The First Mountain Man (3 page)

“My word, man!” Edmond said. “Are you thinking of getting drunk at a time like this?”

Preacher gave him a look of disgust. “No, you ninny. Take a look at your friend's head. Where his ear used to be. It's fillin' up with pus—infection, to you. I got to open it up, clean it out, and cauterize it with a hot blade. The whiskey's for him, to ease the pain. Even with that, y'all gonna have to hold him down. If we don't do that, he'll die. So shut your mouth and get to lookin'.”

Preacher slowly circled the ambush site on foot and concluded that the Injuns who had done this had not been back. No need to, for at first glance there was precious little left to plunder. He began searching the rubble, grateful that the Injuns had not burned the wagons. They had raped and killed and tortured, run off the horses and mules. They'd eaten the oxen, then lay up in a stuffed stupor for a day or so. But this was a sight that Preacher had seen more than once since pilgrims began pushing west. He knew all the secret places where folks liked to stash valuables.

He found a cache of food in one wagon, including several pounds of coffee. Preacher immediately set about building a small smokeless fire out of dead wood and made a pot of coffee.

“Man, we have to bury the dead!” Edmond said.

“You bury 'em if you're in that big a hurry,” Preacher told him. “There ain't enough left of most of 'em to bother with. You'd best worry about stayin' alive. The dead'll take care of themselves. I'm fixin' to have me some coffee.”

Preacher drank the hot strong brew while the others rummaged around, picking up this and that, stepping gingerly around the torn and bloated bodies.

“You women find you some men's britches and get in 'em,” Preacher called from the fire. “Be easier ridin' that way.”

“I most certainly will not!” Penelope squalled in outrage at just the thought.

“Either you do it, or I'll snatch them petticoats offen you and dress you myself,” Preacher warned her. “I ain't gonna put up with them dress tails gettin' snagged on bushes and such. My life and your lives are at stake here. Damn your modesty.”

Preacher looked westward and shook his head. He'd been in the Tetons, but never with a bunch of persnickety pilgrims, and certainly with no females draggin' along.

“Disgraceful!” Penelope said, holding up a pair of men's britches and shaking them.

“Just get in them,” Preacher said. “Be right interestin' to see what you ladies look like without all them underthings hidin' your natural charms.”

“You are a vile, disgusting man,” Edmond told him.

“Maybe,” Preacher said, sipping another cup of coffee. “But I'm the only hope you got of stayin' alive. I'd bear that in mind was I you.” He looked at Richard, standing with the bottle of whiskey Preacher had found. “Drink it down, missionary. Get stumblin' drunk.” He took out his knife and laid it on the stones around the fire. “This ain't gonna be no fun for neither of us.”

3

Preacher had to practically sit on the man to get him to take the first couple of slugs. After that, it got easier and Richard got sillier and looser than a goose. He passed out right in the middle of his story concerning the time he peeped in on his sister taking a bath. “Lord, what wonders I did behold that evening,” said he, then fell backward, out cold.

Preacher grabbed his knife and went to work. He opened the wound, let it drain, cut away the infected skin, then applied a poultice he'd made. Long before Richard woke up, Preacher had cauterized the wound with the hot blade. Edmond got sick.

“It ain't as bad as it looked,” Preacher said. “He's gonna have him a numb of an ear. Leastways his hat won't fall down that side. But he's gonna be hard to get along with for a couple of days. High as we are, wounds heal quick—air's so clean and pure. Won't be for long, the way folks keep showin' up out here,” he added.

Preacher prowled around some and found more articles he could use, including some soap and some store-bought britches and shirts that looked like they might fit him. There was a nice lined Mackinaw coat that had only been burned a little bit, and he took that. Best looking coat he'd ever had. And bless Pat, he found him some brand new long handles in the bottom of a trunk. In the same trunk, he found him a fancy razor and new strop and a mug with soap. He was tempted to take some boots off the dead, but he knew he'd worn moccasins for so long his feet would not be comfortable in anything else.

He wandered off down to the crick.

“Glory be!” Melody said, upon sighting him an hour later. “You are a
fine
looking man!”

“Melody!”
Penelope admonished her brazenness.

Preacher had shaved, leaving only a moustache. He had bathed from top to bottom—he hoped nobody downstream tried to drink out of that crick for a day or two—and had dressed in the new clothes. He really felt a little self-conscious. He took the whiskey bottle and dabbed some on his freshly shaved face.

“First time in ten years I been without a beard,” Preacher said. “Feels funny.” He looked at Richard. “He made a sound yet?”

“Moaned a couple of times,” Edmond said. “I'm beginning to get concerned about him.”

Preacher shook his head. “He's just passed out drunk, that's all. I been that way myself a time or two.”

“I'm sure,” Penelope said, giving him an acid look.

