Johnstone, W.: Last Mountain Man

On his feet, his father pointed. “Over there.”

Preacher stood on the banks of the Arkansas, his face to the high mountains.

“What’s he doin’, Pa?”

“Sayin’ goodbye, Kirby. In his own way.” He glanced at his son. “That old man likes you, son. Listen to him, and he’ll teach you things you’ll need to stay alive in this country.”

The son met the father’s eyes. “I will, Pa.”

The father patted the boy’s shoulder and then coughed.

The three of them rode out the next morning. They headed for the tall, shining mountains.

“Where will your friends go, Preacher?” Kirby asked. The day the mountain men had left, Preacher had spent to himself, speaking to no one. But on this day he was his usual garrulous self.

“They’ll scatter, Smoke. Most of ’em will head back into the mountains, find ’em a lonely valley, and they’ll never come out again. A few still got people back East, and they’ll head there. But they won’t stay, ’less they die there. It’ll be too tame for ’em. And they own people won’t want ’em around more’un four-five days. Then they’ll want to get shut of ’em.”

“That’s sad. Why won’t they want them?”

“Back East, Smoke, they got written laws a body’s got to live by. Ain’t none of us followed no law ’cept our own for more’un fifty years. Law of common sense. You don’t put hands on ’nother man; don’t steal from him; don’t cheat him; don’t call him a liar. Do, and you gonna get killed. Out here, Smoke, man purty well respects the rights of the other feller, and don’t none of us need no gawddamned lawyer to tell us how to do that. It’ll be that way out here for a while longer, till the fancy people get all het up and mess it all up. The worse is yet to come, Smoke. You wait and see. Thank Gawd I won’t be around to see it. I’d have to puke.”

“How do you mean: Mess it all up?”

“Lawyers readin’ meanins into words that ain’t ’posed to be there. A-messin’ up what should be left up to common sense. Hell’s fire, Smoke. Rattlesnake crawls into your blankets with you, you don’t ask him ifn he’s gonna bite you. You kick him out and shoot him or stomp him. Same with man. Man does you a deliberate wrong — and don’t never let no smooth-talkin’ lawyer man tell you no different, Smoke, ever’body knows right from wrong — you go after that man; you settle up your way. To hell with lawyers — damn ever’ one of ’em.”

“I’ll go along with you on that, Preacher,” Emmett said. “That’s one of the reasons I brought my son out here.”

“Well … Smoke’s got maybe twenty-five years ’fore this country gets all worded up with them fancy-pants lawyers. After that, a man won’t be able to be a man no more. And it’s comin’, boys, bet on it.”

Preacher looked around him. “Well, ain’t no use frettin’ ’bout it now. ’cause right now we got our hair to worry ’bout. We gonna be travelin’ through hostile country, and the Sand Crick massacre is still fresh in the minds of the Injuns.

“Soldiers wiped out an entar Injun village: men, wimmin, papooses. Mostly Cheyenne and some Arapaho. Black Kettle was they chief. Happened last year and the Injuns still got hard feelins ’bout that. A Colonel Chivington was in charge, so I’m told.”

“Will we pass by it?” Kirby asked.

“No. It’s north and some east of here. But I seen it right after it happened. Damn near made me puke. There weren’t no call for it. Black Kettle’s brother, White Antelope, was killed that raid. And Black Kettle ain’t no man to mess with. Left Hand, a chief of the Arapaho, showed his bravery and scorn of the white men by standin’ in front of his tent with his arms folded crost his chest, refusin’ to fight. Damn soldiers kilt him, too.” Preacher spat on the ground.

“White men ain’t no saints, Smoke. They can be just as mean and orne’y as they claim the Injuns to be.”

“Where is Black Kettle now?” Emmett asked, his eyes on the huge mountains in front of them.

“On the warpath. So ifn either of you gets to feelin’ your hair start to tingle, let me know, ’cause they’s Injuns close by.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Emmett said dryly.

For the next several days, they followed the Arkansas River, then cut northwest through the Arkansas valley. Kiowa country, Preacher told them. So stay alert. It was here that Kirby’s frontier education really began.

“I ain’t never seen the likes of this,” the boy said, his eyes sweeping the panorama of nature.

“They’s lots of things you ain’t seen, Smoke,” Preacher said. “But you will, I’m figuring. Ifn you don’t get mauled by a bear, bit by a rattler, fall off your horse and break your neck, get caught up in a landslide or blizzard, eat bad meat or drink pisen water, shoot yourself in the foot and bleed to death, or get your hair lifted by Injuns.”

Kirby swallowed hard. He pointed to plants on the desolate brown hills. “What’s them things?”

“Them’s prickly pear and ball cactus. In the spring, both have right purty flowers on ’em. Over there,” he pointed, “is yucca. Them long tall white flowers on ’em is what the Spanish call Madonna Candles. Named after they momma, I guess, don’t rightly know.”

Emmett laughed at that and Preacher ignored him.

“You see, Smoke, most ever’thing the good Lord created can be used for something. The Injuns use the guts of them plants to make rope — good stout rope, too. I know; I been tied up with it a time or two. And ifn you feel in need of a bath — and a man ought to get wet with water two-three times a year — you can dig up some yucca root and use it for soap. Makes a good lather. Keep that in mind ifn you start to get real gamy. But don’t overdo baths. I believe a body needs a chance to rest.”

Emmett laughed and then coughed for a few seconds. His coughing had gotten worse the past week. But he offered no explanation for his cough and neither Preacher nor Kirby asked.

“Up here a ways,” Preacher said, “we’ll bear a little more west. Head for a tradin’ post I know — called Pueblo.”

Emmett looked at him. “I’ve heard that name.”

“It’s known a bit. ’Count of the Mormons, mostly. Back in … oh … ’46 or ’47, Mormons tried to make a settlement there. I come up on ’em time a two. They notional folk, don’t believe like we do. Don’t never talk religion with ’em — mess up your mind. I try to keep shy of ’em.”

“What happened to the people who tried to settle there?” Kirby asked.

“Don’t rightly know. I come back through there — me and Rattlesnake Williams — oh … I reckon it were ’52 or ’53, and we didn’t see hide nor hair of ’em. I heared tell they went up north, back to Utah. Don’t get me wrong; they good folk. Help you out ifn you need a hand. But you best know what you’re doin’ ifn you plan on tradin’ with ’em. They good traders. And don’t mess with they wimmin folk. They get real touchy ’bout they females.”

The only thing Kirby knew about females was that they were different from men. Just exactly how they were different was still a mystery to him. He had asked his Pa a time or two, but Emmett got all red in the face and cleared his throat a lot. Said he’d tell Kirby when the time came. So far, the time had not yet come.

Kirby remembered the time, three years back, when a carnival came through his part of Missouri. One of the girls, just about his own age, had made a bunch of eyes at him. She’d cornered Kirby at the edge of the lot and told him for two dollars she’d make a man out of him. Then she reached down with her hand and grabbed Kirby. Nobody had ever grabbed him there. Scared him so bad he took off into the woods and was running so hard he ran right into a tree. Knocked himself unconscious for half an hour.