William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“Were you in the war, Mr. Jensen?” Major Sanderson asked.

“No, I missed it. My father and my older brother were.” Smoke smiled. “But I’m afraid they fought on the opposite side from you gentlemen.”

“Men of good conscience fought on both sides,” Sanderson said. “Who was your father with?”

“He was with Mosby’s Raiders.”

“Mosby? Wait a minute,” Major Sanderson said. “Jensen? Your father wouldn’t be Emmett Jensen, would he?”

“Yes.”

“My, what a warrior he was,” Sanderson said. “John, it was before I came to your company. I was on General Stoughton’s staff when Mosby’s Rangers showed up. Two men went into the general’s quarters and awakened him, most rudely I must say, by a slap on his rear. General Stoughton was incensed and, pulling himself up in righteous indignation, said, ‘Do you know who I am?’

“One of the two men replied by saying, ‘Do you know who John Mosby is?’

“‘Yes! Have you got the rascal?’ General Stoughton asked.

“‘No, but he has got you!’ The two men in the room with the general that night were John Mosby”—Major Sanderson looked over at Smoke—“and your father.”

John laughed out loud. “How did the men take it?” he asked.

“I have to tell you, John, that General Stoughton was a pompous ass. The truth is, I think at least half the men applauded Mosby, and Emmett Jensen. Myself included,” he added.

“Good,” Smoke said. “I wouldn’t want to make enemies from new friends.”

John and Major Sanderson continued to discuss the war. The incident where General Stoughton was captured happened in March 1863. In May, Lieutenant Sanderson joined Captain Jackson’s company and fought under him in the greatest battle of the war, the Battle of Gettysburg.

In Smoke’s young life he had already faced death many times, and smelled the acrid smell of gunpowder, so he was not unfamiliar with violent death. But the scale of Gettysburg, with thousands of men on either side facing shot and shell, advancing and withdrawing across battlefields strewn with the dead and dying, was enough to hold even his attention.

John and Major Sanderson continued to share such stories.

“What made you decide to go into the fur-trapping business?” Sanderson asked. “I thought you had some girl you were anxious to marry back in, where was it? Boston? Philadelphia?”

“Philadelphia, and it didn’t work out,” John said.

“That happened to a number of people, I think,” Sanderson said.

“Yes. But not everyone did something as foolish as I did.”

Sanderson chuckled. “What did you do that was so foolish?”

“I joined the French Foreign Legion.”

“What? You did? But wait . . . I’ve read about the Foreign Legion. The term of enlistment is five years, isn’t it? If you joined the Foreign Legion, how is it that you are no longer a member?”

“Let’s just say that I altered my contract with them.”

“You altered your contract? What do you mean?”

“I deserted.”

“Oh,” Sanderson said. “Are you afraid that . . . what I mean is, do you think they’ll come looking for you?”

“No. They would have to come, not only to America, but to the Rocky Mountains to find me. They won’t waste their time, they’ll just recruit someone to take my place.”

“Bobby, can’t we find a more pleasant subject to discuss?”

“Yes, forgive me, my dear,” Major Sanderson said. He smiled. “Because tomorrow is Independence Day, it will be a day of no work for the men. We plan to have a day-long celebration, and a barbeque. You’ll probably smell the meat cooking tonight.”

Smoke did smell the meat cooking all night long, two beef halves on spits that were suspended over glowing coals. By the next morning morale on the post was high, not only because of the barbeque, but because the day was given over to celebrations and games. One of the games was baseball, the first time Smoke had ever seen the game played.

That night there was a dance. Held at the sutler’s store, it was for everyone on the post, enlisted and officers alike, though it was somewhat limited, due to the lack of women. The wives of the post did their part by allowing their dance cards to be filled by the bachelor officers and men, and it wasn’t all that unusual to see Major Sanderson’s wife, Cindy, dancing with a young private.

There were very few single women at the post, mostly laundresses who lived on “Soapsuds Row” washing and ironing the post laundry. As a rule, the laundresses did not stay single very long. They were prime candidates for marriage to the noncommissioned officers of the post.

Both John and Smoke danced once with the major’s wife, but generally stayed out of the dance in order to give the men of the post more opportunities. There were a few of the women, though, who made it known by looks and gestures that they would welcome a dance with the two handsome strangers.

The next morning, the two men left immediately after breakfast.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two weeks later Smoke and John reached the town of Theresa, Montana. Theresa was a one-street town that had grown up at this location in order to take advantage of the only water in the area. They surveyed the town as they rode in, and realized it could be any out-of-the-way town, anywhere in the West. There was almost an ethereal quality to them.

The Cattleman’s Saloon wasn’t hard to find. It was the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. Inside, the saloon was out of the sun, but the air was still and stuffy, and the dozen or so customers who were drinking had to use their bandanas to continually wipe the sweat from their faces. Behind the bar was a sign that read: PLEASE USE THE SPITTOONS. Despite that admonition, the floor was stained with tobacco juice.

There was no gilt-edged mirror, but there was a real bar and an ample supply of beer and decent whiskey. The saloon had an upstairs section at the back, with a stairway going up to a second-floor landing. When Smoke glanced up, he could see rooms opening off the landing. A heavily painted saloon girl was taking a cowboy up the stairs with her. Smoke had never been upstairs with a bar girl, but he had a pretty good idea of what went on there.

The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front of the building. The main room of the saloon was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were three tables with drinking customers, and a fourth table that had a card game going on.

Smoke and John bellied up to the bar.

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked as he moved down to the two men. He wiped up a spill with a wet, smelly rag.

“Beer,” Smoke said.

“I’ll have the same.”

Smoke slid a dime across the bar and the bartender drew two mugs of beer from the barrel behind the bar.

Smoke turned his back to the bar and looked out over the room. A bar girl sidled up to him then. She was heavily painted and showed the dissipation of her profession. There was no humor or life left to her eyes, and when she saw that Smoke wasn’t interested, she turned and walked back to sit by the piano player.

The piano player wore a small, round derby hat and kept his sleeves up with garter belts. He was pounding away, though whatever music he was playing was practically lost amidst the noise of the many conversations.

A girl came down the stairs and went up to the bar. Glancing over at her, Smoke saw that one eye was red and swollen nearly shut. It still had the glowing look of a very fresh injury.

“Millie, what happened?” the bartender asked.

“Nothing happened,” the girl said, putting her hand up to cover the eye. “Don’t worry about it.”