The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Preacher guffawed and slapped his knee. “Hee! I called it right, didn’t I, Prather?”

  “There’s a body of a savage over here!” the mover yelled. “And his throat’s been cut.’

  Preacher looked at Prather. “Don’t ever call me no liar again, pilgrim. I don’t like it. It’s bad business out here in the wilderness. I cut that Injun’s throat. Cut it ’fore he could cut yours or grab some child or jerk the hair off a woman. You got a lot to learn about this country, mover. You folks think you’re goin’ to a city that’s got boardwalks and streetlamps and the like?” He laughed. “You’re all in for a surprise, you are.”

  Preacher rose and walked over to the wagon, stepping over the tongue and pointing to the dead Indian. “Red Hand’s got a dozen different tribes in his bunch. All of ’em bad poison. But this one’s a rogue Kiowa. See that raggedy sash hangin’ over his shoulder? That means at one time he was a Principal Dog. One of the ten bravest men in the tribe. Or wanted Red Hand to think he was. If he was a Dog, he musta done something terrible to get kicked out of the whole damn tribe.”

  “How could he get this close without one of the sentries seeing him?” a woman asked.

  Preacher smiled at her. “You traveled twelve hundred or so miles and still don’t understand, do you, ma’am? The Good Lord alone only knows how you folks made it this far.” Preacher shook his head and walked away.

  “Here now, sir. What about this dead savage?” a man called after him.

  “You wanna bury him, hop to it. Was it up to me, I’d just roll him ’bout fifty feet away from the wagon and leave him lay. Some of his own will come fetch him. If they don’t, the buzzards or varmits will take care of him.”

  “That’s disgusting, sir!” a woman called.

  “Practical, is what it is,” Preacher called over his shoulder, and kept walking.

  In the years ahead, when thousands of movers would attempt either the Oregon or California Trail, they would not be so kind to their own dead. Between 1837 and the late 1860’s, more than half a million people would try those trails. It is not known exactly how many died, but twenty thousand would not be an unlikely number. Many times wagonmasters simply would not halt the train for a lengthy funeral, and the bodies were buried in very shallow graves—if they were lucky—or simply stretched out alongside the trail for the elements and the varmints. Old diaries have writings in them telling of the callousness toward the dead. People rolling or riding, or in most cases walking across the trail have written of witnessing human hands and feet and even heads sticking up out of the ground. And still they came, but the Great Adventure illusion had long been shattered. It was either broiling hot or bone-chilling cold. Across the plains the dust would pile three or four inches thick inside the wagons. Animals and humans alike dropped dead from exhaustion, or lack of water, or disease. Wheels splintered and wagons collapsed on people, crushing them to death, or shattering bones so badly that the movers had to be knocked on the head, held down, and the limb crudely sawed off before gangrene set in.

  And still they came, by the thousands. In what is now Wyoming, the ruts of their passing wagons are still there, visible after a century and a half, hundreds of miles of them. Silent ghosts of the past. Of humankind’s insatiable urge to move, to settle, to strive for a better life.

  They rode and drove and walked through dust storms so violent they could not see the wagon in front of them. Cholera struck them hard, due in no small part to crowded campgrounds where bacteria thrived on mounds of garbage and excrement. Cholera killed by horrible degrees: violent dehydration, uncontrollable diarrhea, vomiting, sweating, death. When cholera struck on the trail, many times those afflicted were abandoned by their fellow movers and left to die alone in the vast stillness of what many called the Big Lonesome.

  And still they came.

  Those who took the route to California faced hardships not known on the northern route to Oregon Territory. They faced deserts seemingly so cruel many thought they had been guided straight to Hell. Tongues became so swollen from thirst people actually tore their lips off in panicked frenzy. Christianity received a lot of converts on the way west.

  Starvation took its toll. Canvas rotted or was ripped away and when the oxen or cattle dropped dead, they were skinned and the hides used as a roof over the ribs of the wagon—until hunger drove the people to tear down their roofs and eat the hides.

  On occasion, some of the graves were dug up by scalawags in a train coming close behind and the bodies robbed of rings. On very, very rare occasions, some reverted to cannibalism and dug up the bodies and ate them.

