William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“No, just that one,” Carson replied, pointing to the man at the bottom of the stairs. “That one, I presume, is a man named Dingle. This is Culpepper. Carson pointed toward Smoke. This man killed Culpepper.”

“Would you really have shot me if I hadn’t moved out of the light?”

Smoke picked up his beer and took a drink before he responded.

“Yeah,” he said.

CHAPTER TEN

Old Main Building

“The event in Longmont’s saloon would be termed a shoot-out, I believe. At least, that’s what the western novelists call it, people like Owen Wister, Zane Grey, and Max Brand,” Professor Armbruster said.

“A shoot-out, yes. They use the term accurately. I have met all of them, by the way,” Smoke said. “And Ned Buntline. I’ve met him as well.”

“Surely you don’t equate someone like Ned Buntline with the more legitimate figures of western literature, men like Wister, Grey, and Brand,” Professor Armbruster said.

“Why not? He was a storyteller, just as the three men you have mentioned were. In fact, all three of those men told me they had read Buntline, and it was because of his stories that they developed an interest in writing about the West.”

“I . . . I must apologize,” Professor Armbruster said. “I didn’t mean to be pedantic, nor to give offense.”

“No offense taken.”

“Was that the first time you met Monte Carson?” Professor Armbruster asked.

“Yes. It was the first time I met Louis Longmont, as well.”

“But you and Carson, and you and Longmont, became very good friends after that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, eventually. Not right away, not until I moved there, some years later.”

“How old were you when this shoot-out happened, Mr. Jensen?” Professor Armbruster asked.

“Nineteen, twenty, maybe, I don’t remember exactly.”

“But, it was before you established Sugarloaf Ranch.”

“Oh, yes, long before Sugarloaf, even before Nicole. But I thought I was here to discuss John Jackson, not Preacher and me. You are sort of getting off the track, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed. Though many times during the course of research one finds that divergent paths can lead to other fascinating subjects. And quite often, those subjects don’t detract from, but rather enhance your original research, as has happened here, with you. But, you are right, we should get back to our discussion of John Jackson.

“Earlier you said that the man, Preacher, suggested you should educate him. Did you undertake that responsibility?”

Smoke chuckled. “Oh, yes, I spent the next year with John. It turns out that he required a lot of education.”

“Please, continue with your story,” Professor Armbruster said.

“After we left Big Rock, Preacher went one way, John and I went another.”

Smoke resumed telling his story, and as it had before, his low, well-modulated voice began to paint word pictures, so that, again, Armbruster wasn’t merely listening to a story, he was reliving it, traveling through time and space with Smoke and John Jackson.

Colorado Rockies

“How’d you meet up with Preacher?” John asked Smoke.

Following Smoke’s instructions, John was building an oven from stones. They had shot a possum, and Smoke was cleaning it as John worked on the oven.

“My pa and me come west right after the war,” Smoke said. “Then one day this old man just sort of appeared. He was the dirtiest, most stinkingest human being I had ever laid my eyes on. I tell you the truth, John, I just about threw up smelling him.”

“That bad?”

“Whoowee, you don’t have any idea how bad he was. He told us he’d been watching us for about an hour, and that we were crazy for keeping out in the open the way we were. He said we were prime targets for Indians.”

“And what did you think?”

“All I could think about was how bad he stunk and how much I wanted him to go away, or at least get downwind from us.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Smoke said with a grunting chuckle. “It wasn’t fifteen minutes later we were jumped by a bunch of Kiowa. We had to fight them off. And that stinking old man? He killed as many as my pa and I did combined.”

“I guess you didn’t mind having him around so much then, huh?”

“I didn’t mind at all. Here, let’s put this meat in there and let it start cooking.”

They roasted the possum, along with some wild onions and sun roots that Smoke gathered. On top of the oven he set a pan of water to boil, and cooked some cattails.

“Always be on the lookout for cattails,” Smoke explained. “They have more uses than you can shake a stick at. In the summer you can harvest the tender stems. The lower part of it will be white and ready to eat, just as it is. If you eat them raw, they taste a little like cucumber. If you cook them, they taste like asparagus. Later, the green flower heads can be cooked and eaten like corn on the cob. And when the yellow pollen starts up, you can gather it up, mix it with flour. That will not only make your flour last longer, it makes a real tasty bread.

“Then, in the fall you can dig up the roots, mash them in water, and let the mix set for a few hours. What you’ll get when you pour off the water is a gooey mass of starch at the bottom of the container. That will provide you with a thickening base for soups, whether it be squirrel, rabbit, bird, or, if no meat is available, it’s not a bad soup all by itself. Especially if you are in a position where you’re near about to starve. Of course, if you pay attention to what’s around you, you won’t ever actually starve.”

“You talk as if a true mountain man never needs to come into the store for supplies,” John said.

“Well, the truth is, you just about don’t. As long as you’ve a good supply of salt handy, you’ll find that you can make a meal out of almost anything,” Smoke said.

“We’ll see about that,” John replied.

Later, as John chewed the last bit of meat from a bone, then finished up with the boiled cattails, he nodded. “You know, you may be right,” he said. “This is about as tasty as anything I’ve ever eaten. And these things, what did you call them?”

“Sun roots.”

“Damn if they don’t taste just like potatoes.”

“I thought you might like that.”

Over the next three days the rain was hard and cold, and Smoke showed John how to build a shelter under an overhanging rock by draping canvas across the front to keep the rain out. Such meat as they could find they cooked over a fire they made just in front of their shelter, and Smoke continued with his lessons.

“There will come a time when you will want to build yourself a cabin against the weather. One with a fireplace and chimney so you can keep warm on the coldest days. I’ll help you build it.”

“Do you build a new cabin every winter?”

“No, Preacher’s been in his same cabin for more than twenty years now. I reckon we can build one that you’ll be proud to come back to, every winter. But there’s no need in building you one down here. We’ll wait until we get to Montana. That way you can be where you can still trap.”

“What is the value placed on a beaver skin? How much can you get for one?”

“They are called plews,” Smoke said. “And they aren’t worth as much as they once were. It used to be one beaver plew was worth three martens. Now martens are worth more than beaver, so it’s martens you want to go after. You’ll get about three dollars apiece for martens, two dollars for beaver. In a good year, you can trap maybe two hundred marten, and three hundred beaver; you could make as much as twelve hundred dollars.”