Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

Preacher glanced at the old scout with the army and then looked away.

“I got things to tell you, Preacher,” the scout said.

“All right.”

“Well,” the major said with a smile. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, what do either of you men know about the river that flows through the canyon?”

“It’s wet,” Kirby said.

“And it ain’t no place for a pilgrim,” Preacher added.

“Then I take it that both of you have traversed the Green River?”

Preacher looked at Kirby for translation.

“Been down it,” Kirby said.

“Hell yes, I been down it,” Preacher said. “I been down it, up it, through it, crost it, and one time, back in ’39, over it.”

“The only man to ever shoot those rapids,” a young lieutenant contradicted, “was General Ashley, back in ’23 and ’24.”

“Yeah,” Kirby said. “His name’s still on the rock on the eastern side of the canyon wall. And don’t never again call Preacher a liar.”

The young officer stirred until the major called him softly down. “Stand easy, Robert.” In a lower voice, heard only by a sergeant and the young officer, he said, “This is your first tour of duty out here. Bob — you know nothing of western men. Until you learn more about the customs here, it would behoove you to curb your tongue. Calling a man a liar, or merely inferring he is one, is a shooting matter west of the Mississippi. This is not Philadelphia, so just be quiet.” He looked at Kirby. “He meant no offense, Mr. Smoke.”

“Not mister — just Smoke.”

“Unusual name,” the major remarked.

“I give it to him,” Preacher said. “After he kilt his first two men. I think he was fifteen, thereabouts.”

The young lieutenant paled slightly.

The major said, “We saw a grave coming in. The name was Jensen.”

“My father.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not nearly as sorry as the men who killed him will be.”

Preacher looked at him. “You make your mind up?”

“About a half an hour ago.”

“We goin’ after ’em?”

“Yep.”

“Figures.”

Major stood quietly, not knowing what was going on. “I gather you men live here?”

“I own it,” Kirby said.

“Own it? How much of it?”

Kirby told him.

“Why … that’s hundreds of square miles!”

“We like lots of room.”

“You have papers on this?”

“I filed on it, yeah. But I have no objections to you and your men staying here. Just don’t trample my gardens or take my horses.”

The major had stepped closer, standing by a large, flat rock. “I assure you, sir, we will leave the —”

No one saw the young man draw, cock and pull the trigger of his right hand Colt. It was done as fast as a man could blink. The major looked down: A headless rattlesnake writhed at his boots.

“Sweet Molly!” a young cavalryman said. “I never even seen him draw.”

Major Powell was a cool one; he had not moved. He kicked the squirming snake out of the way and said, “That was the most impressive shooting with a handgun I believe I’ve ever seen. I thank you, Smoke.”

“Man can’t be too careful out here,” Preacher said, a bored look on his bearded face. “I take it upon myself to tell all pilgrims that.”

The major smiled at this quiet slur. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man draw, cock, and fire a pistol that quickly. I’m sure I haven’t. But I’m told the outlaw, Jesse James, is also quite proficient with a handgun.”

“Who?” Kirby was startled.

“Jesse James. The Missouri bank robber and outlaw. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him.” Kirby drew his right hand Colt and tossed the weapon to the major.

The cavalryman inspected the pistol, noting the initials J. J. carved into the handles. Powell tossed the pistol back to Kirby. “I see,” he said quietly, not quite certain where he now stood, for emotions concerning the James Gang ran both hot and cold, depending upon which side of the fence one stood. “And where are you from originally, Smoke?”

“That ain’t a polite question to ask out here,” Preacher informed him.

“I know,” the major said. “I shouldn’t have asked it. I withdraw it.”

“It’s all right,” Kirby said. “I’m from the southwestern part of Missouri.”

“Did you fight in the Civil War?”

“My Pa fought in the War Between the States,” Kirby said with a smile.

“Ah … yes.” The major returned the smile. He would say no more about James. He mounted, ordering his men to do the same. “We shan’t disturb you, gentlemen. We’ll bivouac on the other side of the canyon. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

“I doubt it,” Kirby said.

“Oh?”

“Me and Preacher got things to do and places to go. Any horse you see around here with the SJ brand belongs to us. If you need a horse, take your pick of the mustangs and geldings, leave the mares alone. Just leave the money — what you think they’re worth — in the cave at the Hole.”

“Thank you,” the major said. “You are a trusting man, Smoke.”

“Not really. I just believe you don’t want to cheat me.”

Major Powell sensed in the young man a heavy, almost tangible aura of danger. The dark eyes gave no hint of what lay behind them.

“No,” the army officer said. “I don’t believe I want to do that.”

The cavalrymen were gone in a cloud of dust, all but the old buckskin-clad scout who had guided them to this old post. He had not dismounted. He looked at Preacher.

“Thought you’s dead,” he finally said.

Preacher glared at him. “Yeah? That’s what you get for tryin’ to stir up that mess between your ears.”

The scout grunted. “Walked right into that, I reckon.” He shifted his gaze to Kirby. “Met a man who knowed your Pa in the war. One of Mosby’s people. All stove up now — livin’ over to the hot springs on the San Juan. Valley there. He heared ’bout your Pa gettin’ lead in him west of here. His name is Gaultier. Don’t ask me to spell it. He might know something that you wanna know. Told him I’d tell you ifn I saw you. I seen you. I told you. Good seein’ you agin, Preacher.”

“Right nice seein’ you, Rio.”

The scout wheeled his horse and was gone.

“Friend of yours?” Kirby asked.

“Not so’s you’d know it. We fought over the same squaw back in ’49. He lost. We ain’t had much to do with each other since then. He’s a sore loser.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Oh, yeah. We don’t cotton to one another, but you can trust him.”

“Want to take a ride to the springs?”

“What do you think?”

Pagosa Springs, which translated means Indian healing waters, lies at the bottom of the state, not far from the New Mexico line, in what would someday become the San Juan National Forest. Several hundred miles, as the crow flies, from Brown’s Hole, through some of the roughest and most beautiful country in the state. It was late summer when the two men reached the hot springs. Preacher had groused and hitched the entire way.

“Gawddamned farmers! I never seen so many pilgrims in all my life.”

They had seen half a dozen farms in a month.

For Preacher, it was his first encounter with barbed wire. He had cut his hand, ripped his shirt, and finally fell down before getting loose from the sharp tangle.

Kirby had sat his saddle and laughed at Preacher’s antics, which only made matters worse and the profanity more intense.

Just east of the Uncompaghre Plateau, an irritated farmer’s wife had threatened both of them with a double-barreled shotgun before Kirby could convince her they meant no harm to her, her pigs, or her kids.

“Woman!” Preacher had railed at her. “You put down that cannon. Why … I opened up this country. I —”