Battle of the Mountain Man Read online

  “I only wanted a chance to talk to him about some of his exploits so I could write about it. If I may be so bold as to ask, who might you be? I can’t see you from here.”

  “If I’d wanted you to see me I’d have showed myself. You got a rifle, an’ there’s a pistol under that fancy coat. Till I knowed what you was after, I was stayin’ right where I’m at. As to my name, there’s some who call me Griz. That’s short fer a grizzly bear, case you didn’t know. I go by Grizzly Cole when I git asked my full handle. I’m acquainted with Huggie Charles an’ Smoke Jensen, if it matters, an’ I knowed ol’ Puma Buck as well as I knowed my own name. But till I know more about who the hell you are an’ what you’re after, climb down off ’n that mule an’ keep yer hands where I can see ’em. You reach fer that pistol an’ I swear I’ll kill you, mister. Now git down.”

  Ned was careful to keep both hands in plain sight as he swung down to the ground, holding the mule’s reins. He wondered if this might be a piece of luck. Was he having his first encounter with a real mountain man?

  Five

  “I assure you, Mr. Cole, that I mean you no harm,” Ned told him as he stood in front of his mule with his palms spread. “I only want to talk to a few mountaineers, the man who opened up this territory.”

  A shadow moved behind a pine trunk deep in the forest, and there was the brief glint of sunlight on a rifle barrel. A thin figure clad in buckskins came silently between the trees in Ned’s direction.

  “I kin assure you, mister, that I wasn’t worried ’bout you doin’ me no harm… not the way you rode up here in plain sight like a damn greenhorn. If a bunch of them Utes or Shoshoni was still huntin’ white men’s scalps, yer hair’d have been decoratin’ some warrior’s lodgepole tomorrow mornin’. It was the other way ’round when it comes to bein’ in harm’s way, Mr. Buntline. Any time I wanted, I coulda killed you quicker’n snuff makes spit.”

  Ned hadn’t realized he’d made such a target of himself, yet neither had he expected to run across a mountain man so soon, figuring they’d be higher up in summertime, farther from the closest settlements. “I was told the Indian troubles were over in this part of the Rockies, so I felt I had nothing to fear if I rode out in the open.”

  The buckskin-clad outline of Grizzly Cole came to the edge of the forest. Ned could see a snowy beard surrounding his face and white hair falling below his shoulders. A rifle was balanced loosely in his right hand, and a huge pistol, probably a Walker Colt .44, was stuck in a belt fashioned from animal skin strips. While not one of his sources on the subject of mountain men had ever mentioned the name Grizzly Cole, Ned had a feeling Cole was one of the old-time mountaineers he’d been looking for.

  “That’s mostly true,” Cole agreed, at last stepping out into slanted sunlight so Ned could see him clearly. “The Utes are at peace with the white man now, an’ them Shoshoni don’t range this far south no more. But a man had oughta practice bein’ careful with his hide no matter how much he knows ’bout a stretch of the country. Things can change real sudden-like.”

  Ned felt somewhat more relaxed now. It did not appear Cole meant to harm him, not by the way he stood with his rifle lowered and his other hand empty. “Are you one of the early mountain men to come to this region?” he asked.

  Cole’s deeply wrinkled face twisted with a touch of humor, a grin of sorts. “Me? Hell no, I wasn’t one of the first. Fact is, I come real late to this country, after Preacher an’ Puma an’ a whole bunch of others. I reckon you could say I’m a newcomer to these parts. Hardly been here more’n twenty years.”

  It was the mention of Preacher’s name that caught Ned’s full attention. “So there really is, or was, a mountain man by the name of Preacher?”

  “He sure as hell weren’t no ghost, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “Is he still alive? Would he talk to me?”

  Now Cole wore a guarded look, shifting his weight to the other foot Knee-high moccasins with bead-work and porcupine quills, badly worn in places, protected his feet. “I ain’t in the business of answerin’ questions. I trap beaver an’ hunt a few griz now an’ then fer their skins… that’s where I got my handle, the one I go by. I done told you more’n I shoulda, how Puma was dead, an’ where to look fer Huggie.” He paused, and it seemed he was thinking. “I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Buntline, so it’ll save you some time. You ain’t gonna find Preacher ’less he wants to be found, an’ that’s if he’s still alive. He’d be close to ninety years old now, if he ain’t crossed over the Big Divide up yonder in the sky. He never was a sociable feller, I hear tell.”

