The Last Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Amen—let’s eat.”

  4

  Two days later, when Kirby awakened at dawn and kicked off his blankets, a curious silence surrounded him. A feeling of aloneness. Pulling on pants and boots over his long-handles, he looked around the ruins of the old post. Nothing. The mountain men were gone, having pulled out as silently as they had learned to live. He shook his father awake and told him what had happened.

  On his feet, his father pointed. “Over there.”

  Preacher stood on the banks of the Arkansas, his face to the high mountains.

  “What’s he doin’, Pa?”

  “Sayin’ goodbye, Kirby. In his own way.” He glanced at his son. “That old man likes you, son. Listen to him, and he’ll teach you things you’ll need to stay alive in this country.”

  The son met the father’s eyes. “I will, Pa.”

  The father patted the boy’s shoulder and then coughed.

  * * *

  The three of them rode out the next morning. They headed for the tall, shining mountains.

  “Where will your friends go, Preacher?” Kirby asked. The day the mountain men had left, Preacher had spent to himself, speaking to no one. But on this day he was his usual garrulous self.

  “They’ll scatter, Smoke. Most of ’em will head back into the mountains, find ’em a lonely valley, and they’ll never come out again. A few still got people back East, and they’ll head there. But they won’t stay; ’less they die there. It’ll be too tame for ’em. And they own people won’t want ’em around more’un four-five days. Then they’ll want to get shut of ’em.”

  “That’s sad. Why won’t they want them?”

  “Back East, Smoke, they got written laws a body’s got to live by. Ain’t none of us followed no law ’cept our own for more’un fifty years. Law of common sense. You don’t put hands on ’nother man; don’t steal from him; don’t cheat him; don’t call him a liar. Do, and you gonna get killed. Out here, Smoke, man purty well respects the rights of the other feller, and don’t none of us need no gawddamned lawyer to tell us how to do that. It’ll be that way out here for a while longer, till the fancy people get all het up and mess it all up. The worse is yet to come, Smoke. You wait and see. Thank Gawd I won’t be around to see it. I’d have to puke.”

  “How do you mean: Mess it all up?”

  “Lawyers readin’ meanin’s into words that ain’t ’posed to be there. A-messin’ up what should be left up to common sense. Hell’s fire, Smoke. Rattlesnake crawls into your blankets with you, you don’t ask him ifn he’s gonna bite you. You kick him out and shoot him or stomp him. Same with man. Man does you a deliberate wrong—and don’t never let no smooth-talkin’ lawyer man tell you no different, Smoke, ever’body knows right from wrong—you go after that man; you settle up your way. To hell with lawyers—damn ever’one of ’em.”

  “I’ll go along with you on that, Preacher,” Emmett said. “That’s one of the reasons I brought my son out here.”

  “Well . . . Smoke’s got maybe twenty-five years ’fore this country gets all worded up with them fancy-pants lawyers. After that, a man won’t be able to be a man no more. And it’s comin’, boys, bet on it.”

  Preacher looked around him. “Well, ain’t no use frettin’ ’bout it now. ’Cause right now we got our hair to worry ’bout. We gonna be travelin’ through hostile country, and the Sand Crick massacre is still fresh in the minds of the Injuns.

  “Soldiers wiped out an entar Injun village: men, wimmin, papooses. Mostly Cheyenne and some Arapaho. Black Kettle was they chief. Happened last year and the Injuns still got hard feelins ’bout that. A Colonel Chivington was in charge, so I’m told.”

  “Will we pass by it?” Kirby asked.

  “No. It’s north and some east of here. But I seen it right after it happened. Damn near made me puke. There weren’t no call for it. Black Kettle’s brother, White Antelope, was killed that raid. And Black Kettle ain’t no man to mess with. Left Hand, a chief of the Arapaho, showed his bravery and scorn of the white men by standin’ in front of his tent with his arms folded crost his chest, refusin’ to fight. Damn soldiers kilt him, too.” Preacher spat on the ground.

  “White men ain’t no saints, Smoke. They can be just as mean and orne’y as they claim the Injuns to be.”

  “Where is Black Kettle now?” Emmett asked, his eyes on the huge mountains in front of them.

