When young Bill Sublette, quit being "Constable One Punch" in Missouri in 1823 to join the legendary Mountain Men trapping beaver in the wilderness, it was the beginning of 12 years of high adventure no one could ever have imagined! These fabled years were first enshrined in the high action, nonfiction book Ponder The Path nominated for the Francis Parkman Award and its free standing sequel Behold The Shining Mountains, nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in U.S, History. Now they're here in three epic albums, each running 41/2 hours as an AudioStagePlayÔ with a different voice for every person in Dolby Stereo®, spiced by sound effects and songs of the era!

These albums aren't about dead people. They're history as it happens™ live in a high action format. Like a PBS TV documentary, dialogue evolves from diaries, journals, letters, autobiographies and authentic texts exposing the hearts and minds of early Americans as they speak their own words. A Table of Contents Chronology on each cassette label and audiotape soundtrack specifies every Chapter's time period, so you never guess when it happened. You'll relive the lives of these historical figures with muzzleloader gunfire and other sound effects. At scene changes you'll hear stanzas from actual songs of the period, all listed by Chapter inside the album's front cover with origin dates.

Each presentation has three 90 Minute cassettes in a stunning reusable white vinyl album with exciting cover graphic and copy, running about 4 1/2 Hours. $19.95. You can order the first album with the other two albums in the Trilogy, or just the first album, since each album can stand alone as a story unit. Get any or all of these fascinating albums now on our Special Introductory Offer! Click on "To Order" below for discount Prices.

Young Bill Sublette And The Legendary Mountain Men [1823-1827] is the first audiobook album of the Sublette Trilogy. It's Abridgment #1 of Ponder The Path, the powerful 279 page nonfiction Francis Parkman Award nominated sourcebook. It chronicles Bill's entry into the world of the legendary fur trappers in western Indian Country. Lets eavesdrop on Chapter 10 to see just how that came about.

[Chapter 10] Surveying paid well, but after 2 years of staking out townships in Illinois's lonely wilderness, James Clyman relished St. Louis, Missouri's uproarious waterfront. With all the tumult on the Mississippi River's levee, the slender six footer couldn't believe shipping was stalled till the river pilots could steer through the ice break-up of the 1822-23 winter. Though he was 31, it was Clyman's first sight of shipping facilities that were cities in themselves. Clyman spied a man in a visored blue cap reading wind whipped papers tacked to a big swaying board and yelled, "General William Ashley?"

. . . Clyman's blackened buckskins and blanket capote marked him a backwoodsman to all he met. But that wasn't why the townspeople gawked as he made his way to General Ashley's house. During the War of 1812 a Shawnee's rifle barrel had bashed out four upper teeth on the right side, giving Clyman a perpetual leer, though he seldom actually smiled. Most figured he was sneering at them. Their overlong stares irked him, but he'd learned to stare back impassively. High cheekbones and a craggy forehead heightened Clyman's renegade look.

Clyman padded silently onto the porch of Ashley's stately home and knocked. A black servant allowed him in, but left him standing inside the door. The nattily dressed man striding so militarily toward him with his bold chin stuck out was 3 inches shorter and ten years older than Clyman, but weighed at least his 140 pounds. General Ashley smoothed down the hair he combed across his bald spot. He knew just the mien he wanted and assumed it. He looked bored, but mildly inquisitive.

"I'm General William Ashley." Ashley's steel gray eyes searched his lean guest brutally. Ashley needed 200 men like Clyman by next month or the Ashley & Henry keelboats, Rocky Mountains and Yellow Stone Packet, would be sitting along the levee long after the ice melted. Delay could sink their partnership into bankruptcy.

Clyman didn't flinch. "James Clyman. Surveyor by training, but here on the hunter job you advertised in the Missouri Gazette, Mr. Ashley. When's your outfit heading up river?"

"Early March to get in a trapping season before the fall freezes. You must sign 200 men for that voyage, Mr. Clyman."

"Where's a man look?"

"Grog shops -- brothels -- graves if the body's still warm." Popping his gold watch open, Ashley saw William Sublette was due. He recalled appointing Sublette's father Justice of the Peace in St. Charles. "What's your price, Mr. Clyman?"

"Dollar a day till I recruit your 200 men."

"One down when you sign young Sublette due here now! His brother Milton's been trapping with my partner Major Henry on the Yellowstone River for a year. Dollar a day's yours if you sign 200 by March first. That's nigh four weeks. Do it, and you'll clerk for the season at $1 per day. That's double hunters' pay. As a surveyor, you must have a degree."

