Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

He stabled the Appaloosa, rubbed him down, and forked hay for him. Then Smoke washed at the stream behind the hill.

Nicole was silent as she ladled beans and venison on their plates, then sat down across the rough-hewn table from Smoke. There was unexpected tension between them. They had been alone before, several times, when Preacher was off wandering; but this was different. They were really alone.

“How’s the stock?” Nicole asked, her eyes fixed on the plate.

“Fine. Two colts growing like weeds. No sign of Apaches. Saw some deer. Didn’t think to shoot. We got food enough for a time.”

After that, conversation did not lag — it died.

Smoke was aware of his heart thudding heavily in his chest. Nicole was nervous, twice dropping her fork. The meal seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. Smoke suddenly noticed she had changed her dress since his leaving that morning. She had put on her best dress. Usually she wore men’s britches she had tailored to fit her. The dress seemed to bring out her womanhood.

Smoke reached for the honey pot to sweeten his coffee and knocked over the clay jug.

“I’ll get it,” they spoke in unison, as honey dripped from the table to the floor.

They both rose and bent down, banging their heads together. Smoke put his hand on the edge of the table for support and it toppled over, dumping him to the floor, everything on the table spilling and pouring on his head and all over her.

“Oh — hell!” Nicole said.

That startled Smoke. It was the first time he’d ever heard a lady swear.

They looked at each other: Smoke, with beans and venison on his head; Nicole, with honey and gravy dripping off her chin. They began laughing and pointing at each other.

He offered his hand and she took it, both of them rising to their feet, slipping in the mess on the floor. He took off his shirt and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the creek, to take a bath. I’ll holler when it’s all clear.”

She smiled, and Smoke was not at all sure he liked the look in her eyes.

Standing in the water, with lather from the waist up, Smoke could not believe his eyes when Nicole appeared on the bank, towels in her hand. He closed his eyes and turned his back, speechless, when she began taking off her stained dress. Then she was by his side.

“Give me the soap,” she said. “I’ll scrub your back.”

“Nicole …” he managed to croak.

“Turn around, Smoke — look at me.”

He turned, and she laughed when she saw his eyes were tightly closed.

“You’ll have to open them sometime,” she whispered.

He did.

And there was no more need for words.

Full dark when he slipped from her side to step out into the coolness of Colorado night. He left Nicole sprawled in sleep in his bed. Smoke rolled a cigarette and lit it, the match explosive in the night. He inhaled deeply.

He felt drained, but yet, ten feet tall. He felt weak, but yet powerful. They had made love, and told each other of their love, for what seemed like hours, on the cool grass of the creek bank. They had bathed and soaped each other, then walked naked back to the house where they made love again. Then they had slept.

In all his young but eventful life, the man called Smoke had never before experienced anything to compare with the sensual events of that afternoon and early evening with Nicole, in the quiet valley.

He stepped back into the house, pulling on his boots and buckling his guns around his lean waist. Shirtless, he stepped back out into the purple night.

He checked the grounds around the house, then the corral and the lean-to that served as a barn. Quiet. It really was an unnecessary move, since Seven would sound an alarm if a stranger approached, but it made Smoke feel better to double check. He went back into the house and stoked up the fire, putting on coffee to boil, the pot hanging on a swivel iron, attached to the fireplace wall. He sensed, rather than heard, Nicole enter the room.

She was barefoot, wearing one of his shirts, and he thought she had never appeared more beautiful.

“Would you like me to fix supper?”

He rose and shook his head. She came into his arms.

“I love you,” he said.

Her reply was a loving whisper; a commitment spoken from the heart.

Preacher did not return that winter of 1870–71, and although Smoke did not admit his feelings aloud, Nicole knew he was worried about the old mountain man, fearing he might be hurt, or dead.

And it was Nicole who finally eased his mind, calming the unrest in him.

“How old is Preacher?” she asked one evening. A steady rain fell in the valley, occasionally mixed with sleet and snow. The winter had been a hard one, requiring brutal work from both of them just to stay alive.

“He’s pushin’ seventy. Least that’s what he’ll admit to bein’. Getting old.”

“And he’s lived a very long, exciting, and fruitful life. He wouldn’t want to die in a bed, would he? He’d want to pass this life the way he’s lived — in the wilderness. And wouldn’t he be sad if he knew you were sad?”

He smiled, his mood lifting from him. He looked at her, something he never tired of doing. “Yes, Nicole, you’re right. As usual.”

She came to him, sitting very unladylike in his lap, in the wood and rawhide chair, the frame covered with a bearskin. “We’ve got to get married, Smoke.”

“We are. We said we wanted to wait until Preacher came back.”

“Well … I’m pretty sure we’re going to have a baby.”

He sat stunned in the chair. “Nicole, we’re better than a hundred miles from the nearest doctor.”

“I went to nursing school, honey. There is nothing to worry about. All I want is for us to be married. I want the baby to have a legal name.”

“Preacher told me there was a little settlement of Mormons just west of here — over in Utah Territory. It’ll be a week there and a week back. Can you stand the ride?”

She smiled and kissed him. “Just watch me.”

The air was still cool when they rode out of the valley, heading for Utah. But spring was in the air, evident in the leafing trees, the plants, and the flowers that grew wild, coloring the valley. Nicole sat her little mare, Smoke rode Seven.

Nicole looked back at the cabin she had called home for months. “How dangerous is this trip?”

“We might go there and back without seeing an Indian. We might be ambushed ten miles from the cabin. No way to answer that question. I don’t know much about Utah Territory, so we’ll be seeing it for the first time — together.”

They camped on the third night just north of the Hovenweep, near Keely Canyon. They had seen a few Indians on the third day — the first since leaving the valley — Weminuche Ute. But they did not bother the man and woman, but only watched through obsidian eyes, faces impassive. They were armed with ancient rifles and bows and arrows, and perhaps they did not want to risk a fight against the many-shoot rifles of the man and woman; perhaps they did not feel hostile that day; perhaps they were hunting and did not want to take the time for an attack. With an Indian, one never knew.

On the fifth day, Smoke figured they were in Utah Territory — probably had been all day — and the settlement of Mormons should be in sight. But all they found were rotting, tumble-down cabins, and no signs of life.

“Preacher said they were here in ’55,” Smoke said. “Wonder where they went?”

Nicole’s laughter rang out over the deserted collection of falling-down cabins. “Honey, that’s sixteen years ago.” Her eyes swept the land, spotting an old, weed-filled graveyard. “Let’s look over there.”

The last faded date on a rotting headmarker was fourteen years old.