Chapter 1: Ambush at Kansas City

The Western frontier was settled and tamed by bold men and women whose exploits of derring-do reached mythological proportions. Fueled by writers who exploited their deeds in cheap, sensationalized books—the penny-dreadful and the dime-novel published stories by authors who, often, hadn’t even met the person about whom they wrote. They exploded the tales beyond recognition even to the person on whom it was based. One notable, upon reading one of the stories about himself, commented, “It may be the gospel, but I don’t have any recollection of it, a’tall.”

For a time, a celebrated frontiersman’s legend grew and then declined—usually accompanied by two simultaneous events. Their age advanced and so their exploits declined, along with some new singularly unique individual capturing the nation’s attention. On rare occasions, the declining celebrant tutored the climbing upstart. Such was the case of Joseph Nathan Meeker and Michelle Tanner.

Sleeps with Bears

The rain had threatened to fall for several days. Winter was behind them, while summer didn’t yet beat its heat down on them. The north coast of Maine produced a hardy people with a yearning for adventure in their souls. Joseph Nathan Meeker was no different from other young folks from Maine. At fourteen years old, he wanted to see what there was to see.

Many Maine adventurers turn to the sea. Not Meeker ... he possessed a yearning to see what lay to the west. Therefore, it was on a beautiful March morning in 1830 that Meeker’s mother and father watched as he walked out of their life. Walking down the small rock walkway in the front yard of the house, Meeker mounted a horse, a big bay Morgan.

Meeker’s father knew he would never see his boy again. Meeker’s mother feared he was far too young for the adventure he set out to find. Having raised him the Maine way, they taught him self-reliance, responsibility, and that he had a right to do whatever he wanted—as long as no one else was harmed by what he did. Having raised him this way, they found it hard to tell him, “You can’t do this.” Even so, he was only a boy of fourteen.

Meeker’s father argued with him through the nights leading up to his departure. Yelled at him, accused him of breaking his mother’s heart, but in the end, he could not bring himself to say, “No.” They never had, in point of fact, said no to Nate. Always a good boy, Nate never got into trouble. The boy had excelled in school but left school short of where his parents had hoped for him.

His father had a dream; a foolish one in retrospect. A dream his boy would share law offices with him. This was America, and they were Americans, a rougher cut of human than their ancestors back in England. Somewhat lacking in the social graces, or so it seemed in the 1830’s.

Nathan rode less than a mile before the rain started to fall; showers fell on him for over one hundred miles. By the fourth day of his trip, he thought the deluge would never quit. Eventually, the rain did stop; the sun shone down on him, improving the mood he was in. Still, he missed his folks. Nate Meeker would never return to Maine in his life. Never again, stand watching the sea from the cliffs less than one hundred yards from the back door of his parent’s house. He would write to his mother once a year, and she would write back.

His father would be dead for more than six months when he received the miserable news. The exchange of letters ended in 1847. He sent his message at the usual time and waited for the response, a response which never arrived. He received a letter from an uncle in 1850 telling him of the death of his mother three years prior. Joseph Nathan Meeker hated letters and telegraphs, for they only fetched you sorrow and sadness.

The boy went westward, meeting with others with the same intentions as him. As some fortuitous piece of luck would have it, or perhaps the hand of God, Meeker fell in with a hearty, good-natured lot of men. They possessed foul mouths and some hideous habits, but still they were what you would call good men.

Meeker became a trapper; he learned enough of many of the languages of the Natives he would contend with to communicate. He also learned sign language, which enabled him to talk to almost any member of any tribe. In the year of our Lord 1835, at the ripe old age of twenty, Joseph Nathan Meeker was an experienced trapper and mountain man. The respect afforded him by his fellow hunters and trappers, the company to whom he sold his pelts, and the many Indians he dealt with spoke as much to his temperament as his work ethic. In mid-October of that year, while young Meeker explored a new area he thought he would like to trap, snow fell hard, turning into a blizzard in the twinkling of an eye.

