Butchery of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Big Rock was a bustling town, primarily because of the gold mines in the area. When Smoke, Preacher, and Jackson rode into town they were treated to the sight of new buildings being erected, and the air was rent with the sounds of saws and hammers. There was a sawmill on the outer edge of town, and the ear-splitting screech of its steam-powered circular saw could be heard all over town. There were freight wagons moving up and down the streets, and the boardwalks on each side of the street filled with people conducting commerce.

  “Coach comin’ in! Coach comin’ in!” someone shouted, and looking around Smoke saw a team of six horses coming into town at a gallop. The stagecoach behind the team was rocking left and right as it was pulled at a rapid pace north, up Tanner Street.

  “Surely he didn’t run that team like that out on the road?” John asked.

  Preacher chuckled. “No, they just like to make a point of arrivin’ and leavin’ at a gallop,” he said. “It calls attention to ’em, and makes some people think that maybe the whole trip is fast like that.”

  They passed the Delmonico Café. “Now, that’s where we’ll eat after we have us a few beers,” Preacher said. “Ain’t no finer café in all of Colorado. ’Course, I ain’t et in ever’ café in Colorado.”

  The three men stopped in front of Longmont’s Saloon. Preacher and Smoke dismounted, but John remained in his saddle.

  “I appreciate what you men are doing,” John said. “And while I can buy my own beer, I’m not so sure I should be wasting money by eating in a restaurant. Especially if I’m going to have to buy a pack mule.”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none about that,” Preacher said. “When we take a feller in, he becomes our pardner. We ain’t goin’ to let you go thirsty, or hungry, or without a mule.”

  “We’ll be buying all that we need,” Smoke said. “And you won’t be beholden to anyone. This is just the way we are out here.”

  “I shall be in your debt then, and I fully intend to discharge that debt at my earliest opportunity,” John insisted.

  “I have no doubt but that you will,” Smoke replied with a friendly smile. He held his hand up in invitation. “Now come on in before the beer goes stale.”

  What only Preacher and Smoke knew was that Smoke’s father, Emmett, lay buried in a place called Brown’s Hole, up in the northwest corner of Colorado, near the Idaho line. And buried right beside him was several thousand dollars in gold. Though he didn’t show it in the way he lived, because he was always moving around, and staying in the mountains mostly, and avoiding towns and civilization, Smoke was a very wealthy man.

  They tied up their animals in front of the saloon. A sign on the front of the saloon featured a beer mug containing a golden brew with a white foamy head. Beneath the sign were the words: COLD BEER HERE.

  That was all the invitation they needed, and they pushed their way through the batwing doors to step inside. It was so dark that they had to stand there for a moment or two until their eyes adjusted. The bar was made of burnished mahogany with a highly polished brass footrail. Crisp, clean white towels hung from hooks on the customers’ side of the bar, spaced every four feet. A mirror was behind the bar, flanked on each side by a small statue of a nude woman set back in a special niche. A row of whiskey bottles sat in front of the mirror, reflected in the glass so that the row of bottles seemed to be two deep. A bartender with pomaded black hair and a waxed handlebar mustache stood behind the bar, where he was industriously polishing glasses.

  “Is the beer really cold, like the sign says?” Smoke asked.

  The bartender looked up at him, but he didn’t stop polishing the glasses.

  “Any colder and the glass would freeze to your lip,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Good. Two beers,” Smoke said.

  “Just two? There are three of you. What does the other one want?”

  “I reckon they’ll be orderin’ for themselves,” Smoke said. “The two beers are for me.”

  “I’ll have two,” Preacher said. “How about you, John?”

  “As I said earlier, it has been a month of Sundays since I had a beer, so I think two beers would go a long way toward alleviating that situation,” John said.

  The bartender chuckled, filled six mugs of beer, and set them in front of the three men.

  “If all my customers were like you boys, I could get rich real quick, close this place down, and go on to California,” a tall, well-dressed man said, from his table near the piano.

  “The sign out front says Longmont’s Saloon. You would be Mr. Longmont, would you?” Smoke asked.

  “I am, sir, Louis Longmont, proprietor of the finest wines, beers, and whiskeys, at your service. And you gentlemen would be?”

  “I’m Smoke Jensen. This is John Jackson. And the old gentleman is Preacher.”

  “Preacher?” Longmont smiled. “I do believe I’ve heard of you, Preacher. Folks say you were here as soon as Jedediah Smith, Jim Bridger, and Kit Carson.”

  “Jedediah Smith welcomed me to these mountains. I welcomed Bridger and Carson,” Preacher said.

  “What’s in California?” John asked.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You said if you got rich you would close this place and go to California. What’s out there?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t actually tell you that,” Longmont said. “I started out for California, but I never quite made it. I stopped here for a while and I haven’t left. But I expect I’ll get there someday.”

  “Why would anyone ever want to leave?” Preacher asked. “I’ve been to a lot of places, never found a place I like better ’n these mountains.”

  “Oui,” Longmont said. “I will confess that there’s something about the mountains that gets in a man’s blood.”

  Smoke picked up the first beer and took a long drink before he turned to look around the place. A card game was going on in the corner and he watched it for a few minutes, drinking his beer while Preacher and John were carrying on a conversation behind him.

