The First Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “There ain’t nobody been doin’ much sleepin’ ’ceptin’ the kids,” Jim said. “They been palaverin’ all night, all broke up into little groups.” He glanced over toward the wagons. “Here we go, boys. Looks like they fixin’ to take them a vote now.”

  “They’ll be more than one,” Preacher opined.

  The mountain men drank their coffee and waited by the fire. Their opinions were not asked. The settlers argued and shouted and fussed and talked for the better part of an hour. A dozen times men and women alike left the group to walk over to the bodies and throw back the canvas, looking at the bodies of the woman and two girls.

  Finally, Swift walked over to where the mountain men sat, drinking coffee. “We’ve voted. We’ve decided to take him with us and turn him over to the proper authorities.”

  Preacher shook his head in disgust. “Man, what authorities? There ain’t no law out here. We ain’t got no in-sane asylums. There ain’t no jails. I don’t know what the billy-hell you people got in your minds that you’re gonna find when we reach Fort Vancouver. But it ain’t no town like y’all think of. Either hang the poor wretch or turn him loose. Injuns won’t bother a crazy person. They stay shut of them. Hell, they might even adopt him and look after him. You can’t tell about Injuns. But they ain’t gonna harm him, and that’s a fact. You want to take him with you, fine. But he’s your responsibility, now and forever. The chief factor at the post ain’t gonna take him off your hands. He ain’t got no way of takin’ care of the poor bastard. He don’t wanna take care of him and he ain’t gonna take care of him. Winston is your responsibility. He ain’t ourn. He’s yourn.”

  Swift walked back to the group. Winston was howling like a chained dog.

  The mountain men ground some more beans and brewed a fresh pot of coffee and smoked and chewed and waited.

  The group argued and shouted and seemed to be unable to reach any decision.

  “Oh, Lord,” Dupre said, looking up. “Here he comes again.”

  “We’re taking him with us,” Swift informed the men. “We’ve voted and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Preacher shrugged. “Suits me. Have fun guardin’ him and hand-feedin’ him and bathin’ him and wipin’ him after he shits. ’Cause you folks sure got it to do.”

  Preacher walked to his camp under a tree, laid down, and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Since most of the movers thought it inhuman to chain a maddened person like an animal—even though that was exactly what was happening in the young nation’s asylums, and would continue that way until well into the next century—Swift was persuaded to merely bind the man securely with ropes.

  Of course, Winston escaped.

  Preacher, laying warm in his blankets, as well as Beartooth, Dupre, and Jim, heard the man after he slipped his bonds and made his way out of camp.

  “You gonna stop him?” Dupre whispered.

  “Not me,” Preacher said, speaking in low tones. “It’s a hard thing, and these pilgrims don’t wanna accept it, but the man will be better off thisaway. I seen the insides of one of them in-sane asylums one time back in St. Louie. Most pitifulest things I ever did see.”

  “Winter’ll probably kill him,” Beartooth said.

  “But you never know,” Jim spoke up. “Folks like that got some sort of natural survival about ’em. That fool over yonder in the Bitterroot’s still there. And he’s as silly as a gaggle of geese. Been over there for goin’ on fifteen years, I reckon.”

  “I clean forgot about that feller,” Dupre said. “But you sure right. Wonder if he still lives in a tree?”

  “He was two ... no, three year ago. ’Cause I seen him with my own eyes. He liked to have scared the crap outta me.” Trapper Jim chuckled softly. “I was ridin’ along, just a-followin’ the St. Joe and en-joyin’ the view when all of a sudden this fool comes a-runnin’ and a-hollerin’ and a-squallin’ out of the woods and a-wavin’ a stone axe. My good horse damn near bucked me out of the saddle, pack horse tore loose and run off about a half a mile, and I damn near made a mess in my britches. That crazy man was nekkid as the day he was borned and his hair was a-growed down to his waist. Turrible lookin’ sight. Don’t speak words that make no sense to nobody. Injuns is scared to death of him. I talked to Mark Head last year and he told me he seen Ol’ Crazy clear down to the Red Rock one time. Ol’ Crazy do get around.”