The storm howled through the mountains; the furious snowfall descended so fast and hard that Meeker could barely see his hand in front of his face. Moving as fast as he could, Meeker searched for some place of safety. At last, he spied an opening in the side of the mountain he was on just as the last rays of sunlight faded and darkness began to cover the land. Riding up to the opening, Meeker dismounted his horse and began to lead the animal into the cave. His horse dug his hooves in while it whinnied and snorted, protesting this decision. Meeker, not wishing to freeze, tethered the animal just outside the cave entrance. Gathering some twigs, sticks, and other firewood, he entered the cave.

Young Nate busied himself with building a fire. Once the fire was going, he went out to the horse and tried one more time to get the creature inside the cave. The animal put up even more protest.

“Well, the hell with you, you can freeze to death for all I care,” Meeker yelled, as he took his bedroll and saddlebags into the cave. He huddled up next to the fire while he chewed his jerky. Then he heard the audible soft, snorting sound almost like snoring. An enormous hulk lay on the cave floor only about twenty feet from him. Lifting its massive head, the bear’s eyes opened and she stared at him. The animal peered at the other inhabitant of her cave. Emitting a soft growl, the terrifying creature put a paw up over its eyes to shield them from the glare of the firelight. Laying her massive head down, the beast moved a smidge, settling in to get more comfortable. Soon the sound of snoring filled the cave again.

To say Meeker was afraid would be wrong; however, he damn near soiled himself. He was firm in his knowledge of just how vulnerable his position was. He wondered whether he should go out and retrieve his rifle from the scabbard. Perhaps his pistols from their holsters hanging from the saddle horn would be a better plan.

Looking at the slumbering beast, a sense of peace passed over him. Why should I kill her? His presence didn’t particularly bother her. He was not in any particular need of meat at this point. Why should I murder her in her sleep? Some would say his decision was foolish. I’ll just get me some shuteye, rise early in the morning, and be gone. He reasoned that more than likely he was safe. She would hibernate there for the entire winter. At least that was what he thought.

In the middle of the night, Meeker awoke with a start, feeling the sting of hot, moist breath blast across his face. Opening his eyes, Meeker was greeted by the sight of the colossal face that stared at him while her enormous paw pushed on his shoulder. Just above her left eye was a jagged scar from some previous adventure. She sniffed him and continued to push. Grasping the handle of his knife, Meeker stared back at her and spoke to her in a calm, soft voice.

“I’m okay, ‘little lady,’ just sleeping like you.” The bear turned and walked back to her side of the cave. Again, she lay down and waggled about until she was comfortable. Soon her snoring filled his ears, and he drifted back to sleep.

The next morning Meeker ventured out of the cave and looked at his horse. He stood knee-deep in the snow, still tethered to the tree. The snow was deep and fluffy, and Meeker waded through it to the still-nervous horse. The Morgan pawed the ground through the deep snow, desiring nothing more than to get away from this place.

“Coward,” he told the beast as he loaded his gear back on the horse. Mounting up, he saw two Lakota dog soldiers looking at him. They stood by the stream, debating between themselves who would wade into the frigid water to catch breakfast. He knew the two men and signed to them, “Good morning!”

They signed back the same. The big grizzly lumbered out of the cave. The horse tried to bolt, but Meeker kept the reins tight on him, telling him, “Whoa.” The bear held her head high as she rose on her hind legs, letting out a growl at the two men. Then she roared loudly in a threatening manner. She dropped down in the snow on all fours, turned from the couple, and made her way back up the mountain.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Meeker hollered out to the men. He then signed it and added in sign language, “Leave her alone.”

One of the Indians grunted out in his native tongue, “Crazy fool, sleeps with bears.” From that day forward, Sleeps with Bears was how Meeker was known to all the tribes. It wouldn’t be the last time Meeker saw these two Lakota dog soldiers or his bear.

Twenty-Nine Years Later, 1864

Screaming, whooping, and hollering filled the air. The bloodcurdling yell filled hearts with fear. The Rebel Yell preceded the attack. Rifle balls whizzed through the air; men fell on both sides. It always started that way ... that God-awful yell! The dream, or rather a nightmare, invaded a peaceful sleep, shattering his rest. Jerking up in the bed, Meeker looked around the darkened hotel room and realized it was just the dream, well, the nightmare. He’d had the same awful dream for almost a year now, disrupting his rest. Cold sweat covered his face while a deep fear gripped him hard. All those bodies piled like cordwood, one atop another.