  “Pilgrim, you’ll be in good hands with Smoke,” Preacher said. “I never knew anyone that learned as fast as he did.”

  “I appreciate it,” John said.

  “And here’s another thing. You make this boy your friend, and you’ll have a loyal friend for the rest of your life. And out here, one of the first things you learn is that the most valuable thing a man can have, is a loyal friend.”

  The back door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a badge, stepped through the door. Smoke recognized Sheriff Monte Carson, and he started to speak to him, but saw that the sheriff’s attention was directed to a table in the corner of the room.

  “Culpepper,” Sheriff Carson said. “I heard you were in town. I didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to come to my town. Not after killin’ those two men down in Pueblo.”

  The man Carson was talking to, one of the cardplayers, stood up slowly, then turned to face the sheriff.

  “What gives you the idea this is your town? And anyway, am I supposed to be afraid of some small-town sheriff like you?”

  Because the situation had the look of an impending gunfight, the remaining cardplayers jumped up from the table and moved out of the way.

  “You had to know that if you were going to come back to Big Rock, I was going to find out about it, and put you in jail.”

  “You ain’t puttin’ me in no jail, Sheriff.”

  “You’re either goin’ to jail, or you’re goin’ to die, right here, and right now,” Sheriff Carson said.

  Culpepper smiled. “Sheriff, have you considered the possibility that you might be the one dyin’?”

  Smoke was watching the drama play out before him, when he heard something, a soft squeaking sound as if weight were being put down on a loose board. Looking up toward the top of the stairs, he saw a man aiming a shotgun at Sheriff Carson. Carson didn’t see him, because the man was behind the sheriff.

  “Sheriff, look out!” Smoke shouted. When he shouted the warni
ng, Sheriff Carson turned quickly, drew, and fired. The man at the top of the stairs fired the shotgun wildly, and the heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in one of the tables. Sheriff Carson’s shot had been right on target, and the man with the shotgun dropped his weapon and slapped his hand over the wound in his chest. He stood there just for a second as blood spilled between his fingers. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, belly down, headfirst, sliding down the stairs, following his clattering shotgun to the ground floor.

  The sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention to that exchange, including Sheriff Carson, and while his attention was diverted from him, Culpepper took the opportunity to go for his own gun.

  “Don’t do it, Culpepper!” Smoke yelled, and Culpepper turned his gun toward Smoke. The saloon was filled with the roar of another gunshot as Smoke drew and fired at Culpepper, even though Culpepper already had his gun in his hand.

  Smoke’s shot hit Culpepper between the eyes, and he fell back on the table that was still covered with cards and poker chips. He lay there, belly up with his head hanging down on the far side while blood dripped from the hole in his forehead to form a puddle below him. His gun fell from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor.

  “What’s goin’ on in here?” a new voice asked. “What’s all the shootin’?”

  When Smoke turned toward the sound of the voice he saw a man standing just inside the open door. Because of the brightness of the light behind him, Smoke couldn’t see him clearly enough to identify him.

  “Get out of the light,” Smoke ordered.

  “You don’t tell me what to do, I . . .”

  Smoke pulled the hammer back and his pistol made a deadly metallic click as the gear engaged the cylinder.

  “I said get out of the light, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  The figure moved out of the light. When he did, Smoke saw that he was wearing a badge. He put his pistol away.

  “It’s all right, Emile,” Sheriff Carson said to his deputy. “Put your gun away. This man just saved my life.”

  Emile Harris put the gun away, then advanced farther into the saloon. He looked first at the man lying at the foot of the stairs, then at the other man, spread out on the card table with his head dangling over the edge.

  “Damn, what happened here?” he asked.

  “What happened here is that these two men made the mistake of thinking they could run roughshod in our town,” Sheriff Carson said.

  “And you killed both of ’em?”

  “No, just that one,” Carson replied, pointing to the man at the bottom of the stairs. “That one, I presume, is a man named Dingle. This is Culpepper. Carson pointed toward Smoke. This man killed Culpepper.”

  “Would you really have shot me if I hadn’t moved out of the light?”

  Smoke picked up his beer and took a drink before he responded.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Old Main Building

  “The event in Longmont’s saloon would be termed a shoot-out, I believe. At least, that’s what the western novelists call it, people like Owen Wister, Zane Grey, and Max Brand,” Professor Armbruster said.

  “A shoot-out, yes. They use the term accurately. I have met all of them, by the way,” Smoke said. “And Ned Buntline. I’ve met him as well.”

  “Surely you don’t equate someone like Ned Buntline with the more legitimate figures of western literature, men like Wister, Grey, and Brand,” Professor Armbruster said.

  “Why not? He was a storyteller, just as the three men you have mentioned were. In fact, all three of those men told me they had read Buntline, and it was because of his stories that they developed an interest in writing about the West.”

  “I . . . I must apologize,” Professor Armbruster said. “I didn’t mean to be pedantic, nor to give offense.”

  “No offense taken.”

  “Was that the first time you met Monte Carson?” Professor Armbruster asked.

