Butchery of the Mountain Man Read online

  Claire was standing knee-deep in the water, and she was totally nude. Her back was to him, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the gentle curves, and the smooth golden skin. She was taking a bath, and though he felt that he should turn away, he couldn’t make himself do so. He leaned against a tree and watched as she splashed water on herself. Then, unexpectedly, she turned and started out of the water, affording a total view as she did so.

  When Claire glanced up, she saw that John was looking at her, but she showed no alarm, nor did she display any modesty. She smiled at him, then reached down and picked up a clean dress and pulled it down over her still-wet body.

  “Did you start the fire?” she asked.

  “Uh, no,” John replied.

  “We cannot cook if we have no fire.”

  John chuckled. “I guess you have a point there. I’ll get a fire started, then carve off a piece of ham for us.”

  “Not ham,” Claire said. “Fish.”

  “Fish? Might be good but we’ll have to catch . . .” John stopped in mid-sentence when, with a broad smile, Claire walked over to the edge of the stream and picked up two good-sized salmon that he hadn’t seen earlier.

  “How did you catch those? Where is your hook and line?”

  “I use my hands,” Claire said, making a swooping motion with her hands to demonstrate.

  John started the fire as Claire cleaned the fish, then she ran a green stick down through each of them and leaned them out over the fire to cook.

  That night, John lay in his bedroll by the fire, watching the red sparks ride the rising columns of heat into the sky, there to blend with the stars. He thought back over the last few years of his life . . . the fiancée who promised to wait, but who spurned him after he returned from the war . . . the friends he had met, and who were killed during the war . . . and the difficult time he had adjusting to peacetime civilian life, then his experience with the French Foreign Legion in Annam.

  He recalled his last conversation with his father, just before he left Pennsylvania to come west.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you, son,” his father told him when he returned from Europe. “When you came back from the war you said you just needed a little time to readjust, so you went to Europe and joined the French Foreign Legion. I told you then that you were making a mistake, but you didn’t listen to me.

  “So, what happened to you in Europe? You were just as disturbed when you came back from there as you were when you came back from the war. You’ve told me nothing of your experiences with the Foreign Legion. Was it an unpleasant experience?”

  “There is nothing to talk about,” John replied.

  “You’ve said nothing about going into battle with the Foreign Legion, but you have returned with a medal that you can only get by being in battle. Was it bad?”

  John didn’t answer.

  “John, you have been much in my prayers for these last several years. While you were in the war, I prayed for your physical survival. But since the war, I have prayed for the survival of your soul. You just aren’t the same sweet boy, or even good man, you once were. You are too quick to anger, you have too little patience, you don’t enjoy the things you once did, you haven’t reconnected with your old friends, and you can’t sleep at night. I know the stress you went through during the war, and maybe even when you were with the Foreign Legion, is causing that. Maybe someday there will be a name for it . . . but nothing I have ever read addresses it.”

  “You don’t understand,” John had told his father. “I can’t sleep at night, because when I do, I hear the gunfire . . . I hear the moans of the wounded and the dying.”

  “I know you were upset when you returned from Europe, and found that Lucy had married another. But you’ve made no effort to meet any other young women. You shouldn’t let what she did keep you from seeing other women.”

  “To tell you the truth, Pop, I’m actually glad she found someone else. I just don’t feel like being around any women now.”

  “I know you said you wanted to go west, into the mountains where you would be away from everyone. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Maybe if you are alone long enough, you’ll get back to normal.”

  And so here he was, the sum total of his entire life had brought him to this time and this place, in the mountains, alone. No, he wasn’t really alone, nor had he been alone. There had been Preacher and Smoke. But he was thankful to Smoke. What he had learned from Smoke in the last year was worth a four-year college degree. It was certainly more valuable than the degree he had earned at the University of Pennsylvania.

  Claire was lying in her blankets, not five feet away from him. She had certainly not been a part of his plans. There was no room in the life he wanted now for any kind of a companion, let alone a female companion, and especially not an Indian woman. He had been forced into taking her, convinced that the circumstances were such that she would not survive had he not done so. He had tried, to the degree that it was possible, to maintain a separation between them. He had thought that the difference in language would help in that regard.

  Then he learned that she could speak English.

  All right, it was probably a good thing that she could speak English. If they were going to be together, there would be times when it would be necessary for them to communicate. He would just put her out of his mind as much as he could.

  But tonight, he saw her naked, and he saw, for the first time, what an exceptionally beautiful woman she was. And now she was lying beside him, totally dependent upon him for her survival, and for all intents and purposes, his to do with as he pleased.

  If he went to her now, what would she do? Would she acquiesce to his advances? Or would she fight him off?

  What about her time with Cooper? Had she been with Cooper?

  Of course she had, there was no way she could have avoided it. And she did say that she had been Cooper’s wife.

  For a moment the thought of Claire having been with Cooper disgusted him, and he thought the less of her for it.

