CHAPTER EIGHT
Old Main Building
“I wonder if, before you speak of your first meeting with John Jackson, you might tell us a little about Matt Jensen? I have read some reports that he is your son, other reports that he is your younger brother, and still other reports that he is of no kin at all. Yet, he does share your last name.”
“His birth name was Cavanaugh,” Smoke said. “He honored me by taking my last name, shortly after he left.”
“This was before you met John Jackson?”
“Yes. Matt was a fourteen-year-old boy when he ran away from an orphanage. I found him half frozen to death in the mountains and took him back with me. Once he recovered he stayed with me quite a while until he left to be on his own. He was with Preacher and me when we first ran across John.”
The Colorado Rockies—1869
Smoke and young Matt were with Smoke’s friend and mentor, a man who had never given anyone—and very few at that—anything more than his Christian name, Art. To his contemporaries and to history, he would always be known as Preacher.
“You two fellas hold it up there for a moment,” Preacher said, lifting his hand. He pointed to the top of some trees. “See them birds up there? The way they’re actin’?”
“Yes.”
“What does that tell you, boy?” Preacher asked Matt.
“They’re studying something that’s holding their attention pretty good,” Matt said.
“You think it’s a critter?” Preacher asked.
“No, I don’t think it is. The way they’re acting, I think it might be a man. Or men.”
Preacher chuckled. “Smoke, I’d say you’re learnin’ this boy pretty good,” he said.
“I had a pretty good teacher myself,” Smoke said.
“Yeah, I reckon you did,” Preacher replied. It wasn’t a boast; it was a statement of fact.
“I would tell you to loosen up that hog leg of yourn, but no need to. You can get it out fast enough, I reckon. Let’s the three of us ride on up there, but let’s do it real quiet.”
Smoke reached down to stroke his horse’s neck, then, with a slight pressure of the knees, urged him on.
Preacher, Smoke, and young Matt were approaching a break in the trees without making a sound. It was as if their mounts knew to be quiet, because their hoofbeats were but soft plops in the dirt, no breaking twigs, no rattle of crushing leaves.
Then, just before they reached the opening in the woods, the three heard a long string of curses from just ahead, and Smoke reached down to put his hand on his pistol, though he didn’t pull it. They rode a bit farther, then Preacher held his hand up. What they saw ahead of them was a man, probably fifteen years older than Smoke, trying to hold on to a wild turkey that had been caught in a snare. The turkey, with flapping wings and pecking beak, was fighting hard to get free.
“Grab him by the neck,” Preacher called to the man.
“I’m trying to grab him by the neck, but the bird apparently has his own ideas. He just won’t cooperate,” the man replied.
Smoke slid down from his saddle, hurried up to the man and the flapping bird, then reached up with his left hand to grab the turkey just under his head, while with the knife in his right hand, he cut the head off. The man who had been holding on to the bird dropped him, and the four of them watched the turkey flop around until, finally, it grew still.
“Well, it would be quite ungentlemanly of me not to invite you three gentlemen to help me eat this bird,” the man said.
“We appreciate the invitation,” Preacher said. “But who will we be eating with?”
“The name is Jackson. John Jackson. And who would you three be?”
“I’m called Preacher. This is Smoke. The boy is Matt.”
“You’re a man of the cloth, are you?” Jackson asked.
“Nope.”
“But you’re called Preacher?”
“Yep.”
Preacher’s monosyllabic responses were indications that he had no intention of explaining his moniker, and Jackson didn’t pursue it.
Without being asked, Matt picked up the turkey and began plucking it. Once the feathers were removed, he gutted it, then cleaned it in the nearby creek.
“You seem to be quite a capable young man,” John said.
“Smoke is bringing me along,” Matt replied.
All the while Matt had been cleaning the turkey, Smoke had been gathering wood, and now had a good fire going. He had made a pile of rocks in the middle of the fire, and the turkey, now quartered, was laid out on those rocks to cook.
“Are you three out hunting?” John asked.
“Sort of,” Preacher replied.
“What are you hunting for?”
“Whatever we find,” Preacher said.
“Were you watching me?”
“Some.”
“Does this one talk?” John asked, nodding toward Smoke.
“I talk,” Smoke said. “When there’s something to talk about.”
“Smoke,” Matt said. “Look over there. Isn’t that sage?”
Smoke chuckled. “It is indeed, boy. You have good eyes.”
“Mr. Jackson, it’s your bird. Do you mind if I rub in some sage?”
“Do I mind? No, not a bit,” John replied. “Show me what it looks like. That might be something good for me to know.”
Matt led John over to the growth of sage, then he picked it and began rubbing it between his hands, breaking the leaves down so he could put it on the turkey.
The four were quiet for a long moment as the four quarters of the turkey cooked, and, as it cooked, the air was perfumed with its aroma.
“Damn, that smells good,” John said. “I have to confess, I would never have thought of piling up rocks like that to cook it.”