"I do."

"What college?"

"University of the Wilderness."

"Have a diploma?"

"I am the diploma. Fact I'm here's proof of graduation.

Clyman's wit tickled him. "You're quick enough to clerk for me. I like a Virginia accent. Lost mine after all these years in Missouri."

"Well, General, since you've tasked me like Falstaff, I'll enlist ten score of ribald rascals ere the month is out!"

"Falstaff -- wasn't he the clever knight from Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Windsor -- or was he in Henry IV?"

"Both, General!" James Clyman chortled.

Watching Clyman's wry face twist all the more in mirth, General Ashley unleashed his booming laugh. He hadn't been this giddy since his beloved wife Mary died two years ago. Jousting with this spindly fellow impersonating Shakespeare's fat Falstaff was hilarious fare!

"Worst part o' having me for clerk is my spelling's worse'n a grizzly's breath."

The General groaned, "Long as your numbers add up!"

Bill Sublette knew he'd picked the wrong house when laughter busted through its walls. Leaning into the window's light, he verified the address on his recommendation letter from St. Charles. His knock brought teary-eyed General Ashley to the door.

"C'mon in. I'm General Ashley. You'd be William Sublette, and this is James Clyman."

Sublette crushed their hands in turn. Both took stock of 6' 2" Sublette. Ashley saw a statuesque man of 23 with icy blue eyes -- Jackson-faced -- long sandy hair in waves to his neck. A chin scar peeked through a curly, straw-hued beard. Sublette was an overbright oil painting with the carriage of a man who knew what to do. Only time would tell if he did.

Skinny James Clyman envied the young fellow's bulging muscle. Sublette's big square hands'd fit plow handles. Bullock like him'd be slow and clumsy. Too handsome to be dependable. No telling what he'd do under fire -- but Clyman was now one man closer to signing his 200 -- if this sleek ox could write.

Clyman gasped, "You're hired, Sublette!"

The General chuckled. Clyman had no inkling he'd just met Constable One Punch, the young bull who'd brought peace and quiet to St. Charles, Missouri.

To Sublette, this stringbean Clyman's attitude was as irritatin' as his odor, but he took it in stride, realizin' it was some kinda joke. Sublette tucked his letter of recommendation into his pocket. Only showed your hole card if you got called.

. . . February 2, 1823's dawn found James Clyman waiting in a levee back alley for Sublette. He had enough trouble watching out for himself in a Frenchie Gumbo hellhole like this without watching after some plowboy.

"Brought the wagon," Sublette grated inches behind Clyman, shooting lightning through the spindle-shanked fellow.

Regaining his composure, Clyman muttered, "Let's try that brothel an' see if anybody wants to jump out of a warm bed to go keelboatin' into a frozen wilderness full o' unfrozen Indians."

"Be easier if you don't dwell on them details."

Entering stealthily, they stared down a gun barrel. "Never sneak up onna sleepy woman gotta shotgun!" the droopy woman cautioned. "You the law?"

"We're trappin' fur trappers," Sublette explained.

"Wha's innit fer me?"

"We haul your ashes for a change," Clyman interjected.

Her shotgun drooped, and she scratched herself in an unladylike way. "Take 'em. Not sposed to be in here now."

In the first dingy room, a snoring woman's arm lay across a pair of bony feet sticking out of the blanket beside her.

Clyman whispered, "Strictly speaking, these feet have strayed from the path of righteousness."

Sublette nodded pensively.

"But you wouldn't deprive 'em of the chance to get rich over a little gin, now wouldja?"

Sublette shook his head, "Never."

Clyman signaled Sublette to toss the feet in the wagon. Finding no other "volunteers," they entered a grog shop.

Clyman leaned over the tavern table, waving the smoke away to reveal five goatish faces. "$200 the year to anybody who'll keelboat up the Missouri this March."

A husky boatman rose. "Who you leerin' at, shikepoke?"

Bill Sublette stepped hard onto the boatman's foot. "Have a seat, Mister. It's jist a friendly smile. That's all."

The grimacing boatman sized Sublette up and sat down. Clyman and Sublette backed out the door.

Once outside, Clyman said, "I saw you palm your shot pouch and clear the top of your boot to pull your hideout gun. Who are you, anyway?"