The fear began to drop as his mind’s eye saw him standing his ground, sword drawn, determined not to break. He smiled, his fear gone just by thinking of the man, Chamberlin. The colonel gave instruction for an assault on advancing Confederate soldiers at Little Round Top. Pride and fear rolled into one memory of a dreadful gambit. Chamberlin led the Maine men in a charge down the slopes of that rocky, steep hill. Their daring maneuver while nearly out of ammunition saved the day, along with possibly saving the Union Army and the War.

Jumping out of bed, Meeker toddled to the dresser in the room. The sound of the water pouring from the pitcher to the basin broke the silence. Cool water bathed his face as he washed the sweaty mist away. Fumbling around, he eventually struck a match and lit the lamp. 3:40am, the gold pocket watch showed the time with precision as it performed its duty.

His wife and son’s faces stared at him from inside the pocket watch, and the memory of the telegraph flooded him. Sadness overtook him.

“Sleeps with Bears my pale white ass,” he said to no one, “can’t sleep at all most nights. Not anymore.”

The hardwood floor felt good against his bare feet as he moved to the window. He pushed up the sash, and the night air flooded the room. No longer hot, a gentle breeze blew in, almost cooling the room. Almost. After a visit to the chamber pot, Joseph Nathan Meeker somewhat calmed down and settled back into the bed. His long, flowing white hair covered the pillow as he blankly stared at the dark.

Forty-eight years old, Meeker’s hair had turned gray more than a decade prior. Having left home at fourteen, he had lived a life of adventure. He was a fur trapper, scout, celebrated frontiersman, deputy US marshal, and the subject of many a penny dreadful and dime novel. He was all those things and yet—none of them. Husband and father were his favorite personae, but when the war broke out, he had had to choose sides.

He had two things he loved more than life, both now gone taken from him by an act of vengeance. That damn telegraph had shattered his world. Resigning his commission, Meeker had set out for home, only home would not be home anymore. Looking up at the tinwork ceiling, he admired the intricate pattern stamped in the panels, which showed horses running on the flat prairie. Sleep crept over him again, and he finished the night blessedly free of dreams or nightmares.

Michelle Tanner—1856

She was tall for her age, taller than all the boys her own age. She had lost her mother two years before and for a while struggled to accept it. Still, she was happy, well-adjusted, and the light of her father’s life. Michelle Tanner was quite the precocious twelve-year-old girl.

Many called her spoiled, being the only child of a wealthy widower. It would have surprised no one when this headstrong daughter stood in a corral face-to-face with a horse. Blanket and saddle in one hand, she petted the beast on his long face as it whinnied at her. Turning from the great white beast, the girl moved in a steady pace to the fence. The stallion followed her, his head bowed down to her level in a show of submission. Michelle hoisted the saddle over one of the rails of the fence, throwing the blanket over the seat of the saddle.

Picking up the hackamore bridle she turned back to the horse, placing the bridle on his head. Rubbing the beast on the neck as she cinched up the bridle, she spoke to him in a soft voice, “You will not need a nasty ole bit in your mouth. No, you will behave yourself for me. I know you will.” She led Blanco around the corral for a few minutes and then threw the blanket on, continuing to march him around the enclosure. Soon she put the saddle on him and tightened the cinch.

Michelle walked Blanco around for at least fifteen minutes, working the animal just as she had seen her father do on many occasions. John Tanner broke his own horses in the manner taught to him by his father, who had learned from a Cherokee long before John was even born. Michelle, having observed this all her life, felt she knew exactly what to do. With care, she stood on the left side stirrup, her left hand on the horn and right hand on the cantle. She spoke to the mount with a calm, sure tone.

With her gentle prodding, the steed walked around the corral with the girl standing in the left stirrup. Blanco moved around the arena in a slow trudge. One would believe that the animal had carried the girl in this style a thousand times in as many days.

