Rampage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why not? Me’n Billy’s always got along. And I know that Smoke will match whatever he was getting’ over at the Double Tree,” Pearlie said.

  “Yeah, well, Billy is in jail, and he’s likely to be there until spring.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Seems Billy got upset with a drummer from Denver. He didn’t like the way the drummer was actin’ around Chris Candy.”

  “What do you mean the way he was actin’ around Chris Candy? Chris Candy’s a whore,” Pearlie said. “Billy can’t get upset with ever’ man who has anything to do with her. That’s her job.”

  “Well, it ain’t her job to get her eye blackened, and that’s what the drummer did.”

  “Oh,” Pearlie said.

  “So Billy blackened both the drummer’s eyes, and he broke the drummer’s nose. If Sheriff Carson hadn’t pulled him off when he did, why, like as not Billy would’ve broken both the drummer’s hands as well.”

  “How long is he in jail for?” Cal asked.

  “Well, the judge gave him thirty days or thirty dollars. Since Billy didn’t have thirty dollars, he’s servin’ the thirty days.”

  “Do you think Sheriff Carson would turn him over to us if we paid his fine?” Cal asked.

  Longmont nodded.

  “I reckon he would,” he said. “Especially if he knew that Billy was going to be out of town and out of his hair for a while.”

  “Then Smoke will pay his fine.”

  “Hold on now, Pearlie,” Cal said. “Hadn’t we better take that up with Smoke first?”

  “Didn’t he say he would trust us to get good men?” Pearlie replied.

  “Yes, but…”

  “But nothin’. Billy’s one of the best cowboys around. Everyone knows that. He’s well worth paying off his fine to have him with us.”

  “All right, if you think so,” Cal said, though the “all right” was somewhat reluctant.

  “If Smoke don’t like it, I’ll take all the responsibility,” Pearlie said. “And I’ll pay the fine myself.”

  Cal shook his head. “No need for that,” he said. I’ll back you on it with Smoke, and I’ll pay half the fine.”

  “Good,” Pearlie said. He took another drink of his beer. “Now we only need two.”

  “You don’t need to go nowhere else,” Billy said when Pearlie and Cal came down to the jail to hire him. Billy pointed to the two men in the cell next to him. “These here is the Butrum boys, LeRoy and Hank. Hire them and you’ll have everyone you need.”

  “I can’t just hire anybody,” Pearlie said. “They need to have some skills.”

  “I’ve punched cows with these boys for most of the past year,” Billy said. “They’re good hands, both of ’em.”

  “Why are they in jail?” Pearlie asked.

  “Well, because they…” Billy began, then stopped. “Truth to tell, I don’t know why they’re in jail. They was already here when Sheriff Carson brung me in. Hey, LeRoy,” he called.

  Both Butrums were asleep, or appeared to be, as they were lying on their bunks with their hats pulled down over their eyes.

  “LeRoy,” Billy called again.

  “What do you want?” LeRoy answered from under his hat.

  “What for are you and Hank in jail?”

  “For stealin’ back what was our’n,” LeRoy answered. He had still not removed his hat.

  “What do you mean, stealing back what was yours?”

  LeRoy finally removed his hat and sat up on his bunk. “Do you know that low-assed pipsqueak named Josiah Pogue?”

  “Yes, he owns the leather-goods shop,” Pearlie said. “I don’t know him well, but I know who he is.”

  “He done some work for me, then he tried to charge too much. When I couldn’t pay it, he took my saddle,” LeRoy said.

  “Well, that’s not stealin’, that’s legal,” Pearlie said.

  “Yeah, well, what he done was put a fender on. When I couldn’t pay for the fender, I took it off and give it back to him, but that wasn’t good enough. He wanted my whole saddle. So me’n Hank took the saddle anyway.”

  “Which is when the deputy showed up, and that’s how we wound up in here,” Hank said, finishing the story.

  “If me’n Cal can get this cleared up, would you two boys agree to work for Sugarloaf?”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah, we’ll come work for Sugarloaf, won’t we, LeRoy?”