"Jist like you thought, Mr. Clyman. I'm jist a plowboy from Kentucky." [End Chapter 10]

By late May 1823, General Ashley's 2 keelboats were 400 miles up the Missouri River into what would one day be South Dakota. General Ashley anchored, unaware that his expedition would soon be called the fur trade's greatest disaster.

[Chapter 13] General Ashley eyed his fur Brigade Captain Jedediah Smith. "We've got trade goods for the 20 horses your brigade needs, but can't locate Indians with horses to trade."

Jedediah Smith replied, "Passed two Arikara villages few hundred yards apart along the east bank of the Missouri some six miles north of here. Roamed them some. The Arikara have a host of horses -- and a host of warriors."

"How many horses make a host?"

"I wouldn't get struck dead for lying if I said 1,000."

"Is a host still a thousand for Indians?"

"More like six hundred -- but well armed -- mostly trade rifles with a dash of British military pieces."

"Sounds like the Arikara could trade us some horses."

"General, look elsewhere for the horses. You've never seen Indians fortified like these. Must fight all the time."

"Army says the Arikara and the Sioux have been at war long as anybody can remember, but we're not involved."

"Judge for yourself. The Arikara have dug hundreds of potato holes about 15 feet across. Each is fortified by willow brush layered with dirt, grass and mud. Be lucky to penetrate one with a cannon."

"Couldn't the Arikara be living in these potato holes?"

"Logically they could, but the way they're spaced with gun ports all around says they're for war. It's what they're for, General -- war."

"See any other Indians we could trade with for horses?"

"Plains nomads. None we could find by the time we get these boats up there."

"I can't fritter the summer away scouting for horses because I'm too timid to trade with Indians I've already found!"

Jedediah's unwavering eyes froze to blue ice. He generated a knife-thin smile, "Major Henry sent Edward Rose, a mulatto Crow War Chief down here with me."

"Rose -- I've heard the name. Major Henry's talked of him like he's some kind of legend. Where is Rose?"

"I dunno, but if you ever spent five minutes with Edward Rose, you'd never forget him!"

"Why's that?" Ashley yawned.

"Rose has the devil's body and the tongue of an angel. Speaks 10 languages. Got his nose slashed as a boy in a brawl on a New Orleans keelboat. Crows he lived with called him Nez Coupe¢ -- Cut Nose -- till he slew five Minnetarees in a battle where he fought the whole tribe alone. Now the Crows call him Chee-ho-carte -- Five Scalps. They worship him as a demon. When Manuel Lisa fired Ed Rose, Major Henry says it took 15 men to hold Rose down long enough for Lisa to get away to St. Louis. And Rose was sober -- he's worse if he's drunk."

Now starkly awake, Ashley snapped, "Where is Rose? Gotta keep track of a man who acts like that."

"Can't. Rose comes and goes like the vapors."

"What good's Rose to us here?"

"First time Major Henry ran into Rose was in 1809 -- living in an Arikara village. Speaks their language fluently." "Send Rose to me when he gets here. Set up our shore camp by the river right under the noses of these Arikara villages."

"What'll we offer them for their horses, General?"

"I'll open with squaw trinkets, blankets, mirrors and vermilion sticks. If those fail, I'll trade powder and shot for horses."

Jedediah Smith's jaw dropped in disbelief. "As you say, General. As you say."

. . . On dawn bow watch again, Bill Sublette cradled his icy rifle in the crook of his arm. The Arikara village sprawled on the prairie along the Missouri's east bank, but the fog swathed it. In Missouri people swapped tales about Blackfeet massacres, friendly Sioux and horse-thievin' Crows. He'd never even heard of an Arikara before last week. But Sublette's nose knew plenty about the Arikara. They didn't bury their dung. Kept too many horses. Didn't fish much fer people livin' on a river. Gutted their buffalo nearby an' dried the meat into jerky. Cut willows an' put peppers in their food.

As the fog fell away before the new sun, Sublette saw a sand bar along the east bank. Still no Arikaras. Towers of willow sticks like overgrown corn shocks loomed above the riverbank. He wanted to see a real live Arikara before breakfast! But he was not impressed when the Arikaras swarmed the riverbank. They were skinny fellers in buckskins with stringy black hair. Some carried rusty rifles -- by the barrel. He got a man to take the bow watch so he could eat breakfast.

General Ashley, Jedediah Smith and Ed Rose went ashore to open the horse talks in one of the stuffy potato holes with a toothless Chief, obviously long out of power. Jedediah bowed out to set up the beach camp Ashley'd ordered.