  But still they came.

  2

  “He ain’t a-comin’ back,” Bum said to Red Hand. “Preacher got him. Bet on it.”

  The renegade Indian looked into the distance and was silent for a moment. Red hand was no friend of Preacher; their paths had crossed on more than one occasion, with Red Hand coming out the loser each time. Red Hand knew from bitter experience that the mountain man called Preacher was a savage fighter and could be totally ruthless toward his enemies.

  Red Hand turned to face the outlaw Bum Kelley. “He was a Dog Warrior. One of the best in my band. I sent him to test Preacher. To see if he had lost any of his skills. He has not.” The Indian smiled. “Now you send one of your men to kill Preacher on the trail while he scouts.”

  Bum knew he was being tested by the renegade whose own people had banished him from the tribe. If he didn’t send someone after Preacher, Red Hand and his men would just leave. And he needed the force of Red Hand’s group if any attack against the train was to succeed.

  Bum had picked up two more men who were running from the law in California. Waller and a man named Seedy. He suspected Luke had sold them all out back at the fort. Not that the fool had that much to tell anybody.

  “You’re right,” Bum told Red Hand. “That’s what I’ll do, for a fact.”

  “When?” the Indian demanded.

  “Today.”

  Red Hand smiled. “Good. Good! Then when your man does not return, we shall be even, won’t we?”

  Goddamn strange Injun logic, Bum thought, but managing not to lose his smile. “That’s right, Red Hand. We’ll be even.”

  Bum walked to the fire and poured coffee from a battered and blackened pot. He looked at his men, one at a time. Finally he settled on one man. “Rod, pack you a kit for several days and go kill Preacher. Take him out on the trail, away from the train. If you don’t kill him, don’t bother comin’ back here. You understand that?”

  The outlaw nodded his head and walked to his horse, saddling up. He knew perfectly well that if he didn’t kill the mountain man, he wouldn’t be alive to even think about returning. With men like Preacher, you only get one chance. Sometimes not even that many.

  He put some panbread in the pocket of a coat he’d taken from a dead man back up the trail, and swung into the saddle. With rifle in hand, he rode away from the camp without a look back.

  “He won’t be back,” Moses said quietly, looking into his coffee cup. “And you know it.”

  “Maybe he’ll get lucky.” Beckman said, rubbing his leg. Damn wound still bothered him. “And kill that goddamn Preacher.”

  “You’re dreamin’ ifn you believe that,” Slug said. “Rod was sent ’cause that damn Injun didn’t come back, that’s all. You know how Injuns think.”

  “You reckon Red Hand will go back down yonder and bury that buck?” Leo asked.

  “Hell, no,” Bum said. “This bunch don’t pay much attention to their tribes’ customs. ’Sides, we don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”

  “He’s dead,” Beckman said flatly. “And we all know it, He went on a fool’s mission with Preacher prowlin’ around the train. And don’t sell Trapper Jim short neither. He can be as mean as a cornered puma.”

  “Shut up,” Bum warned him.

  “Preacher’s just a man,” Bull said. “He’s just one man, that’s all.”

  * * *

&
nbsp; “Why,” a mover asked Preacher as the train rolled along. “would one Indian attack an entire wagon train?”

  “Yes,” another asked, walking alongside Preacher’s horse. “Why? That’s foolish.”

  “If he’d been lucky, if his medicine had been good and he’d brung back a scalp or a woman for them to hop on, he’d a been a big man in his bunch,” Preacher told them. “Injuns slip into each other’s camps all the time and steal horses and people. They been doin’ it for hundreds of years. Slippin’ into an Injun camp is tough, slippin’ into a wagon train full of pilgrims is easy.”

  “Unless someone like you is around.”

  “That’s a fact.” Preacher stood up in his stirrups. “Little bit of a river up ahead. We got to cross it. It won’t be no problem les’ it’s over the banks, and I don’t think it is. See you boys.”

  He rode up to the head of the train and walked his horse alongside the mounted Swift. “Hold the wagons here, Swift, so’s the animals won’t smell the water and act up with it so near. I’ll ford this river and check it out. You can rest your folks some while I’m gone.”

