Bitterroot Trail

W Johnson James

Description

Men with dreams of gold flocked to the strikes in Idaho Territory in the early 1860s. Some were lucky, but only a few people managed to hang onto their fortunes. The Plummer Gang jumped claims, robbed miners, and murdered anyone who got in their way. Until Pokerface Bob Bainbridge showed up, seeking the man who'd ruined his sister--and out for personal revenge.From the saloons of Oro Fino to the tent cites of the Boise Basin, Bob follows the iniquitous gang, determined to bring law and order to the Territory and to save the woman he has grown to love from a fate far worse than death -- at the hands of Plummer himself. Only incredible courage and steely determination will win the day.The Bitterroot Trail was originally published in 1935, both in the United States and in England. It is a classic Western novel, but it is also an exciting romance and one heck of a remarkable historical novel.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Historical romance
• Western (genre)
• Historical fiction
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781601740328
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Bitterroot Trail
 
By
James W. Johnson
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2007
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places andevents described herein are products of the author's imaginationor are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, orpersons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1935 by James W.Johnson Copyright © 2007 by James R. Johnson
Originally published 1935, by The CaxtonPrinters, Ltd., Caldwell, Idaho
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-032-8 ISBN 10: 1-60174-032-8
Cover art by LD Cram Design by Judith B.Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, thereproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part inany form by any electronic, mechanical or other means nowknown or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the writtenpermission of the author or publisher.
Published by Uncial Press, an imprint ofGCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
Publisher's Note
The Bitterroot Trail is a remarkable story, basedon fact. There was a Plummer Gang, Pat Ford was shot down incold blood, and Bannock City was a wild and wooly place thefall and winter of 1862-63.
This story is unchanged from it original publication. Itwas told in an earlier era, when desperadoes wereMephistophelian, heroes like Bob Bainbridge were idealized,and good women were all but sanctified.
Times have changed and writing styles are very differentin the early Twenty-First Century. But the eternal battle betweengood and evil continues, and The Bitterroot Trail is still awhopping good story, about real people facing realchallenges.
We are proud to bring this memorable novel back tolife.
---ESC & JBG
Preface to the Twenty-First CenturyEdition
The Bitterroot Mountains make up part of the borderbetween Idaho and Montana. The continental divide lays alongtheir spine. They are rugged and remote. Meriwether Lewiscalled his time in the Bitterroot Mountains the worst part of hisentire adventure along the Oregon Trail.
Today they host a large protected wilderness area. TheLochsa, Selway, and Clearwater Rivers flow westward from theBitterrroots, and join the Snake River at Lewiston, just north ofits confluence with the Salmon at the end of North America'sdeepest canyon-- Hell's Canyon . These beautiful mountainsraise a formidable barrier. Even with a paved highway, it is oftenfaster to drive several hundred miles out of one's way to get fromLewiston to Missoula--or to Boise.
This book sold out its first printing in the U.S. (a toughfeat during the depression) and had two printings in England.The Bitterroot Trail is a respectable pulp western. It's alsohistorical fiction, laying out the multitude of troubles peoplewent through to make a territory and then a state. It's a rompingyarn reminding the reader of colorful vernacular of the frontier,carefully cloaked in depression-era Victorianism. It's a realgeography lesson too. When you read this story, get out a roadatlas and then open it to Washington, Idaho, Wyoming andMontana, and try to follow along. Towns mentioned mightnowadays be in any one of these states.
As you read this tale of frontiersmen, keep in the mindsome of the following history. The story takes place duringextremely troubled times, and political borders in the PacificNorthwest were highly fluid. In 1851 the Oregon Territory wasrent in two, making one part the state of Oregon; the restbecame the Washington Territory. In 1860, gold was discoveredalong Orofino Creek, a small tributary to the Clearwater Rivernot far from where Lewis and Clark got their dugouts done andtheir exploration party back into traveling a river. The U.S. CivilWar started too, putting enormous pressure on the locals toproduce gold for both the Union and the Confederacy. In1863--the same year as the battles of Gettysburg and Vicksburg--theIdaho Territory was carved from Washington Territory in thesame way Washington Territory had been carved from Oregon's.The following year Montana Territory emerged from the IdahoTerritory. In 1876 Crazy Horse defeated Custer in Montana,and Chief Joseph led many of the Nez Perce out of theirsuddenly tiny reservation along the Clearwater River (anunfortunate but inevitable result of the events of the 1860's). In1890, Idaho became a state.