Rose soon joined Jedediah, "Arikara are mad as a bee-stung bull because Missouri Fur Company shot at them over a Sioux squaw -- a miserable slave. Two younger Chiefs came, but see no difference between Missouri Fur Company and us. They demand tribute for that shooting before trading horses."

"We'll go back to the boat and let them wonder if the talks are over."

Besides the 12 men Jedediah had on the sand spit, Ashley messengered a list of 28 more, including Bill Sublette, James Clyman, Moses "Black" Harris, Thomas Fitzpatrick and Hugh Glass.

Jedediah kept surly Ed Rose on the beach to translate for the Arikara. But as a most pious Methodist, it was torture for Jedediah to league himself with Rose. The man was Satan incarnate. Smith relayed the General's orders to the beach party to make a show of cleaning and aiming weapons.

Sublette asked Clyman, "Whatta you think o' bein' down here on bare sand lookin' up at all them forts sproutin' rifles?"

"This's what it's like for the turkey at a turkey shoot."

Next day Rose paid tribute of 10 pounds of powder and 2 bars of lead to meet the main Arikara chief, a powerful fellow with fierce eyes and the front half of his head shaved.

Ashley made Rose ask the Chief's name. Refusing to speak, the Chief hand-signed that the tribute must be put on the dirt floor between them. Even after it was, the chief folded his arms and stared, ignoring the mosquitoes biting his face. The General rowed out to the keelboat, anchored midstream, in disgust.

Bartering between Ashley and the Chief he'd dubbed "the half wit," resumed the third day amid stinging mosquitoes. Ashley matched the Chief's indifference to the bloodsuckers, demanding that his men select the horses. He aborted that when "half wit" emitted animal howls. Ashley doubled the ante of powder and shot. When "half wit" smiled, Ashley knew the dickering was done and exchanged hand-to-heart signs of friendship with his adversary.

Rose growled, "You know this Chief cannot be trusted."

Rain pounded Ashley in the long boat returning to the Yellow Stone Packet in a fittingly dismal end to this June first, birthday of his dead wife Mary, whom he missed so desperately. Mary would have been proud of him, getting these horses when everybody'd damned his trying.

Rain mercifully banished mosquitoes from the sandspit as Arikaras drove unbroken paints and scarred renegades onto it piecemeal. Hugh Glass chided, "I'm only a sea farin' man, but these ugly divels don't look worth usin' for ballast."

Tired of parsing out powder to match sporadic horse deliveries, Ashley ordered the last hundredweight of powder delivered, half to each Arikara Village. A German trapper staggering in the dark asked, "Vonder vot dese Rees gonna do mit all dis powder and chot?"

At dawn June 2nd, Arikaras raked Ashley's horses and 40 man beach detachment in their blankets with man-made thunder, lightning and death. Sublette rolled over and grabbed his rifle. From the whacks of bullets strikin' heavy bodies, Sublette figured the horses were the Arikara targets. But after all horses fell, the Indians kept firin'. He saw Hugh Glass flop across the bodies of two other men. This couldn't be happenin'!

Sublette thrust his rifle across a downed horse's ribs. Its blood drained warmly onto his thigh, seethin' with gorgin' mosquitoes. He fired at Arikara muzzle flashes. Bullets kicked sand on him. He loaded rapidly, then fired each single musketball and loaded again, time after time. It dawned on him the trappers were all firin' together. He heard himself yell, "Stagger your firin'. They'll charge when we're all loadin'."

From the Yellow Stone Packet midstream, General Ashley ordered men to rescue his sandspit fighters in the skiffs, but only Reed Gibson obeyed his suicidal orders. General Ashley grabbed his long rifle and looked for "half wit." The wily Arikara had traded him worthless horses, shot them and Ashley's men -- with Ashley's own powder and shot. Ashley realized the real "half wit" was holding his rifle.

Clyman tried to reach Reed Gibson's skiff, but bullets ripping the water forced him to sprint up the beach with several Arikara warriors on his heels. Glancing over his shoulder, Clyman saw Sublette's blond head buck from the kick of his rifle. With typical Clyman detachment, he recalled concluding at Ashley's house, that Sublette would break and run under fire. Now Sublette was back there battling to the death while Clyman broke and ran. Clyman doubted either of them'd live long enough for him to apologize to Sublette.

[Chapter 14] The Arikaras fired arrows high in the sky to thunk into downed horses and men. When an arrow tore off Bill Sublette's boot heel, he realized death was coming for him. He'd never been so excited -- nor so calm. As he loaded his rifle, he saw Jedediah Smith pointin' toward the river.

