Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

“Yes.” He touched her hand. Soft. “Come on. We’d better get moving.”

When Nicole swung into the saddle, the trousers stretched tight across her derriere. Smoke stared — and stared. Then his boot missed the stirrup when he tried to mount and he fell flat on his back in the dust.

“I knowed it!” Preacher said. “Knowed it when I seen ’em a-lookin’ at one ’nother. Gawd help us all. He’ll be pickin’ flowers next. Ifn he can git up off the ground, that is.”

The trio pushed the horses and followed the Delores down to its junction with Disappointment Creek. There, they cut slightly west for a few miles, then bore south, toward a huge valley. They would be among the first whites to settle in the valley. Long after Smoke had become a legend, the town of Cortez would spring up, to the south of the SJ Ranch. Midway in the valley, by a stream that rolled gently past a gradually rising knoll, Smoke pulled up.

“Here?” Preacher looked around, approval of the site evident in his eyes. He had taught the young man well.

“Right here,” Smoke said. “We’ll build the cabin on that small knoll.” He pointed. “Afford us the best view in the valley and give us some protection as well. See that spring over there?” he asked Nicole. “It feeds into the creek. Comes out under the knoll. We can dig a well and tap into it, or its source.”

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, looking around her.

“Yep,” Preacher teased. “Be a right nice place for a man to start raisin’ a family. Shore would.”

Smoke blushed and Nicole laughed. She had grown accustomed to the mountain man’s teasing, and liked him very much. But it was to the tall young man she more often cast her blue eyes. The thought of him being the much-talked about and feared and hated gunfighter was amusing to her. Smoke was so gentle and shy.

Nicole had a lot to learn about the West and its men. And she was to learn very quickly and harshly — in the time left her.

Ten

First a house was built, of adobe and logs and rocks, with rough planking and sod for a roof. Smoke would not settle for a dirt floor; instead he carefully smoothed and shaped the logs, which had to be dragged from the forest, which lay to the northeast. The work was hard and backbreaking, but no one complained, except Preacher, who hitched all the time, about almost everything. Neither Smoke nor Nicole paid any attention to him, knowing it was his way and he was not going to change.

Nicole never spoke of leaving, and Smoke never brought it up. Preacher just grinned at them both.

Twice during the summer of ’70, the trio came under attack from the Utes, and twice they were beaten back, with the Utes taking heavy losses from the rifles in the fortlike home on the small hill. Nicole, to the surprise of the men, proved not at all reluctant to learn weapons, and became a better than average shot with a rifle. On the final attempt by the Utes to drive the whites from the land, Nicole showed what backbone she had by knocking a brave off his circling pony, wounding him slightly, then calmly finishing him off with another round. Turning from the peephole, she saw two braves attempting to chop their way in through the back door. She killed them both.

The Utes in the huge valley never again attacked the home, choosing instead to live under a wary peace with the two men and the woman they came to call Little Lightning.

But it was with awe in her eyes that Nicole watched Smoke handle his guns: with calmness and cold deliberation. Death at the end of his arms. Even in haste, he never seemed to hurry, choosing his targets, almost never missing, even at the most incredible range.

Arriving too late to plant a garden, Smoke and Preacher hunted for food, drying and curing the meat for the harsh winter that was ahead of them. When the rough house was up, the well dug, close to the house, and food to last them, Preacher saddled his horse one morning and rigged a pack horse.

“Headin’ east,” he told them. “Over to the Springs, maybe. Mayhaps beyond. They’s things we be needin’. Pump for the kitchen; pipe — other things. I’ll be back — maybe — ’fore the first snow. Ifn I ain’t, I ain’t comin’ back till spring. I may decide to winter in the mountains with some old cronies still up there. Don’t know yet. See you younguns later.”

He rode off, not looking back, for if he had done that, Smoke and Nicole would have been able to see the twinkle of mischief in the eyes, the eyes full of cunning and knowledge — of a man and woman and a long winter ahead.

Preacher had decided the young folks needed some time to themselves, and he was going to give it to them. He also wanted to test the wind; see if the legend of Smoke had grown any since the shootings of the past summer. He suspected the stories had mushroomed — and he was right.

Nicole touched Smoke’s arm. “When will he be back?”

“When he feels like it.” Smoke was experiencing a rush of emotions; a sense of loss in the pit of his stomach. This would be the first time in five years he and Preacher would be separated for any length of time. And Smoke knew, although he could never put it into words, he loved the cantankerous old mountain man — loved him as much as he had his own father.

“Why did he leave like that?” Nicole asked. “Without even a fare-thee-well?”

“Lots of reasons.” The young man’s eyes were on the fast disappearing dot in the valley. “He knows he doesn’t have many winters left, and he wants to be alone some — that’s the way he’s lived all his life. And he wants us to have some time together.”

He looked down at the petite woman. She met his gaze.

The wind whistled through the valley, humming around them, touching them, caressing them with a soft, invisible hand, making them more conscious of their being together.

A flush touched her face. “I’ll … I’d better see to the breakfast dishes.”

“I’ve got to check on the herd,” Smoke said, keeping his eyes averted. “Keep a gun close by. I’ll be back by midday.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she replied, her voice husky.

He again met her gaze, for the first time seeing a fire among the gentle blue.

It scared the hell out of him.

Smoke spent the morning checking on his herd, looking over the new colts, crisscrossing the valley floor, his eyes alert for any Indian sign. He knew he was stalling, putting off the trip back to the house — and to Nicole. He was not expecting any trouble from the Utes, for when they saw he was not going to be run off the land, and was not — at this time — the forerunner of more whites, they had made gestures of peace toward him, and he had accepted that offer.

Twice he had shared meat he had killed with the Utes. And once he had come upon a young Ute boy who had been badly injured in a fall near Ute Peak. Smoke had spent two lonely nights with the boy, watching over him, tending to his injuries. He had then constructed a travois and carried the boy to his camp.

The years with Preacher had stood Smoke well, for he had slept in countless Indian camps and had learned their ways — as much as any white man could — and Smoke knew sign language, which seemed to be universal among the many tribes.

The next morning he had ridden out of the Indian camp, as safely as he had ridden in. There had been no more trouble from the Utes. But the Ute were not the only tribe in this part of the country; there were Piute, and to the south, Navajo and some Apache. And the Apache were friends to no white man — and damn few other Indians.

In this section of the young nation, if one grew careless, one could get suddenly dead.

He turned Seven’s nose north. Toward the cabin. Toward Nicole.