Butchery of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I must say, Mr. Jackson,” O. D. Clayton said a few minutes later as he examined the pelts. “These are in remarkable condition, much better condition than the ones I normally get. I think that’s because the fur traders don’t always take that good of care of them.”

  “How much are you willing to pay for them?”

  “Five dollars apiece for the marten, three dollars for the beaver.”

  “Will you take all of them?” John asked.

  “How many do you have?”

  “I have six hundred beaver, and three hundred twenty-five marten.”

  O. D. Clayton did some figuring, then looked up. “That comes to three thousand, four hundred, and twenty-five dollars,” he said.

  “Three thousand, four hundred, and twenty-five?” A huge smile spread across John’s face. “Claire!” he said, embracing her. “We’re rich!”

  “Do you want it in cash, or by check?” Clayton asked.

  “I expect I’d better take it by cash,” John said. “There aren’t a lot of banks near my cabin.”

  Clayton chuckled. “No, I don’t expect there would be,” he said. “Is paper money all right?”

  “Yes, where I do business, they take paper money.”

  “I’m never sure. Paper money is as good as gold all over St. Louis. But I’ve heard that there are some places where they won’t take it.”

  Clayton counted out the money, and John, with a big smile, put it in his pocket.

  “Now,” John said. “Suppose you tell me where we can find an elegant place to eat in St. Louis.”

  “You might try the Delmonico on Olive,” Clayton told him. “That’s just three blocks over. Truth is, I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it was an elegant place.”

  With his money in his pocket, John, Claire, and baby Kirby walked the three blocks to Delmonico. Smiling, they stepped into the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry, but you aren’t welcome here,” a waiter said, stopping them just inside the door.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” John said, touching his buckskin shirt. “I wasn’t aware there was a dress code.”

  “No, sir, you are fine,” the waiter said. “You can come in. It’s the squaw and papoose who can’t. They will have to wait outside.”

  John reached up and grabbed the man’s collar with his left hand, then he twisted it so that it was choking him.

  “What did you say?” he asked. Though the expression on his face was fearsome, and he did have a tight grip of the man’s collar, the question was spoken quietly, and coldly, the more frightening because of that. “Do you seriously think I’m going to leave my wife and child outside while I come in?”

  “I . . . uh . . . the owner has a policy that only whites can come in. I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do about it. No colored, no Indians, and no Chinamen.”

  “John, please, let’s go,” Claire said.

  “Mister, I don’t know who you think you are, but we don’t want squaw men comin’ in here,” a man sitting at the first table said. He pulled a pistol and was about to point it at John, but before he could, John pushed the waiter away, drew his knife, and threw it. It pinned the man’s sleeve to the table, and he dropped the pistol. John stepped over quickly, and picked up the pistol.

  The man who had drawn the gun reached over with his left hand to pull the knife free.

  “Leave the knife where it is,” John ordered. “I’ll remove it when I decide to.” He pulled the cylinder from the man’s pistol, dumped all the shells onto the floor, and kicked them away. Only then did he recover his knife, unpinning the man’s jacket sleeve.

  Then, doing it so quickly and smoothly that the would-be gunman had no time to react, John sliced through the man’s septum. It started bleeding profusely.

  “Ahhh!!” the man shouted out in pain, sticking his hand to his nose. “You cut my nose!”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, that’s just a reminder to make you think twice next time you want to stick your nose into somebody else’s business,” John said.

  He used the man’s shirtsleeve to wipe the blood away from his knife.

  “If you good folks don’t mind, I’ll just find another place to spend my money,” he said. “Let’s go, Claire.”

  They started toward the door, but just before they left, John turned to address the others.

  “By the way, if anyone so much as sticks a head out the door in the next minute, I’ll shoot you dead.”

  Not one word was spoken by anyone in the restaurant, but all stared at him with expressions that ranged from curiosity, to shock, to outright fear.

  The next restaurant accepted them without question, and not until they were seated at a table in the back of the room did Claire allow herself to laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Did you see their faces? They were like this.” Claire lifted her eyebrows, and opened her mouth, simulating an expression of shock.

  “Yes, I suppose I did go a bit too far there.”

  Claire giggled again. “Yes, cutting his nose here,” she put her finger to her nose septum, “is a bit too far.”

  “Claire, will you marry me?” John asked.

  “What? But we are already married.”

  “No. I mean will you marry me by the law of the white man? My father is an Episcopal priest. I want to find an Episcopal church and I want us to get married. No, wait, if we do that, we’ll have to post banns and that will take too long. I’ll find us a circuit judge, he can marry us, then I’ll get a priest to bless the marriage. When we go back, we will go back as legally married husband and wife.”

  Two hours later, having been married by a circuit court judge, John and Claire, with Kirby, stepped into St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in south St. Louis. John dipped his fingers into the basin of holy water and crossed himself. Because he had taught Claire some of the liturgy of the church, she did so as well.