Fallen Hugh Glass's bloody hand clawed the air. Sublette shifted his rifle and grabbed Glass's arm, dragging the Irishman. Negro Moses "Black" Harris hoisted Glass's other side. Sublette heard a bullet smack one o' the men with him. Moses lurched, but didn't drop the Irishman. Arikara bullets spronged off the swirling Missouri. As trappers shouldering wounded comrades clambered aboard the keelboats, the Arikara ceased firing. Squaws danced among dead trappers on the beach, stripping them of their clothes.

Panting at the Yellow Stone Packet's railing, Sublette gaped as squaws smashed the skulls of his fallen friends. They butchered scalps off and flapped them at the keelboats. Sublette wished Clyman would down these hags with his long rifle. Where was Clyman anyway?

Skinny, nude Jack Larrison leaped up and ran for the river. Flailing his arms and legs, Larrison dodged the clawing squaws and floundered to safety while keelboaters cheered.

The keelboats weighed anchor slinking downstream in disgrace. Sublette found dazed Hugh Glass, head bandaged and left arm trussed in a bloody rag. Sublette searched for Clyman. No luck. He hollered at the other boat, but they couldn't hear him over the Missouri's roar. 25 miles below the Arikara villages, both keelboats safely hove to at a small island centered in the river.

A bedraggled General Ashley faced the wind on the Yellow Stone Packet's deck, his hair flailing his bald spot. His powerful voice echoed, "These treacherous devils murdered a dozen of Missouri's finest men -- and wounded as many more -- then had their harpies befoul their bodies! My valiant friend Reed Gibson just choked to death on his own blood. Other wounded will follow him to unmarked graves on this Godless prairie. Some of you might be ready to slink away. If you are, you can join the wounded headed for Fort Atkinson on this keelboat. But I'm not through with the Arikaras! We're going back -- this time with the United States Army and heavy artillery!" Ashley bowed his head. "Let us pray!"

While trappers prayers for dead comrades, Missouri Militia General Ashley prayed that after U.S.Army Colonel Leavenworth got over his rage at the very disaster he'd predicted -- and after the unpredictable Indian Agent O'Fallon got past the idea of hauling Ashley to jail in chains -- they'd send troops and cannon up here to avenge his dead. Ashley retired below decks, penning the most impassioned plea of his career to Colonel H. Leavenworth. He asked Moses Harris, hobbled by a broken leg, to deliver his dispatch when the boat reached Fort Atkinson. Ashley wrote his partner Major Andrew Henry the details of the Arikara fiasco, asking Drew to muster every man they had and head for the Cheyenne River's junction with the Missouri. Ashley handed the doomsday note to Jedediah Smith, saying, "God Speed."

Sublette moved his gear to the Rocky Mountains. He'd never felt the fiery thirst for vengeance before. He didn't like it -- or maybe he did. The others shared his fury, for only gravely wounded set sail for Fort Atkinson on the Yellow Stone.

Two days later, James Clyman, sunburnt and scabby, reached the Rocky Mountains. Sublette, boarding with sacks of small game, grinned, "Glad to see them lunatic squaws didn't dump your brains in the sand."

Crow Chief Edward Rose laid his game on deck. Slitting his ebony eyes, he growled, "The squaws were not crazy. Arikara halt an enemy's voyage to the spirit world by crippling his body. They knew when you saw your warriors lose their afterlife, you'd flee from their land."

Bill Sublette rasped, "If they was right, this boat'd be empty. I'm gonna geld me a few o' them skinny Arikaras and see how that sets with their plans fer the spirit world." [End Chapter 14]

Another grizzly mauling? Who will be the victim? Chapter 16 tells the true tale!

[Chapter 16] By the time Brigade Captain Jedediah Smith's men learned the rock strewn Black Hills of Wyoming were not rich in beaver, their fine Sioux horses, too long without the rich grasses of their homeland, were faltering. Jedediah dispatched Ed Rose into Crow country, to trade horses with his adopted tribe. Smith's men back-packed their own supplies, staggering through Hell's Canyon into the Powder River Basin. Walking his horse, Smith threaded willow thickets as the sun sank into the mountains to the west. He expected Jim Clyman before dark with fresh meat from his buffalo kill. Sublette, Fitzpatrick and several other men followed close behind Jedediah.