  “But have you actually met him?”

  “Nope. Ain’t many folks alive who kin say they did. One is Smoke Jensen, only Smoke ain’t gonna tell you nothin’ ’bout oT Preacher. Preacher nearly raised Smoke, case you didn’t know, an’ I’ve heard it said even Smoke don’t know if Preacher is still alive somewheres.”

  “Why would they cut off all communication between them if they were once so close?”

  “Yer askin’ the wrong feller, but I reckon it’s what Preacher wanted… to live out the last of his years by hisself up in these here mountains.”

  Ned wanted more from Cole. “I’ve got a sack of Arbuckles in my packs. I’d be happy to build a fire and offer you a cup, just for the information you already gave me, a gesture of friendship or whatever you wish to call it.”

  Cole frowned, and it appeared he was sizing Ned up far more critically before he agreed to coffee.

  “A cup of that Arbuckles do sound mighty nice, but I ain’t gonna trade no more information ’bout my friends for it. You git that through yer head afore-hand.”

  Ned nodded quickly. “I won’t ask about your friends. You can tell me anything you want about yourself, if you wish to, or we can simply share a cup of coffee and I’ll be on my way.”

  Cole glanced upslope at the old cabin Ned had seen earlier. “Bring yer mule. There’s a firepit an’ some seasoned wood up yonder. I use that ol’ place from time to time, if’n I git caught in a snowstorm come winter. Ain’t nobody lives there no more. Used to belong to a helluva mountain man…”

  “Whose cabin was it?” Ned asked.

  Cole gave him a stern look. “I done told you I ain’t gonna talk ’bout none of my friends, them that’s crossed over, an’ them that ain’t.”

  Ned blew steam away from the rim of his cup, all the while examining Grizzly Cole closely. Cole had to be near sixty, weathered skin and snowy hair, gnarled hands, rheumy eyes that had surely seen so many things he needed for his stories about the men who’d first explored these wild mountains. But Cole was not about to be tricked into telling him anything he wasn’t willing to say, Ned judged.

  “There ain’t many beaver left in this part of the lonesome,” he said. “Used to be beaver dams every quarter mile on these creeks. They got trapped real hard by men who didn’t understand nature. You gotta take some an’ leave some, so they’ll multiply an’ raise a new crop every spring.”

  “Experienced men like Preacher or Smoke Jensen and Puma Buck wouldn’t have trapped them out, so it had to be others who did this to good beaver country.”

  Cole eyed him. “I done warned you I ain’t gonna talk ’bout none of my friends. But you’s right ’bout the three you mentioned. They knowed Mother Nature’s ways, all right. If’n this high country never saw nobody but their kind, it’d still be plumb thick with beaver an’ every breed o’ critter there is. That’s what put ol’ Preacher an’ Smoke on the warpath a long time back, when men come up here to change things. Some came with cattle to push other grazin’ animals out. Some showed up with cross-cut saws to cut amber. There was a few who didn’t bring nothin’ but bad intentions. That’s a part of what put Smoke Jensen into the gunfighter’s trade.”

  Griz Cole was telling Ned far more than he meant to without realizing it, with a slip of the tongue now and then. “I’m going to ask Jensen if he’ll talk to me about some of it. Readers back east would be fascinated
.”

  “The only thing he’s liable to tell you is to skedaddle if you ask him about the past. Huggie might talk to you a little, an’ Del Rovare can git kinda windy at times, ’specially if his tongue got loosened with a dab o’ whiskey. But there ain’t none of ’em gonna tell you much, Mr. Buntline. These men ain’t city folk with an inclination towards idle talk.” He looked off at the mountain peaks around them, toying with his coffee cup for a time. “It takes a man who likes his own company to live up here, an’ most of us don’t have no hankerin’ for outsiders who come nosin’ around. Winters git long an’ lonesome for some. Me, I like the sound of fallin’ snowflakes on pine limbs, the howl of a north wind at night when the fire’s warm inside a cabin.“

  “Do very many mountain men have a woman, a wife?”