  They walked to the front and knelt at the altar rail. They were there when the priest stepped out of his study and saw them. The priest waited until they both rose.

  “Good afternoon,” the priest said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, Father. We are married, but it was a civil ceremony. I would like to ask that you bless our marriage.”

  “You are Episcopalian?”

  “Yes, my father is an Episcopalian priest back in Pennsylvania. His name is Nathaniel Jackson.”

  The priest’s eyes widened. “Is he by chance the author of A Book of Rites for the Use of Congregations of the Protestant Episcopal Church?”

  “He is,” John said.

  The priest smiled and extended his hand. “My name is Sharkey. Bill Sharkey. I am most pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “I am John Jackson, and this is my wife, Claire, and our baby, Kirby. I have baptized both of them, simply because we live so far from any church. I would like you to validate the baptisms as well.”

  “I would be happy to do so,” Father Sharkey said.

  It was as Mr. and Mrs. John Jackson that they, with their baby, boarded the train in St. Louis for the long trip back. Because he had enough money to do so, they took passage on the Palace Car.

  For the first part of the trip, there were only six people in the car: John, Claire, and Kirby, plus one other couple, and a man dressed as a clergyman, who was traveling alone. The clergyman kept staring at Claire and the baby with an obvious look of displeasure on his face. Finally he spoke.

  “You are in violation of God’s law,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon, Parson, did you say something?” John asked.

  “I said you are sinners, both of you. Cohabitation without marriage is a sin. Whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.”

  “Well, Parson, it’s none of your business, but it so happens that we are married.”

  The parson shook his head. “No, that ain’t possible. God don’t hold with white men marryin’ savages.”

  “Oh? Would you mind tellin
g me where, in the Bible, it says that?”

  “Ezra 10:2–3. ‘We have taken strange wives of the people of the land, yet now there is hope in Israel concerning this thing. Now therefore let us make a covenant with our God to put away all the wives, and such as are born of them,’” the parson said, sanctimoniously.

  “Colossians 3:11. ‘There is no distinction between Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and freeman, but Christ is all, and in all.’” John replied

  “How dare you, sir!” the parson said, pointing a long, bony finger at John. “How dare you quote scripture to a man of Gawd?”

  “You call yourself a man of God. Yet ‘you love all words that devour, oh deceitful tongue.’ Psalm 52:4,” John said.

  “You . . . you know your scripture, sir,” the parson said, surprised by John’s Bible acumen.

  “I do.”

  “Then why in Gawd’s name would you marry an Indian whore?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Mister, and I’m not calling you parson anymore, because by your words, you have proven yourself to be unworthy of that title. So I’m telling you now to leave this car, and don’t come back in until either you, or we, leave this train. And we won’t be leaving this train for a thousand miles.”

  “I will not leave this car,” the parson said, angrily. “I paid for my passage.”

  “Here is ten dollars,” John said, handing the parson a bill. “Now, get out of this car and stay out.”

  “You have no right to order me out.”

  “Oh, it isn’t a question of whether I have the right,” John said. He smiled, but it was a taunting smile. “It’s a question of whether I am capable of grabbing you by the scruff of your neck and the seat of your pants and bodily throwing you off this train. And believe me, sir, I am. Now your choice is simple. Leave this car now, of your own accord, or I will throw you off the train.”

  “You wouldn’t dare, sir!” the parson said, confidently.

  “Shall we see?”

  John walked over to him and grabbed him by his shirt and the seat of his pants and started moving him toward the door. “I wonder if you will bounce,” John said.

  “No! No! God in heaven, man, don’t do it! Don’t do it!”

  “You’ll leave of your own volition?”

  “I will, I will!”

  John took his hands away.

  “Here’s another thing,” John said. “Don’t let me see you again. When we are in the dining car, don’t you come in. If we get off the train for a few minutes in some station, don’t you be where I can see you. Do you understand that? I don’t want to see your ugly face again, ever, anywhere.”

  “You . . . you have no right . . .”

  “I thought we had already discussed that,” John said. He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t care whether I have the right or not. Now, get.”

  The preacher licked his lips a couple of times, then, turning, he hurried out through the front door of the car.

  John looked at the other couple in the car, an older man and woman who had been watching the whole thing.

  “Ma’am, sir, I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But I’ve always believed that it was the duty of a man to look after his wife and family. And that means to shield them from all hostility, whether by word or action.”

  “Young man, you have nothing to apologize for,” the elderly man said. “You had every right to protect your family.”

  “And your wife and baby are beautiful,” the elderly woman added.

  “Thank you, I think so myself. Of course, I might be just a little prejudiced,” John said with a smile. “Would you care to join my family and me in the dining car for lunch? I would be delighted to have you as our guests.”

  “Why, yes, we would be happy to. Thank you very much, young man.”

