The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Rig a skid!” Swift shouted. “Helpers down here, boys. Let’s step lively now.”

  Melody walked her horse across the creek to sit side-saddle and watch the proceedings. She wrinkled her little nose at the smell of death that hung heavily around the ambush site, and very pointedly ignored Preacher.

  “That woman wants to share her blankets with you, Preacher,” Dupre said.

  “She’s a looker,” Beartooth said.

  “I’d sooner bed down with a coyote,” Preacher said. “I done told that woman fifteen times to leave me be. It’s like tryin’ to get shut of a hongry bear when you’re totin’ fresh-kilt meat.”

  “Why don’t you bed her down and then just ride off?” Dupre suggested.

  “If I done that, she’d be followin’ me around forever, totin’ a bedroll. I can just see it now. All the rest of my days, I’d have this female followin’ me acrost the plains and the mountains. No matter where I might wander, she’d be right behind me, callin’ out, ’Come back, Preacher. Preacher, come back,’ Lord, I’d be the laughin’ stock of the West.” He shook his head as his friends broke out in laughter.

  Melody cut her eyes to the group of mountain men, unaware of the Indian who was only a few yards from her. He had not moved during the ambush. He lay between a rock and a small bush. He was one with the earth, conspicuous to anyone who might glance his way and actually see what lay before them. But the Indian knew that while whites look at many things, most of them actually see very little.

  All around him movers strained and grunted and swore as they finally got the wagon with the broken wheel out of the creek and up the grade. No one saw the lone brave. He was going to die, and he knew it. It didn’t matter. He had sung his death song hours before. He moved only his eyes as he planned out his final few minutes on this earth. Up swiftly, one short jump, and the honey-haired woman on the horse would be dead. No matter if the others killed him. That was not important.

  But the horse didn’t like the strange scent in his nostrils. He kept fighting the bit, wanting to leave this place, the smell of the warrior making him nervous.

  Preacher looked at the skittish horse, wondering if there was a snake over there. Something was sure making that horse nervous. Melody was having a hard time controlling the animal, and Preacher knew she was a good horsewoman. Something was very wrong. He left the group and walked toward Melody, reflex making him cock the Hawken as he walked.

  The Indian sensed it was now or never. He knew the legendary mountain man called Preacher, and he was proud that it would be a mighty warrior who killed him. That was good. The mountain men would tell the story and Indians would hear it. Songs would be sung about how he died. He made his move, springing off of the earth and leaped toward Melody, a war axe in one hand, ready to bash her brains out.

  The horse walled its eyes and trembled, then reared up in fright, took one big jump, and Melody fell off the side-saddle rig and hit the ground, landing on her butt in a sprawl and in a cloud of dust. She cut her eyes, saw the Indian in mid-air, and let out a shriek that was startlingly close to the sounds that Squalls a Lot used to make.

  Preacher cooly lifted the Hawken one-handed and fired it like a pistol, the heavy ball striking the warrior just under his throat and tearing out his back. The ball seemed to stop the warrior in mid-flight. He did not utter a sound. He was dead when he hit the earth.

  Melody jumped up, ran to Preacher, and flung her arms around his neck. “My hero!” she said, then passed out cold.

  “Oh, Lord!” Preacher said. “I ain’t never gonna get shut of this female.”

  8

  Preacher handed Melody over to a gaggle of females and retreated back to his horse.

  “Preacher, come back!” he heard Melody call weakly.

  “Hell, it’s started already,” he muttered, and put Hammer into a trot. Beartooth climbed into the saddle and rode out after him, catching up with him about a half mile from the creek.

  “You’re a marked man, Preacher,” he told him. “I hear weddin’ bells in your future.”

  “What you’re hearin’ is your dried-up brains rattlin’ agin each other.”

  “We’ll come see you from time to time.” The mountain man wasn’t about to let up. “See how you’re gettin’ on, havin’ to live with walls all around you.”

  “You best build you a wall around that mouth of yourn,” Preacher told him. But he knew the ribbing was far from over. The boys hadn’t even got started yet. Preacher knew he was in for it now. He cut his horse toward a stand of timber. “This looks like a good spot to light and sit and have some coffee. It’ll take them movers hours to get crost that crick and this far.”