  “Yes. It was the first time I met Louis Longmont, as well.”

  “But you and Carson, and you and Longmont, became very good friends after that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, eventually. Not right away, not until I moved there, some years later.”

  “How old were you when this shoot-out happened, Mr. Jensen?” Professor Armbruster asked.

  “Nineteen, twenty, maybe, I don’t remember exactly.”

  “But, it was before you established Sugarloaf Ranch.”

  “Oh, yes, long before Sugarloaf, even before Nicole. But I thought I was here to discuss John Jackson, not Preacher and me. You are sort of getting off the track, aren’t you?”

  “I am indeed. Though many times during the course of research one finds that divergent paths can lead to other fascinating subjects. And quite often, those subjects don’t detract from, but rather enhance your original research, as has happened here, with you. But, you are right, we should get back to our discussion of John Jackson.

  “Earlier you said that the man, Preacher, suggested you should educate him. Did you undertake that responsibility?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Oh, yes, I spent the next year with John. It turns out that he required a lot of education.”

  “Please, continue with your story,” Professor Armbruster said.

  “After we left Big Rock, Preacher went one way, John and I went another.”

  Smoke resumed telling his story, and as it had before, his low, well-modulated voice began to paint word pictures, so that, again, Armbruster wasn’t merely listening to a story, he was reliving it, traveling through time and space with Smoke and John Jackson.

  Colorado Rockies

  “How’d you meet up with Preacher?” John asked Smoke.

  Following Smoke’s instructions, John was building an oven from stones. They had shot a possum, and Smoke was cleaning it as John worked on the oven.

  “My pa and me come west right after the war,” Smoke said. “Then one day this old man just sort of appeared. He was the dirtiest, most stinkingest human being I had ever laid my eyes on. I tell you the truth, John, I just about threw up smelling him.”

  “That bad?”

  “Whoowee, you don’t have any idea how bad he was. He told us he’d been watching us for about an hour, and that we were crazy for keeping out in the open the way we were. He said we were prime targets for Indians.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “All I could think about was how bad he stunk and how much I wanted him to go away, or at least get downwind from us.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Smoke said with a grunting chuckle. “It wasn’t fifteen minutes later we were jumped by a bunch of Kiowa. We had to fight them off. And that stinking old man? He killed as many as my pa and I did combined.”

  “I guess you didn’t mind having him around so much then, huh?”

  “I didn’t mind at all. Here, let’s put this meat in there and let it start cooking.”

  They roasted the possum, along with some wild onions and sun roots that Smoke gathered. On top of the oven he set a pan of water to boil, and cooked some cattails.

  “Always be on the lookout for cattails,” Smoke explained. “They have more uses than you can shake a stick at. In the summer you can harvest the tender stems. The lower part of it will be white and ready to eat, just as it is. If you eat them raw, they taste a little like cucumber. If you cook them, they taste like asparagus. Later, the green flower heads can be cooked and eaten like corn on the cob. And when the yellow pollen starts up, you can gather it up, mix it with flour. That will not only make your flour last longer, it makes a real tasty bread.

  “Then, in the fall you can dig up the roots, mash them in water, and let the mix set for a few hours. What you’ll get when you pour off the water is a gooey mass of starch at the bottom of the container. That will provide you with a thickening base for soups, whether it be squirrel, rabbit, bird, or, if no meat
is available, it’s not a bad soup all by itself. Especially if you are in a position where you’re near about to starve. Of course, if you pay attention to what’s around you, you won’t ever actually starve.”

  “You talk as if a true mountain man never needs to come into the store for supplies,” John said.

  “Well, the truth is, you just about don’t. As long as you’ve a good supply of salt handy, you’ll find that you can make a meal out of almost anything,” Smoke said.

  “We’ll see about that,” John replied.

  Later, as John chewed the last bit of meat from a bone, then finished up with the boiled cattails, he nodded. “You know, you may be right,” he said. “This is about as tasty as anything I’ve ever eaten. And these things, what did you call them?”

  “Sun roots.”

  “Damn if they don’t taste just like potatoes.”

  “I thought you might like that.”

  Over the next three days the rain was hard and cold, and Smoke showed John how to build a shelter under an overhanging rock by draping canvas across the front to keep the rain out. Such meat as they could find they cooked over a fire they made just in front of their shelter, and Smoke continued with his lessons.

  “There will come a time when you will want to build yourself a cabin against the weather. One with a fireplace and chimney so you can keep warm on the coldest days. I’ll help you build it.”

  “Do you build a new cabin every winter?”

  “No, Preacher’s been in his same cabin for more than twenty years now. I reckon we can build one that you’ll be proud to come back to, every winter. But there’s no need in building you one down here. We’ll wait until we get to Montana. That way you can be where you can still trap.”

  “What is the value placed on a beaver skin? How much can you get for one?”

  “They are called plews,” Smoke said. “And they aren’t worth as much as they once were. It used to be one beaver plew was worth three martens. Now martens are worth more than beaver, so it’s martens you want to go after. You’ll get about three dollars apiece for martens, two dollars for beaver. In a good year, you can trap maybe two hundred marten, and three hundred beaver; you could make as much as twelve hundred dollars.”