  “Some. Not many. Womenfolk ain’t built for the loneliness or this rough life. There’s a few. Smoke’s got him a lady who takes to the high lonesome like a bear takes to honey. Sally’s built different than most women. Puma used to have him a Ute squaw. Cute little thing. She died of the smallpox back in ’59 I believe it was. Injuns ain’t got much tolerance for a white man’s diseases.”

  “Did Puma himself die of old age?”

  Cole gave him a hard stare. “That ain’t my story to tell, Mr. Buntlme. You’ll have to ask somebody else.” He drained a big swallow of Arbuckles from his cup, squatting across the rock-lined firepit from Ned. “I’ve told you too much already. Much as I enjoyed this coffee, you an’ me are done talkin’. If you ride north, maybe ten miles or so, you’ll be in Huggie Charles’s trappin’ range. Now I’ll warn you, he can be a real disagreeable feller at times, so don’t go tryin’ to push yer luck with him. You can say I told you where to look fer him. It’ll be up to him if he decides to show hisself, or blow a tunnel plumb through yer head with his rifle. Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the mood he’s in, an’ on how you handle yourself. If it was me, I wouldn’t shoot no game or raise no ruckus. Just ride quiet an’ mind yer own business. He’ll look you up if he’s curious ’bout why yer there.” He drank the last of his coffee and stood up, wincing, as though he felt a pain somewhere in one of his legs. Then he bent down and lifted his Sharps .52 caliber rifle, holding it by the muzzle. “Good luck, Mr. Buntline. I’m grateful fer the Arbuckles. Don’t figure on gittin’ what you came here for. Them readers you’ve got is most likely to have to read somethin’ else. Stories from a real mountain man are gonna be mighty hard to come by.”

  “I’m obliged for what you’ve been willing to tell me, Mr. Cole, and for the directions.” He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Just one more thing. You said Smoke Jensen is running a ranch now, and I know it’s close to Big Rock. That must mean he’s given up his old ways, using a gun the way he did in the past.”

  Grizzly Cole wagged his head. “Yer dead wrong, son. Smoke ain’t changed one bit when it comes to gunplay. He’s every bit as dangerous as he ever was, a fact yer liable to find out if you press him any. Just last year, he put a feller by the name of Sundance Morgan into an early grave, along with a pack o’ his hired guns, pistoleros from down around the Mexican border. He ain’t given up nothin’ fer the sake of ranchin’ or anything else, an’ if you happen to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time, you can git a firsthand look, if you live to tell about it.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble.”

  Cole smiled. “You said you was lookin’ for Smoke Jensen. What you ain’t understood just yet is them two are the same, if you ain’t an acquaintance or a neighbor of his.”

  “But I’m not here to cause him any trouble…”

  “Askin’ him about the past is gonna put him on the prod. If I was you, I’d find out ’bout mountain men some other way.

  Cole turned away from the fire. Ned tossed out the grounds from his tiny coffeepot as Cole started toward a line of trees behind the abandoned cabin.

  “Thanks again, Mr. Cole, for everything you’ve told me. I am in your debt. I’ll be very careful while I’m up here.”

  Grizzly Cole ignored his remark, taking long quiet strides up a grassy slope with his rifle over his shoulder. Ned watched him until he went out of sight in shadows below the pines.

  “At last,” he muttered under his breath. He’d just had his first talk with a mountain man, and learned a number of things he could use. The heroes he would write about later on would be like Griz, hardened by an unbelievably brutal and lonely way of life into strong, silent types. This initial meeting with a true mountaineer had given him far more than he had hoped. Now it was time to look for more men of Cole’s strange breed, until he had enough to make characters come to life on the pages of the series of books he planned to write about them.