“How did you plan to cook it?” Smoke asked.
“I’m not sure what I planned to do. I guess I was just going to throw it in the fire.”
“It would’ve burned half of it away, maybe all of it,” Smoke said.
“Yeah, well, when it was just me, there would probably have been enough left. With four of us, I can see how this is the best way to cook it.”
Finally, Smoke went over and pulled on a wing. It came off easily.
“Turkey’s ready to eat,” he said.
“I’ll get some salt out of my pouch,” John offered.
“No need for you to waste your salt. You furnished the turkey, the least we can do is furnish the salt,” Preacher said.
“Well, that’s mighty kind of you.”
“You’re new to the mountains, aren’t you?” Preacher asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“No, it’s just that I’ve been in these mountains for some thirty years now, and I ain’t never run across you before.”
“Well, sir, you’re right, I just got here a few days ago. I’m from Pennsylvania, and I read about the Rocky Mountains, and how there’s land here that no man has ever seen before. So I bought a book that told me everything a man might need in order to live in the mountains. It also had a list of everything I needed to buy, so I went out and bought everything it suggested.
“Now I have supplies for about six months.” He laughed. “But it has left me just about dead broke.”
“What do you figure on doin’ after your six months is up, and you don’t have any money to resupply?” Smoke asked.
Jackson chuckled. “To tell you the truth, Smoke, I don’t know as I’ve given it too much thought,” he said. “I guess I just sort of figured that something would come along. It’s my plan to trap beaver, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ve got enough to get by until I can find employment somewhere and just give up the notion.”
“Pilgrim, looks to me like you are a fella in the need of a lot of education.”
“Well, if it is education I need, I do have a degree from the University of Pennsylvania,” he said.
“It ain’t book learnin’ I’m talkin’ about,” Preacher said. “The k
ind of learnin’ you need out here don’t come from no college or no books. It don’t even come from them books you was talkin’ about.”
“Then where does one acquire such an education?” John asked.
“It most comes from just bein’ out here, and doin’,” Preacher said. “After you make the same mistake over a few times, why it just sort of sets in your mind not to do them same things again.
“But it also helps to have someone with you, to help learn you.”
“You mean to ‘bring me on,’ like Smoke is doing with the young man?” John asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that. Matt seems to be a most capable young man, despite his youthful age.” John laughed, a grunting, rather self-deprecating laugh. “I must confess that my degree in fine arts does little to prepare me for the adventure I’m about to undertake.”
“What do you think, Smoke?” Preacher asked. “Would you be willin’ to take this pilgrim under your wing for a while?”
“What about Matt?” Smoke asked.
“What about him?” Preacher asked. “You’ve got a cabin, the boy can hunt and fish, I’ve no doubt he can take of his ownself. Besides which, I’ll look in on him from time to time.”
“What do you think, Matt? You think you’re up to livin’ on your own for a while?”
“I reckon I can,” Matt said with a broad smile.
“Damn, you’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?” Smoke said.
“Why not? It’ll be good to get away from your bossin’ me around,” Matt said with a teasing laugh.
“All right, I’ll take him under my wing,” Smoke said.
“Whoa, not so fast here,” John said. “I agree that my education may be somewhat remiss, but I wouldn’t feel right about burdening someone with the task of undertaking my education.”
“Pilgrim, I come out here as a boy, no more ’n fourteen years old, I was, when I got here,” Preacher said. “I’d done freed a slave girl that was mostly white, fought river pirates on the Mississippi, took a raft down the river, and fought the Battle of New Orleans with ole Andy Jackson hisself. I thought I was ready to take care of myself, but I run into a couple of mountain men by the name of Pierre Garneau and Clyde Barnes. They took me in, and ever’thing I know I learned from them two mountain men. Then, when Smoke come along, well, I sort of took him in, like them mountain men did me, and I taught him as much as I could.
“I reckon it would only be fittin’ to give you the same kind of learnin’. And there wouldn’t be nobody any better at it than Smoke Jensen. So what do you say? Are you wantin’ to actual learn somethin’? Or do you plan on stayin’ out here makin’ a fool of yourself and maybe even windin’ up gettin’ yourself kilt?”
John looked over at Smoke, studying him for a long time before he nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I’m not too proud to admit that I need help. It’s fine by me, if it’s fine by you.”
Smoke grinned. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson held his hand out. “No, sir. Now we have to start this off right between us. I’m not Mr. Jackson. If we’re to be friends, you’ll call me John.”
“All right, John it will be,” Smoke said.
“Say, you ain’t no kin to Andy Jackson, are you? I mean, what with your name ’n all,” Preacher asked.
“He and my grandfather were first cousins,” Jackson said.
“Is that a fact? Well, he was a good man, General Jackson was. Seems to me like I heard he was the president of the United States once. Is that true?”
“Yes, he was the seventh president.”
“I thought so. I’ll be damn. To think that I once knowed a president of these here United States is some kind of an awesome thing.”