  “On the warpath. So ifn either of you gets to feelin’ your hair start to tingle, let me know, ’cause they’s Injuns close by.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Emmett said dryly.

  * * *

  For the next several days, they followed the Arkansas River, then cut northwest through the Arkansas valley. Kiowa country, Preacher told them. So stay alert. It was here that Kirby’s frontier education really began.

  “I ain’t never seen the likes of this,” the boy said, his eyes sweeping the panorama of nature.

  “They’s lots of things you ain’t seen, Smoke,” Preacher said. “But you will, I’m figuring. Ifn you don’t get mauled by a bear, bit by a rattler, fall off your horse and break your neck, get caught up in a landslide or blizzard, eat bad meat or drink pisen water, shoot yourself in the foot and bleed to death, or get your hair lifted by Injuns.”

  Kirby swallowed hard. He pointed to plants on the desolate brown hills. “What’s them things?”

  “Them’s prickly pear and ball cactus. In the spring, both have right purty flowers on ’em. Over there,” he pointed, “is yucca. Them long tall white flowers on ’em is what the Spanish call Madonna Candles. Named after they momma, I guess, don’t rightly know.”

  Emmett laughed at that and Preacher ignored him.

  “You see, Smoke, most ever’thing the good Lord created can be used for something. The Injuns use the guts of them plants to make rope—good stout rope, too. I know; I been tied up with it a time or two. And ifn you feel in need of a bath—and a man ought to get wet with water two-three times a year—you can dig up some yucca root and use it for soap. Makes a good lather. Keep that in mind ifn you start to get real gamy. But don’t overdo baths. I believe a body needs a chance to rest.”

  Emmett laughed and then coughed for a few seconds. His coughing had gotten worse the past week. But he offered no explanation for his cough and neither Preacher nor Kirby asked.

  “Up here a ways,” Preacher said, “we’ll bear a little more west. Head for a tradin’ post I know—called Pueblo.”

  Emmett looked at him. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “It’s known a bit. ’Count of the Mormons, mostly. Back in … oh . . . ’46 or ’47, Mormons tried to make a settlement there. I come up on ’em time a two. They notional folk, don’t believe like we do. Don’t never talk religion with ’em—mess up your mind. I try to keep shy of ’em.”

  “What happened to the people who tried to settle there?” Kirby asked.

  “Don’t rightly know. I come back through there—me and Rattlesnake Williams—oh . . . I reckon it were ’52 or ’53, and we didn’t see hide nor hair of ’em. I heared tell they went up north, back to Utah. Don’t get me wrong; they good folk. Help you out ifn you need a hand. But you best know what you’re doin’ ifn you plan on tradin’ with ’em. They good traders. And don’t mess with they wimmin folk. They get real touchy ’bout they females.”

  The only thing Kirby knew about females was that they were different from men. Just exactly how they were different was still a mystery to him. He had asked his Pa a time or two, but Emmett got all red in the face and cleared his throat a lot. Said he’d tell Kirby when the time came. So far, the time had not yet come.

  Kirby remembered the time, three years back, when a carnival came through his part of Missouri. One of the girls, just about his own age, had made a bunch of eyes at him. She’d cornered Kirby at the edge of the lot and told him for two dollars she’d make a man out of him. Then she reached down with her hand and grabbed Kirby. Nobody had ever grabbed him there. Scared him so bad he
took off into the woods and was running so hard he ran right into a tree. Knocked himself unconscious for half an hour.

  Kirby had never told anybody about that.

  “Where’s Utah?” Kirby asked.

  “West of us. You’ll see it one of these days, Smoke.”

  They pulled up to rest and Kirby’s bay began tugging at the reins, trying to head off east. Kirby finally had to brutally jerk the reins to settle the animal.

  “Smells water,” Preacher told him. He pointed to a small water hole. “But that’s bad water. Pisen. Horse sometimes ain’t got no sense when it comes to water. Injuns call that water wau-nee-chee. Means no good.”

  Kirby rolled that word around his tongue, memorizing it. “How can you tell if water is no good?”