  “Mark ain’t got much more sense than Winston,” Preacher said. “That boy takes too much chances.” He chuckled. “I was at the rendezvous, back in ’33 or ’34 when ol’ Bill Williams scolded Mark for cuttin’ buffalo meat across the grain.”

  “I heard you fit Mark once,” Dupre said.

  “We had us a round one time. He told me shortly after he left the Sublette party back in ’32, I think it were, that he’d been in the mountains for ten years. I gleaned right off that the boy was a greenhorn and he was storyin’ and I told him so. Although not that kindly. He was a good scrapper even then. But I whupped him and then we was friends and still is. If he ain’t dead.”

  “He ain’t,” Beartooth said. “Least he warn’t last year. He fit a grizzly over on the Grand River. The grizzly won but Mark he lay still as a log and ol’ griz figured he was dead and wandered off. Them two or three others that was with him thought shore he was gonna die. But he didn’t.”

  “The boy’s too brash for my tastes,” Preacher said. “I don’t care to ride with him. Brave is one thing, reckless is another story. He’ll come to no good end, you mind my words.”1

  “Reckon when some sentry is gonna look into the wagon and see that Winston’s done slipped away?” Dupre questioned softly.

  No sooner had the words left his mouth when a shout shattered the quiet night. “Winston’s gone! He’s slipped his ropes and fled. See to your women and children. The madman is among us.”

  “Oh, hell!” Preacher said, throwing off his blankets. “Somebody’s sure to get shot if we don’t sing out.”

  “He’s gone!” Beartooth hollered. “So y’all just calm down.”

  Swift ran over, looking rather foolish wearing his long handles and nothing else. “You saw him leave?”

  “Sure,” Preacher said. “I’d say it was a good hour ago. He had enough sense to take a pack and a poke with him. So he ain’t as crazy as you might think.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “’Cause we’re better off without him, that’s why. Now go away and let me sleep.”

  Swift sputtered and stuttered, so angry he could not speak. He finally stalked away into the night, yelling for a search party to be formed.

  “Some of them is gonna get lost sure as we’re layin’ here,” Jim said.

  “You wanna volunteer to lead ’em out there in the night?” Preacher asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then shut up and go to sleep.”

  12

  Preacher lay in his warm blankets but did not return to sleep. He figured that in about twenty minutes, someone would yell that someone else was lost, and he’d have to get up anyway.

  “George Wilson is lost!” came the shout, just reaching the campgrounds.

  “Oh, hell!” Preacher said, throwing back his blankets. “I knowed it.”

  “Paul Davis is alone and lost in the wilderness!” another mover shouted.

  “Naturally,” Dupre said, standing up and putting on his hat. He nudged Beartooth in the rear end with the toe of his moccasin. “Get up, lard-butt. The rescuers and the searchers done got theyselves lost in the woods.”

  “Well, why don’t they just sit down on the ground and wait ’til mornin’?” Beartooth grumbled.

  Jim stuck his pistols behind his sash. “No, they got to go blunderin’ around in the timber in the dead of night lookin’ for a fool who’s probably five mile gone from here by now.”

  “Oh, hush up and come on,” Preacher said. “Them folks’ll be shore enough lost if we don’t go in there and take ’em by the hand and lead ’em out like los
t children in the wilderness. I wish to hell they’d all stayed to home.”

  “Caleb Potter is lost in the woods!” a man shouted.

  “Everybody just stay where the hell you is!” Preacher shouted the words into the night. “Just sit down on the ground and wait for us to find you and fetch you back. Good God Almighty!”

  “You don’t have to be rude,” a woman told him.

  “Oh . . . hush up, woman!”

  “Well!” she said indignantly, and flounced away.

  It took the mountain men hours to round up all the movers and lead them back to the wagon train. Some of the men were badly shaken by the night’s events. Even to men accustomed to the woods, getting lost in the deep timber at night can be a shattering experience.

  “Here’s Winston’s tracks,” Jim called, kneeling down. “He’s token straight out north and he ain’t lookin’ back.”

  “I wouldn’t neither,” Preacher said. “All he’s got in that numb mind of his is puttin’ distance between himself and the wagon train. Is everybody accounted for?”

