Butchery of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “So we’re just goin’ to ask him to give the money to us?”

  “Yeah,” Angus said, as a big smile spread across his face. “We’re goin’ to ask him while he’s takin’ hisself a bath.”

  The hotel had a bathing room, complete with a large bathtub as well as a water-holding tank and a small wood-burning stove by which to heat the water. Smoke started the fire, then went back to his room to wait for the water to heat. He walked over to the window and stood there, just looking out over the town, watching the commerce for a few minutes. Leaving the window, he lay down on his bed for about fifteen minutes, until he was sure that the water would be warm enough for a bath. Then, taking a change of clothes, a bar of soap, and a towel with him, he started down the hall toward the bathing room.

  Just before Smoke opened the door, he stopped. He had the soap and the water was hot. There was no excuse Preacher could come up with for not taking a bath now, so he was going to let Preacher go first. He walked back down the hall, then knocked on Preacher’s door. “Preacher?”

  The door opened. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve filled the tub with hot water for you. Here’s your soap and towel.”

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “Let’s just say I respect my elders,” Smoke said.

  “Do you now?”

  “And I respect them more when they’re clean,” Smoke added with a chuckle.

  “All right, all right, you don’t have to hit me on the head with it,” Preacher grumbled. “Your woman wants me clean, so I’ll clean up. But it ain’t for you, you understand. It’s for your woman.”

  “I understand,” Smoke said with a smile.

  Preacher reached down to pick up his Sharps .50 caliber.

  “You need a rifle in the bathing room, do you?” Smoke teased.

  “I don’t go nowhere without I have this with me. You know that.”

  Smoke held up his hands. “Take it. You never can tell but what you might run into a grizzly in there.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I seen a grizzly while I was bathin’,” Preacher said.

  Smoke chuckled. “Considering where you do your bathing—that is, when you do bathe—that’s not particularly surprising.”

  Angus and Moe were in the lobby of the hotel.

  “I seen him headed toward the bathing room just a couple of minutes ago,” Angus said. “By now he’s prob’ly in the tub, and, more ’n likely, he took his money in there with ’im.”

  “How do you know he took his money with ’im?”

  “You don’t think he’d just leave it in his room, do you?”

  “No, more ’n likely he wouldn’t.”

  “That’s why, it won’t be nothin’ to take it from ’im.”

  “You know he ain’t goin’ to just be quiet about it,” Moe said.

  “They’s two of us, only one of him. He’ll be nekkid in the tub. All we got to do is hold his head under water till he stops movin’. Folks don’t make a lot of noise while they’re drownin’. And once he’s drowned, why we’ll get his money and slip out just real quiet-like.”

  Angus and Moe looked over toward the check-in clerk, and when they saw him step away and walk into a room just behind the desk, they moved quickly to the steps and hurried up to the second floor.

  The bathing room was at the back end of the corridor and Angus and Moe walked quickly down the carpeted hallway until they reached the door. They stood there for just a moment, listening.

  “Yeah, he’s in the tub, all right. I can hear the splashin’,” Angus said. “Let’s go in.”

  Angus tried the doorknob, found that it wasn’t locked, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

  “This ain’t the one,” Angus said when he saw the old, white-haired and white-bearded man sitting in the tub.

  Smoke stepped out of his room just in time to see two men going toward the bathing room. He didn’t know who they were, or what they wanted, but he was absolutely certain that Preacher wouldn’t welcome their presence. And, because it was hard enough to get Preacher to take a bath anyway, he figured he had better see what’s going on.

  Smoke started toward them, and saw them open the door then step inside. He figured he would hear Preacher’s bellow any moment now. And he wasn’t disappointed.

  “Get the hell out of here! Can’t you see that I’m takin’ a bath?” The words were loud and angry.

  The two men who had stepped into the bathing room had their pistols in their hands, pointing them at Preacher.

  “Where’s the young one? The one with the gold?” one of the two men asked.

  “That would be me,” Smoke said from behind them.

  Spinning around, they saw Smoke. They also saw that he wasn’t wearing a gun.

  One of the two men smiled. “Well now, Angus, look at this. Looks like these two men have got their selves into a situation. One of ’em is nekkid, ’n the other ’n ain’t got hisself a gun.”

  “Tell you what, Moe. You go with this feller to get the money. I’ll stay here and keep a gun on the old man,” Angus said. “If you ain’t back with the money in one minute, I’ll shoot the old man.”

  “Yeah,” Moe said. “Good . . .”

  Whatever Moe was about to say was cut short by Preacher. While Angus’s and Moe’s backs were turned, Preacher had picked his rifle up from the floor, stood up quietly, then drove the butt of the rifle into Moe’s back, between his shoulder blades.

  The commotion distracted Angus and when he looked toward Moe, that gave Smoke all the opening he needed. He brought down the would-be thief with a hammerlike right cross.

  “What do we do with ’em now?” Preacher asked.

  Smoke took the pistols away from the two men and handed them to Preacher.

