Butchery of the Mountain Man Read online

  “That he does.”

  “What do you reckon he’s doin’ runnin’ around with that old man?”

  “You don’t know who that old man is?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Well, I don’t know his name. His real name, I mean. Long as I’ve known about ’im, I ain’t never heard him called nothin’ but Preacher.”

  “Preacher? Wait, are you talkin’ about the old mountain man that’s been here for, what? Forty, fifty years?” Pete asked.

  “That’s him.”

  “I’ll be damn. I thought he was dead.”

  “Yeah, there’s been two or three times I’ve heard he was dead too, but he’s like a cat with nine lives or something. He always seems to show up again, to put to lie that idea.”

  “What I don’t understand is how someone like Smoke Jensen would be runnin’ with an old mountain man like Preacher,” Pete said.

  “Smoke is pretty much a mountain man his ownself,” the bartender said. “You see, that old man most raised Smoke. Leastwise, that’s what I’ve always heard. They’re what you call tight, so I wouldn’t be doin’ nothin’ to get airy a one of ’em riled,” the bartender said.

  “Ain’t Smoke the one that kilt fourteen men at that silver mining camp near the Uncompahgre a couple years ago?” Ned asked.

  “That’s him, all right.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, he ain’t the kind of man you’d want to get riled up at you,” Ned said.

  “Well, come on, Ned, it ain’t like he kilt all them men ’cause they got him all riled up by askin’ a question, is it?” Pete asked.

  “No. The way I heard it, them men kilt his wife ’n kid,” the bartender said.

  “So then he had hisself a good reason for killin’ ’em. Sounds to me like they was needin’ killin’. So how is it you think we’re goin’ to rile him just by askin’ him if he’s ever heard of some mountain man up in Montana that’s killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ their gizzards?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t know. If you want to ask him, you go ahead and ask, but I’m tellin’ you, I ain’t goin’ to do it,” Ned said.

  “What do you think?” Pete asked the bartender. “You think a question like that would get ’em riled?”

  “No, they’re both good men. They sort of like their privacy, especially the old one. But I don’t reckon there won’t neither one of them get all riled up just from you askin’ a question.”

  Pete looked down at the far end of the bar where the two men stood, talking quietly to each other as they drank their beer.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m goin’ to do it. I’m goin’ to ask ’em if they ever heard of this fella.”

  Pete fortified himself with the last of his beer, then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, moved down the bar to ask his question.

  “Beg your pardon, gents, but I’ve got a question that I’m kinda hopin’ you can answer,” Pete said when he approached Preacher and Smoke.

  “What is the question?”

  “Well, sir, it’s all over ever’where now, that there is a feller up in Montana, a mountain man like I expect you two is, who’s killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ their gizzards. And I was wonderin’, that is, me ’n my friend”—he nodded toward Ned, who hadn’t moved from the far end of the bar—“we was wonderin’ if either one of you fellers had heard about it, and could maybe tell us who it is that’s a-doin’ such a thing.”

  “You’re saying there’s a mountain man killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ ’em?” Preacher asked, his voice showing his incredulity.

  “Yes, sir. Well, no, not quite. He ain’t eatin’ ever’thing of the Injuns he’s kilt now, mind you. From what I hear, the onliest thing he’s eatin’ is their gizzards.”

  “People don’t have gizzards,” Smoke pointed out.

  “They don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll be damn. Wonder what it is then, that that feller is eatin’?” Pete held up his hand, then turned toward his friend, who was sitting at the other end of the bar. “Hey, Ned, people don’t have gizzards. So what is it this feller up there is eatin’?”

  “Livers,” one of the bar girls said. “He is eating their livers.”

  “Does folks have livers?” Pete asked Smoke.

  “Yes, they do. But why would someone do something like that?” Smoke asked.

  “Well, sir, from what I heard, the Injuns kilt his wife ’n kid, ’n he just kind of went crazy and is killin’ as many of ’em as he can. Well, sir, I’m sure you can understand somethin’ like that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mean, what with what happened at that silver mining camp near the Uncompahgre, ’n all.”

  Pete put his hand to his mouth as soon as he spoke the words, and his eyes grew wide in fear. Had he said too much?

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “Yes, I can understand.”

  “Hope I didn’t make you mad or nothin’ by bringin’ that up,” Pete said, anxiously.

  “No, why should I be mad? It happened, and just about everyone knows that it happened.”

  “Yes, sir, just so’s you know I don’t mean nothin’ bad by it. Anyhow, what I’ve heard now is that Iron Bull, he’s the chief of the Crow, has rounded him up twenty warriors from the Big Dog Warrior Society to hunt this feller down and kill him.”

  “But there is something I don’t understand. If the Indians killed this man’s wife and child, why isn’t the army involved?” Smoke asked.

  “I don’t rightly know why the army ain’t involved, but reckon it’s ’cause it was a squaw and a papoose the Injuns kilt, bein’ as that was who the mountain man was married to. And it’s more ’n likely that the army don’t really care that much about a squaw and a papoose, even if they are married to a white man.”

