The First Mountain Man (33 page)

3

“They're about a mile ahead of us,” Nighthawk said, slipping back into camp after making his silent reconnoiter on foot. “Twenty-eight of them. No guards out.”

“No doubt in your mind it's Bum?” Jim asked.

“No doubt,” Nighthawk said, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot set on the rocks beside a hat-sized fire.

“They's gonna be some of them no-counts out permanently 'fore the dawnin',” Preacher said, a grim tone to the words. His gaze touched the eyes of his friends. “Anybody don't want to do it this way, say so now.”

The four other mountain men looked at him, their eyes hard. Dupre finally said, “I ain't got no use for murderin', child-rapin' scum. Let's do it.”

The others nodded their heads in agreement, then set about gathering up their gear. They were grim-faced as they worked, for this was to be a bloody night.

There were only small pockets of law west of the Missouri River, and not a hell of a lot more law than that between the Missouri and the Mississippi. These mountain men ran wild and free, and they answered to few codes of conduct. But those they did subscribe to were the basic ones that decent men everywhere held to: Steal a man's horse in the wilderness and you set him afoot to face possible death. So stealing a man's horse called for a hanging or a shooting. On the spot. You did not lie except in jest, for here a man's word was held as tight a bond as a contract done up in some fancy law office. A man did not bother a good woman or child (or even a bad woman in most cases). Harm a woman, and the penalty was almost certainly death. Rape a woman or child and the penalty was certain death, often in very unpleasant ways.

The mountain men led a wild and rough existence, and the justice they dealt was just as wild and rough and unforgiving as the land which they lived in and fought in and, for most, eventually died in.

On this night, the five mountain men shoved pistols behind their sashes, added war axes to that, and picked up their Hawken rifles.

They began making their silent way toward the outlaw camp of Bum Kelley. They took their time, wanting to arrive just when most of the outlaws would be getting ready to roll up in their stinking blankets. With any kind of luck this night, the outlaws would sleep forever, and the missionaries and no telling how many countless others, blissfully unaware of the danger the outlaws presented, would live normal, happy lives—or as normal and happy as could be in the wilderness.

With any kind of luck.

The ambuscaders neared the camp, broke up, and silently moved forward, stopping their stealthy advance just at the edge of the clearing. The fires were dying down and men were grumbling about the cold as they prepared to roll up in their blankets.

Preacher spotted several thugs that he recognized, and assumed that Bum was already in his blankets. He lifted his Hawken and blew one standing man straight to Hell and into the hot embrace of Satan. The others opened fire a split second later.

The night roared with gunfire and the air became choking with gunsmoke from the muzzle loaders.

“Now!” Preacher screamed and charged the camp, a knife in one hand and a war axe in the other.

Moses reared up from the ground, his dirty face pale and his eyes wide in fear. Preacher smashed his skull with the axe and jumped over the dead man.

Beartooth, using both axe and knife ended the life of Jennings while Nighthawk finished Halsey with an axe. Jim ended Bobby's vicious life of crime as Dupre buried his war axe into the head of Keyes.

Preacher threw his axe with deadly accuracy, the head burying deep in Beckman's skull and bringing the outlaw down dead. He fell into the fire. Preacher worked his axe free and let the man burn. They needed a little more light to work by, anyway.

Slug made the terrible mistake of trying to best Beartooth strength to strength. The huge mountain man broke the outlaw's neck and let him fall bonelessly to the cold ground.

“Damn your eyes!” George screamed at Preacher as he jumped for the man. Preacher buried his knife in the man's stomach and ripped upward. He jerked his blade free and stood over the body.

The camp fell silent. The mountain men looked around as they stood in the middle of the carnage. There appeared to be no one left alive.

* * *

Bum, Jack Harris, Leo, and Bull had jumped for their horses when the first shot was fired. They rode bareback, holding on to the mane, the horses just as wall-eyed and trembling with fear as the men on their backs.

Dipper, Waller, and Burke had run wild-eyed into the night. They left their horses and all their possessions behind in their frantic dash to get clear of the bloody ambush. No matter, they could always kill again and steal more horses. They headed for Fort Vancouver.

“Bum ain't here,” Dupre said.

“Neither is that damnable turncoat Jack Harris,” Preacher said.

