William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“Well, now,” John said with a broad smile. “That certainly makes the endeavor worthwhile.”

“It does, indeed, my friend, it does indeed. I tell you what. If we survive the winter, we’ll go to Rendezvous come spring,” Smoke said.

“If we survive the winter?” John replied with a bit of a start in his voice.

Smoke laughed. “Most likely, we will,” he said.

“What is Rendezvous?”

“They aren’t quite as big now as they were back when Preacher was younger, but they are still fun to go to. They are almost like a county fair. Merchants come from the east to sell supplies, whiskey, books, candy, and such. There’s music, and generally some women around for dancing. There’s shooting contests and knife- and ax-throwing contests. And it’s a place where you can sell all the skins you’ve managed to trap in the past year.”

“Where is it held?”

“A different place every year. I guess we’ll find out from some of the other trappers.”

It was one week later when the two saw their first Indians. There were six of them, all mounted, and painted up.

“I was afraid of that,” Smoke said.

“What?”

“Pawnee. They’ve been following us for the better part of an hour. I thought, or maybe I was just hoping, that they would go on their way. But now they’ve showed themselves to us, I don’t think they have any intention of leaving.”

“Are the Pawnee friendly?”

“Not friendly enough so’s you can count on it,” Smoke said.

“You think they’re going to attack us?”

“Yeah, I think maybe they are. You were in the war, so I reckon you can use that long gun.”

“Yes, I can use it,” John said.

“Problem is, you’ve got a lot of range and hitting power with that Sharps, but you’ve got to reload it after every shot.”

“Then I shall just have to make every shot count, won’t I?” John replied.

The six mounted Indians let out loud war whoops, then, slapping their legs against the sides of their horses, they started galloping toward Smoke and John. Smoke and John stood their ground.

“Now would be a good time to make one of those shots count,” Smoke said, and he no sooner spoke the words, than the big, large-bore Sharps boomed loudly beside him. John rolled back from the recoil of the big rifle, but one Indian was knocked down from his horse, and, even from here, Smoke could see the fountain of blood that gushed forth from the strike of the heavy, .50 caliber bullet.

Smoke had a lever-action Henry and he fired once, jacked a new shell into the chamber, and fired a second time. Within less than five seconds the attacking Indians had seen their number cut from six to three. Now, only three, they realized that they no longer had a substantial numerical advantage. The remaining Indians hauled back on the reins so hard that the horses nearly squatted down on their hindquarters. They turned and started galloping away.

Because the Sharps was a breech-loading weapon, and not a muzzle-loader, John had managed to reload more quickly than Smoke had anticipated. John raised his rifle to his shoulder to take aim.

“No, John, don’t shoot!” Smoke said, reaching out to push the barrel of John’s rifle down before he was able to pull the trigger.

John looked at him in surprise.

“We’ve got them on the run. By not shooting, we are shaming them as they are running from us; we are showing them that we don’t fear them.”

“What if they come back?”

“They won’t come back today.”

Boulderado Hotel, Boulder, Colorado

The university had put Smoke and Sally up in the finest suite in the hotel, or, as the hotel advertised it: “seven hundred square feet of pure luxury.” The suite, consisting of a living room, dining room, and bedroom, was on the corner so that there was an excellent view of the city.

Sally was sitting on a leather sofa in the living room, her legs folded up to her side, reading a Saturday Evening Post magazine when Smoke came in.

“Finished already?” she asked.

“Just for the day,” Smoke said.

“How is it going?”

“It’s going well, I think. He has me talking into a microphone, and my words are being recorded on a record, just like the ones you play on the Victrola, only I’m not singing,” Smoke said with a smile.

“Too bad. I’ve heard you crooning. You have a good voice,” Sally said.

“They played it back for me today, and I heard my voice. You should hear it.”

Sally laughed. “Smoke, I’ve been hearing your voice for a long, long time now.”

“Oh, yes, I guess you have. But I have to tell you that it did sound strange to me. It didn’t sound like me. The professor said it did, and he said the reason it sounded different to me is that we never really hear our own voice as others hear it. We hear by the waves caused by sounds in the air, but at the same time we also pick up the vibration of the bones in our skull.

“That’s why, when I hear myself recorded and played back, it sounds completely different, because all I hear back from the recording is sound coming through the air, minus the skull vibration and bone conduction.”

Sally laughed. “And you understood all that, did you?”

“Yeah,” Smoke said with a crooked grin. “It might sound strange, but it makes perfect sense to me.”

Sally got up from the sofa and kissed Smoke. “I’m proud of you,” she said.

“What are you looking at in the magazine?”

“An ad for a new car.”

“A new car? You don’t like the Duesenberg?”

“No, I love the Duesenberg,” Sally said. “I mean, for your truck.”

“I’m not getting rid of my truck.”

“Listen to this,” Sally said. She cleared her throat, then began reading the ad, as if reciting on stage.

“‘Somewhere west of Laramie there’s a bronco-busting, steer-roping girl who knows what I’m talking about. She can tell what a sassy pony, that’s a cross between greased lightning and the place where it hits, can do with eleven hundred pounds of steel and action when he’s going high, wide, and handsome. It’s a hint of old loves, and saddle and quirt. The truth is, the Jordan Playboy is built for her.’”

“What is that?” Smoke said with a puzzled expression on his face. “‘High, wide, and handsome, hint of old loves, saddle and quirt’? That says nothing about the car.”

“I think the idea is to create a feeling,” Sally said. “I think the words are beautiful. And so is the car. Look at the picture.”

Sally showed Smoke the ad.

“Doesn’t look very practical,” Smoke said. “It only has one seat, and you can’t haul anything in it. I can’t see trading the truck for it.”

“You’re right. Okay, keep the truck. Just buy the car.”

“What if we wanted to go somewhere and take some folks with us? There’s no room in this car.”

“Well, then we would just go in the Duesenberg,” Sally said.

Smoke laughed. “So what you’re saying is we’ll have two cars and a truck?”

“Smoke, don’t tell me we can’t afford it.”

“I’ll tell you what we can afford. We can afford to have something good to eat. How about we order up room service for supper, and use this fancy dining room table?”

“Oh, no,” Sally said. “We don’t get to come to a city that often. You’re taking me out, Kirby Jensen. And not for supper, for dinner.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Old Main Building

“Are you ready to resume, Mr. Jensen?” Professor Armbruster asked the next morning when Smoke returned to the Old Main building on campus.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Smoke said. “Where did I leave off yesterday?”