  “Look for bones of small animals and birds close by. Can’t always go by smell or taste.” He swung his spotted pony. “You’ll learn, Smoke. I’ll teach you.”

  Emmett finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Why, Preacher?”

  “Gettin’ old,” the mountain man said simply and softly. “Like to leave something of what I know behind when I go see the elephant. Got no one else to leave it with.”

  “You were never married?”

  Preacher laughed. “Hell’s fire, yes! Five—no, six times. Injun ceremonies. I got twelve-fifteen younguns runnin’ ’round out here. Half-breeds. But most of ’em don’t know me for what I am, and I don’t know them. That weren’t the way I planned it; it just worked out that way. Wouldn’t know most of ’em ifn I saw ’em. I’m just ’nother white man. They’d soon shoot me and take my hair as look at me. Probably rather shoot me than look at me, ifn the truth be told.”

  “Why?” Emmett asked.

  “They breeds, that’s why. Some tribes don’t look with much favor on breeds. Then they’s them that being a breed don’t make no difference. Injuns ain’t all alike, Smoke. They just as different in thinkin’ as white men, and just as quarrelsome, too—with other tribes. Ifn the Injun would ever try to git along and unite agin us, the white man would have never got past Kansas. I think Injuns is the greatest fighters the world’ll ever know. But they just can’t get together agin us. Something I’m right thankful for,” he added.

  * * *

  They took their time getting to Pueblo with Kirby learning more from the old mountain man each day. And he was eager to learn, retaining all the old man told him. The weeks on the trail had begun the transformation of the boy into the edge of manhood.

  Sixteen, Emmett mused as they rode, and already killed half a dozen men. His son’s quickness and ease with the Navy Colts had stuck in the man’s mind. The father had handled guns all his life. Before taking up farming, he had been marshal of a small town in Missouri, on the Kansas border, and had killed two men during his tenure in office. God alone knew how many men he had killed in the war. But Kirby handled the Colts like they were an extension of his arms. And fast—God, the boy was fast.

  Kirby practiced an hour each day drawing and dry-firing the Colts. In only a matter of weeks, his draw had become a blur—too fast for the eye to follow. And he was deadly accurate.

  Well, Emmett mused, making up his mind, he was glad they had run into Preacher, and he was glad the mountain man had taken such an interest in Kirby. Smoke, he amended that. He was also glad the boy could take care of himself in a bad situation. For, although the father had not told the son, the move westward had not been pure impulse. Even had his wife not been dead, Emmett would have moved westward . . . he had given his word to Mosby.

  If it took him forever, Emmett had sworn to Mosby, he would find and kill three men: Stratton, Potter, and Richards.

  And he was sure Preacher had guessed there was a mission to fulfill in the back of the elder Jensen’s mind.

  Preacher was no fool—he was sharp. Emmett would have to confide in the old man—soon. For the three traitors and murderers, Potter, Stratton, and Richards, had said many times they were going to the place called Idaho when the war ended. And with the stolen Confederate gold, they would have ample funds to start a business. Ranches, more than likely, although one of them had expressed a desire to open a trading post.

  Emmett knew, if he found the men at all, it might take months, even years. But he also knew he didn’t have years. But he had to find them. Had to kill them.

  Or be killed, he reflected morosely.

  While Kirby rode on ahead, his bay prancing, the boy taking to the new land like a colt to a field of clover, Preacher hung back to speak with Emmett, both of them keeping one eye on the boy.

  “You got a burr under your saddle, Emmett,” Preacher said. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “I got things to do. And it might take me some time to do them.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Thought you would have. I took no allegiance to the federal government after Lee surrendered. But I did swear to kill three men and get back as much of the Confederate gold they stole as possible. I’ll do it, too.”

  “War’s over,” the old man observed. “Who you gonna give the gold to?”

  “I might give it to Kirby. Maybe I’ll just toss it in the river. Don’t know. It’s tainted.” He looked at Preacher. “You’ll take care of my boy?”

  “You know that without askin’.”

  “Teach him what you know?”

  “That’s my plan. But they’s more to this than you’re sayin’. You had that cough long?”

  “You’re pretty sharp, Preacher.”