“I count twenty-one,” Nighthawk said. “Seven got away. I will see very quickly in what direction.”

Preacher did some fancy cussing as he stood in the clearing of death.

“We'll track them, ol' hoss,” Dupre assured his friend. “We'll get them.”

“Bet on it,” Preacher said in a low menacing tone.

Beartooth dragged Beckman out of the flames and tossed some water on him, putting out the burning clothing. “He smelt bad enough alive,” the mountain man said.

“Three on foot heading for the fort,” Nighthawk said. “Four mounted men headed straight east.”

“I'll take care of them on foot,” Preacher said, reloading his weapons. “Let's get back to camp and saddle up. You boys track Bum—and you can bet it's Bum and Jack on horseback—and I'll catch up with you along the way. Hawk, leave rocks piled for me, will you?”

Nighthawk nodded and the men took off at a trot for their camp. An hour later they were hard on the trail of those who had survived the ambush.

* * *

“We got no food, no saddles, and we left most of our weapons back at the camp,” Bum griped. “I ain't never been in no spot like this before.”

They had stopped to get a drink of water at a little creek and to rest their horses.

“I wonder how many got away?” Leo questioned. “I seen a half a dozen shot to bloody rags in they blankets.”

“I never figured Preacher would pull something like this,” Bum said. “If it was Preacher and them.”

“It was,” Jack Harris said sourly. “And Preacher will do anything. He don't play by no rules. I tried to warn y'all 'bout Preacher. That's the most meanest man that ever walked these mountains.”

“I think I seen Dipper and Burke get free,” Leo said. “Maybe one more. I don't know for sure. It all happened so damn fast all I could think of was gettin' free and safe.” He looked at his hands in the faint moonlight. They were trembling. He wasn't sure his legs would support his weight if he tried to stand up.

“I'm just wonderin' if and for how long Preacher and them others will track us,” Bum said.

“They'll track us,” Jack replied bitterly. “And they'll track us 'til Hell freezes over.”

* * *

Preacher rode directly for the fort, taking trails those on foot would avoid. The three outlaws had to head for the fort; they had nowhere else to go. Once there, he told no one what had happened. The factor might frown on folks ambushing other folks. His presence was reported to Richard, who told none of the others the news. He immediately saddled up and rode in to see the mountain man. Preacher was camped outside the walls.

“Melody was rather upset when you left without saying goodbye, Preacher,” he told him.

“She'll get over it.”

“Oh, my,” Richard said.

“Oh, my, what?”

“Here comes that Wade fellow.”

Preacher looked up and grunted. “He best keep on goin'. I ain't got the patience right now to mess with that fool.”

“You there!” Wade called, his good-for-nothing son with him. “You! Mountain man. I came to call you out.”

“You best go on, Wade, and leave me alone. Mess with me now and I'm gonna wind your clock.”

Without another word, Wade hit him, the blow unexpected. Preacher hit the ground, flat on his back.

“Fight! Fight!” someone from the fort yelled.

Preacher slowly got to his moccasins and spat out blood from a busted lip. “All right, mover,” he said, low menace in his voice. “You got this comin' to you.” He faked a blow, Wade flicked a hand to deflect it, and Preacher tossed a hard right fist to Wade's mouth. The blow snapped his head back and brought blood to his mouth.

Preacher busted him with a hard left fist that landed on the side of the man's jaw and Preacher followed that with a right to Wade's gut.

Wade backed up, shaking his head and trying to catch his wind. Preacher pressed him, landing blows to the man's shoulders and face and stomach. Preacher back-heeled the man and sent him tumbling to the ground. Avery screamed curses at Preacher and jumped at him, both fists flailing the air. Preacher timed a punch perfectly and it landed smack on his nose, flattening it and sending blood squirting. Avery squalled and sat down on the ground.

“Goddamn you!” Wade yelled, getting to his boots. “That's my son you struck.”

“And a piss-poor kid he is, too,” Preacher told him. “He must take after his pa.”

Wade swung and Preacher turned, the blow catching him on the shoulder. The blow hurt, for Wade was a big and powerful man. A bully. Like father, like son.

Preacher popped a fast left that smacked Wade on the mouth, bringing new blood to the man's lips.

“'En 'is 'ow, Pa,” Avery blubbered, both hands covering his busted and bloody beak.

“What'd you say?” Wade cut his eyes to his son.