  “Far as I know,” Dupre said. “Seems like these folks would know that things look different at night.”

  “Most of these folks come from towns and cities. You notice that the farmers amongst ’em didn’t get lost. Come on, I want some coffee.”

  The train stayed put for another day, until Nighthawk returned from his scouting. The Crow swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to a boy. He walked to the fire and poured a cup of coffee.

  “We’re in for it, all right,” he finally spoke. “Looks like every renegade west of the Little Missouri has gathered up there in the Blues.”

  Nighthawk was not known to exaggerate, and that placed him as a rarity among mountain men.

  “That many, Hawk?” Preacher asked.

  “I would say about one hundred and fifty Indians—many tribes represented—and probably fifty or more white and half-breed or quarter-breed outlaws.”

  Beartooth whistled softly and shook his shaggy mane. “Lord, have mercy. I’ve heard worser news, but I can’t rightly recall where or when it was. Where in the hell did Bum come up with that many whites?”

  “Lots of ol’ boys come driftin’ out here over the past couple of years, wantin’ to be trappers and such,” Preacher said. “I reckon lots of them was wanted for some crime back in the organized country. They soon found out that trappin’ these mountains was damn hard work. It was easier to find they own kind and go back to stealin’.” Preacher smiled and the others, including several movers and Swift, noticed it.

  “You find placing our women and children in danger amusing?” one mover asked.

  “I find it plumb ignorant that you brung ’em out here to begin with,” Preacher said, pouring a tin cup brim-full of hot, black, and very strong trail coffee. “But you did, and they’re here. So that’s beside the point. Red Hand and Bum, they don’t like me very much. Red Hand, well, he hates whites. All whites. He hates Bum Kelley, too, but he’ll work with him ’cause one’s just as sorry as the other. It’d be grand for Red Hand if he could take my hair. He’d be a big man. Same for Hawk here, and Beartooth and Dupre and Jim. This showdown’s been comin’ for years.”

  “And you’re looking forward to it?”

  “You might say that. I ain’t lookin’ to get my hair tooken. But when somebody just keeps a-proddin’ at me, I sorta get my hackles up and start to thinkin’ about ways to prod back. Y’all better understand this now: they gonna be hittin’ us all the way to the blue waters. They really gonna hit us in the Blues, probably on the Powder. They want your womenfolk, and they covet your possessions. I heared them trash I kilt back aways talkin’ about seizin’ the girls, ten, eleven, twelve year old, and sellin’ ’em to slavers. So you folks talk and make up your minds that they just might be a lot of killin’ from here on out. Get your stomachs set for it. Break out your molds and lead and start makin’ balls. You gonna need ’em,” he added grimly.

  * * *

  They spent another day and night in camp, the movers melting lead and casting balls for their weapons. A new spirit seemed to overcome the movers, and the mountain men could sense it. The settlers had come far, and no band of wild renegade Indians and white trash was going to stop them—not this close to their final destination.

  “When the train pulls out in the mornin’,” Preacher said to Beartooth, “I want you and Dupre and Hawk to guide them through. I’ll be doin’ a little pre-ambulatin’ about on my own. This is gettin’ right personal to me now.”

  “Sounds like you gonna be havin’ fun whilst the rest of us is left behind,” Beartooth said.

  “I am gonna make life some miserable for them trash north of us. I’m gonna roar like a grizzly, howl like a wolf, and snarl like a mad puma.”

  “Wagh!” Dupre slapped his knee. “Them doin’s shine mighty right with me, Preacher. You talk about ol’ Mark Head bein’ rash; what do you call one man goin’ up agin two hundred or better?”

  “I call it takin’ the fight to ’em,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Preacher-style!”

  * * *

  Melody and Penelope, with Richard and Edmond in tow, stopped by the camp of the mountain men just as dusk was settling. It was obvious they wanted to talk to Preacher by the way they kept looking around and fidgeting like kids.

  “T’ain’t here,” Beartooth told them. “He left out hours ago. He’ll meet us on the Powder.”

  “Whatever in the world makes him do something that brash?” Penelope asked.

  “He go count coup,” Nighthawk said with a grunt and a hidden twinkle in his obsidian eyes that only his friends knew was there. “Take plenty scalps. Hang on horse’s mane. Impress pretty girls.”