  “Don’t know about that. Just keep my eyes and ears open, that’s all.”

  “I caught a ball through the lung. Laid me flat on my back for weeks. Got infected. Then lung fever hit the other lung. Maybe—just maybe—if I stayed in a dry climate, I might make it, according to the doctors. But they didn’t sound hopeful. I can’t do that. I swore I’d find those men.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Wiley Potter, Josh Richards, and a man named Stratton. They turned traitor and robbed some gold meant to keep the Confederacy going a while longer. That was bad enough, but they killed several men while stealing the gold. One of the men killed was my son, Luke.”

  Preacher grunted. “Smoke know about that?”

  “No. He thinks his brother was killed fighting with Lee, in the wilderness. If I don’t come back from this, you tell him the truth, all right?”

  “Done.”

  “I’ll be pulling out after I stock up with some supplies in Pueblo. I’ll tell Kirby all I think he needs to know.”

  * * *

  Kirby stood in front of the trading post at dawn, watching his father ride out, pack horse trailing. Emmett had taken only a few of the gold coins, leaving the rest with Kirby. The young man was conscious of the weight of the coins in the leather bag around his neck. His father stopped, spun his horse, and waved at his son. Kirby returned the wave, then his Pa was gone, dipping out of sight, over the rise of a small hill.

  Preacher sat on the porch of the trading post, watching, saying nothing. Kirby turned, looking at the man who was to become his mentor.

  “Will he be back?” The boy’s voice was shaky.

  “Ifn he can.” Preacher spat on the dusty ground. “Some things, Smoke, a man’s just gotta do ’fore his time on earth slips away. Your Pa has things to do. Smoke, ifn you wanna cry—and they ain’t no shame in a man cryin’—best go ’round back and do it. Get it over with.”

  Kirby squared his shoulders. “I’m a man,” he said, his voice firming. “I lived alone and worked the land and paid the taxes—all by myself. I haven’t cried since Ma died.”

  Lot of weight on a boy’s shoulders, Preacher thought. “Well, then, we’d best buy some salt and flour and beans and sich. Get you outfitted. Then we’ll ride on outta here.”

  “Where will we meet up with Pa?”

  “Brown’s Hole—ifn he’s lucky. Next year. Year after. He’ll get word to us.”

  Kirby put a foot on the steps. “Let’s get outfitte
d.”

  * * *

  The man behind the counter at the trading post had given the boy ten dollars for the scalps in his war bag, winking at Preacher as he did so. Kirby had not seen the wink.

  Kirby pointed to a shiny new Henry repeating rifle on the rack. “I want one of those,” he told the man. “And a hundred rounds of .44s.” He took a few coins from the leather bag. “For the Henry, I’ll trade you this Spencer and pay the difference. Whatever is fair.”

  Man and boy haggled for fifteen minutes, the man finally throwing up his arms in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. The transaction was done.

  Kirby bought an extra cylinder for his left hand .36, and a sack full of powder and shot.

  They rode out.

  Preacher told him he knew of a friendly band of Injuns up north of the post a ways. He’d see to it that Smoke got hisself a pair of moccasins and leggings and a buckskin jacket—fancy beaded.

  “I ain’t got that kind of money to waste, Preacher.”

  “Ain’t gonna cost you nothin’. I know the lady who’ll make ’em.”

  “She must like you pretty well.”

  Preacher smiled. “She’s my daughter.”

  September, 1865

  The pair rode easily but carefully through the towering mountains and lush timber. They had once again crossed the Arkansas and were now almost directly between Mt. Elbert to the north, and Mt. Harvard to the south. They had nooned and nighted just outside a small trading post on the banks of the Arkansas—which would later become the town of Buena Vista—and picked up bacon and beans and coffee. They had left before dawn, both of them seeking the solitude of the high lonesome. It had not taken Kirby long to fall prey to the lure of the lonesome. The country was wild and beautiful, and except for Indians, sparsely populated.

  “Where’re we headin’?” Kirby asked.

  “In a round ’bout way, to one of my cabins. On the North Fork. We’ll have to winter there. It’s gonna be a bad one, too.”