“He wants you to clean my plow, Wade,” Preacher interpreted. “But I allow as to how I got something to say about that.” Preacher jumped up into the air and kicked Wade in the face, the kick knocking the man back to the earth. He landed heavily on his butt and his teeth clicked together from the sudden impact with the ground.

“Are you gonna rest or fight?” Preacher taunted the man.

Wade slowly got to his feet. His face was bloody and swelling and he was mad clear through. So far he had not been able to land an effective blow on the mountain man.

Preacher cut his eyes. The smart-aleck kid was crawling behind him, so his pa could shove him tumbling. Preacher side-stepped and gave Avery the toe of his moccasin right in the gut. The young man howled in pain and fell sprawled out on the ground, gasping for breath.

Wade came at Preacher like a wild bull, his face filled with hate, and his mouth spewing out cuss words, all of them directed at Preacher and his ancestors. None of it was in the least complimentary

Preacher stuck out a foot and tripped the man, sending him to the ground, face first. Wade kissed the grass and came up sputtering and spitting out dirt. Preacher stepped in close and hit the bigger man twice, a left and a right to the jaw. Wade staggered back, regaining his footing just at the last moment. He lifted his fists.

“Aw, give it up, man,” Preacher said. “You're done.”

Wade lumbered forward and took a wild swing at Preacher. Preacher sighed and popped him again, a left and a right, to belly and jaw.

Still the big man would not go down. “Come on, mountain man!” Wade sneered. “Fight! I got you whipped now.”

“You 'bout a fool, Wade,” Preacher told the man. “This fight is stupid. Give it up and I'll buy you a drink.”

“'Ick'is ass, Pa!”Avery screamed, mush-mouthed, getting to his big feet.

“I 'bout had enough of you, too, boy,” Preacher told the young man.

Avery told Preacher where to go and what to stick up a certain part of his anatomy when he got there.

Preacher narrowed his eyes and gave the young man the back of his hand right across the mouth. The force of the blow knocked Avery to the ground.

When Preacher turned around to face Wade, the big man was standing, grinning a bloody smirk at Preacher.

With a knife in his hand.

4

“I really don't think you know what you're doin', Wade,” Preacher told him, his voice cold and low. “But if you don't put that knife up, I'm gonna kill you, man. And I ain't gonna tell you that but one time.”

The chief factor stepped through the crowd, a cocked pistol in one hand. “Withdraw, sir!” he ordered Wade. “Or stand and die.”

With a snarl, Wade sheathed his blade and stood staring at Preacher. Wade's chest heaved and blood dripped from his busted nose and mouth. “There will be another day, Preacher,” he warned. “And you may wager on that.”

“Why?” Preacher asked him. “Are you that anxious to die, Wade?”

With a snort of derision, Wade shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd. He helped the light of his life to his feet and together they walked off.

“Preacher did not start this trouble,” Richard informed the chief factor. “We were standing here chatting when Wade bulled his way up to us and demanded that Preacher fight him. The man is a troublemaker, sir.”

“Yes,” the man said, uncocking and securing his pistol. “Unfortunately, I know that only too well. The family has been in this area just about a month and already that Wade fellow has been involved in three altercations. That son of his is no more than a common hooligan and vandal. I fear neither of them will come to a good end. The father does not seem to realize that I can bar him from this fort. And I might just do that. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Richard,” Preacher said, after several trappers he knew had congratulated him on a good fight and the crowd had broken up, “go on back to the church and charge your pistols and rifles. They's three bad ones headin' this way. I believe I can stop them. But if I don't, it's gonna be up to you.”

“Bum Kelley and his gang?”

“Bum Kelley ain't got no gang no more. Not none to speak of, that is. The buzzards and the varmits is a-eatin' on most of his gang up south and east of Soda Peak.”

Richard swallowed hard. “You and your friends did them in?”

“That we did.”

Richard decided he really did not want to know the how of that statement. “The Indian renegade and his bunch?”

“Broke up and long gone.”

Richard looked around him to make sure they were alone. “Bum and his people were coming after the gold?”

“That they were—and the women. I don't think you'll have to worry with Bum no more. Just as soon as I deal with them three no-counts comin' for your place, I'll hook up with my friends and we'll chase Bum down and dispose of him.”