  “Sure. It’s better than bein’ in here.”

  A little bell rang as the door to Pogue’s leather-goods store was opened.

  “I’ll be right with you,” a reed-thin voice called from the back of the store.

  A moment later a small, bald-headed man appeared. He was wearing an apron, and it was apparent he had been doing some leatherwork in the shop behind the store. Examples of his work were on display about the store, and Cal had to admit that the man was an artisan.

  “Yes, sir, can I help you gentlemen?” Pogue asked. Then, recognizing them, he smiled. “You two men work for Mr. Smoke Jensen, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Pearlie said.

  “He’s a fine man. Are you perhaps looking for something for him?”

  Cal was looking at a belt, holding it up to examine the intricate scrolling in the leather.

  “That is a fine belt, if I do say so myself,” Pogue said.

  “Yes, sir, it is pretty all right,” Cal agreed.

  “I can make you a very good price for it.”

  “Uh, no, sir, we ain’t here to buy nothin’,” Pearlie said.

  The smile left Pogue’s face.

  “Then why are you here?” he asked.

  “We want to talk to you about the Butrum brothers.”

  “Oh, them,” Pogue said. “They are brutish men, the two of them. I hope the sheriff sends them to prison. They need to learn that they can’t just come in here and take what doesn’t belong to them.”

  “But the saddle did belong to them, didn’t it? It was LeRoy’s saddle, I believe.”

  “In a manner of speaking, it was his saddle,” Pogue agreed. “But I had a legitimate lien against it. And until that lien is satisfied, the saddle belongs to me.”

  “Would it square things with you if the lien was paid off?” Pearlie asked.

  “As far as not makin’ a claim on the saddle, yes, it would,” Pogue said. “But I would still like to see them punished.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because they need to know that they can’t just run roughshod over decent citizens. Besides, I’m a little frightened of them,” Pogue added.

  “Suppose you were paid off the ten dollars, and the Butrums left town so there would be no possibility of them causing you any more trouble. Would that satisfy you?”

  Pogue studied Pearlie for a moment. “Why are you so interested in what happens to the Butrums?”

  “Because Smoke is going to drive a herd of cows north, and we want to hire the Butrum boys to help us. But we can’t as long as they are in jail.”

  “How far north?”

  “All the way to Wyoming.”

  Pogue whistled quietly. “That’s a long way to drive cattle.”

  “Yes. And it should certainly be far enough to keep the boys out of your hair,” Pearlie said.

  “What hair?” Cal asked, laughing out loud.

  For a moment, the expression on Pogue’s face was one of irritation over the allusion to his lack of hair. Then, he began to laugh, and he rubbed his hand across his bald head.

  “Yes, what hair indeed?” he replied. “All right, boys. If you see to it that I get my ten dollars, I’ll inform Sheriff Carson that I don’t intend to press charges.”

  “Thank you,” Pearlie said. He pulled out his billfold, then extracted ten dollars and gave it to Pogue.

  “Thanks,” Pogue said, taking the money. He took a pencil and piece of paper from behind the shelf, then wrote out:

  I, Josiah Pogue, having been duly satisfied as to the debt owed me by the Butrum brothers, do hereby free them of a
ny further financial obligations toward me, and relinquish any claim to the saddle belonging to LeRoy Butrum. I also withdraw the charges I filed against them.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, have you really thought about what you are doing?” Sheriff Carson asked a few minutes later as he released Billy, Hank, and LeRoy to Pearlie and Cal.

  “I’m sure,” Pearlie answered. “I know Billy to be a good hand, and if he vouches for the other two, that’s good enough for me.”

  Sheriff Carson chuckled. “I’m not talkin’ about that,” he said. “I know all three of those boys and they probably will make you good hands. I’m talkin’ about this foolishness of trying to drive a herd that far north at this time of year.”

  “You know Smoke as well as anyone, Sheriff,” Cal said. “If he says he can do it, I believe he can do it.”