  As rivers go, it wasn’t supposed to be much of a river. But there had been a lot of rain that spring, and the winter had been terrible harsh, with a lot of snow, so the rivers were running over their banks.

  “Well,” Preacher said to Hammer, “we gonna be here for a couple of days, ol’ hoss.” He rode back to the train to break the bad news to Swift and the others.

  “Is this the best place you know of to cross?” Swift asked.

  “Yep. Banks is too steep for miles up or down. And I’ve been up and down for miles.” He looked at Swift. “Come on. Have a look-see. Then you can decide whether you want to build rafts or try to rope and float them across.”

  “I say,” Richard said, as he and Edmond rode up. “May we accompany you men?”

  Swift shrugged his shoulders. “Suits me. Let’s go.”

  The river was high and full and running very fast. “Rocks?” Swift asked.

  “No,” Preacher told him. “Like I said, Injuns been usin’ this spot to cross for hundreds of years, and whether you believe it or not, they’s some of the best engineers in the world.”

  “What do you mean?” Edmond asked.

  “Most of the roads in the U-nited States started out to be Injun trails. Then the white man come along and widened them for wagons. White man makes the mistake of thinkin’ that Injuns is dumb. Injuns is far from bein’ dumb. They just don’t think like we do. Gimme your ropes, boys.” He tied them together, using knots neither Richard nor Edmond had ever seen (many trappers had worked on keelboats and Preacher was no exception) and then tied one end to a sturdy tree. Preacher smiled and said, “See you directly, boys,” and plunged Hammer into the waters. He held his rifle high above his head to at least keep the powder dry on one of his weapons.

  Hammer scrambled up the bank on the other side and Preacher jumped off, securing the other end of the rope to a large tree. “Get your people to buildin’ them rafts!” Preacher shouted across the water. “Start emptyin’ wagons. We got to make ’em lighter. We’ll build rafts and float their possessions acrost”

  Swift waved his hand and turned his horse. Preacher picketed Hammer and swiftly began drying out and reloading his pistols and his spare Hawken. This was no time for wet powder, not with Bum and Red Hand liable to pop up at any minute. And Preacher knew Red Hand and how the renegade thought. Red Hand had lost one of his people, so that meant that he would expect Bum to send one of his men in. Injun logic.

  No way that any of those hooligans and ne’er-do-wells in Bum’s gang would have the courage to try Preacher alone and face to face, so he would have to be doubly cautious at all times, for an ambush or a sneak shot in the back.

  He quickly dried and readied his weapons, then called to Richard and Edmond. “First raft over, send my kit with it. I ain’t a-crossin’ again.”

  “Will do, Preacher,” Richard shouted, and turned his horse sharply on the slick bank. The horse started to slip as it strung-gled to keep its footing and failed, sliding slowly down into the river, Richard frantically waved one arm, the other hand gripping the saddle horn.

  “Well, if you’re that anxious to join me,” Preacher shouted. “Come on acrost.” he shook his head. “Gawddamn pilgrims.”

  * * *

  While Richard retired to the bushes to strip down and dry off, Preacher built a fire and a lean-to for that night’s shelter. Swift stayed on the other side, getting operations ready over there. It was not a complicated move getting wagons across swollen rivers, but it was a dangerous one.

  “Does the river have a name?” Richard asked, stepping out of the bushes with leafy branches held in strategic places about his body.

  “Called the Raft,” Preacher told him. “Just down the trail a few miles is what’s called the California Trail. Some take that route. But she’s a dangerous one. Swift done right in stickin’ with this trail.”

  The sounds of axes working hard reached the two men. Men of the wagon train were busy chopping logs to build rafts.

  “Do you suppose this river was named the Raft because somebody once had to build a raft to cross it?” Richard asked.

  Preacher paused for a moment, a quizzical expression on his face. “I can’t rightly say. But that’s as good a reason as any, I reckon.”

  “You say the route we’re taking is the correct one, Preacher. But several back at the fort urged us to change our plans and take the California Trail. Why is that?”

  Preacher smiled. “Sure, they did. But it wasn’t done with no charity behind the words. The Hudson’s Bay people is tryin’ to keep as many settlers out as they can.”

  “Why?”