Preacher just grinned at her. Penelope needed a good man to roll around in the blankets with her for a night or two. He figured that might change her whole outlook.

Of course, he admitted, he could be wrong. It happened from time to time. He was wrong back in '26 or '27, he recollected.

* * *

Rather than break their backs burying the dead, they dragged the bodies to a shallow ravine and then caved earth in over them. Preacher, Edmond, Melody, and even Penelope pitched in to drag small logs and then spent the better part of an hour placing rocks over the mass gravesite. It wouldn't prevent digging and burrowing animals from getting to the bodies, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

Preacher stood holding a new hat he'd found to replace his old one and listened to Edmond deliver a long-winded eulogy. Five minutes passed. Ten. The sun beat down mercilessly. Fifteen minutes, and still Edmond droned on.

Preacher couldn't take it anymore. “Amen, brother!” he shouted and walked off.

They pulled out the next morning, heading into a wilderness that only a handful of white men—and no white woman—had ever seen. Richard was in some pain, but he never complained. The man might be a Bible-thumper, but he was steadily rising in Preacher's estimation.

The man asked sensible questions, trying to learn about the land and its people, and Preacher answered each question as best he could.

“Is this the Shoshone River we're crossing now?” he asked, as they forded the stream.

“Nope. It's a fork off of it, though. This branch splits off east of what some folks call Heart Mountain. Injuns call it Spirit Mountain. It's sacred to some of them. Bear in mind to keep out of Injun buryin' grounds. That'll bring bad medicine on you. We won't cross the Shoshone this day. Tomorrow, 'bout noon, if all goes well.”

“What do you mean by bad medicine?” Melody asked. “You don't believe in Indian superstition, do you?”

“What's the difference in what Injuns believe and what you're tryin' to bring to them? Only difference is the Injuns don't have no book like the Bible. Their religious ways is passed down by mouth. And each tribe has their shamans; they're like you folks, sort of. They believe in the Great Spirit, and life after death. That Happy Hunting Grounds claptrap is white man's bullshi ... dooky.”

Even Edmond and Penelope had pulled closer and were paying attention and not bitching about this, that, and everything else. For a change.

“Injuns is real good to their kids. Very kind to them. Once you get to know them, and they like you, they're good people. I've lived with them, I've fought them, and I've killed them. And likely I'll do all three things again. And don't you think that most Injun women is loose, 'cause they ain't. An Injun father is just like any father anywhere. You start messin' with his daughter, and he'll kill you.

“You take the Cheyenne tribe, for instance, Tough, mean fighters. Everybody's scared of the Cheyenne. But for all their fierceness, they hold women in high regard. A girl's comin' of age is a big deal in a lot of Injun tribes. And any number of tribes worship dogs and wolves. If one has to be killed for whatever reason, they'll apologize to it. And to a Cheyenne, a dog is damn near a god. They even have a warrior society called the Dog Soldiers.”

“It sounds to me that you actually
like
the Indians,” Edmond observed.

“Oh, I do. You can't blame them for fighting the whites. Hell, this is their land. It's been theirs for only God knows how long. Thousands of years, probably. If they'd let me, I'd never strike a hostile blow against any of them.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Well, exceptin' maybe them goddamn Pawnees.”

When they made camp that afternoon, Preacher figured they were within a half day's ride of the Shoshone. As soon as they crossed it, he'd cut south, down toward Togwotee Pass. He sure wasn't going to attempt to take them across the Snake and over the middle part of the Tetons. At least he hoped he wouldn't have to.

While they had been resting back at the ambush site, two horses had wandered back into camp, anxious for human closeness. Preacher had rigged up frames and they were used for pack horses. He'd found enough canvas that hadn't been burned to use as shelters for the pilgrims. While it wasn't any fancy Eastern hotel, it did offer a small creature comfort.

“It's a great, vast, lonesome place, isn't it?” Melody asked, sitting close to the fire as the sun sank past the towering mountains.

“It's big, all right,” Preacher told her. “But lonesome? Well, I never dwelled on that too much, though some folks do call it the High Lonesome. I've knowed men who've gone crazy out here, sure enough. And a lot more men who gave up and headed back to towns and people and such. Takes a special breed to make it out here. I knowed one old boy who lost his horse and was afoot during the winter. He fought him a puma to the death. We found 'em both come the spring. Both of them froze stiff to a tree. He had his hand on that big cat's head, like he was sayin' 'It's all right. No hard feelin's. We both was just doin' what come natural.”'

“Did you bury him.”

“Not right then. Ground was too hard. We come back about a month later and put them both together in a cave and sealed it shut.”

“That was a nice gesture,” Penelope said.

Preacher looked at her. “I reckon. Howsomever, we didn't have much choice in the matter. They was both still froze together. It've took an axe to get them apart.”