  “I’ll start a fire and boil some coffee,” Beartooth offered. “You best go over to that little puddle yonder and wash your face and hands and slick back that shaggy mane of yourn. Your ladylove’ll be along shortly.”

  Preacher told him where to go, how to get there, and what to do when he arrived.

  “Wagh!” Beartooth said with a laugh. “That shore would be uncomfortable ridin’. Speakin’ of ridin’, here comes them two Bible-thumpin’ friends of yourn.”

  “I say,” Edmond said, dismounting. “We’ve taken a vote and decided to rename the creek back there.”

  “Is that right?” Beartooth asked, unable to get the grin off his bearded face.

  “Yes,” Richard said. “We are going to erect a sign and call it Hero Creek. In honor of Preacher.”

  “Have mercy!” Beartooth said. “Hero Crick. You hear that, Preacher?”

  Preacher muttered under his breath.

  “What’s that you say, Preacher?” Beartooth pressed.

  “I said I ain’t no gawddamn hero. That’s what I said.”

  “Oh, but I say, Preacher, you are indeed. Why, Miss Melody would have been killed if it were not for your brave and heroic actions and quick thinking,” Edmond said.

  Beartooth rocked back and forth in front of the small fire. “Hee, hee, hee!” he cackled. “Gen-u-ine hero, that’s what we got in our midst, yes sirrie. I be a frontiersman like Dupre read to me about, and you be a hero. Lord, what a pair.” He howled with laughter and rolled around and around on the ground.

  “I fail to see the humor in this,” Richard said. “I must admit, I am at a loss.”

  Preacher looked at the two Easterners. How to tell them that what happened not an hour past was something that occurred with almost monotonous regularity in the wilderness. It became a hard fact of life that had to be faced. No one thought anything about heroics.

  Preacher shook his head. “Richard, you and Edmond ride back to the wagons and guide them to this spot. Right here.”

  Richard stuck out his chest. “It would be an honor, sir! Come, Edmond.”

  They ran for their horses.

  “I bet he gets ’em lost ’tween thar and here,” Beartooth opined.

  “I don’t hardly see how he could. The trail’s fifteen feet wide and a blind man could follow it. ’Sides,” he said with a smile. “He’s got Jim and Dupre and Nighthawk to sorta help him along.”

  “We gonna be crossin’ the Snake in ’bout three, four more days, Preacher. You been givin’ that any thought?”

  “A lot of thought. They’s wagons that’s crossed it, but not very many and not with the water so high. I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna have to raft and rope . . . and pray, if you’re of a mind to.”

  Beartooth grinned. “Oh, everything will be all right, Preacher . . .” Beartooth noticed Preacher’s hand inching toward a rock and got ready to jump. “I just know it will, since we got us a hero along!”

  Preacher hurled the rock and Beartooth jumped. But he was just a tad too late. The rock caught him smack in the ass and Beartooth howled like a mad puma. Then he rolled to his feet and chased the much smaller and much more agile Preacher all over the place, until finally Beartooth collapsed on the ground.

  “Ox,” Preacher said, falling down beside him and relaxing on the cool ground, sh
aded by the stand of timber. “You and Greybull gettin’ to be ’bout the same size. Fat.”

  “I ain’t neither fat. I’m stocky built and have lots of muscles, that’s all.”

  “Between your ears, mostly.”

  “Preacher?”

  “I ain’t moved.”

  “It ain’t never gonna be like it was before, is it?”

  Preacher was silent for a moment. With a heart that was heavy, he said, “No, it ain’t, Bear. That’s over. Or will be soon. It’s our fault; we done it.”

  “How you mean?” Beartooth rolled over and up on one elbow.

  “Don’t fall on me, you moose. You’ll squash me flat as a flapjack. How do I mean? Hell, we’re the ones who trapped out all the streams, ain’t we? Just to satisfy some fancy lady or foppish man back East. We talked about it ’fore. Lots of times. But we kept on doin’ it. We ain’t got no one to blame but ourselves . . . as far as the fur, that is. The people comin’ out here like swarms of locust? Well, that was bound to happen. We’re a nation of movers, I reckon. And I opine we ain’t seen nothin’ yet. They’ll be towns a-springin’ up right and left and folks a-buildin’ fences and roads and dammin’ up cricks and rivers. Why, you know what Richard told me? He said that folks has dug a big wide ditch, a canal, he called it, that’s three hundred and fifty miles long and filled the damn thing up with water so’s people can float boats on it.”

