Henry’s Fork

HENRY’S FORK

ROD SCURLOCK

Smashwords Edition

Henry’s Fork Copyright © 2014 by Rod Scurlock

All rights are reserved, including the right of reproduction.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, businesses, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or they are historical events that are used fictionally. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or events, other than those that are a matter of factual U. S. History, is coincidental.

Edited by Ruth Scurlock

ISBN 978-937703035

Coliseum Publishing

406 S. 3rd St.

Boise, ID 83702

An Imprint of Resilient Publishing

www.resilientpublishing.com

This book is dedicated to our great grandson, Henry Scott Provencio. He is three months old right now, but when he is grown, he will be a leader like the Henry in this book.

Small beginnings do not preclude great achievements.

Go for it, Henry!

I would like to give special thanks to my wife, Ruth, for her invaluable editing.

Chapter 1

The two dots in the distance were barely discernible. Heat waves coming in over the water made them disappear entirely, at times. Henry Scott lifted his long frame off the river bank where he had been sitting and walked over to the shade of the large oak tree. He lowered himself down to the ground at the base of the tree and leaned back against the trunk. The dots in the river were still visible, and he watched them grow bigger as they approached.

A man in each canoe expertly maneuvered his craft onto the beach in front of Henry. He could tell that they were trappers by their fringed buckskin clothing, plus having a canoe full of beaver skins in the front of each boat. The two men beached the canoes and climbed out onto the ground.

The trapper from the nearest canoe looked over to Henry. The tall young man had bright-blue eyes, a thatch of light-brown hair, and a ready grin. He looked to be a dependable type. Son, are you going to be here for a spell?

Depends.

We need to go into town, wet our whistles, get a real meal, and some supplies. Would you stay and watch our canoes until we get back? There’s a pelt in it for you.

Henry looked up at the sun. He still had a couple of hours or so before he had to head for home. A pelt an hour.

That’s robbery.

Your choice.

The second man walked up. Forget it, Clint. We’ll be back in a couple of hours. That’s only a pelt apiece.

All right, Son, you’ve got a deal.

With that, the two returned to the canoes, picked up their rifles and made their way toward town.

When they were out of sight, Henry walked down to the canoes and inspected the furs. From what he knew about them, they appeared to be fine specimens.

He went back to his tree and sat down, leaning against it. That must be an exciting life. Up in the mountains with no one to bother you. Seeing new country every day. He could go for that. Not slopping pigs every day, hoeing the garden, cutting wood, and having to do what everyone else wanted you to do. He’d just like to strike out on his own. After all, he was eighteen - almost a man.

He hadn’t been sitting there long when a scruffy-looking man came sidling up the road from town. He looked furtively back toward town every now and then. He went directly down the slope toward the canoes, not seeing Henry sitting there against the tree.

The man looked around in all directions, and then started pulling pelts from the first canoe. Henry got to his feet and walked down to the canoes. Mister, you had better put those back.

The man looked up and saw what he assumed to be a young boy. Go away, sonny, and mind your own business.

Henry grabbed hold of the back of the man’s collar and threw him backwards onto the ground.

I’ll not tell you again! He was a little unsure of himself. The man was pretty good size.

All right! Don’t get your dander up.

The man rose to his feet and started back for town, glancing balefully at Henry, as he did. Henry put the pelts back in the canoe and returned to his tree.

About two hours later, when the two trappers returned, the one called Clint laid his rifle in his canoe. Everything all right?

Yes. There was a man wanted to help himself to some of your furs, but he decided it wasn’t a good idea.

Well, Son, you’ve more than earned your pay. Here’s a couple extra pelts. Thank you, and we’ll be on our way.

Where are you going now?

St. Louis. We’ll sell our skins there.

Will you come back this way?

In about six months.

Could you take on another partner? I’d like to try trapping, myself. Where will you go?

The man called Clint stood looking at the boy. He was tall, muscular, clear-eyed, and looked as if he could handle himself pretty well. He liked his looks.

We’ve been up near Bridger’s Crossing on the Green, but it’s getting crowded, and we’ll be going to Wind River country next year. We hear the Beaver is prime up that way. I’ll tell you what - if you can get a saddle horse and a packhorse, and what personals you need together by the time we get back here, we’ll take you along.