  “Well, I’ll give you this,” Sheriff Carson said. “If any man alive can take a herd of—how many cows did you say it was?”

  “Three thousand head,” Cal answered.

  Sheriff Carson gave a low whistle. “Three thousand head,” he repeated. “Well, like I was about to say, if any man alive can take a herd of three thousand head all the way to Wyoming this late in the season, Smoke Jensen is that man. But I certainly don’t envy any of you.”

  “Hold it,” LeRoy said. “What are you talking about? What do you mean taking three thousand head of cattle to Wyoming? I thought you said we was comin’ to work at Sugarloaf.”

  “That’s right,” Pearlie said. “And the work you’re goin’ to be doin’ is takin’ a herd to Wyoming.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” Pearlie said.

  “Now! Are you crazy? It’s damn near winter.”

  “Yes, that’s why we need to get started right away,” Pearlie said.

  LeRoy shook his head. “Huh-uh,” he said. “You didn’t say nothin’ about drivin’ no herd north when you hired us. All you said was that you was lookin’ for some more hands.”

  “If you don’t want to go, I’m sure we can arrange for you to stay here in jail,” Pearlie said. “I can always get someone else.”

  “Yeah? Well, you just…” LeRoy began, but Hank interrupted him in mid-sentence.

  “No!” he said. “You don’t need anyone else. Don’t pay my brother no never-mind. Me’n LeRoy will do it.”

  The wagon was about half-loaded by the time Pearlie, Cal, Billy, Hank, and LeRoy arrived. Mike, Billy, and the Butrums already knew each other, but Andy and Dooley had to introduce themselves. Pearlie noticed that both former soldiers were now wearing new jeans and plaid shirts.

  “Yeah,” Andy said. “Don’t they look nice? Miz Sally bought ’em for us. First time I’ve had ’nything other’n an army uniform on in four years.”

  “Come on, boys,” Pearlie said, picking up a bundle. “Let’s get the wagon loaded so we can get back to the ranch in time for supper.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Cheyenne village of Red Eagle

  The village was typical of all the villages of the Plains Indians. The tepees were erected in a series of concentric circles with the openings facing east. They were pitched alongside a fast-flowing stream, which provided not only water for drinking, cooking, and washing, but also fresh fish. Although there were no addresses as such, everyone knew where everyone else lived by their position within the circles.

  Fall had already come and the bright yellow aspen trees stood out from the dark green conifers interspersed with a spattering of red and brown from the willow, oak, and maple that climbed the nearby mountainsides. Smoke curled from the tops of the lodges as the women prepared meals while the men watched over the herd of horses, or worked at cleaning their rifles or making bows and arrows. Children played beside the water.

  The chief of the village was a man named Red Eagle. Red Eagle was once the great warrior chief of a proud people, but now he was a chief in name only. In compliance with a treaty signed with the soldiers, Red Eagle had moved his people onto a reservation.

  The reservation guaranteed peace with the soldiers, but it stripped his people of all identity and pride. Now, they were totally dependent upon the white man for their very survival. They were not allowed to hunt buffalo, for to do so would require them to leave their designated area. But there were few buffalo anyway, the herds having been greatly diminished by the white men who had hunted to supply meat for the work crews that were building the railroads, or worse, the buffers who took only the hides and left the prairie strewn with rotting meat and bleaching bones.

  Red Eagle’s people were dispirited. Without the buffalo, there was little to eat. They had been promised a ration of beef by the agency, but the promised beef had not materialized. Even if it had, it was a poor substitute for the buffalo. Red Eagle did not care much for beef, and he knew that his people felt as he did. But if it was a choice of beef or starvation, they would take beef.

  Not everyone agreed with Red Eagle. There were some who wanted to leave the reservation, to be free to hunt what buffalo remained. But Red Eagle had no wish to see his village subjected to the kind of murderous attack he and his wife had lived through at White Antelope’s village at Sand Creek, so he counseled his people to stay on the reservation.