Two miles further, Captain Smith was elated to find a beaver dam ponding the stream with their lodge near the middle and another lodge -- or large rock -- a few feet out into this crystalline water. Lazily, he contemplated spending a day or two trapping the pond while Rose traded horses with the Crows.

The nine foot male grizzly exploded from his long-practiced big rock simulation, drenching Smith with icy water and seizing his head in its teeth. Smith felt his skull flexing in the bear's jaws as his feet flailed empty air. Deafening growls rung his ears as the smell of rotten meat stunned his nose.

Bill Sublette raised his rifle.

"Don't shoot! You'll hit the Captain!" Thomas Eddy yelled, grabbing at Sublette's rifle. Sublette tried to dodge past Eddy, but Eddy stepped in his path.

Sublette kicked Eddy in the belly, clearin' his shot at the bear's chest beside Jedediah's floppin' body, and fired. The heavy bullet struck the scarred bear near the heart, but it kept chewin' Jedediah's head. Sublette pulled a stubby Hawken pistol from each of his boots and charged the bear.

Jedediah's weight bent the bear's head low. The head was big as the punkins Bill used to shoot with his slave and friend Artemis as a boy back in Kentucky. Sublette fired one pistol point blank, blasting the grizzly's left eye out. The grizzly dropped Jedediah and lurched toward Sublette. Sublette jammed his other Hawken into the bear's bloody maw and fired the double load into its brain. The grizzly reeled backward, crashin' into the shallows across the sunken bones of its prior victims.

Congealing blood splotched Sublette's face and upper body. While trappers pulled Jedediah Smith from the gory water, Sublette rinsed off the blood in the cold water. The smooth scar on the left side of Sublette's chin was still sticky with blood but didn't feel like he was cut. He heard himself whisper, "Thanks Artemis!" but couldn't believe he'd said that.

Jim Clyman examined Jedediah's lacerated head. The bear'd sunk a fang close to the Captain's left eye and another by his right ear. The giant teeth'd laid Jedediah's chalky skull bare to the crown of his head. His left ear dangled from the jagged edge of his scalp. "What can I do, Captain?"

Jedediah dammed the blood pouring into his face with his buckskin sleeve. "Get your needle and thread from your possibles bag. Sew my scalp on as best you can. My chest hurts, but all I find there is my bullet pouch is gone."

Clyman located his scissors and cut away Jedediah's thick black hair. He stitched the torn scalp, like sewing the sole on a moccasin. After nearly an hour, Clyman grunted, "Finished except the ear. Can't sew your ear on. I just don't know how all these shreds go together."

Jedediah mumbled, "Jim, you must sew my ear on too. I must be able to hear the Lord from either side."

Clyman sewed as others held pitch knot torches close so he could finish. "I've sewed your ear on the best I can, Jedediah."

"Well then make camp, so I can sleep. I'm weak --very weak."

Bill Sublette squinted at Jedediah's stitched ear in the torchlight. "Not so fast Clyman. That ear looks catty-wampus. Captain, I think Clyman's gotta start over. We cain't have the Lord talkin' into no crooked ear."

Irish Tom Fitzpatrick's voice boomed from the darkness, "Now see here, Sublette -- a man has to leave well enough alone. If Jim sews that ear on back'ards, the Captain'll be jumpin' right onto rattlesnakes, stead o' backin' away from 'em!" [End Chapter 16]

Reviewers say of the sourcebook, Ponder The Path, "A rousing historical epic." L.A. Times. "An accurate primer of the fur trade and Rendezvous era giving hours of enjoyment." Muzzle Blasts Magazine. "Inspiring, informative and just plain good." Muzzleloader Magazine.

Now that you've sampled a few episodes, wouldn't you like to share all of Bill Sublette's incredible adventures from 1823 till 1827? You can order this first album with the other two albums in the Trilogy, or just this first album, since each album can stand alone as a story unit. Get any or all of these fascinating albums now on our Special Introductory Offer! Click on "To Order" below for discount Prices.

To Order

Andrew Jackson, The Gunfighter President

Sam Houston, A Storm Rising

David Crockett, Frontiersman, Soldier & Man For The Ages

Mighty Joe Walker, Soldier, Sheriff & Mountain Man

Big Bill Sublette -- The Oregon Trail And Beyond ( 1827-1833)

The Sublettes And The Fur Wars (1833-1836)

First Women Over The Rockies

 Read about the sourcebooks

PONDER THE PATH

BEHOLD THE SHINING MOUNTAINS

Birth of America AudioBooks

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