Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Page 3

  MOE GOODMAN

  Pots– Pans– Knives & Notions

  Matt slipped back behind the rock and waited until the wagon approached. He watched as it stopped and the driver stared, in shock, at the carnage.

  “Oh, my,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, my, what has happened here?”

  The driver set the brake, then climbed down from the wagon and walked over to look at the bodies. He examined Matt’s father, then his mother and sister for a long time. Then he walked over to look at Cooper, then took a cursory glance toward Lucas, who was still wedged in the crevice.

  Shaking his head sadly, the driver walked back to his wagon, then untied a shovel that hung on the side. He started digging.

  Matt continued to watch for several more minutes. Then, deciding that anyone who would take the time to dig a grave for someone he didn’t even know must be a good man, he climbed down from the rock. He walked up behind the man, who, because of his digging, didn’t notice Matt’s approach.

  “That’s my ma and pa,” he said. “And my sister.”

  Startled by Matt’s unexpected appearance, the man jumped and grabbed his chest.

  “Sorry,” Matt said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did, boy, you like to give me a fit,” the man said. His expression softened. “Your ma, pa, and sister, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And who might these two be?”

  “There the ones I killed,” Matt said.

  The man looked shocked. “You killed?”

  “Yes, sir. I killed ’em.”

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “I’m nine.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Matt Cavanaugh.”

  “I’m Moe Goodman,” the man said.

  “Thanks for buryin’ my folks.”

  “Seems like the only decent thing to do.”

  “If you’ve got another shovel, I’ll help dig.”

  “It so happens I do,” Moe said, walking back over to his wagon. He opened the back door, reached inside, and pulled one out. “Brand-new,” he said, “but I reckon using it one time won’t keep me from sellin’ it.”

  Matt took the shovel and, for the next several minutes, the only sound was the sound of the spades turning dirt.

  “I’ll say this for you, Matt,” Moe said, finally breaking the silence.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got yourself one hell of a start in life.”

  Chapter Three

  With Smoke Jensen

  Smoke and his mentor, Preacher, ran across another old mountain man named Grizzly. They shared a meal of venison, potatoes mixed with wild onions, and gravy sopped up by a piece of pan bread Smoke had made for them.

  The three ate in relative silence. Then Grizzly nodded toward Smoke, but addressed his remark to Preacher.

  “All right to talk in front of the boy?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Preacher said. “He’s a man, full growed, ask him.”

  “Boy, uh, Smoke,” Grizzly said. “This here is goin’ to concern you, and I reckon it ain’t goin’ to be pleasant.”

  Smoke steeled himself for the worst. “I’m listenin’,” he said.

  “Man rode in here about two months ago. He was all shot up. Strange man he was, dug his own grave afore he died. It was like as if he just hung on long enough not to put anyone else out.”

  “He give you a name?” Smoke asked.

  “Yeah. Said his name was Emmett. Emmett Jensen.”

  Smoke nodded. “That’d be my pa,” he said.

  “I reckoned it would be,” Grizzly said. “He told me he had a boy who would be travelin’ with Preacher. And when I seen the two of you, well, I know’d who it was without askin’.”

  “Where’s he buried?” Preacher asked. “Me’n Smoke here might like to visit the grave and pay our respects.”

  “Like I say, he chose his own spot,” Grizzly said. “He’s on a little plain at the base of the high peak, east of the canyon. You know where it is?”

  “Yeah,” Preacher said. “I know where it is.”

  Grizzly reached into a little bag and pulled out a heavy sack. He tossed the sack over to Smoke.

  “This here belongs to you. Right smart amount of gold in there.”

  “You could’ve taken it,” Smoke said. “You could’ve taken it and I would’ve never known anything about it.”

  “I reckon I could have, but that wouldn’t have been the right thing to do now, would it?” Grizzly asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “No, sir, it wouldn’t have been.”

  “He left you a letter too,” Grizzly said. “Figure you might want it.” Grizzly handed Smoke another package, this one flat and wrapped in rawhide to protect it from the elements.

  “Thanks.”

  Grizzly got up from the fire then, wiped off the seat of his pants, then walked over and mounted his pony. Taking the lead to his packhorses, he rode off without looking back.

  When Preacher and Smoke awoke the next morning, Smoke started saddling his horse.

  Preacher watched Smoke for a few minutes; then he filled his pipe and lit it from a small burning twig he took from the campfire. He took several puffs, not speaking until the pipe was well lit.

  “Looks like you’re leavin’,” Preacher said.

  “Seems right,” Smoke replied.

  “I wish you all the best.”

  Smoke mounted his horse before he spoke again. Then he looked down at the old man who had been such an important part of his life for nearly two years now.

  “Preacher, you’ve taught me how to find my way around, how to shoot, what plants I can eat and what I should stay away from,” Smoke said. “Fact is, I reckon I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

  “You was easy to teach,” Preacher said. He pointed to the pistol at Smoke’s side. “But one thing I didn’t teach, ’cause you just got a God-given natural talent for it. And that’s pullin’ your gun.”