Thanks. I’ll be ready. Our farm is the first one west of town.

Henry shook their hands, and almost skipped going back down the road.

The second man looked at his partner. Clint, have you lost your mind? Takin’ on that kid. We’ll have to wet-nurse him from now on. He’s never been in the mountains, you can tell. He’s just another farm kid.

I think he’s got grit. I’d like something to do on the long winter nights besides listening to your long-winded stories for the forty-seventh time. I thought at least he could be a camp tender for us, if nothing else. His cookin’ sure couldn’t be any worse than yours.

The two men climbed back in their canoes and pushed off into the river.

The sun was down over the horizon when Henry, his brother, Tom, and their father came back into the house. His mother had supper on the table, and they washed up and sat down to the food.

Henry studied his father. He was a tall, raw-boned man, without a hint of fat on him. He had worked hard all his life trying to make a living for himself and his family. They weren’t rich, but there was always food on the table, and they were clothed. His father was a taciturn man, but he had a heart of gold. He would do anything for his family that he could. He just didn’t talk a lot.

It gave Henry a turn, to think he would be leaving these people. His mother was a sweet woman. She always had a good meal prepared for her family, and took care of their hurts and bad times with loving care. She was getting slightly stooped and her hair was starting to turn gray, but she remained cheerful and was always looking forward to what the next day would bring.

Tom was shorter than Henry. He, like Henry, grew up working hard every day on the farm, and had developed the muscular body, clear thinking and cheerful outlook that most farm boys seemed to have. He had the same blue eyes, but a wild mop of brown hair that contrasted to Henry’s sandy hair. Otherwise, they were much the same.

He would miss his family very much, but anticipating heading to the high Rockies had been a dream of his for most of his life. He just had to do it!

His mother kept looking at him. Henry, you’ve hardly touched your supper. Are you all right?

Yeah, I’m fine, Ma.

Well, what’s the matter?

Just thinkin. Well, he’d better talk to his pa and get it over with.

"Pa, I met some trappers down on the river today. I talked to them. They’re going to take me with them this fall. I want to try my hand at trappin’.’’

What do you know about trapping?

Nothing, but I can learn.

Well, Henry, I think it’s a mistake, but I know you’ve been getting itchy feet for the last year, or so. You’re old enough to get out on your own. When would you leave?

They’re coming back through in about six months. He said I would need a saddle horse and a pack horse.

His mother stopped ladling from the pot on the stove. George Scott, you’re not going to let that boy go clear up in those wild mountains with those ruffians? He’ll never come back!

Now, Dora, he’s as old as you were when we headed west for here. He’s as big and rangy as I was. You can’t keep him here forever. He looked across the table at Henry. Cal Abrams is selling out. Maybe you could help him with his harvest, and work out a deal for a couple of his horses. Tom and I can manage ours. Guess we’ll have to do that from now on, anyhow.

Thanks, Dad! I’ll go see him in the morning.

Cal Abrams was in his barn when Henry arrived. Hello, Henry. What brings you over this way?

Hello, Mr. Abrams. I wanted to see if you needed some help. Dad said you were selling out. I need to get a couple of horses, and thought you might trade them for some work. If you aren’t going to need them anymore, that is.

I’ve got to get my crops in and sold, and then I’m pulling out. I won’t need the extra horses. We’ll work something out.

September came around. Henry had just finished his job with Abrams. They had harvested the crops and delivered them to St. Joseph to the livery. Then he had helped Abrams and his family pack up and haul their things that they were keeping to the dock, where he could catch the steamer. Abrams had given him the two horses and enough cash to buy a used saddle, and he could make his pack saddle from some material at home. He was ready to go!

The weeks dragged on. Maybe they weren’t coming. Maybe they were just talking to keep him quiet. He grew more anxious every day. On the last day of the week, he was patching a fence with Tom and he looked up to see two riders coming up the road to the farm. They each were leading a pack horse. It was them!

He ran to the corral and opened the gate for them to turn their horses in. Clint was the first to dismount. He walked over and shook Henry’s hand.

I didn’t catch your name, Son.

It’s Henry, Henry Scott. This’s my brother, Tom.

Clint shook Tom’s hand. This ornery- lookin’ brush-runner is Zeke Poulter.

Come on up to the house, and meet our folks.

They walked to the house, and Henry introduced them to his