* * *

By noon of the next day, Preacher knew they were being followed. Problem was, he didn't think they were Injuns. If they were renegade white men, they could turn out to be worse than Injuns. The mountains weren't exactly overflowing with renegade white men, but there were enough of them to cause trouble every now and then. They'd knock trappers in the head, or even shoot them for their pelts or for food or their boots or coats, for that matter. And, he thought, trying to cheer himself up, it could be a party of government surveyors or explorers.

But he couldn't quite make himself believe that.

He figured they were renegades after the women. Two beautiful white women could make even a good man go bad. Especially men who hadn't even seen an
ugly
white woman in years.

When he called a break and the women stepped behind some bushes to do their business, Preacher got Richard and Edmond close.

“We're bein' followed,” he told them. “I don't think it's Injuns, and it ain't the Army—I'm sure of that. They'd have seen 'way back that we're not a hostile party and they'd have closed with us. Any good scout would have seen the sign that women leave and they'd be mighty curious. I think we got us some renegades on our trail and I think they're after the women. So keep your powder dry and be ready to fight and fight quick. 'Cause when they come, they'll do it one of two ways, they'll either come real sudden like, or they'll hail the camp and get in amongst us. That's what we don't want. We can't let 'em get in amongst us. I know you two think of yourselves as highly principled men, but you just remember this: there ain't no law out here except the gun, the knife, and the war axe. And if they're renegades, missionaries or not, they'll kill you both and do it without blinkin' an eye. You got the women to think about. They got to come first.”

“Neither one of us has ever used violence against another human being,” Edmond pointed out.

“Well, you're about to do so,” Preacher said, “unless you want to die. Make up your minds. I don't think we got a lot of time to ponder it.”

“We should warn the women,” Richard said. “I feel they have a right to know about this.”

“It's only a suspicion,” Edmond said. “Why alarm them unduly?”

Preacher walked away, leaving the two men arguing. When Melody and Penelope stepped out of the bushes, he walked up to them. “You ladies stay put with the men. Rest awhile. No fires. You understand me?” They nodded. “Good. I'll be back in an hour or so.”

He took his Hawken and set out at a ground-covering lope. Preacher could run all day, and had done so several times during his time in the mountains. He'd had more than one horse shot out from under him, by both white men and Injuns, by bullet and arrow, and been forced to run for his life.

He ran for a couple of miles, then scrambled up on a ledge. He squatted down, studying their back trail. Far below and behind them, he could pick out tiny doll-figures moving toward them on horseback. He counted eight riders, and they were not Indians. They had only two pack horses, so they were not trappers. They were not dressed in uniform, so they were not military. That left government explorers or renegades. Preacher had him a strong suspicion they were the latter.

“Damn!” he said. As if he didn't have enough problems without this being added. If that was Bum Kelley's bunch, they were in real serious trouble.

Bum had come out back around '28 or '29 and immediately started making trouble wherever he happened to be. He always had anywhere from ten to fourteen thieves and killers and toughs hanging around him, and the gang ranged from the Utah Territory up into the British-held lands. There wasn't nothing Bum and his bunch wouldn't do, and precious little they hadn't done—and all of it bad.

He wished he had him a spyglass, but then figured as long as he was wishing he might as well wish for a detachment of soldier boys and about half a dozen of his good friends, like Thumbs Carroll, Nighthawk, Tenneysee, and some others. They'd probably all be 'way south of his position, though.

“Might as well wish for the moon,” Preacher muttered, and then picked up his rifle. He paused as four more riders caught his eye, one of them leading a pack horse.

“That's about right,” he muttered. “Twelve bad ones and me with a one-eared gospel shouter, a smart-aleck missionary, and two faithful female followers. Lord have mercy on a poor mountain boy.”

He picked up his Hawken and loped back to where he had left them. “Mount up,” he told them, bending over to catch his breath. “We got big troubles about five miles behind us.”

“You ran five miles?” Penelope asked.

“I've run all day, lady, and half into the night 'fore. I'll tell you about it sometime. But not now. Let's go!”

Preacher pushed the group. He knew where he wanted to go. It wasn't no more than a day's ride, and he set a hard pace. They had crossed the Shoshone and now, instead of cutting south as he had planned, Preacher rode straight west, toward a place he'd once wintered. He figured the hidden cave was still there. He had no idea what it would take to make it disappear. Other than God.

He rode into a tiny creek and told the others, “Stay right behind me. Don't get out of this crick. It won't fool them for long, but it will slow them up tryin' to figure out where we left it.” He chuckled. “And that, boys and girls, is something that's gonna take them a-while to do.”

They rode for several miles, always staying in the creek, until coming to a sandy, rocky flat. “We'll leave it here,” Preacher told them, as he swung down from the saddle. “Stand down for a couple of minutes and rest; let the horses blow. I got to do something.”