After a short time, the girl swung her right leg over the horse and put her foot in the other stirrup. Shell took the reins in her hand and pulled them. Not tight, but she held a good firm grip. Michelle assured herself that not too much rein hung between her hands and where the reins attached to the halter.

“Now, Mr. Blanco, I would really appreciate it if you would walk briskly in a circle around the corral.” Speaking to the beast as though he understood her words in perfect clarity, the girl tapped her heels to the animal’s rib. The first few times she touched him, Blanco did nothing, but the third time he moved forward. Michelle guided him in a smooth liquid motion, using her reins and knees.

John Tanner had a good healthy heart, which considering what he saw was a good thing. He looked through the window expecting to see his daughter on her charger. What he saw instead was Michelle on the new horse. His young daughter sitting atop a seventeen-hand-high, 1,475-pound stallion. An animal he had not yet broken.

Rushing out the back door of the house, John yelled at his daughter to get off the steed. He was running as fast as he could and screaming at the top of his voice. Glasses flew from one pocket while documents he had been reading fell from his hand. The papers blew off in the light breeze that wafted through Washington Town.

“What do you think you’re doing, Shelly?” he screamed at her as he climbed on the fence. Michelle pulled back on the reins, and the creature stopped in place. Reaching forward, she rubbed his ear, and the animal responded by rolling his head against her hand.

“Father,” she said in a strict voice, “stop yelling or you will frighten poor Blanco. He was lonely. He just needed some companionship.” Tanner climbed down, motioning with his hands his wish for her to get off the beast.

“He has only been here a week, dear. He isn’t used to the place yet, so just get down off him,” Tanner said, still pushing downward motions with his hands. “Besides, I have not yet broken him.”

“Father,” she said indignantly, “you told me we do not break horses. We train them. I have ridden him twice a day, for two hours at a time, for four days straight. He is as mild as a lamb.” She was now patting the horse’s neck while he nodded his head as if trying to tell Mr. Tanner she was right.

John Tanner squatted; putting elbows on knees, he held his head with his hands. “You have ridden him for four days?” he asked in disbelief of what he had heard.

“Yes,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice. Michelle could not believe her father’s reaction.

A realization exploded in John Tanner’s mind. Michelle was an extraordinary person. He had known she was special, but how special he never understood. Not, that is, until that moment. He also knew in his heart that he would not be around her nearly long enough to satisfy him. At that moment, any thought of her marrying and having children passed from his mind. John Tanner would spend every moment possible with his daughter over the next eight years.

Eight Years Later, 1864

Michelle Tanner fidgeted in her bed, trying to get comfortable. Unable to sleep she was too excited about the life upon which she was about to embark. Sitting up in bed, Shell turned to the mirror on her dresser. Taking the brush from her nightstand, she brushed her bright red hair while she pondered what possible adventures she might encounter.

She would need a horse, but best to purchase that after she was out west. Out west. The thought of going west agitated her. A new life awaited her no matter what it brought, it would be ... at least ... different from the life here.

Life was not hard here; that was not a part of the equation. Life lacked a challenge for her. If she wanted a man, a good man, it would be challenging for several reasons. First, there were far more women than men in the eastern United States; the war ensured that. Second, Michelle Tanner was taller than most women were. Well, to be honest, Miss Tanner was taller than most men were—standing over six feet tall, she towered over most men in the 1860s.

Michelle had no need for a man, not to provide for her, not to protect her, and certainly not for any carnal pleasure. Her desires were considered unnatural by the conventions of polite society; Michelle kept those thoughts to herself. Wearing men’s clothing set her apart. Ridicule of her was what passed for entertainment by some of her peers.

Out west, Michelle hoped to find several things there—adventure, happiness, and something that eluded her here, freedom, the freedom to be who she was. In the west, people were more apt to overlook ticks, quirks, and the oddities of one’s personality—Shell had read that and believed it to be true. In turn, she would do likewise for them.