  “I see,” Smoke said. He shook his head. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have no idea as to who it might be.”

  “The thing is, whoever it is, what I’ve heered now is that the Crow is out to kill ’im, and they’re sendin’ whole war parties out. It’s come down to bein’ purt’ nigh that feller all by his ownself agin the entire Crow nation. Don’t seem like no fair fight to me.”

  “Maybe he’ll leave the country so’s the Crow can’t find ’im,” Preacher suggested.

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. This here feller seems to have hisself a lot more guts than he’s got brains, if you know what I mean. He’s bound to just stay up there ’n keep on killin’ Injuns an’ eatin’ their gizzards, till he gets kilt his ownself.”

  “I hope that fella didn’t disturb you men none,” the bartender said after Pete went back to join Ned.

  “No, he didn’t disturb us. What have you got in the kitchen?”

  “Ham and beans.”

  Smoke pointed to an empty table. “Bring us some. We’ll be back there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender replied.

  Smoke and Preacher took their beer with them then walked back to the table in the far corner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “It’s him,” Smoke said. “I know it is.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The man that’s killing the Crow and eating their livers. That has to be John Jackson. Though, I’m not sure he is actually eating their livers.”

  “It’s just like you told that cowboy back there,” Preacher said. “You don’t really have no idea who it is. It don’t have to be John, why, it could be purt’ nigh anyone.”

  “But I know that John took the Indian girl to be his wife. And there’s been plenty of time for them to have had kids. But there’s something else about it.”

  “What’s that?” Preacher asked.

  “I feel it.”

  Preacher made no teasing response to that. He well knew the value of intuition, though that wasn’t a word he had ever heard. For him, it was best described as feeling it in his gut. And his life had been saved more than once because he had reacted to a feeling in his gut.

  �
�Yeah,” Preacher said. “Well, there is that.”

  “I think I’ll just mosey on up there and see for myself.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Preacher asked.

  “No, there’s no need.”

  “Do you think I’m too old? Sonny, I was dealing with Injuns long before you were born. Even before your pa was born.”

  “Preacher, I don’t doubt your courage, your skills, or your ability in dealing with, or fighting against Indians. But John and I may well find ourselves in positions where we have to move fast. You’ve slowed down a mite, and if you are honest with yourself, you’ll admit that.”

  Preacher was quiet for a moment, then he nodded, and stood. “I guess I’d better get myself on back up to my cabin now. As old and as slow as I am, it’ll more ’n likely take me a month or two to get there.”

  For just a moment, Smoke thought Preacher was hurt, then he saw the smile on the old man’s face.

  “You take care, young ’un,” he said, grabbing Smoke’s hand.

  “I will,” Smoke promised.

  [It was the underground telegraph I alluded to in my previous editorial insert that first alerted Smoke Jensen to the fact that his friend was in a personal struggle. Jackson had killed at least ten braves and Iron Bull sent twenty of his most fearsome warriors to kill Jackson.

  Smoke valued friendship and loyalty above all other personal traits, so he left Colorado to look for Jackson, not to stop him, but to help him. He wasn’t sure he believed the part about John eating the livers of the Indians he killed, but there was no doubt that his friend was being hunted. Smoke rushed in to help, knowing it wouldn’t be easy.—ED.]

  Old Main Building

  Professor Armbruster laughed. “Gizzards? Did that cowboy really think that human beings had gizzards?”

  “Well, you have to understand, Professor, most cowboys had seen the innards of animals and people, but except for the heart, and maybe the lungs, most of them wouldn’t know the difference between a pancreas and a spleen.” Smoke laughed as well. “Hell, I’m not sure I could pick out a liver from any of the other human organs. But at least I’ve always known that we didn’t have gizzards.”

  “What did you think when you learned that the army had no intention of intervening on behalf of your friend?”

  “To be honest with you, Professor, I don’t really know that I gave it much thought at all. I just sort of figured that this was a personal war between John and the Crow, and I calculated that the odds were way against him, so I decided to go up and see if I could lend him a hand.”

  “Did you go up to Montana and look for John Jackson as soon as you heard that he was in trouble?” Professor Armbruster asked.

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “Well, I say yes. I didn’t actually leave until after I returned home to tell Sally what I was doing.”

  “How did she feel about that? I mean, you hadn’t been married all that long then. Did she understand that this was something you had to do? And was she all right with that?”

  “We hadn’t been married too long then, that’s true,” Smoke said. “But Sally always was a very smart woman, and she knew, right away, what kind of man I was. From the very beginning she told me that she wouldn’t get in the way if I had to do something that, in her words, ‘was a matter of conscience or honor.’ So, yes, she was all right with it.”

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  Smoke and Sally were sitting on the front porch watching a couple of the cowboys pitching horseshoes.

  There was a clang, then a yell of triumph. “Ha! I got me a leaner!”

  “Yeah? Well watch this.”

  The next cowboy threw and his horseshoe knocked the leaner away, then fell down, ringing the stob.

  The other cowboys yelled in approval.

  “Look at that, would you? Mack is good!”