  Unconsciously, Smoke put his hand on the handle of his Colt .44.

  “I ain’t never seen no one who could pull a gun as fast as you, Smoke, or shoot it as well. That’s goin’ to come in real handy to you, but it’s also goin’ to be a burden.”

  “A burden?”

  “Aye, boy, a burden,” Preacher said. “There will be those who will hear about you, and they’ll want to test you. That’s where the danger is goin’ to lie, ’cause you won’t be expectin’ it. It won’t be anybody you’ve ever run into before. Like as not, you won’t even have words with ’em. They’ll know who you are, but you won’t know who they are.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Smoke said. “I know what you mean.”

  Preacher nodded. “Uh-huh. I figured you was smart enough to understand it. But I wanted to warn you about it anyway.”

  Smoke leaned over and patted his horse on the neck. “Preacher, I think the time has come for me to be goin’ off on my own now.”

  “You’ll be lookin’ for Casey, will you?”

  “I reckon so,” Smoke replied with a nod.

  Preacher nodded. “What’s got to be done has to be done,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger, you hear? Drop in to see an old man from time to time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Smoke said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse.

  Two days later, Smoke found his pa’s grave. Dismounting, he looked around until he located a rock that was just right; then, using a small hammer and a miner’s spike, he chiseled his father’s name and the year of his birth, 1815, as well as the year of his death, 1866, then put the rock at the head of the grave. He would have liked to put some sort of message on the headstone, but it was hard enough just to get the name and dates on.

  That done, Smoke hung a small coffeepot over the campfire, then found a comfortable place to read the letter his father had left him.

  Son,

  I found the man who killed your brother, Luke, and stolt the gold that belonged t
o the Gray. But he had more with him than I thought he would. I killed two of ’em, but they got led in me and I had to hitail it out. I come here to this place, but I’m not goin to make it. Son, you don’t have no call to try and settle accounts for me’n your brother, so don’t get it in your mind you do. Make yourself a good life.

  I’m getting tard and seein is hard. Lite fadin. I love you Kirby-Smoke.

  —Pa.

  With Matt Cavanaugh

  His name was Landers, “Brother Charles G. Landers, a simple man of Gawd,” was the way he had introduced himself to Moe Goodman.

  Goodman had explained how his life as a peddler wouldn’t allow him to keep the boy, and he asked Landers if he could find a home for Matt.

  “Indeed I can,” Landers said. “There are many among my scattered flock who would take great joy in receiving into their bosom a wonderful young man like this.”

  From the moment he laid eyes on Landers, there was something about him that didn’t set well with Matt. He wanted to ask Moe not to give him to the itinerant preacher, wanted to beg to be allowed to stay.

  But he said nothing.

  Landers was unlike any preacher Matt had ever seen. On the four days they had been on the trail, Landers had cursed, gotten drunk, and once paid an Indian woman to be with her. Matt didn’t know what family Landers was going to leave him with, but anything had to be an improvement over the current situation.

  On the fifth day, they came into a town, identified by a sign just outside the town as Soda Creek.

  Soda Creek had one main street, fronted on both sides by ripsawed, weather-beaten, false-fronted buildings. From what Matt could tell from his position on the horse behind Landers, it consisted mostly of saloons. One building, which didn’t have a sign to identify it, had several women sitting out on an upstairs porch. As Landers rode by, a couple of the women stepped up to the railing and looked down.

  Matt glanced toward them, then cut his eyes away in quick embarrassment. It looked almost as if the women had come outside in their underwear. The two who leaned over the rail were showing the tops of their breasts.

  “Hey, Preacher Man, where’d you come by that little boy?” one of the women asked.

  Landers stared straight ahead.

  “Why don’t you leave him with us?” one of the other women called. “It’d be nice to have a young boy around.”

  “Yes, we’ll raise him right. Why, by the time he gets old enough, he’ll know how to treat a woman real good.”

  The other women laughed, though Matt wasn’t sure what was so funny.

  “Brother Landers, who are those women?” Matt asked.

  “Boy, don’t you pay them no never-mind,” Landers said. “They’re nothin’ but harlots, the lot of ’em.”

  “What’s a harlot?”

  “It’s a woman that a man pays to be with,” Landers explained.

  “Like the Indian woman you were with the other night?”

  “Shut up about that, boy,” Landers hissed. “Don’t you say nothin’ to nobody ’bout that. What I was doin’ was savin’ that poor heathen’s eternal soul. Most folks wouldn’t understand that, ’cause most folks got dirty minds.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said. “Where’s the family that’s goin’ to take me?”

  “There ain’t no family goin’ to take you.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I know what I said, but it don’t work like that,” Landers said. “First thing I got to do is get you into the orphanage. They can’t nobody take you in ’lessen the law says it’s all right, and the law’s got to go through the orphanage.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. He had not considered an orphanage, though as he was now an orphan, he supposed that it made sense. “Where is the orphanage?” Matt asked.