  “When they come to, keep them covered until I get back. I’m going to get the marshal.”

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  Unlike the cabin he had personally built for Nicole, Sally had wanted a house, and Smoke bought the material and hired two carpenters to build it for him. The main house, or “big house” as the cowboys called it, was a rather large, two-story Victorian edifice, white, with red shutters and a gray-painted porch that ran across the front and wrapped around to one side. The bunkhouse, which was also white with red shutters, sat halfway between the big house and the barn. The house was so new that it still had the smell of fresh-cut wood about it, though for the moment, the most predominate aroma was that of Sally’s cooking.

  “My, Preacher, I don’t believe I have ever seen you looking so handsome,” Sally said, greeting the two when they arrived.

  “Hrrmph,” Preacher said. “It ain’t natural being all spiffed up like this.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Sally said, kissing him on the cheek.

  “’Course now, if I’m goin’ to get a kiss from a pretty woman, and get fed to boot, why, it’s worth gettin’ unnatural ever’ now ’n then,” Preacher said. “Could that be apple pie I’m smellin’?”

  “It could be,” Sally said.

  “I don’t rightly recollect the last time I had me an apple pie. I hope you made one for you ’n Smoke too. I’d sure hate to be eatin’ in front of you without you two didn’t have no pie of your own.”

  Sally laughed. “Don’t worry, I made more than one. How long will you be staying with us?”

  “I don’t know. Three, maybe four days. But if that’s too long, why you can kick me out anytime you want . . . after the pie is all gone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Arrow Creek, Montana

  Whips His Horses gave the reins of his pony to another man, then he climbed to the top of the hill. He knew the warrior’s secret of lying down behind the crest of the hill so that he couldn’t be seen against the skyline, so he lay on his stomach, then sneaked up to the top and peered over. There, on the valley floor below him, he saw the three wagons. It was obvious that the whites had no idea they were in danger. It would be easy to count coups against them.

  Whips Hi
s Horses smiled, then slithered back down the hill into the ravine where the others were waiting.

  “Did you see them?”

  “Yes,” Whips His Horses answered.

  “When do we attack?”

  “Now,” Whips His Horses replied. He pointed down the ravine. “We will follow the ravine around the side of the hill. That way they will not see us until it is too late.”

  For the moment the three wagons were stopped, because one of them had a broken front wheel. A long pole had been put under the front part of the wagon. Using a rock as the pivot, two men were using the pole as a lever to hold the wagon up. A third man had crawled under the wagon with a jack and, as soon as the wagon was high enough, he was going to put the jack in place.

  “Can you get it, Dan?” James asked. His voice was strained because he and Steven were struggling at the end of the long pole.

  “Just a little more,” Dan said from beneath the wagon. He was in some danger at this point, because if James or Steven lost his grip, or if the pole should slip, the wagon would fall on him.

  Straining hard, the two men lifted the wagon another couple of inches.

  “There!” Dan called. “I think I can get it now.”

  “All right, slide out from under there so we can lower this thing down,” James said, and his voice almost cracked under the strain.

  Dan rolled over, then crawled out and, with a mighty sigh of relief, James and Steven set the wagon down on the rock.

  “Whew,” James said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I’m glad that part is over.”

  “You and me both,” Steven said.

  Dan started to remove the broken wheel. “I appreciate you two holding up your wagons for us, it was . . .”

  “Hush up! Listen,” James said, interrupting Dan in mid-sentence.

  “What is it?” Steven asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Listen,” James said again.

  Not only the three men working on the wagon were quiet but, at the warning, so were the women and children. For a long moment there was only the sound of the ever-present prairie wind moaning its mournful wail. Then, they all heard what James had heard, the distant thunder of pounding hooves.

  “Get the women and children behind the wagon,” James said. “We’ve got company comin’, and I don’t think it’s anyone we want.”

  The battle was short and violent. Whips His Horses had twenty warriors with him, which was more than the total number of people—men, women, and children—with the three wagons. Within a short time after the initial attack, the wagons were in flames and the men and women were falling, mortally wounded. The Indians galloped, whooping and shouting, through the remains of the wagon train.

  Whips His Horses leaped over the rocks, and in and out of the gully, shouting with joy as he pursued the fight. The men, and even the women of the wagon train, fired at him, but it was as if he were impervious to their bullets. He leaped upon a burning wagon and looked at his handiwork, chortling in glee as the last white defender was put to the lance. Now that all the men, women, and children of the wagon train were dead, he and his warriors cut the livers from the body of everyone they killed.

  Dog Runner, a Blackfoot Indian, was in the camp of Iron Bull when Whips His Horses and the raiding party returned from their attack on the wagon train. The raiders were excited by what they had done, and they began to dance around the council fire.

  “Hear me!” Whips His Horses shouted. “Hear the victory song that I sing!”

  The others of the village gathered around as Whips His Horses, dancing, and brandishing a war club began to sing.

  “The white man who came for peace

  Now eats our livers.