  “He ain’t good, he’s just lucky,” the first cowboy said, dejectedly.

  “You’ve got something to tell me, don’t you, Smoke?” Sally asked.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I know you, Smoke. I can read you like a book.”

  Smoke chuckled. “I guess I better never lie to you, huh?”

  Sally laughed. “You couldn’t lie to me if you tried. Now, what is it you have to tell me?”

  “You remember me telling you about John Jackson?”

  “Of course I remember. You spent a year with him, teaching him how to become a westerner.”

  “I need to go see him.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’d love to meet him. Didn’t you say he got married? Oh, don’t tell me,” she added excitedly. “They have a child now. Of course you must go. We must go.”

  Smoke shook his head and put his hand out on Sally’s hand. “It’s not that kind of visit, I’m afraid. And we aren’t going, I’m going.”

  “Oh,” Sally said, obviously disappointed by the reply. “What is it? Is John in some sort of trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “From what I can gather, the Crow killed his wife and child, and he has gone on a personal vendetta. But now the Crow are fighting back. They’ve sent twenty warriors after him.”

  “I see,” Sally said, quietly.

  “Sally, I can’t just . . .”

  “I know,” Sally said, interrupting him. She put her other hand on top of Smoke’s hand. “I know that you have to do what you have to do.”

  Smoke lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you for approving.”

  “I’m not sure that I do approve,” Sally said. “But I understand. God help me, I do understand.”

  It took Smoke two weeks to get to the upper Missouri River valley, but it only took him one more week to find John, once he arrived. That was because Smoke had spent enough time with John, right here, in this very location, that he had a pretty good idea as to where he should look. And once he got into the area, he was able to track him.

  Smoke smelled the cooking meat, and he knew, intuitively, that it was John. He approached slowly, though not necessarily quietly. He wanted John to hear him approaching, and he wanted him to realize that it was a measured, rather than a secretive approach.

  He found John squatting by a small fire on the banks of Porcupine Creek. He had a piece of meat on a green twig, leaning out over the fire.

  “What are you cooking?” Smoke asked.

  “Become finicky, have you?” John replied.

  Smoke dismounted and walked over toward the fire. “Well, when I come this far to be your dinner guest, I like to know what I’m eating.”

  “Something I found dead.”

  “Smells good, anyway.”

  John stood and stuck out his hand. “I guess you’ve heard about my particular situation.” It wasn’t a question, it was an observation.

  “Hell, John, there isn’t anyone between here and El Paso who hasn’t heard what’s going on.”

  “Yeah,” John said. “I sort of thought it might be getting around.”

  “Let me ask you something . . .”

  “No, I’m not eating livers,” John said, answering before the question was completely asked.

  “Why does everyone think that you are?”

  “I took a bite of them, the first time. And I’ve been letting the Crow think that I’m eating the livers.” John chuckled. “It seems to have gotten them a little upset.”

  “A little upset? You are their biggest enemy right now.”

  “Good. That’s what I wanted. If you’ve heard about this, you also know what those bastards did to Claire and little Kirby.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Smoke said. He smiled. “Kirby? Your baby’s name was Kirby?”

  “I didn’t think you would mind.”

  “I’m honored,” Smoke said. “But I’m also saddened that he had such a short life. And I’m saddened by what happened to Claire.”

  “Then you can understand why I’m doing, what I’m doing,” John said.

&n
bsp; Smoke sighed. “What do you know about the Big Dog Warrior Society of the Crow?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well, of all the Indians, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Apache, the Comanche, the Big Dog Warrior Society of the Crow is the most fierce. When they set out to make war against an enemy, they take an oath, to kill that enemy, or to, literally, die trying. John, twenty of them are after you.”

  “I may have already run across them; I’ve killed a few Crow, here and there.”

  “No,” Smoke said. “If you’ve killed a few here and there, you have not encountered the Big Dog Warriors. They won’t come after you, here and there. There are twenty of them, and they will all come after you all at the same time.”

  John carved off a piece of the meat and tasted it.

  “It’s done,” he said, pulling it away from the fire. He carved it up, then gave a big piece of it to Smoke.

  “Uhmm,” Smoke said. “This is very good. You’ve come some distance from when I first saw you, losing a fight to a turkey.”

  “I’ve worked at it,” John replied.

  The two men ate in silence for a moment or two before John spoke again.

  “If these fierce warriors are coming after me, en masse, as you say, I expect you had better put distance between you and me soon as you finish eating.”

  “Uh-uh,” Smoke said. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Smoke, I’m the one they’re after. There’s no need in you getting yourself killed.”

  “Didn’t you name your son after me?”

  “I did.”

  “Then, like I said, I’m not leaving. I have a personal stake in this now.”

  “All right,” John said. “I welcome your company.”

  “John, when we first met, I was the teacher, and I taught you everything I know about living in the mountains, trapping, hunting, and just generally surviving. But you are the soldier. You went through the same war my pa did, and you were over in Asia with the French Foreign Legion, so now, you are the teacher. We’ve got twenty armed men coming after us, and we are but two. Do you have any suggestions as to how we find them and deal with them?”