  A few minutes later, John, Claire, Kirby, and the man and woman who had accepted John’s invitation were enjoying their lunch in the dining car. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. George Upton. Mr. Upton was a retired college professor from Washington University in St. Louis. They were on their way to California because, as Upton explained, he had always wanted to see what was beyond the setting sun.

  “I remember as a young man, seeing so many people coming through St. Louis, bound for California,” Upton said. “That is how St. Louis acquired the name the Gateway City, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” John replied.

  “I almost joined one of the trains, but I was only fourteen at the time, and the wagon master would not let me come with them without my parents’ permission. Oh, what an adventure that would have been.”

  “I have told him, many times, I am quite satisfied to be making the journey in the comfort of a Palace Car,” Mrs. Upton said.

  “Are you a . . . and please don’t take offense, but my curiosity is piqued. Are you a mountain man?”

  “No offense taken, Professor. I am indeed a mountain man,” John said.

  “But your language, your Bible acumen, that isn’t something one would associate with a mountain man.”

  “I am a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania,” John said. “But, I have taken a postgraduate course in mountaineering.”

  “My word, a postgraduate course in mountaineering? Where does one find such a course?”

  “In Colorado and Montana,” John said. “And I’ve had excellent professors, a man named Preacher, a man named Smoke, and a woman named Hanhepiwi.”

  Claire smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tau Kappa Epsilon Fraternity House

  Smoke was given a position of honor at the head of the table in the dining room of the TKE house. Every member of the fraternity treated him with awe.

  “Mr. Jensen, how many men have you killed?” a plebe asked.

  “Booker! You are dismissed from the table!” McGrath said, angrily.

  “No, please,” Smoke said, holding up his hand. “It’s a legitimate question, given the number of books that have been written about me, and many of them stressing only that part of the story. The truth is, Booker, I’m not quite sure how many men I have killed. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to keep a tally of, as some perverted badge of honor. But I will say this. I have never killed a man who didn’t need killing.”

  “But what gave you the right to determine whether he needed killing or not?” Booker asked.

  It was more of a challenge than a question, and everyone sitting around the dining room table looked toward Smoke to see how he would react.

  “That is another good question,” Smoke said. “For the most part, survival gave me the right to make the determination,” Smoke said. “I killed men who were trying to kill me. But there have been times when I purposely set out to hunt men down for the sole purpose of killing them.”

  “There is no statute of limitations for murder,” Booker said. “Are you afraid that some zealous prosecutor might bring charges against you today?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Mr. Booker, do you, by any chance, plan to be a lawyer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, let’s make a deal, right here. If some zealous prosecutor decides that he would like to try me for killing someone like oh, let’s say, Ted Casey, I would like to hire you to defend me.”

  “Ted Casey is the one you lynched, isn’t he?”

  “Lynched?” Wes said. “Listen, I heard that story firsthand. If ever any man deserved to hang, it was Ted Casey.”

  “But he was hung without a trial, wasn’t he?” Booker asked.

  “He was.”

  “Looking back on it now, would you do things differently?” Booker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha! I thought so. What would you do differently?”

  “I wouldn’t have used a new rope,” Smoke said.

  The others laughed, then, when Booker started to speak again, McGrath held up his hand.

  “Booker, Mr. Jensen has been more than generous with you. We’ll have
no more inquisition.”

  “Yes, sir,” Booker said, contritely.

  Old Main Building

  “How was your lunch?” Professor Armbruster asked.

  “Quite interesting,” Smoke replied without further elaboration.

  “Well, are you ready to resume the session?”

  “I am.”

  “We left off with John and Claire going back home,” Professor Armbruster said.

  “Yes.”

  John’s cabin

  After John, Claire, and the baby returned from St. Louis they put in a garden. As John explained, “wild plants will do in a pinch, but there’s nothing improves the table like fresh radishes, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, potatoes, carrots, beans, cabbage, and watermelon.”

  John worked hard on his garden, and soon he was raising a bountiful crop. Already they had radishes, and the tomatoes were coming along as well.

  Because trapping was nonproductive in the summer, John had a lot of time to work in the garden and he enjoyed it. He also enjoyed Claire’s genuine enthusiasm at seeing the plants grow. She had no experience whatever with gardening, so it was all new and exciting to her.

  John was also enjoying his son, particularly the infant’s reaction to everything around him. Claire had made a flute from a sumac branch, and John was learning to play it.

  “Now, listen to this, Kirby,” he said, lifting the flute to his lips. He began playing, and to Claire’s surprise, was actually playing a song.

  “What is that song?” she asked.

  “It is called ‘Old Folks at Home.’ Some call it ‘Suwanee River.’”

  “How can you do that? You have not played the flute before.”

  John chuckled. “Once you know how to play the scale, the rest is easy,” he said.

  He played a few more songs, then handed to flute to Claire, who played music from her background. The music was melodious, consisting of a lot of halftones, but there was a soulful, almost mournful quality to it.

  “That was beautiful,” John said when she finished. “What was it?”