  For every liver of the Apsáalooke he eats

  Our anger will grow.”

  As Whips His Horses sang his song the others of the raiding party, who were dancing with him, suddenly pulled from pouches, the bloody livers of the white men, women, and children they had killed. Waving the livers long enough for all to see, they threw them into the fire.

  “With each white that we kill

  We will kill Liver Eater.

  We will kill many whites.

  Liver Eater will die many deaths.”

  The singing, dancing, and celebration lasted far into the night. When Dog Runner left the next morning, many were still asleep. The campfire had burned down and was now only glowing embers, but the smell of the cooked human livers permeated the camp.

  Dog Runner mounted his horse and rode away slowly. Not until he was far away did he urge his horse into a gallop. He rode hard all the way to Fort Shaw.

  Fort Shaw

  Dog Runner was held up at the gate.

  “Where are you going, Injun?” the guard asked.

  “Philbin,” Dog Runner said. “Philbin.” He then began talking rapidly in his own language.

  “Corporal?” the gate guard shouted. “This Injun is talkin’ about somethin’, but I don’t have no idea what it is he’s a-talkin’ about.”

  The corporal came over to the front gate.

  “Philbin!” Dog Runner said, again following it with a long, excited stream in his own language.

  “Philbin? Lieutenant Philbin?”

  “Han, han!” Dog Runner said, at the same time shaking his head yes.

  “Keep him here, McMurtry. I’ll go get the lieutenant.”

  Dog Runner paced back and forth for a few minutes until Lieutenant Philbin arrived. Philbin was chief of the Indian scouts, and could speak to Dog Runner in his own language.

  “Dog Runner,” Philbin said, smiling with his hand up, palm out. “It is good to see you.”

  “It is not good,” Dog Runner said. “The Crow have attacked wagons and killed many white people.”

  “What? Where? When?”

  “Today,” Dog Runner said. “I will take you.”

  An hour later Lieutenant Philbin and ten soldiers arrived at the scene of the massacre. They found five men, four women, and nine children lying in a pool of blood where they had fallen.

  “Lieutenant, this don’t make no sense,” Sergeant Dawes said. “I mean, there ain’t a one of ’em been scalped, nor cut up in any other way. But all of ’em’s got their stomach cut open, even the kids.”

  “Yes,” Philbin said. “I’ll admit, that is quite odd.”

  Later that evening, with all the bodies returned to Fort Shaw, Major Clinton asked his post surgeon, Dr. Urban, to examine the bodies, to see if there was any pattern to all of them being cut open in such a way.

  It was the next morning before Dr. Urban got back to Major Clinton.

  “What did you find out?” Major Clinton asked.

  Urban shook his head. “It’s the damndest thing I believe I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “The liver has been removed from every one of the bodies.”

  “What? From every one of them? Even the children?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Major Clinton said. “Why would the Indians cut out their livers?”

  “Major, I don’t have the slightest idea. All I know is, the livers have been cut from all of them.”

  “Sergeant Major Porter?” Major Clinton called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Find Lieutenant Philbin and that Indian that told us where to find the bodies. Bring them to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Major Porter replied.

  Less than ten minutes later, Lieutenant Philbin and Dog Runner were in Major Clinton’s office.

  “Yes, sir?” Philbin asked.

  “Lieutenant, the livers have been removed from every single body.”

  “Yes, sir,” Philbin said.

  “‘Yes, sir’? You mean you knew that?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, Dog Runner couldn’t come up with the word in English, and I don’t know the word in his language, but we finally managed to put it together enough that I understood what he was saying.
I was just about to come see you, when Sergeant Major Porter found me, and asked me to come over.”

  Major Clinton shook his head. “Would you mind telling me why in the Sam Hill would the Indians be cutting out livers?”

  “Because John Jackson is carving out the Indian livers and eating them,” Philbin said, easily.

  “What? Why, that is insane! Are you sure it’s John Jackson?” Major Clinton asked, refusing to believe what his chief of scouts said.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve talked with several of my scouts and they all say the same thing. It’s out in every village in the territory. All the Indians call him Liver Eater, because after he kills an Indian, he cuts out, and eats, their livers.”

  “No, surely there is some mistake. They must be thinking of someone else,” Major Clinton said. “I met the man, I was quite impressed with him. He is well educated, well spoken. And a finer gentleman I have never met. I can’t imagine someone like John Jackson killing Indians and eating their livers. Why do you suppose he suddenly went on a killing binge like that?”

  “It’s because of his wife,” Lieutenant Philbin said.

  “What do you mean? I met her as well. She’s Indian, yes, but she isn’t Crow. And her manners are such that I expect she would be welcome in just about any level of society, back East. Why would she want her husband to go on such an inhuman killing spree?”

  “I didn’t say she wanted it, Major. You said why would he do such a thing, and I said it’s because of his wife. And his child. You see, the Crow killed them both.”

  “When?”

  “As I understand it, they were killed shortly after Jackson and his wife visited Iron Bull’s camp to talk peace with the Indians.”