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The mountains had become his home. He made them his home after fleeing the hypocrisy of civilization in Missouri at the graveside of his father and mother and began fulfilling the life long dream held dear by his father and himself. When he first came to the mountains, he was a younker and a greenhorn, but now he was a seasoned man of the mountains. Returning from a quick trip back to St. Louis, he was again determined to never leave his beloved mountains, the far blue mountains, the Rocky Mountains, the high and lonesome, the only place he could see forever and breathe the air that held not a scent of anything from civilization.
On the trip up the Missouri to Fort Union aboard the steamboat, he befriended an old-timer and well-seasoned mountain man, Knuckles, and the old man agreed to show the newcomer around Crow and Blackfeet country. Tate Saint knew it was always best to learn from someone that knew the different people of the mountains, and this man seemed to know his way around the different tribes never before encountered by Tate in the mountains to the South. But he wanted to explore all the mountains from the Canadian Rockies to the southern Sangre de Cristo. This time the mountains in the north were beckoning the young man so full of wanderlust, but little did he know what awaited, from renegades to missionaries and a lovely Indian lass that seemed to be the answer to the question he didn’t know how to ask.