  “I happen to know that you can speak perfect English, Nighthawk,” Richard said. “And you can read and write and do sums. You were raised and educated in a white home. Now will you stop grunting like a heathen and speak properly?”

  “No,” the Crow said. “Like talk this way. Talk like white man make tongue tired.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” the missionary said. “I give up.”

  “Good,” Nighthawk said.

  “Why has Preacher gone away into hostile territory?” Edmond asked.

  “He just told you,” Dupre said, jerking a thumb toward Nighthawk. “Can’t you hear good?”

  Edmond drew himself erect and in a very condescending tone, said, “My good man, I will have you know that my auditory faculties are excellent, I assure you.”

  “Your what?” Jim asked, pausing in the lifting of coffee cup to mouth and staring at the man.

  “My hearing!”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Preacher’s gone to hay-rass Bum and Red Hand’s people.”

  “Alone?” Melody gasped.

  “No,” Beartooth said. “Course he ain’t alone. He’s got his hoss with him. Damn, woman, you didn’t think he’d walk up yonder, does you?

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Beartooth cut her off before she got started.

  “Don’t you worry none about Preacher, Missy,” Dupre said. “Preacher’s an ol’ lone wolf. He’s at his best operatin’ by hisself. He’ll be all right, missy.”

  “But . . .” Melody protested.

  “He likes it, ma’am,” Jim said. “Preacher’s part grizzly, part wolf, part puma, and part rattlesnake. And he’s mean when he’s riled up. Lord have mercy, Missy, but he’s mean. He ain’t gonna cut them folks up yonder no slack when he goes on the warpath. He’s the best they is, ma’am. I ain’t never seen nobody that’d even come close to Preacher in the wilderness. You hear all sorts of talk about Carson and Bridger and Johnson and Brown and Simpson. And the talk is true for the most part. But them’s explorers and guides and so-called adventurers and trappers and the like. Preacher’s all of them things, too, but what counts most is he’s a warrior. After Preacher gets done with his slippin’ around up yonder and his throat cuttin’, they’s gonna be som
e, white and Injun alike, that’s gonna pull out. They ain’t gonna want no more of Preacher. You’ll see, ma’am. All of you. Right about now, Preacher is gettin’ ready to make war. And when he starts, it’s gonna be right nasty.”

  Dupre nodded his head in agreement. “Shore is. I’d give my possibles sack full to be there, too. Hee, hee, hee,” he chuckled. “Ol’ Preacher gonna be sneakin’ up on some right about now. They gonna be pourin’ a cup of coffee, feelin’ all safe and snug and the last thing they ever gonna know is how a knife blade feels cuttin’ they throat. Hee, hee, hee.”

  Melody shuddered.

  * * *

  Preacher lowered the Indian to the cool earth. The dead renegade had him a right nice war axe, so Preacher took that. Standing in the darkness, he hefted the tomahawk. Had a dandy feel to it. Later on, he’d see how it was for throwin’. He wiped his blade clean on the dead buck’s shirt and slipped silently on, moving closer to the dancing flame of the small campfire that was placed close to a boulder. He could see another buck sitting close to the flames, roasting him a hunk of meat.

  The smell of that meat cooking got Preacher’s mouth to salivating. Bear, it was. He could tell that even from this distance. And it was just about ready for gnawin’ on. He worked his way closer to the fire and stood quiet for a time, moving only his eyes. These two, the one lying dead in the timber and this one sitting by the fire, were supposed to be the forward lookouts, Preacher figured. He felt he was still a couple of miles from the main party of outlaws and renegades.

  Damn, but he was hungry.

  He judged the distance, hefted the war axe another time or two, and let it fly.

  The head of the axe caught the buck lower than Preacher had intended—striking and embedding in the Injun’s neck—but it was righteous throw. The head drove deep, severing jugular and destroying voice box, and the Injun fell over, kicking and jerking, but dying.

  Preacher hoped he wouldn’t kick too hard and cause the meat to fall into the fire. The brave tried to get up, but it was all for naught. His blood poured out, weakening him, and he finally jerked his last and lay still.