He held out his hand and Richard shook it.

“Likely as not you won't see no more of me, Richard,” Preacher told the man. “You tell Melody and the others goodbye for me.” He smiled. “You're a good man, Richard. I watched you grow over the weeks. You toughened up, both in mind and body.” He clasped him on the shoulder with a hard hand. “You'll do to ride the river with, man.”

It was only after Preacher had ridden off, that Richard realized he had just been paid the highest compliment a mountain man could offer.

“Goodbye to you, friend,” the missionary whispered to the afternoon. “And may God bless and keep you and your friends as you ride the mountain passes.”

Preacher didn't ride far that day. He rode north of the mission and picketed Hammer on good graze and a small pool of water and waited. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the three survivors of the ambush were not going to attack the mission, maybe they were just heading for the closest point of civilization. Maybe the thugs were coming here to steal or beg or buy supplies and horses and then leave. But Preacher doubted that.

Although he'd never seen a tiger, he doubted one could change its stripes, and he felt the same about those who chose to ride the outlaw trail. Preacher knew that to a large degree, each man shaped his own destiny. People were not forced into a life of crime—they chose it willingly. Preacher had not one ounce of sympathy in his being for thugs and hoodlums and the like.

Preacher also knew that what he was about to do—depending on whether the trio showed up—cut across the grain of those who knuckled down and cowered under the watchful eye of any constable or sheriff's department. Man steals your horse, you hang him. Man threatened to do a body harm, you go after that person and put the harm on him 'fore he can do it to you.

He waited in the timber behind the mission.

Just after dark, he saw the three men slip to the edge of the timber and crouch down. He could hear the murmur of their voices but could not make out any of the words. He watched them point to the lamp-lighted windows of the church and living quarters.

Preacher stood and moved silently, making a wide circle and coming up by the side of the buildings, then working his way to the rear of the main building. He crouched down, his war-axe in his hand.

He smelled the man before he saw him. The man stank of filth and days-old sweat. The hoodlum came closer, so close Preacher could have reached out and touched him. He was going to do just that—sort of—in a few seconds. The man peered in through the precious glass of a back window, into a darkened room. He saw the man take a long-bladed knife from a beaded sheath.

Preacher rose like a wraith and buried the head of his axe into the man's skull. He rolled the man under the building.

“What was that?” came the hoarse whisper.

“Stubbed my toe,” Preacher gruffly called.

“You're a clumsy igit, Waller. Did you find us a way in?”

“Right here.”

“You see them women?”

“Yes. They's nekkid.”

“Hot damn! I get first dibs.”

What he got was the sharp head of a tomahawk right between the eyes.

“Dipper?” came the whisper.

“Right here.”

“Waller with you?”

“Yeah.”

“I seen some fine-lookin' horses in the stable.”

“Good.”

“Did you say them fillies was nekkid?”

“Yep.”

“I'm on my way to glory, Dipper!”

“You shore is,” Preacher said, as he lowered the cooling body to the earth.

One by one he dragged the bodies to a ditch far behind the church buildings and dumped them. He collapsed part of the bank over them and then threw small logs and branches over that. Sooner or later the men might possibly be discovered— or an arm or leg of them would—but by that time the bodies would be so badly decomposed no one would be able to tell who or even what they had been.

Preacher looked toward the rear of the buildings, a thousand yards or more away. “You good folks rest easy now,” he said. “Live a long life and be happy—compliments of Preacher.”

* * *

Preacher rode away from the fort and made a cold camp. By noon of the next day, he was in the Cascades. By midafternoon, he had found the tracks of both his friends and Bum and his crud. By nightfall, he found the first small mound of stones left him by Nighthawk. To someone unfamiliar with his style of living, the stones would have been meaningless; to Preacher they spoke volumes. He made his camp and slept as soundly as he ever did.

Four days later, he caught up with his friends. They were standing over three mounds of earth.

“They kilt 'em whilst they slept,” Beartooth said. “I didn't know none of these boys, but they appeared to be trappers. I reckon they had 'em a jug and drank theyselves silly 'fore they went to bed. They heads was all beat in. The rocks and clubs is over yonder, all bloody. So Bum and Jack and them others now got guns and the like. These bodies was stripped nekkid, so them no-good's now got skins on, I reckon. They taken everything so's they'll pass for trappers. How'd you do?”