  Beartooth reared up and blocked out the light. Preacher rolled out of the way. “He’s a-lyin’ to you, Preacher. They ain’t nobody that damn stupid.”

  “He ain’t lyin’ neither. They call it the Erie Canal. And it cost millions and millions of dollars to build.”

  “Who paid for it?”

  “Why, hell, I don’t know. The government, I reckon.”

  “Where’d they get the money?”

  “Do I look like a damn professor? How should I know?”

  “Life’s getting’ too complicated for me, Preacher.” Beartooth flopped back down and the ground trembled for a moment. “I think I’ll just find me a good woman who can put up with me, build me a little cabin in the mountains, and re-tar.”

  “You ain’t a-gonna do no such of a thing and you know it. Neither am I. We gonna be ridin’ the mountain ’til the day we die.”

  “Greybull’s a-scoutin’ for the Army. I heard tell that Pugh was hangin’ on, tryin’ to make a livin’ trappin’ up north of here. Him and Lobo and Deadlead. Thumbs Carroll is somewhere on the Platte. I don’t know where Powder Pete and Tenneysee and Matt and Audie is.”

  “I thought Lobo was a-livin’ with a pack of wolves that he adopted—or they adopted him?”

  “He goes back to ’em from time to time. He tried to teach one to talk for five years. I think he finally gave up on that. Wolf hiked his leg and pissed all over him.

  “That’d be discouragin’, I reckon.”

  * * *

  The group rolled on without further mishap. The only adventure they encountered was the daily grind of surviving the oftentimes monotonous trek westward.

  The second day after the failed Indian ambush at Rocky Creek, the train rattled and lumbered over twenty-two miles of trail. It was the most miles they’d ever done in one day on the Oregon Trail. The next several days were also uneventful. The following day would not prove to be so peaceful. They had to cross the Snake.

  The mountain men stood on the south side of the river, gazing across its rushing waters to the north bank.

  “Here’s where we test the mettle,” Dupre said.

  “It ain’t as bad as I’ve seen it,” Preacher said. “The islands is visible and they’re big enough to hold wagons to rest. I reckon a far-thinkin’ man could make some money by operatin’ a ferry here.”

  Within a few years, someone would.

  “Well, let’s get ropes strung and start gettin’ the people acrost,” Beartooth said. “I’m just hopin’ we don’t lose nobody here.”

  “If we do, maybe it’ll be that damn Avery,” Dupre said. “But I don’t figure we’ll be that lucky.”

  He’d been caught spying on ladies as they went to the bushes. Swift had warned the young man’s father that if it happened again, he was going to lash his son. The father had said that would be done only over his dead body.

  “That can be arranged,” Preacher told the man.

  They lost the first wagon that attempted to cross. Currents grabbed it and carried it downstream, smashing it against rocks. The team was saved, and most of the possessions had been off-loaded.

  “We got two of the wheels,” Preacher told the devastated man and woman. “We can build you a cart and a travois.”

  “A what?” the woman asked.

  “I’ll show you later. It ain’t hopeless, people. It just looks that way,” he added.

  It took three days to get the entire train across the river. No more wagons were lost, but several had been damaged due to ropes coming loose or breaking under the strain. And half a dozen wheels would have to be repaired. One child fell into the river, but a very alert Richard grabbed the screaming girl before she could be swept away and lost.

  “Now you can be a hero,” Preacher told him. “I gladly give up the title.”

  “You take all the fun out of it,” Beartooth told Preacher. But he stood a safe distance away as he said it.

  “How much stock did we lose?” Preacher asked Swift.

  “We were very lucky. We only lost a few head. And no milk cows. They’ll be a tragedy here someday, I’m thinking. That’s a wicked crossing.”

  Preacher’s smile was grim. “You ain’t never seen the Dalles on the Columbia.”