  Six

  Smoke let Horse pick his own gait, an easy jog trot that was only a little faster than the buckboard loaded with supplies, to keep him well out in front of Pearlie and Cal and the flour, fatback, sugar, coffee beans, and other necessaries Sally put on her list, along with iron hinges for a sagging barn door, horseshoes and nails, saddle soap and axle grease, and a load of planking to fix a slant-roof cowshed. As the summer ended, all ranch chores needed to be attended to, despite not owning cows or bulls after selling off their herd to the Duggan sisters. This was a winter Smoke and Sally planned to spend alone, more or less, if you didn’t count visits with some of Smoke’s old friends in the mountains. Pearlie and Cal would be watching the ranch and saddle stock while Smoke and Sally enjoyed time together in a cabin that once was home to Puma Buck, a two-room affair with a dogrun and sod roof, plenty of shelter from the worst storms in a deep mountain valley where wintertime was both beautiful and bitterly cold. In the spring, Smoke planned to head down to New Mexico Territory, along with a handful of neighbors, to pick up a few prized Hereford bulls and a herd of Mexican longhorns in order to produce a hardier breed with more beef. It was an idea they’d talked about for some time, and after a telegram from John Chisum, called the Cattle King of New Mexico, offering them bulls at a good price, the decision was made. It would be a long and rugged drive, coming back north with spooky longhorn cows and the gentler, slower Hereford bulls, but well worth the increase in beef their offspring would produce. Smoke felt good about the notion. And about spending a winter with Sally where he could have her all to himself for a while, enjoying a few months without the responsibilities of ranch work and tending cattle.

  Crossing a wooded switchback, Smoke heard a voice coming from a crossing over Aspen Creek down below, a high-pitched voice full of anger. He heeled the Palouse forward at a lope to find out what the shouting was all about, to see if a neighbor or a friend might be in trouble.

  When he came to the caprock at the top of the switchback, he saw a sight he didn’t fully understand at first. Two men were standing beside a team of mules at the crossing, mules hitched to a wagon loaded with wooden crates and barrels. He didn’t recognize either one of them, for they were strangers to this part of the country—he was sure of it, and sometimes finding strangers close to Sugarloaf made him edgy.

  Then he saw what was causing the disturbance. One of the men was whipping the mules’ hindquarters with a blacksnake whip, and it was evident the mules had balked at the creek, refusing to cross, which was sometimes a trait in certain mules that hadn’t been trained properly. The crack of the whip and the men shouting, one of them trying to force the off-side mule to take a step into the stream by way of striking it across the rump with a wood fence stave, got Smoke’s dander up.

  “Damn fools,” he muttered, urging Horse down toward the creek at a full gallop. “Can’t stand to see a man whip an animal when it don’t understand what it’s bein’ whipped for…”

  It really wasn’t his affair, and he knew it, but when a mule or a horse got a whipping it didn’t deserve or understand, Smoke was likely to take a side with the animal even when it didn’t belong to him. At times he wondered about the contradiction, the absence of feeling when men killed ea
ch other and the deep sorrow he experienced when an animal suffered needlessly. One mule could have easily been unharnessed and led across the stream so the other would follow on its own… but it was apparent these two men knew nothing about mules or their inclinations. If one mule balked at a stream, most often the other did. Smoke was about to offer his help whether it was wanted or not, since these weren’t men he recognized as being from these parts.

  The men saw him coming and one moved his right hand to the butt of a pistol belted around his waist, quite possibly a very deadly mistake if he’d pulled it out. Smoke pulled down on the big stud’s reins when he got within earshot.

  “Take it easy on those mules, boys. There’s an easier way to get across.”

  “Who the hell asked you to interfere?” one bearded man asked in a low growl.

  Smoke brought his Palouse to a halt. “Nobody,” he said in a calm, even voice. “It’s just my nature. Can’t stand to watch a man whip a mule when the man’s got less sense than the animal. I can show you how to get those mules and your wagon across.”

  “You’re a smart-mouth son of a bitch, an’ you goddamn sure are inclined to stick your nose in where it ain’t wanted, whoever the hell you are.”

  Smoke gave both men a humorless grin. Then he spoke to die man who had spoken to him. “You’re wrong on two counts, mister. I ain’t no part of a son of a bitch, and I put my nose wherever I please when an animal’s bein’ injured. Now, get your hand off the butt of that pistol or I swear I’ll make you eat it. If you give me a couple of minutes, I’ll have those mules across the creek and you’ll be on your way.”

  The cowboy touching his gun made no move to lift his hand away, and the gleam in his eye was a warning that Smoke had best be ready for trouble. He swung down, leaving the Palouse ground-hitched, his eyes fastened on the man resting his palm on his gun grips.