One of the first things Smoke did was tell John that if he was serious about trapping, they were going to have to move.
“The Colorado Rockies have been mostly trapped out,” he said. “I think we’re goin’ to have to go north.”
“How far north? All the way into Canada?”
“No, there is no need to go that far. But I reckon we’d better head on up to Wyoming, or more ’n likely, all the way up to Montana.”
“Montana,” John said. “Yes, that sounds quite interesting. I’ll bet there are more places up there that no one has ever seen, than there are down here.”
“I’m sure there are,” Smoke said. “It’s a lot bigger area, and there are a lot fewer people.”
“I’ll be ridin’ on then,” Matt said.
“Matt, you know where the money is,” Smoke said. “If you start running short of the possibles—flour, coffee, sugar, beans, bacon, that sort of thing—well, just ride on down to Schemerhorn’s Trading Post and pick up what you need there. You might go there once a month or so anyway, ’cause if I decide to send you a letter, I’ll send it to you care of Schemerhorn.”
“All right,” Matt said. “Smoke, is it all right if I practice drawing and shooting my pistol while you’re gone?”
“Yeah, you’ve come far enough, I don’t reckon you’ll be shootin’ yourself,” Smoke said. “You might need to buy some more cartridges while you’re getting your possibles.”
“All right,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll see you early next summer.”
“Take care,” Smoke said to the boy as he rode off.
“You sure he’ll be all right alone?” John asked. “He seems awfully young.”
“Don’t let the boy’s age fool you,” Smoke said. “He’s already a better man than three-fourths of the men I know.”
They watched Matt until he was out of sight, then Preacher spoke.
“You’ll be needin’ a pack mule, John,” he said. “And to get one of them you’re goin’ to have to go some way from here, maybe a hunnert miles or more. That’ll be a town called Big Rock. It’s sort of a new town, just growin’ up, but me ’n Smoke has been there three, maybe four times, already, an’ they’s some pretty good folks there, don’t you think, Smoke?”
“So far, the few times we’ve been there, the folks we’ve run across have been friendly,” Smoke said.
“They got ’em a new sheriff there,” Preacher said. “Fella by the name of Monte Carson. Folks say he’s honest, and I figure if a town has an honest sheriff, then it’s more ’n likely an honest town.”
“Any proper town has to have a saloon,” John said. “It’s been a month of Sundays since I had a beer, and I would be more than willing to dip into my meager resources to remedy that situation.”
“They got a saloon there,” Preacher said. “It’s a good one too, and it’s run by a man that ain’t always tryin’ to cheat you. Besides, it’s been a while since either one of us been in town. Might be good . . . I’d like to have a beer my ownself, ’n maybe a meal I didn’t have to kill, or cook.”
CHAPTER NINE
Old Main Building
“I know that you ultimately settled near Big Rock,” Professor Armbruster said. “Sugarloaf Ranch is only a few miles away, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my ranch is just under five miles from Big Rock.”
“But the time of your story is, I believe you said, 1869?”
“Yes.”
“Big Rock was still quite new then, wasn’t it? I believe it was founded in 1860.”
“Yes, Big Rock is proud of its position in Colorado history,” Smoke said. He continued with his story and, as before, Professor Armbruster was able to lose himself in the narrative, so that he was actually there as an eyewitness to the events Smoke was describing.
Big Rock
The star on the man’s vest was still new because he had only been the sheriff for a short time. Before he moved to Big Rock to become their sheriff, Monte Carson had ridden the outlaw trail. It was mostly down in Texas, and most of the money he stole was from the carpetbaggers and reconstructionists who were taxing the ranchers and farmers to the point that more and more were having to sell ou
t.
He was good with a gun too, and had demonstrated that skill many times, though almost always with someone who was also on the outlaw trail. The only exceptions had been when he killed Marcus Shardeen, a bounty hunter who was looking to take a dead Carson in for the reward, and Lou Bona, who, six months later, tried to do the same thing.
Carson looked again at the telegram he had received just this morning.
DREW CULPEPPER AND MARTIN DINGLE BELIEVED TO BE HEADED FOR BIG ROCK STOP BOTH MEN WANTED FOR MURDER STOP
Carson knew Culpepper; he had had a run-in with him two months earlier. Then it had been for getting drunk and throwing a rock through the front window of Murchison’s Leather Goods store, a dispute over a pair of saddlebags. Carson had forced Culpepper to pay for the damages, and Culpepper, before he left town, had uttered some threat about “getting even.” Carson didn’t know Martin Dingle, and had never even heard of him.
Laying the telegram aside, the sheriff walked over to the stove and, using a rag to protect against the heat, picked up the blue-steel pot to pour himself a cup of coffee. He drank it black, simply because it was easier that way, and holding the cup in his hand, he walked over to look through the front window, out onto Front Street. He blew into the coffee to cool it a bit before taking his first swallow.
Butchery of the Mountain Man Page 6