  “Boy, you ask too many questions,” Landers replied. “Thing’s will go a lot better if you just keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said contritely.

  Emanuel Mumford had been elected as captain of the First Idaho Cavalry during the Civil War. The First Idaho was never activated, but Mumford continued to call himself Captain Mumford, and insisted that all who dealt with him refer to him in that way.

  Captain Mumford was director of the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. There had been some who suggested that the term “Wayward” implied that the children were behavioral problems, when most were merely orphans.

  However, as Mumford pointed out, several of his residents were children of prostitutes who had died either of disease, or of alcoholism, or even giving birth. “And those children, being issue of wayward women, are by inheritance wayward,” he insisted.

  When Landers came in to see him, Mumford was going over his books. He had three ways of supporting the Home. One was a grant from the territorial government in Boise. A second was from generous donations made by the three churches in town. And the third, and most lucrative, was from wages earned by the children Captain Mumford farmed out to the various businesses and individuals in and around the town of Soda Creek.

  “Captain Mumford, I wonder if I may have a word with you, sir,” Landers asked.

  Mumford shook his head. “We have been through all this before, Landers,” he said. “I am not going to allow you to conduct a church service in the Home. Why, it would be so disruptive that we would wind up losing at least half a day’s earnings, maybe more.”

  Landers held up his hand and shook his own head. “No, it’s nothing like that,” he said. “I understand your position and would never try and compromise it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you see it that way, Landers. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s more in order of what I can do for you,” Landers replied.

  Mumford’s face brightened. “You have a donation for the Home? How marvelous of you.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Landers corrected quickly.

  “Oh,” Mumford said. He was obviously disappointed.

  “What I do have for you is another guest.”

  “Another mouth to feed? No, impossible. We are overcrowded as it is.”

  “But this is a fine, strong young boy,” Landers pointed out. “I’m sure that you will be able to find a position for him somewhere that will prove to be quite lucrative for you.”

  Mumford stroked his chin. “You say he’s a strong boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I think he is about twelve,” Landers lied. He knew that Matt was not yet ten.

  “Well, perhaps I could find a place for him,” Mumford said. “A young man like that can always bring in enough money to support himself.”

  “Good, I thought you might see it that way,” Landers said. “You can have him for twenty-five dollars.”

  “What?” Mumford gasped. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Landers replied. “If you aren’t interested in buying the boy, I can always sell him to some farmer or rancher who lives nearby.”

  “You aren’t going to find anyone who will give you twenty-five dollars for him.”

  “Then I’ll sell him for what I can get.”

  “I’ll give you five dollars.”

  “Twenty.”

  They eventually settled on twelve and a half dollars, and after Landers counted and pocketed the money, he went back outside to where Matt was leaning against the hitching post, watching the activity of the town.

  “I’ve got it all set up for you,” Landers said. “It’s costing me twelve and a half dollars, but I’ll have the personal satisfaction of knowing you will be safe.”

  “Thank you, Brother Landers,” Matt said.

  “I’m only doing my Christian duty, boy,” Landers replied. “You learn from that, so you can grow up to be a decent, God-fearin’ man.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  “You go on in now,” Landers said as he swung back into the saddle.

  Johnny reached for his rifle
, but Landers put his hand out to stop him.

  “You won’t be needin’ a gun in a place like this,” Landers said.

  “But it was my pa’s rifle,” Matt said.

  Landers shook his head. “Let’s just say it’s you payin’ me back for the twelve and a half dollars I just spent on you.”

  “But . . .”

  “You goin’ to argue with me, boy?” Landers asked in a sharp voice. “S’posin’ I give you your rifle back, what good will that do? They’ll take it away from you soon as you go inside. And like as not, it’ll wind up gettin’ sold and you won’t get one penny for it. Leastwise, this way you know it’s goin’ to someone that was out some considerable money to get you situated.”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, sir, I guess you’re right,” he said. “All right, you can keep Pa’s rifle.”

  “I’m glad you come to your senses. Go on in. The man you want to see is Captain Mumford.”

  Matt’s eyes brightened somewhat. “My pa was a captain,” he said. “Maybe Captain Mumford knew him.”

  “Maybe,” Landers said. He slapped his legs against the side of his horse, clicked at it, and rode away.

  Matt looked at the front door of the home. He remembered back on the farm in Kansas, how he would sometimes go swimming in the swimming hole. In the late spring the water would still be really cold, and he would have to take a deep breath and get up his courage before jumping in.

  For some strange reason, he felt like that now, so taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he walked up the brick walk, then opened the door and went inside.

  “Boy, have you no manners?” the man who was inside asked gruffly.

  “Sir?”

  “You don’t walk into someone’s home without knocking on the door,” he said.

  The man was thin and bald except for the side of his head. And that hair came down in bushy sideburns, though they did not join to make a beard.

  “I thought this was the orphanage,” Matt said. “Maybe I’m in the wrong place. I’m sorry.” He turned and started to leave.

  “Did you come with Landers?” the man asked.