his own breathing. Even the birds were still. That meant either he had lost the Indians or …
At that moment, a clap of thunder sounded above him. A few more rumbles, and then the rain began.
The trapper frowned, then smiled. The rain would aid his escape! He pulled himself to his feet and marched forward, eagerly seeking the mountain he knew should be just ahead. Branches pulled at his clothes; thorns stuck to his rawhide boots.
The rain soon soaked him to his skin. Without his cabin or his mule, he was at the mercy of the elements. How could this happen to him? How could a trapper as experienced as he be lost? He knew these hills backward and forward, didn’t he? He knew every creek, every hill, and every rock on his mountain, didn’t he? Didn’t he?
He searched for some shelter, but found none. He decided to build a lean-to. He had no rope, but used his buck knife and his hands to fashion vines and twigs into makeshift rope. Lashing dense brush to solid branches, he managed to create a shelter of sorts out of the wilderness around him. By the time he finished, his hands ached with cuts and cold. He fell into the lean-to and curled into a ball, hoping the structure would protect him and hide him at the same time.
He had no one but himself to rely on. That was usually the way he liked it, but he suddenly realized then the value of friendship. He recognized at that moment what another pair of ears and eyes could mean, what another pair of hands could do, what another mind could conjure…
He laughed at himself. He was nothing but an old fool. How had this happened to him—he who could control of his own destiny, he who never let anyone or anything stop him from doing whatever he wanted? Was his fate to die in the wilderness he loved so much?
He clamped his eyes shut against the night, the rain, and the wind. Soaked through and shivering, he tried and failed to control his ragged breathing. He wasn’t a spiritual man, and he didn’t plan to start now, but he recognized his deteriorating condition. Making his body as compact as possible, he distracted himself by focusing on his childhood so long ago. It wasn’t a happy time, but he always felt safe. His father drank, but at least he taught his boy to shoot straight, and that six-shooter protected him from the demon his father became almost every night…
When he opened his eyes again, the rain had stopped and the darkness that surrounded him had brightened somewhat into predawn. He must have fallen asleep.
He pulled himself out of the lean-to and sneezed. He needed a warm place and dry clothes. He managed to stand, but his legs had gone all wobbly. He took a few heavy steps, then fell to his knees. He found jerky in a pocket and nibbled on some, which gave him some strength, so he pulled himself to his feet.
The birds began their morning songs. He took out his compass and faced east. Just ahead, he noticed the forest floor began to rise.
After/Thought Literary 