“I took care of them three that went to the west and whupped Wade's butt good over at the fort.”

“I'd like to have seen that,” Dupre said. “What brought all that on?”

“I don't know. I reckon he was just feelin' lucky,.”

“You shoulda kilt him,” Trapper Jim said.

“I would have but the chief factor butted in just at the last minute.”

“Too bad,” Beartooth said. “Let's ride.

* * *

Bum and his small party crossed over into Washington Territory, into what is now Idaho, and for the first time since the ambush, began to feel like they just might have eluded their pursuers. They could not have been more wrong.

None of them had even the faintest inkling of what manner of men rode after them. Bum and his men were thieves, murderers, cutthroats, and almost anything else that was evil and dishonest. Like so many others, they made the oftentimes fatal mistake of judging others by comparing them to self.

While no one who is even an amateur student of the West would ever write—or even think—that mountain men were paragons of virtue, most of the mountain men did operate under a loose code of conduct. They were wild and woolly and, as the Western saying goes “Born with the bark on,” yet curiously drawn to alliances and bonding with like kind. A good woman was as revered as their own mothers, so even to think of doing harm to a good woman was enough to bring their wrath down on a person.

Bum and his bunch did not realize that Preacher and his friends, if it had to be, would pursue them all the way to New York City and drive them into the Atlantic Ocean.

“I believe we can rest easy now, boys,” Jack Harris said. “Preacher and them friends of hisn has played out their string.”

“Yep,” Leo said, stretching out on his stolen and bloodstained blankets and sucking on a cup of coffee. “I think we can relax and start pondering on another job.”

Miles to the west, five hard-eyed mountain men rode their ponies, their Hawken rifles across their saddle horns.

“I think we ought to lay low for a time,” Bull said. “Let the news of this wagon train gettin' through to the blue waters git back East. Then they's people who'll come a-foggin' to the promised land. They'll have cash money and fancy wimmen and the like. Pickin's'll be fine, boys, fine.”

“I agree, Bull,” Bum said. “But we got to start lookin'hard for a cabin to winter in. The snow's done cappin' the low mountains. It'll be hard cold soon.”

“We'll find some trapper's cabin and kill him,” Leo said. “Lay in a stock of meat and jerk it. Preacher and them silly friends of hisn will think we've done left the country.”

“I know a spot up on the Clark,” Jack said. “Snug little cabin that'd do just fine. Trapper lives there with one of the prettiest little Injun gals you ever seen. She could keep us all happy durin' the winter and then we could kill her come springtime 'fore we pulled out. We'll catch her man out runnin' his traps and do him in quiet like.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bum said. “We'll head that way come the mornin'. Pretty little thing, you say, Jack?”

“Purty as a pitcher, she is. Shapely.”

* * *

Preacher and the others stood over the ripped and torn body of the man. “Anybody know him?” Preacher asked.

“I thinks it's Parley,” Jim said. “But the buzzards and the varmits been hard at work here. Kinda hard to tell.”

Preacher rolled the man over on his stomach and grunted. A bullet hole in the dead man's flesh was obvious.

“Shot him in the back while he sat before his fire,” Nighthawk observed.

“Four men,” Dupre called from outside the small clearing. “It's Bum and them others for sure. Tracks are plain.” He rejoined the group.

“We're gonna take 'em alive, boys,” Preacher spoke the words grimly. “And we's gonna have us a court of law, all proper and legal like. Then when we find 'em guilty, we'll hang em.”

“That sounds good,” Jim said.

“Nighthawk, you be the judge,” Preacher said. “I'll speak agin the bunch, Dupre, you defend 'em.”

“Wagh!” the Frenchman recoiled. “I ain't got nothin' good to say about this pack of mad dog heathens.”

“No, we got to do this right and proper now,” Preacher insisted. “You just let them have they say and such as that. Then, after they's done, if you can find anything good to say about them, say it. Hell, it don't make no difference. We gonna find them guilty anyways. Jim and Beartooth's gonna be the jury.”

“When the time comes, I shall don my proper robes to sit in judgement,” Nighthawk said. “I have a fine buffalo robe in my pack.”

“That'll be good,” Preacher said. “Make you look plumb respectable.” He glanced at the Crow. “Providin' you do something with them goddamn pigtails.”