This is not to say that she did not have suitors; no, she had them in droves. Michelle Tanner was bored with the long line of suitors after her father’s money. She never had been drawn toward men. Still, to know that their chief interest was her father’s money was hurtful. She knew she was too tall, too muscled, and too smart to attract the opposite sex. John Tanner’s vast wealth was plenty of incentive for the would-be suitors who swarmed around his daughter. They were not unlike bees swarming to protect the hive. Or perhaps, more akin to vultures converging on a fresh body.

Messing with her hair, she looked in the mirror thinking of what was to be; this calmed her. Laying the brush down, she again lay on the bed. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. She dreamed of horses, running free—the ponies moved across an endless sea of grass. The wind blew and caused the grass to have ripples just like waves on the ocean.

July 1864 was hot in Washington D.C. The war raged on with no end in sight. Washington sweltered in the heat. Even with the war raging on, people went on with their lives. The trip west on a train should be safe from the war. The union occupied the lands surrounding the tracks; there were also soldiers on every train, acting as guards.

The horrid screeching of train wheels jerking forward filled the air. Spinning on the iron rails, the wheels ultimately got traction as the train lurched forward in earnest. Thick billows of steam and smoke belched from the stack on the front of the engine. Jerking forward and back, the tall woman moved as the train dictated. Holding her hand up, Michelle waved to her father. John Tanner fought the urge to cry and only waved back to his daughter.

He watched the train until it at last faded from his view. John Tanner shook his head and moved away from the tracks. Making his way past the station, he walked home, lost in thought, hopeful his little girl would be safe. His wife had died in childbirth ten years before; the child likewise did not survive. The misfortune left John and Michelle, his little Shelly, to move on in life. Now he was alone, and he hoped for the best for his little girl. “Little girl” was not an accurate description of Michelle.

Realizing his daughter had left him behind made him sad. Even so, John Tanner knew his daughter needed to do this. There comes the point in all people’s lives when they feel the need to prove themselves. This was her time. Hoping she would find happiness, John Tanner prayed for his “little” girl.

The train moved at a slow, steady pace at first, then picked up momentum. Leaning out as far as safety permitted her, Michelle maintained the sight of her father. The train began to pick up speed. Eventually, she realized she could see the man no more and lowered her arm, wishing her father goodbye over and over. She jostled from side to side as the train moved down the tracks. Lost in thought, she stood there for some time. Finally, shaking herself from her doldrums, Michelle Tanner stepped inside the car. Walking down the tight aisle between the benches, she reached out occasionally, steadying herself by grabbing the back of a bench. Everyone stared at the sight of her. Some women giggled, and some men wondered why she was dressed as she was.

A buckskin-clad man sat looking out the window; his long gray hair and keen eyes gave him a distinguished and distinctive look. Michelle, along with everyone on the train, knew him as soon as she saw him. Known by sight from the covers of a dozen or more dime novels, Joseph Nathan Meeker was one of the better-known mountain men.

“Hello, sir. If you wouldn’t mind...” Michelle stammered for a second, and then continued. “There don’t look to be many open spots on this car.” Again, her tongue failed her for a moment. “If it is not too bold of me to ask, would it be alright for me to sit beside you? I promise to not be a pest,” Michelle said as the famous man looked up at her. He was unaccustomed to seeing such a sight. Lord, this gal was tall—over six feet he guessed—and her brilliant red hair and green eyes spoke of her Irish heritage, he assumed. The oddity was her dress. Sporting a man’s dress shirt, vest, and a frock coat, she wore braces, which held on tight to her men’s riding pants. He smiled up at her and stood.

The car swayed from side to side. Chug, chug—the deep, distinctive sound of the steam engine along with the clanking of the wheels on the track invaded the car. Meeker reached out and steadied himself, smiling at the woman—or oddity—who stood before him. He formed in his head what he would say. Something he had cultivated doing in the past five or six years to avoid misstatements.

“I would be honored. I’m Joseph Nathan Meeker, but you can call me Nate or Nathan, Miss, and conversation would be dandy. I used to crave solitude, but of late I have a desire for company.” He bowed to the woman. “But not just any company.”