The characters in the story don't notice historyhappening around them, though. Their motivations are moreprosaic. Earn a living. Make a home. Find one of those nuggetsthe size of your thumb. Keep it and stay alive. Out of thisordinary life, extraordinary men like Bob Bainbridge appeared,with a sense of justice matching the revolvers in their hands, andduring the 1860's that's when history just happened.
Nowadays the Transcontinental Highway (US 93) runsalong part of the old Bitterroot Trail. Sensibly. A good roadfollows the good passes through the mountains.
Idaho is virtually all mountains. Always has been. Somemountains we made. Some were already here. Some we wentaround and some we climbed. We are the mountains. We arethe heart of this tale. The mountains are Idaho.
Richard D. JohnsonJanuary 16, 2007
Original Dedication
To my wife MRS. LOUISEJOHNSON Who has worked so consistently tomake this book a reality.
~~~
Dedication for the 2007 edition:
To James R. Johnson, son of the author,whose passion for the future taught us to reach forthe stars and whose dedication to thepast reminded us to keep our feet on theground.
Michael and Richard
1
THE OLD CONCORD STAGE LURCHEDCRAZILY from side to side. A spiral of hot dust arose from thewheels, enveloping it like a smoke screen and turning the facesof the passengers to a murky gray. Streaks of perspiration madetiny rivulets down the bronzed cheeks. Added to the discomfortof the grimy coach, the month of June was excessively torrid.The peculiar beauty of this western wasteland could not escapethe eyes of the three strangers.
On either side of them, as far as the eye could see, layrolling hills laden with purple sage. In the gullies, where tinyrivulets ran undisturbed, wild flowers grew. Far to the southeast,outlined against the cobalt sky in deeper blue, lay the BitterrootMountains.
Thence, while the nation was struggling in the throes ofcivil war, had come the startling cry of gold strikes; a cry thatfairly electrified the nation into activity. Already in 1862 thatmountainous wilderness was being infested by hordes ofadventurers in search of the golden fleece.
These hordes were made up of men from almost everywalk of life; hard men seasoned in the California gold fields,secessionists from the south fleeing from the ravages of war,northern sympathizers, tinhorn gamblers, dancehall girls, and allthe riffraff, horse thieves, road agents, and killers that invariablyfollow on the heels of a gold rush.
The passengers, three men, were on the last lap of theirjourney to Lewiston, the key and gateway to the vast BannockTerritory.
Bob Bainbridge was occupying the back seat. He wasyounger than the two strangers facing him. A broad-brimmedfelt hat sat well down on his forehead, shading a pair of steelgray eyes that had a way of looking straight through. He waswearing a gray double-breasted flannel shirt. His buckskin vestwas decorated with beads, Indian fashion. His corduroy trouserswere tucked inside his boot tops. Completing his adornmentwere two guns in holsters at his hips. From the manner in whichthey hung one instinctively knew they were not worn forornament.
He leaned back against the seat, observing the menfacing him speculatively. He recognized the tall rawboned manwith the black spade beard as a prospector. The other, a fat manin comparison, with a round face, he took to be the jackal of therace, possibly a gambler or saloonkeeper. His impression wasdecidedly unfavorable. The fellow's pig eyes were too closetogether.
The subject of their conversation was gold. Gold inOrofino! Gold in Virginia City! Gold in Elk Creek! Nuggets asbig as hens' eggs to be picked up in the gravel bars.
Bob Bainbridge was not excited by the conversation. Itwas not new to him. He was keenly aware from experience thattheir stories must be discounted, and he did not forget the costlyprice that men in this wild territory would have to pay for theyellow metal. His own quest was not for gold. He was starting onthe long trail, the end of which no man knew.
The brake squeaked as the stage took a sharp curve intoa deep gully and emerged again. Suddenly the driver pulled upand stopped. The first thought entering Bainbridge's mind wasroad agents. They had been especially active of late he'd heard.Instinctively his hand slipped toward the holster. The guard hadjumped to the ground excitedly. Bainbridge opened the door,ready for any emergency. It was then he caught sight of a man,possibly two hundred yards away, with uplifted hand signalingthem. He was staggering toward them. Even as Bainbridgelooked, the man's legs buckled under him and he fellforward.
Bainbridge sprang from the stage. The other twopassengers followed. The guard arrived at the spot ahead ofthem. He seemed to hesitate, as though afraid to touch the man.Bainbridge stooped and turned the body over to get a view ofthe face.
"Why," he gasped, "he's just a kid!"
The young face was beardless. His black curly hair hungalmost to his shoulders. A splotch of blood was oozing throughhis gray shirtfront.
"That's what I calls a God-damn shame!" the guardexploded. "He wasn't even heeled!"
Bainbridge put his head to the boy's chest. "There's stilla flicker of life," he said, rising. "Give us a hand, men. We'll takehim along."
The three cast uneasy glances at each other withoutoffering to obey.
"What's the matter?" snapped Bainbridge. "Hell's bells,we can't leave him here!"
Something in his manner and tone had its effect. Theguard and miner reluctantly gave a hand. They lifted the boycarefully into the stage and made him as comfortable as possiblein the back seat.
Bainbridge folded