  Sand Creek proved, however, that even obedience to the white man’s law would not always protect you. There, Colonel John M. Chivington and his Colorado militia had murdered men, women, and children, even as the terrified Indians were gathering around a tepee flying the American flag.

  White Antelope, the head of the Sand Creek village, was Red Eagle’s very good friend. An old man of seventy-one, White Antelope was convinced that the soldiers were attacking because they didn’t understand that his people were a peaceful band. In order to prove that his village was friendly, he raised the American flag over his tepee. Then, in order to reinforce his declaration of peace, he started walking toward Colonel Chivington carrying a white flag.

  Despite White Antelope’s efforts to show the soldiers that neither he nor his people represented a danger to the soldiers, he was shot down. Red Eagle had screamed out in anger and grief at seeing his friend murdered.

  That had been many years ago, but sometimes Red Eagle still believed he could still hear the old chief singing the Cheyenne death song as he lay dying.

  “There is not a thing that lives forever Except the earth and the mountains.”

  Red Eagle realized then that if he stayed, he would be killed, despite the protection of the American flag and the flag of surrender. He grabbed his wife by the hand and they darted down a ravine, miraculously escaping Chivington’s band.

  Now, Red Eagle was the leader of his own village, and he was determined not to let his people be slaughtered as had been the villagers under White Antelope’s protection. If the soldiers demanded that Red Eagle keep his people on the reservation, then that is exactly what he would do. And if Walking Bear and the band of young firebrands who followed him wanted to make trouble off the reservation, then they would have to deal with the soldiers themselves, because he would not make council on their behalf.

  As the shadows of evening pushed away the last vestiges of color in the west, Red Eagle came out into the village circle to sit near the fire. The village circle acted as a community center for the village. It was an area of dry grass, smooth logs, and gentle rises making it a very good sitting place. Every night that weather permitted, men, women, and children from the village would gather around the fire’s light and talk of the events of the day.

  The village circle was a place where problems were discussed, group decisions made, and young men and young women could court under the watchful eyes of the village. It was also a place of entertainment, sometimes consisting of dancing, but often a place where stories were told.

  One of the reasons Red Eagle was a leader of the village was because he was an old man who had lived through many winters, and had experienced a lot of adventures. That made him a particularly good storyteller when he was in t
he mood, and tonight he was in just such a mood. Besides, he thought, a good story would lift his people’s spirits so that they would not think of the hunger that was gnawing at their bellies.

  “Listen,” Red Eagle said, “and I will tell you a story.”

  Those who were around him, the men of the council, the warriors, and those who would be warriors, drew closer to hear his words. The women and children grew quiet, not only because it was forbidden to make noise while stories were being told around the campfires, but also because they knew it would be a good story and it filled them with excitement to hear it.

  As the fire burned, it cast an orange light upon Red Eagle, making his skin glow and his eyes gleam. A small gas pocket in one of the burning logs popped, and it sent a shower of sparks climbing into the sky, red stars among the blue. Red Eagle held his hand up and crooked his finger as he began to talk.

  “Once there was a time before the people, before Kiowa, before Arapaho, before Commanche, before Lakota, even before Cheyenne.”

  “What time was this, Grandfather?” one of the children asked. Red Eagle was not the young questioner’s biological grandfather, but he was the spiritual grandfather of them all, and so the child’s innocent question reflected that.

  “This was the time before time,” Red Eagle replied. “This was in the time of the beginning, before the winter-count, before there was dry land. Then, there was only water and the Great Spirit, who floated on the water. With him were only things that could swim, like the fish and the swan, the goose, and the duck.

  “The Great Spirit wanted to have people, but to do that, had to make land to walk upon. So he asked someone to dive to the bottom. ‘Let me try,’ a little duck said.

  “The swan laughed at the little duck. ‘You are much too small. I am a mighty swan, the most noble of all creatures. I will dive to the bottom and find earth.’

  “So the swan dove down through the water to try and find the earth. But when he came up, his bill was empty.

  “‘The water is much too deep,’ the swan said. ‘I could not find the bottom.’