  The train rolled on, now taking a more northerly course as they put the Snake behind them. No one missed it. Indians came down out of the mountains to watch them, standing or sitting their ponies and silently watching the long train as it pushed north and west.

  “Relax,” Preacher passed the word for the first time the Indians appeared. “Them Nez Perce. They ain’t gonna bother you if leave them alone.” I hope, he silently added. He rode over to stand in front of a mounted sub-chief and made the sign of friend.

  “I speak your language,” the Indian said. “So it is as we were told. The white man comes like ants to honey.”

  “Looks that way,” Preacher told him. “And I ain’t likin’ it no more than you.”

  “Preacher has never lied to us so I will be truthful to you. The Cayuses are making war talk. And Red Hand has joined with a large band of whites and now waits in the Blues. Is it you they are after?”

  “Yeah. How many is they?”

  The sub-chief shook his head slowly. “Plenty. Twenty-five, maybe thirty, maybe more of the white outlaws. Red Hand has gathered a large force to follow him. Bad Indians whose tribes ran them from the village. Killers all. Maybe seventy-five of them. White haters. You are going the way of the trappers—through the Blues?”

  “Right through them. Blues to the west and the Wallowas to the East.”

  The Nez Perce nodded his head gravely, his eyes expressionless. “May the Gods ride with you, Preacher.” He made the sign of friend, and he and his party were gone.

  Preacher rode back to the train and reined up beside Dupre and Nighthawk. “If that Nez Perce can count, we’re lookin’ at maybe a hundred or more of Red Hand’s and Kelley’s people.”

  “In the Blues?” Nighthawk asked.

  “Yep. You ’member where the Powder makes that big wide curve? That’s a bad crossin’ there. We’ll be tied up the better part of two days. That’s where they’ll hit us. Bet on it.”

  “When we’re all split up, half on one side and half on the other,” Dupre said. “Red Hand and Bum might be worthless, but they ain’t stupid.”

  “You got it,” Preacher looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, we can’t do nothing to change it, so’s let’s concentrate on just getting’ there.”

  That was beginning to be a problem. The wagons had put hundreds of tough miles behind them, and they
were all beginning to show signs of wear. Wheels were shattering nearly every day. Tongues were breaking and the pace of the trek had slowed considerably.

  Preacher did not push them. He made daily inspections of the wagons and knew that the movers had to set their own pace. He could only guide them, not make them move faster.

  They pushed on, crossing Canyon Creek and several days later, camping near Lucky Peak. From there, Preacher turned them westward for a time and plunged deeper into the wilderness.

  “You reckon they’s some boys gone be up here at the fork?” Preacher asked Dupre.

  “They wasn’t when we went out that way. But that was some months back. If they is, they gonna be plumb shocked to see this bunch come a-rattlin’ in.”

  “And be busy callin’ us nine kinds of fools for bringin’ ’em, too,” Beartooth added.

  Richard came a-foggin’ up, lathering his horse. “Preacher! A child is gone. Little Patience Lander. Swift has halted the train for a search.”

  “Had to happen,” Preacher muttered, and turned his horse, riding back to the hysterical mother, standing with a group of other women by the wagons.

  This was brush and low hill country, perfect for ambushes and for Indians to sneak in and steal a horse, cut a throat, or grab a child. But neither Preacher nor any of the other mountain men believed Indians grabbed the little girl. None of them had seen any sign of Indians since Preacher talked with the Nez Perce several days back. But that possibility could not be discounted.

  “We’re gettin’ real close to Cayuse country,” Dupre reminded him.

  “Yeah, that is a fact,” Preacher said. “Let’s start circlin’ for sign. We’ll find her.” The mother’s wailing had grown louder. He turned to Swift. “Somebody calm that female down ’fore she works herself into the vapors.”

  Preacher left his horse and set out walking, slowly working in an ever-widening circle. He took the terrain to the northeast. Bogus Basin lay only a few miles away, near the edge of the Salmon River Mountains.

  The thing that bothered Preacher most was that some of Red Hand’s people might have been spying on them and seen a chance to grab a kid and done it. The young age of the girls wouldn’t make any difference to a renegade—white or red. They’d mount her and then kill her.