Meeker moved to the aisle to give Michelle the window seat. She moved in and stood as Meeker reentered the tight area between the fronts of the seats and the back of the next row. Michelle sat first while Meeker followed suit as he sat and continued to talk. “The last few years have been a journey I am happy to complete. With my service to my country, I hope performed with honor now complete, I look forward to the vast freedom of the West.” His hand swept toward the front of the train. “Now, Miss, what is it that brings you westward? Visiting family in St. Louis, I suspect, or old friends of the family.” He looked at her with a trace of nothing but curiosity. Michelle felt at ease with this living legend.

“I am Michelle Tanner, and I, of course, know who you are. I have read the books about you...”

“All lies, Miss Tanner, but lies fueled by drink and a crafty penny dreadful writer.” He smiled, wagging a finger at her. He was always amused that his exploits—some real and some blown so out of proportion they were laughable—were always the first thing anyone would want to talk about with him. Perhaps it was just the nature of things.

“Well, I knew you as soon as I saw you, but would have never intruded on your privacy had there been other seats.” Michelle’s eyes lit up as she spoke, “Though, in truth, to sit beside someone I have so much admiration for pleasures me a great deal. As to me, I’m not visiting relations or going to visit a friend of the family.” Michelle looked him full in the eyes, showing no shame, no embarrassment at the words she spoke; her head and body shook with the motion of the train and perhaps a tad of excitement. “I’m striking out to make my way in the West. What I will do? I am not sure, but I will find my way. I am a very determined woman; I will have the life I want, and not the one that society says I should have. I will not sell myself short, nor make my way by selling myself.”

Meeker broke into a loud laugh, looking at the woman with wonder. “I like you, Michelle Tanner. You are what the West needs more of, and the East as well, but you can’t be in both places at the same time.” Meeker pulled a leather bag from the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a large black rectangle of chewing tobacco. He bit off a hunk and worked it to the side of his mouth. As Meeker continued to talk, he put the tobacco back in the pouch and then returned it to his pocket. He did all this without missing a beat in his conversation. “The West will be more accepting of you for at least ten to twenty years. Then who knows? When civilization with all its prejudices, rules, expectancies, and refinement will catch up,” he spoke this with some contempt in his voice. “Eventually civilization always catches up to wherever you go. Miss, civilization always finds its way to paradise and messes it all up; for better or worse, that is what we have to look forward to, civilization. They think they bring God to you. Hell, God was there first.”

The two people talked as the train moved westward chasing the sun, which outpaced it. For his part, Meeker would tell her a story, as true as his memory and his penchant for exaggeration would allow. Michelle would marvel at the story, and he would always add in the end, “Now that is how I remember it; accuracy is not ensured. I am sure I have added some colorful events or made those happenings a mite more spectacular than they were.”

They talked between themselves as minutes turned to hours. Sooner than one would want, the night followed the day. The train stopped every thirty to fifty miles, taking on water and wood, allowing some passengers to depart and others to come aboard. Still, they managed to move thirty miles an hour, flying along at breakneck speed.

The odd pair dozed through the night, alternating between talking and sleeping, as best they could, in the uncomfortable seats. The following day they continued their conversation. In no time, Meeker grew fond of the upstart young woman. He felt a fondness for Michelle akin to her being his niece from some long-lost brother.

Michelle was confident that Meeker had told her the straight truth. Later in life, she began to suspect that everyone adds bits and pieces to their stories. For now, though, Shell was a twenty-year-old woman full of faith in those she had admiration for, her father being the person she respected first and foremost. She could hear that last advice he gave her just before she boarded the train. For a few minutes, she was lost in her thoughts, of her father and the life she had left behind her. Meeker’s voice, coupled with the loud scream of the engine’s horn, shocked her back to the here and now.

“I have been dominating the conversation. Now we come to your turn. Why move west? What is so wrong in your life that you feel the need to change it? Once you are out west, what do you think you want to do?” Meeker questioned her. She turned her attention to him once more. She was not sad about her choice, but already she missed her father. Her father, who had been her only parent for all those years since her mother had died in childbirth; Michelle’s little brother had died as well. Her mother died leaving only John Tanner and his ten-year-old daughter to move forward with their lives. They had been each other’s world, so it had been, for ten years.