  “Fur, Richard. They don’t want to see pilgrims comin’ in and settlin’ up the fur country. But when they told y’all this route was a bitch-kitty, they wasn’t lyin’ about that, ol’ hoss. But it ain’t near’bouts as bad as the California Trail. If we was to take the southwest trail, it leads a body through rocks, sagebrush, greasewood and smack into that gawdawful Great Basin. And that’s over five hundred miles of hell. Dry, dry, Richard. Salt and baked clay. Mountains all around it that act like a damn white-hot mirror. Then you reach the Humboldt. It don’t flow, it oozes. You eat dust instead of drinkin’ water. Then, if you was to make it ’crost that, and that’s doubtful, you got the Sierra Nevadas to ’crost, and them mountains is tough, boy, mighty tough.”

  Richard excused himself and sliped back into the bushes to pull on this nearly dry longjohns, then his buckskins. “And the way we’re going?” he called.

  “It’s bad, hoss. It’s bad. Injuns, rivers, storms. A lot of the time you people is gonna spend with an axe in your hand, clearing a way through for the wagons.. They ain’t no roads, Richard. Y’all got to cut your way through. But ’fore then, ’fore we turn to cross the Blue Mountains, you gonna see some of the wildest country you ever gazed upon. The south rim of the Snake. That’s about three hundred miles of rough. Then you cross the blues. After that, you got about two hundred and fifty miles that you got to raft down the Columbia—and ride out some wild damn rapids, or about two hundred and fifty miles that you can attempt to wagon through the Cascades. Only then will you see the Willamette Valley. And they’ll be some in this train who won’t see it. Believe that”

  “So we have weeks still ahead of us?”

  “Yeah. Weeks. If you’re lucky. We have trouble and get caught in them Cascades in the fall, we gonna be real unlucky. You get caught up there when the snow comes, you liable to end up eatin’ each other. And it’s happen sooner or later. Some damn fools will get trapped. Bet on it.”

  “I would never resort to cannibalism!”

  “You ain’t never been hungry,” Preacher said softly. “I’ve come up on folks that was tryin’ to make it ’crost in the winter that was pawin’ through the snow like an animal, eatin’ grass and roots and bark offen the trees. If you can find grubs, eat them, they ain’t bad
and some even say they’s good for you. I don’t care for them personal.”

  “Those people you found ... did they live?”

  “None of the first bunch I found did. Two of the second bunch did. The others was too far gone for me to help. And the damn fools brung their kids with ’em. Turrible sight to behold, let me tell you that. And stupid, too.”

  “They were trying to improve their lives by moving west, Preacher.”

  “Well, they didn’t,” Preacher said shortly. “I don’t like buryin’ kids. Ain’t right. Crazy folks to set out in the middle of the summer headin’ for the blue water. You just can’t tell some folks nothin’.”

  Richard decided to drop the subject.

  “Hello the shore!” A woman’s voice reached them.

  Preacher looked up—Melody. She waved. Preacher grunted.

  “Are you all right over there?” she called.

  “Just peachy,” Preacher muttered, and ignored her.

  “Yes, we’re fine, Melody,” Richard shouted.

  Then Melody started jumping up and down and pointing. She acted like she wanted to scream but no words would come out. Preacher glanced at her and without a word, grabbed his Hawken and jumped for the bushes.

  “What is the matter with people?” Richard said, looking across the water at Melody, leaping all around.

  “Indians!” Melody finally found her voice.

  “Where?” Richard called.

  “Behind you!” Melody shrieked.

  “We ain’t neither no damned Injuns,” the voice came from behind Richard.

  He turned around and stared at three of the most disreputable looking men he had ever seen in all his life.

  “Well,” the spokesman said, jerking a thumb at the man to his right. “He is. Dupre’s a Frenchy and I’m called Beartooth. I’m a pure-dee frontiersman.”

  “I bet you can’t spell that word,” Preacher said, stepping out of the bushes.

  “Wagh!” Dupre shouted. “Hell, no, he can’t spell it. He just learned to pronounce it a week ago.” He jumped off his pony and ran over to Preacher, grabbing him in a bear hug. The two men jumped around for a few seconds, each pounding on the other’s back.