  Why? Why did he think that? She was absolutely helpless. How could she have possibly controlled her own fate?

  Now John felt guilty for having such negative thoughts about her. The truth was, in the few days they had been together, he had grown comfortable with her. Yes, she was dependent upon him for her survival, but to a degree he was dependent upon her as well.

  She knew the country and had offered suggestions from time to time, such as following this tributary from the river. She was helpful around the camp, she could make a fire, she could cook, she was able to point out what plants were edible, she could find wild, sweet berries, as well as honey. And tonight she had shown him that she could fish.

  Yes, having her with him was not the burden he thought it would be.

  A gas bubble, trapped in one of the burning logs, popped loudly, and sent up a shower of sparks. A couple of them landed on Claire’s blanket, and John, afraid that the blanket would catch on fire, moved over quickly to brush the sparks off.

  Claire opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her eyes reflected bright orange points of light, and her face gleamed in the glow of the fire. She stared up at him for a long time with those big, brown, trusting eyes, and when John put his hand on her cheek, she reached for it, not to push it away, but to hold it in her own hand.

  With Claire’s other hand she opened the blanket in invitation and he saw that she was as nude as she had been when he saw her in the water. Quickly taking off his own clothes, John got under the blanket with her.

  John was awakened the next morning by the loud, rapid hammering of a woodpecker. The first thing he realized was that Claire wasn’t in bed with him. Raising up on his elbow, he saw her by the fire, cooking something in the skillet. He could smell it, and it smelled very good.

  “What are you cooking?” he asked.

  “Breakfast.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  “You eat first, then I will tell you,” she said.

  J
ohn chuckled, then he started to get up from the blankets. That was when he realized that he was naked and, inexplicably, he felt a sense of embarrassment. He reached for his clothes and dressed, all the while keeping himself covered with the blanket.

  The breakfast meal consisted of Indian fry bread, which John had eaten for the first time at Rendezvous, bacon, and something else, something that resembled scrambled eggs, though it was more orange than yellow.

  Claire spooned it out of the frying pan and onto two tin plates. She gave one plate, and a fork, to John.

  “Eat,” she said.

  John knew that he liked bacon, and he knew that he liked the fry bread. He didn’t know what the orange stuff was, but he took a bite.

  Claire studied his reaction, intensely.

  It wasn’t at all an unpleasant taste, but John had never tasted anything quite like it. It had sort of a salty taste, but not overly so. He took two or three bites, hesitantly, then with a little more confidence, and by the time he finished he discovered that he was actually enjoying it.

  “What was that I just ate?” he asked.

  “Come, I will show you.”

  Claire led John to the water’s edge, then she pointed to some leaves that were growing in the water. Clinging to the leaves were hundreds of little, round, almost translucent balls.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Fish eggs,” Claire replied with a broad smile.

  John chuckled. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I know that some rich folks back in Philadelphia serve fish eggs. They call it caviar. If I ever get back there, I’ll have to tell them how good it can be when it’s fried in bacon grease.”

  “You like?”

  “Yes, I do. Claire, what do you say we build our cabin here?”

  “I think here is a good place,” Claire replied.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Old Main Building

  “Let’s see,” Professor Armbruster said. “Just to make certain that I have the time line straight, we are now up to 1870, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is Matt at this time?”

  “Matt had left by then. Our paths continued to cross after he left and of course we remained friends. Actually we are still friends; he spent last Christmas with us at Sugarloaf. But, for the most part by then, Matt was on his own.”

  “And, I believe, if I remember correctly, 1870 is when you met your wife.”

  “It is when I met my first wife, Nicole.”

  “As I intend to blend yours and John Jackson’s stories together, I wonder if you might share that with us now.”

  Uncompahgre Plateau—Spring 1870

  Shortly after Smoke returned from his almost year-long stay with John, he joined Preacher in pushing a herd of mustangs south. They had been on the drive for three days when Preacher stopped and held up his hand.

  “What do you smell, boy?” he asked.

  Smoke sniffed the wind. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s not new growth, I know that. It’s more like . . . well, I want to say smoke, but it isn’t exactly smoke. It’s something else.”

  “It’s burnt hair,” Preacher said.

  “Yes,” Smoke said, realizing that burnt hair is exactly what he was smelling. “That’s not good.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Preacher said. “It ain’t good at all. It’s comin’ from that way.”

  “You want me to ride over there and check it out?” Smoke asked.

  “Not by yourself, I don’t. Ain’t no tellin’ what we’ll find over there. It might take the two of us to handle it.”

  “What about the horses?”

  “I’ve been here before, they’s a box canyon just ahead. We can put the critters in there, then block off the entrance. They’s water and grass in there too, so they ain’t likely to be tryin’ to get out.”

  “All right,” Smoke agreed.

  Putting the horses into the box canyon that Preacher spoke of, they blocked off the entrance, then rode over to investigate the smell. As they got closer, the smell became more cloying.

