Lisa’s party built Fort Raymond at the mouth of the Bighorn River, near present Bighorn, Montana. Here the men spent the winter of 1807-08, but not Colter. As an acquaintance of Colter’s wrote, Lisa’shortly after dispatched Colter…to bring some of the Indian nations to trade. This man, with a pack of thirty pounds weight, his gun and some ammunition, went upwards of five hundred miles to the Crow nation; gave them information, and proceeded from them to several other tribes.’ The solitary Colter wandered into the northwest corner of present Wyoming, into a strange land of scalding water, bubbling mud pots, and erupting geysers. The region, actually east of present Yellowstone Park, remained largely unexplored for another 60 years.

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The Crow later befriended Colter, and he fought with them when a battle broke out between 800 Crow and Flathead against 1,500 Blackfeet. Wounded in the leg, Colter ‘crawled to a small thicket and there loaded and fired while sitting on the ground.’ Although outnumbered, the Crow and Flathead prevailed, but the Blackfeet did not forget the white man who had fought against them.

Colter’s greatest adventure lay ahead of him. In the fall of 1808, he and fellow expedition veteran John Potts teamed up to trap in western Montana. They were working the Jefferson River near present Three Forks, when several hundred Blackfeet warriors appeared on the riverbank. The chiefs ordered Colter and Potts ashore; Colter complied and was immediately stripped and disarmed. Potts remained in his canoe in midstream.

An Indian fired a shot. ‘Colter, I am wounded,’ cried Potts. ‘If you can get away, do so. I will kill at least one of them.’ He then rose in the canoe and fired, killing a Blackfeet brave. The next instant, 32-year-old Potts was riddled with bullets. The Blackfeet then ‘dragged the body up onto the bank and with their hatchets and knives cut and hacked it all to pieces, and limb from limb,’ said Thomas James, who heard the story directly from Colter.

Colter was horrified and expected to be slowly tortured to death. But after the chiefs conferred, one of them motioned Colter toward the prairie. Colter started to walk, expecting to be shot for sport. But when he had gone 80 or 90 yards, he realized this was sport of a different kind — a race to the death. Perhaps his previous encounter with the Blackfeet had made him respected as well as hated. Colter set off running, pursued by warriors armed with spears. The Madison River was five miles away, and the barefoot Colter galloped over rocks and cactus, trying to reach it and escape. He was halfway to the Madison when blood began gushing from his nose. He ran on, soon realizing that one warrior, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, was far ahead of the others. Colter turned to face him, and the young brave tripped as he lunged at him with the spear. Colter grabbed the spear and broke off the head as the Indian fell. He killed the brave with one blow, grabbed the blanket, and bolted for the Madison. ‘A shout and yell arose from the pursuing army in his rear as from a legion of devils, and he saw the prairie behind him covered with Indians in full and rapid chase.’

As he reached the water, Colter disappeared in the thick willows and then dove under a beaver dam. He came up inside the dam and soon heard the Blackfeet searching for him, even tromping overhead. But they did not find him and at nightfall Colter made his escape. Eleven days later, the emaciated Colter staggered into Lisa’s Fort, 250 miles distant. He died in 1812 while serving in the army. Colter was 37 and left a wife, Sally, and a son and daughter.

Brothers Joseph and Reubin Field were two of the best hunters on the expedition. ‘It was their peculiar fate to have been engaged in all the most dangerous and difficult scenes of the voyage, in which they acquitted themselves with much honor,’ wrote Lewis. The most dangerous scene had been a violent encounter between Indians and four members of the expedition — Lewis, George Drouillard, and the Field brothers. The four men were exploring northwestern Montana on the homeward portion of the journey when they met a small band of teenage Piegan Blackfeet. Masking his apprehension, Lewis smoked a pipe with the young men, and Drouillard interpreted in sign language. The two groups even camped together. At dawn Lewis woke to a scuffle: the young Blackfeet had stolen three of the soldiers’ rifles. The Field brothers pursued the Indian who had taken Joseph’s musket and caught him 30 or 40 yards from camp. As Reubin and the brave struggled over the gun, Reubin’stabed the indian to the heart with his knife the fellow ran about 15 steps and fell dead.’ Moments later Lewis shot another brave with his pistol; the wounded man returned fire, barely missing Lewis, who ‘felt the wind of his bullet very distinctly.’

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