William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

“I know you were upset when you returned from Europe, and found that Lucy had married another. But you’ve made no effort to meet any other young women. You shouldn’t let what she did keep you from seeing other women.”

“To tell you the truth, Pop, I’m actually glad she found someone else. I just don’t feel like being around any women now.”

“I know you said you wanted to go west, into the mountains where you would be away from everyone. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Maybe if you are alone long enough, you’ll get back to normal.”

And so here he was, the sum total of his entire life had brought him to this time and this place, in the mountains, alone. No, he wasn’t really alone, nor had he been alone. There had been Preacher and Smoke. But he was thankful to Smoke. What he had learned from Smoke in the last year was worth a four-year college degree. It was certainly more valuable than the degree he had earned at the University of Pennsylvania.

Claire was lying in her blankets, not five feet away from him. She had certainly not been a part of his plans. There was no room in the life he wanted now for any kind of a companion, let alone a female companion, and especially not an Indian woman. He had been forced into taking her, convinced that the circumstances were such that she would not survive had he not done so. He had tried, to the degree that it was possible, to maintain a separation between them. He had thought that the difference in language would help in that regard.

Then he learned that she could speak English.

All right, it was probably a good thing that she could speak English. If they were going to be together, there would be times when it would be necessary for them to communicate. He would just put her out of his mind as much as he could.

But tonight, he saw her naked, and he saw, for the first time, what an exceptionally beautiful woman she was. And now she was lying beside him, totally dependent upon him for her survival, and for all intents and purposes, his to do with as he pleased.

If he went to her now, what would she do? Would she acquiesce to his advances? Or would she fight him off?

What about her time with Cooper? Had she been with Cooper?

Of course she had, there was no way she could have avoided it. And she did say that she had been Cooper’s wife.

For a moment the thought of Claire having been with Cooper disgusted him, and he thought the less of her for it.

Why? Why did he think that? She was absolutely helpless. How could she have possibly controlled her own fate?

Now John felt guilty for having such negative thoughts about her. The truth was, in the few days they had been together, he had grown comfortable with her. Yes, she was dependent upon him for her survival, but to a degree he was dependent upon her as well.

She knew the country and had offered suggestions from time to time, such as following this tributary from the river. She was helpful around the camp, she could make a fire, she could cook, she was able to point out what plants were edible, she could find wild, sweet berries, as well as honey. And tonight she had shown him that she could fish.

Yes, having her with him was not the burden he thought it would be.

A gas bubble, trapped in one of the burning logs, popped loudly, and sent up a shower of sparks. A couple of them landed on Claire’s blanket, and John, afraid that the blanket would catch on fire, moved over quickly to brush the sparks off.

Claire opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her eyes reflected bright orange points of light, and her face gleamed in the glow of the fire. She stared up at him for a long time with those big, brown, trusting eyes, and when John put his hand on her cheek, she reached for it, not to push it away, but to hold it in her own hand.

With Claire’s other hand she opened the blanket in invitation and he saw that she was as nude as she had been when he saw her in the water. Quickly taking off his own clothes, John got under the blanket with her.

John was awakened the next morning by the loud, rapid hammering of a woodpecker. The first thing he realized was that Claire wasn’t in bed with him. Raising up on his elbow, he saw her by the fire, cooking something in the skillet. He could smell it, and it smelled very good.

“What are you cooking?” he asked.

“Breakfast.”

“Yes, but what?”

“You eat first, then I will tell you,” she said.

John chuckled, then he started to get up from the blankets. That was when he realized that he was naked and, inexplicably, he felt a sense of embarrassment. He reached for his clothes and dressed, all the while keeping himself covered with the blanket.

The breakfast meal consisted of Indian fry bread, which John had eaten for the first time at Rendezvous, bacon, and something else, something that resembled scrambled eggs, though it was more orange than yellow.

Claire spooned it out of the frying pan and onto two tin plates. She gave one plate, and a fork, to John.

“Eat,” she said.

John knew that he liked bacon, and he knew that he liked the fry bread. He didn’t know what the orange stuff was, but he took a bite.

Claire studied his reaction, intensely.

It wasn’t at all an unpleasant taste, but John had never tasted anything quite like it. It had sort of a salty taste, but not overly so. He took two or three bites, hesitantly, then with a little more confidence, and by the time he finished he discovered that he was actually enjoying it.

“What was that I just ate?” he asked.

“Come, I will show you.”

Claire led John to the water’s edge, then she pointed to some leaves that were growing in the water. Clinging to the leaves were hundreds of little, round, almost translucent balls.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Fish eggs,” Claire replied with a broad smile.

John chuckled. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I know that some rich folks back in Philadelphia serve fish eggs. They call it caviar. If I ever get back there, I’ll have to tell them how good it can be when it’s fried in bacon grease.”

“You like?”

“Yes, I do. Claire, what do you say we build our cabin here?”

“I think here is a good place,” Claire replied.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Old Main Building

“Let’s see,” Professor Armbruster said. “Just to make certain that I have the time line straight, we are now up to 1870, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And where is Matt at this time?”

“Matt had left by then. Our paths continued to cross after he left and of course we remained friends. Actually we are still friends; he spent last Christmas with us at Sugarloaf. But, for the most part by then, Matt was on his own.”

“And, I believe, if I remember correctly, 1870 is when you met your wife.”

“It is when I met my first wife, Nicole.”

“As I intend to blend yours and John Jackson’s stories together, I wonder if you might share that with us now.”

Uncompahgre Plateau—Spring 1870

Shortly after Smoke returned from his almost year-long stay with John, he joined Preacher in pushing a herd of mustangs south. They had been on the drive for three days when Preacher stopped and held up his hand.

“What do you smell, boy?” he asked.

Smoke sniffed the wind. “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s not new growth, I know that. It’s more like . . . well, I want to say smoke, but it isn’t exactly smoke. It’s something else.”

“It’s burnt hair,” Preacher said.

“Yes,” Smoke said, realizing that burnt hair is exactly what he was smelling. “That’s not good.”

“No, it ain’t,” Preacher said. “It ain’t good at all. It’s comin’ from that way.”