When John Stafford, a young man from a wealthy Philadelphia family, graduates from college in the 1860s, he ventures to the lawless Northwest to satisfy his basic urge to put himself to the test in meeting the challenges of a trying environment. Adventure is what he seeks, and adventure is what he gets. Stafford experiences many turbulent twists and turns in his life. He marries, Little Dove, a beautiful Indian woman of Hidatsa descent. He is accepted into her tribe following his ingenious strategy to defeat his wife's wrathful Blackfeet suitor. And Stafford accepts a request by President Abraham Lincoln to form a highly proficient clandestine fighting force to help the Indians defend themselves against the widespread tyranny. His skilled force consists of several relatives and close friends-black as well as white, male and female, along with a number of Native Americans. Their exploits involve confrontations with river pirates, whisky peddlers, a tragic massacre by unauthorized military action an Indian reprisal, and a marauding gang of cutthroats.

The Golden Fox

By Frank R. Kowalski

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 Frank R. Kowalski
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-2018-7

Chapter One

Who is she? Where did she come from?"

John Stafford drew close to the large fireplace where a blazing fire crackled cheerfully, and he fell into his old habit of staring into the glowing embers. He was very distressed this night, more than ever in his young life. A dim foreshadowing of frightful crisis, darker than he had yet experienced, weighed like lead on his heart.

The room was engulfed in the whisper soft firelight, and the shimmering shadows lurked dark and spectral in the dim corners, while the fire crackling and snapping was the only sound that disturbed the stifling silence of the grand log house.

The flickering firelight fell upon a pale figure, drawn and motionless; there on a bed placed near the comforting warmth of the fire, and whose laborious breathing evidenced how delicately was her condition, and how close to eternity she lay.

John was a handsome man of some twenty eight years. He was Saxon fair, with blue eyes that admirers loved to describe as violet; hair that was golden yellow, in a half, curling crop; and skin that would have been fair with half a chance, but no complexion retains its clarity under the scorching sun.

John sat quietly by her bedside, keenly watching her, as she lay in peaceful slumber, while he remained fully awake. Then he began, once again, staring into the glowing embers while his brain teemed with images of scenes at the river. The startling encounter had repeated itself till it burned indelibly in his mind.

Oh, if he could but sleep, and put it out of his mind, instead of this weary feeling of despair, but no, he must remain fully awake, and he dare not stir, but how was it all to end? What should he do?

His whole body, relaxed in every muscle, and every nerve. To be awake and still motionless, to do absolutely nothing, not even sleep, seemingly the simplest feat in life, it is one of the most difficult. Wild creatures can do it when need is sufficient; but only a few men can.

Slowly the night waned, as John watched her warily, his thoughts were interrupted periodically by insistent anticipation of some comforting sign of improvement, however, the drowsy warmth of the fire and weariness began to engulf him.

Gradually the lids of the mindful, but weary watcher drooped heavily with slumber, and he was soon floating, drifting placidly, his drifting thoughts and images, more confusingly on his brain, soon focused clearly; he could again visualize the previous day's events.

John usually awakened at the first glimpse of dawn. This particular morning, having spent a restless night, he arose much earlier. It was fully dark and uncomfortably cold. The early autumn night had hosted an unrelenting rain.

Reluctantly, he rose from the cozy comfort of his bed, and in the murky darkness, groped his way to the great stone fire place, and threw in a few knots of cedar on a bit of fire. Within moments, the fire burst into hot and brilliant flames, bathing the room in a quivering half-light, while its pleasant warmth melted his frozen ambitions.

John dressed hurriedly and without hesitation, scrambled about the cabin, methodically performing his morning tasks, which included the most important of all; breakfast for his faithful canine companion, Arnold

Arnold, a huge, muscular and powerful creature, of mixed ancestral parentage, was a most gifted animal with an instinct and intelligence that might be looked upon as supernatural. John considered him the finest dog that ever lived.

Arnold lay comfortably, stretched out before the hearth, soaking up its cheery warmth, while John was wholly occupied with preparations of the morning fare.

After much hustling, all was ready, and he turned to Arnold with a pleasing smile.

"Well, boy," he said in a calm, gentle voice. "I suppose we had better finish off our breakfast. We have a long day a head of us."

Arnold raised his head and sniffed deeply of the delightful aroma. There was no mistaken that odor, yet Arnold, leaving the comfort of the pleasing warmth, was painful, but to miss a good meal would be unthinkable. He slowly hunched to his feet and briskly approached John, whining his approval.

When the last morsel had disappeared from the table, John stopped eating, but not before. His appetite was sharpened by the thought he would not have an opportunity to eat a full meal until late evening. Arnold ate his meal heartily also, but he didn't need any reason; he ate heartily all the time.

Finally, John leisurely pushed the chair back from the table, gave Arnold a lively massage behind the ears, slowly rose, and unhurriedly shuffled across the room to the window and tensely peered out at the somber, grey dawn, as the first steaks of light began to usher in a new day.

Then he promptly hastened to the door, thrust it open, and Arnold scurried out, with tail vigorously wagging, quickly disappeared into the gloomy dawn to answer nature's call.

John, yawning widely, stretched energetically, and then lazily ambled out the door into the drenching chill of the autumn morning. Momentarily standing at ease, carefully took note of the heavens above, intently watching the low, hanging clouds, of leaden hue, drift slowly across the western sky, threatening to be a day of cold rain.

The late October air was cool and crisp, carrying an unmistakable warning signal. The deer must make for their winter ranges, and it triggered the movement of bears to their den sites. John, wilderness wise, was ever mindful of the urgency for early preparations for the long cold winter, and had carefully stored most of his winter provisions; only occasional foraging would be necessary. He watched intently the dark foreboding clouds, while, he seriously pondered the prospects of a worthwhile venture to the Yellowstone River in quest of river trout.

Fully aware of the diminishing day light hours that autumn provided, he set forth to hastily perform only the essential tasks, then promptly sought the necessary equipment and supplies required for the day's outing. When the carefully selected paraphernalia was made ready, he briskly placed the equipment in his small canoe, glanced about and called, "Arnold, come." Arnold had not ventured unduly far this particular morning; perhaps he too, had unconsciously perceived the strange premonition that this would not be an ordinary day, but one which would affect their lives, significantly.

John let out a long sigh of relief as Arnold quickly approached; body and tail wagging vigorously, for the thought of embarking on one of John's wilderness adventures excited him. After a brief, playful scuffle, and a final cursory inspection of the premises, the two adventurers spiritedly boarded their sturdy little craft, and slowly began their journey to the Yellowstone River, some five miles down stream.

The terrain is too rocky and thickly forested for horses, so the best means of transportation is by canoe. On a clear, sparkling stream that came down from the snow-clad mountains. The creek course traced its course over a pebbly bed and leisurely meandered, winding through a narrow valley, densely timbered, and luxuriantly grassed. It was shut up on both sides by pine, cedar-clad mountains. The stream was narrow yet sufficiently deep enough for John's small canoe.

Slowly adrift with the unruffled current, the canoe silently glided downstream. Here and there, the velvet moss carpeted the ground and cushioned the brown rocks. The ferns, waved their long, fragrant palms, and...