Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

In a general store, Preacher sized up the shopkeeper as one of those pinch-mouthed Eastern types. Looked like he might be henpecked, too.

Preacher bought a little bit of ribbon for Nicole to wear in her hair, and some pretty gingham for a new dress — she was swellin’ up like a pumpkin.

“Got any cannin’ jars?”

The shopkeeper nodded. “Just got a shipment of those new type with the screw top. Best around.”

“Can you pack ’em for travel over some rough country — headin’ east?” Preacher lied.

“I can.”

Preacher ordered several cases and paid for them. “Put ’em out back. I’ll pick ’em up later on. My old woman is ’bout to wart me plumb to death. Up to her bustle in green beans and sich. Know what I mean? Never should have got hitched up.”

“Sir.” The shopkeeper leaned forward. “I know exactly what you mean. By all that is holy, I do.”

“Walter!” A shrill voice cut the hot air of the store. “You hurry up now and bring me my tea. Stop loafing about, gossiping like a fisherwoman. Hurry up!”

Preacher cringed at the thought of being married to someone who sounded like an angry puma with a thorn in its paw. God! he thought, her voice would chip ice.

“Walter!” the voice squalled from the rear of the store, causing the short hairs on the back of Preacher’s neck to quiver.

Black hatred flashed across the shopkeeper’s face.

“Git you a strap,” Preacher suggested. “Wear ’er out a time or two.”

The man sighed. “I have given that some thought, sir. Believe me, I have.”

“Good luck,” Preacher told him. He walked out into the street, his Henry cradled in his arms.

A young man in a checkered shirt, a bright red bandanna tied about his neck, dark trousers tucked into polished boots, and wearing two pearl-handled pistols, grinned at the mountain man.

“Hey, grandpa! Ain’t you too old to be walkin’ around without someone to look after you? You likely to forget your way back to the old folks’ home.”

The barflies on the porch laughed. All but Felter. He knew the breed of men called mountain man, and knew it was wise to leave them alone, for they had lived violently and usually reacted in kind.

Preacher glanced at the young would-be tough. Without slowing his stride, he savagely drove the butt of his Henry into the loudmouth’s stomach. The young smart aleck doubled over, vomiting in the street. Preacher paused long enough to pluck the pistols from leather and drop them in a horse trough.

“You run along home, now, sonny,” Preacher told him, over the sounds of retching and the jeering laughter of the loafers on the porch. “Tell your Ma to change your diapers and tuck you into bed. You ’pear to me to need some rest.”

Preacher stepped into the dark bar, allowed his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom, and walked to the counter, ordering whiskey with a beer chaser.

The batwings swung open, boots on the sawdust-covered floor. The marshal. “Trouble out there, old-timer?”

“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle, young-timer.”

The marshal chuckled. “Calls himself Kid Austin. He’s been overdue for a comedown for some time. Thinks he’s quite a hand with those fancy guns.”

Preacher glanced at the lawman. “He’ll never make it. They’s a lot of salty ol’ boys ridin’ the hoot-owl trail that’ll feed them guns to him. An inch at a time.”

The marshal ordered a beer, then waited until the barkeep was out of earshot. He put his elbows on the bar and said softly, “You’re the Preacher; man who rides with the young gun, Smoke. Don’t talk, just listen. The bounty’s been upped on your friend’s head. That’s the word I get. Someone up in the Idaho Territory is out to get Smoke.”

“Potter, Stratton, and Richards.”

“That’s right. Potter is big … politically. Richards is in mining and cattle. Stratton owns the town of Bury. Those two gunfighters on the porch, Felter and Canning, work for those three men. They got a bunch of hardcases camped just north of town. When you leave, and I hope it’s soon, ride out easy and cover your trail.”

“Thanks.”

“No need for that. I just know what happened in the war, that’s all. Can’t abide a traitor.”

Preacher glanced at him.

“Since that first shooting, back at the mining camp, the story’s spread. I reckon all the way to the Idaho Territory. But there’s more. Your friend has a sister named Jane — right?”

“He don’t speak none of her.”

“Well, she’s up in the territory now.”

“Let me guess: She’s in Bury.”

“Yeah. She’s Richards’s woman. He keeps her.”

“I’ll tell him.”

When Preacher rode out of Del Norte, he did so boldly, not wanting to implicate the shopkeeper, maybe leaving him open to rough treatment from Felter or Canning. Poor fellow had enough woes to contend with from that braying wife. Preacher picked up his jars, secured them well, then rode out to the east.

He didn’t think he was fooling anybody, for Felter knew him; knew he was friends with the young gunfighter. He would be followed.

Preacher rode easy, constantly checking his back trail. He rode across the San Luis Valley, slowly edging north. No one alive knew Colorado like the Preacher, and he was going to give his followers a rough ride.

By noon of the second day, Preacher had spotted his trackers. He grinned nastily, then headed his horses toward the Great Sand Dunes. If any of those behind him had any pilgrim in them, this is where Preacher would cut the sheep from the goats.

He skirted the southernmost part of San Luis Creek, filled up his canteens and watered his horses, and grinning, headed for the dunes. On the east side of the lake, Preacher pulled into a stand of timber, carefully smoothed out his trail with brush and sand droppings, then slipped back and waited.

He watched two men, neither of them Felter or Canning, lose his trail and begin to circle. Leaving his horses ground reined, he worked his way to the edge of the timber until he was close enough to hear them talking.

“Damned ol’ coot!” one of them said. “Where’d he go?”

“Relax,” his partner said. “The boss’s got twenty men workin’ all around. We got him boxed. He can’t get out.”

Old coot! Preacher thought. Your Ma’s garters I can’t get out!

“Relax, hell! I want that five thousand dollars.”

The ante was going up.

“How much is on the ol’ fart’s head?”

Old fart! Preacher silently raged.

“Nothin’,” the meaner-looking of the pair said with a grin. “It’s the gunfighter Richards and them want. That old man ain’t worth a buffalo turd.”

Buffalo turd! Preacher almost turned purple.

“We’ll take the old man alive, make him tell where the kid’s at, then kill him.”

You just dug your own grave, Preacher thought.

The two men sat their horses. They rolled cigarettes. “How come all this interest in this Smoke? I ain’t never got the straight of it.”

“Personal, way I heard it. The kid’s sister is Richards’s private woman up in Bury. I ain’t never been there so I can’t say if she’s a looker. Probably is. Then they’s the gold.

“Seems the kid’s brother was a Reb in the war, on a patrol bringin’ gold in for the South. Richards and them others killed the Rebs and took the gold — ’bout a hundred or so thousand dollars of it. ’bout three-four years back, the kid’s Daddy comes a-bustin’ into Bury — ’fore it was a town proper — and killed some of Richards’s men. Took back some of the gold. ’bout forty thousand of it, so I heard — but some of it was dust that had been recently washed. Richards thinks the kid has it … wants it back and the kid dead.”