  “What is that?” Smoke asked.

  “It ain’t only the hair what was burnt, Smoke. It’s the flesh too.”

  They followed their noses until they found a wagon that had been burned, but not entirely consumed. They also found the source of the burnt flesh odor, a man, suspended by his ankles from a tree, was hanging head down over a fire. His head, face, and shoulders were burned black. They found another man lying on the ground, his body mutilated, and a third man tied to the wheel of the wagon, also dead. All three men had been tortured.

  “They died hard,” Preacher said.

  Tied to the side of the wagon, and undamaged by the fire, was a shovel.

  “I’ll get them buried,” Smoke said.

  “No need in diggin’ more ’n one grave,” Preacher said. “They was either friends or family. They all died together, so they may as well lie together.”

  Smoke dug only one grave, but he dug it large enough to bury all three men. Then he and Preacher covered the grave with rocks, to prevent wolves and coyotes from digging them up.

  After they buried the dead, they took a closer look at the burned-out wagon, and that was when Smoke found a dress.

  “Preacher, there were women with them. Or at least a woman.”

  “Most likely the Injuns took ’er with ’em.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Look.” Smoke pointed to a set of small footprints, shoes, not moccasins, leading away from the wagon.

  “Praise be, maybe she got away. Let’s find her,” Preacher said.

  It didn’t take long to find her; the tracks led right to some brush.

  “Girl, come on out from there,” Preacher called. “You’re among friends now. You ain’t goin’ to be hurt.”

  The young woman came out. She was an exceptionally pretty woman and Smoke was so struck with how beautiful she was that for a moment, he just stared at her.

  “What’s your name?” Smoke asked.

  “Nicole.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Smoke. This is Preacher.”

  “Smoke? Preacher? Are those real names?”

  Smoke smiled. “My real name is Kirby Jensen. His real name is Art, but he doesn’t like to be called that. He only wants to be called Preacher.”

  “Did you see my father, my two uncles?”

  “Yes,” Smoke said, grimly.

  “They are all dead, aren’t they?”

  Smoke nodded, but said nothing.

  “What about my aunt? Did you see her?”

  “Looks like the savages took her,” Preacher said.

  “What will they do to her?”

  “Depends a lot on her. Was she a looker?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Was she a handsome woman?”

  “She was beautiful,” Nicole answered.

  Preacher shrugged. “Then they’ll probably keep her.”

  He didn’t tell the young woman her aunt may have been, by now, raped repeatedly and then tortured to death.

  “They’ll work her hard, beat her some, but she’ll most probably be all right. Some buck with no squaw will bed her down. Then again, they might trade her off for a horse or rifle.”

  “Or they might kill her?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t believe I’ll ever see her again, do you?”

  “No, darlin’, it just ain’t likely,” Preacher said.

  Nicole put her face in her hands and began to weep. “I don’t know what to do. I have a brother somewhere, but I don’t know where he is. I don’t have anyone else.”

  Smoke put his arms around her. “Yes, you do, Nicole. You have us,” he said.1

  Smoke, Preacher, and Nicole built a cabin and shortly after the cabin was built, Preacher rode on, leaving Smoke and Nicole alone. Preacher didn’t return that winter of 1870–71, then one day Nicole came to Smoke.

&
nbsp; “We have to get married, Smoke,” she said.

  “We’re going to get married. But didn’t we say we wanted to wait until Preacher got back?”

  “Have you considered the idea that he might not come back?”

  “I don’t like to think about it.”

  “How old is he?”

  “In his seventies, I think. He’s never really told me. I know he’s too old to be spendin’ another winter alone.”

  “Smoke, Preacher has spent a long, exciting, and very fruitful life. He wouldn’t want to die in bed, would he? He would want to leave this life the way he has lived it, in the wilderness. And do you think he would really want you to be worrying about him?”

  Smoke smiled. “You’re right, Nicole, as usual.”

  “So, you don’t think we have to wait for Preacher for us to get married? The reason I ask is, I’m pretty sure we’re going to have a baby.”

  “What? No, Nicole, we can’t! We’re more than a hundred miles from the nearest doctor.”

  “There is nothing to having a baby, Smoke. That is a natural process that’s been going on since the beginning of time. Besides, I went to nursing school. It’s just that I want the baby to have a legal name. I want to be married. So, where can we go?”

  “We’re too far from Big Rock, wouldn’t want you traveling that far. But Preacher told me there was a little settlement of Mormons just west of here, over in Utah Territory. We could go there.”

  It was still cool when they left the valley, heading for Utah.

  “Smoke, do you think we’ll see any Indians?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been this way before, I’ve never been in Utah. I reckon we’ll just have to find out together.”

  On the fifth day of their travel they reached the settlement Preacher had spoken of, but all they found were half a dozen rotting and collapsing cabins. They found no sign of life.