* * *
Nicole went behind a boulder to change out of her tattered and dusty dress. Preacher walked up to his young protégé.
“What are you aimin’ to do with her?”
“Take her with us. We sure can’t leave her out here.”
“Well, hell! I know all that. I mean in the long run. Nearest town’s more’un a hundred miles off.”
“Well, I . . . don’t know.”
The mountain man’s eyes sparkled. “Ah,” he said. “Now I get it. Got your juices up and runnin’, eh?”
Smoke stiffened. “I have not given that any thought.”
Preacher laughed. “You can go to hell for tellin’ lies, boy.” He walked off, chuckling, talking to himself. “Yes, siree,” he called, “young Smoke’s got hisself a gal. Right purty little thing, too. Whoa, boy!” He did a little jig and slapped his buckskin-clad knee. “Them blankets gonna be hotter than a buffalo hunter’s rifle after a shoot.” He cackled as he danced off, spry as a youngster.
Smoke’s face reddened. What the young man knew about females could be placed in a shot glass and still have room for a good drink of whiskey.
“What is Preacher so happy about?” Nicole asked, walking up behind him.
Smoke turned and swallowed hard. Luckily, he did not have a chew of tobacco in his mouth. The men’s trousers fitted the woman snugly—very snugly. The plaid man’s shirt she now wore was unbuttoned two buttons past the throat, and that was about all the young man could stand.
Smoke lifted his eyes to stare at her face. She was beautiful, her features almost delicate, but with a stubborn set to her chin.
She had freshened up at the little creek and her face wore a scrubbed look.
“Uh . . .” he said.
“Never mind,” Nicole said. “I’m sure I know what he was laughing about.”
“Ah . . . I’ve saddled a little mare for you. She’s broke, but hasn’t been ridden lately. She may kick up her heels a bit.”
“Mares do that every now and then,” Nicole said coyly, smiling at him.
“Uh . . . yeah! Right.”
“Smoke?” She touched his thick forearm, tight with muscle. “I’m not trying to be callous or unfeeling about . . . what happened today. I’m just . . . trying to put it—the bad things—behind me. Out of my mind. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” He touched her hand. Soft. “Come on. We’d better get moving.”
When Nicole swung into the saddle, the trousers stretched tight across her derriere. Smoke stared—and stared. Then his boot missed the stirrup when he tried to mount and he fell flat on his back in the dust.
“I knowed it!” Preacher said. “Knowed it when I seen ’em a-lookin’ at one ’nother. Gawd help us all. He’ll be pickin’ flowers next. Ifn he can git up off the ground, that is.”
The trio pushed the horses and followed the Delores down to its junction with Disappointment Creek. There, they cut slightly west for a few miles, then bore south, toward a huge valley. They would be among the first whites to settle in the valley. Long after Smoke had become a legend, the town of Cortez would spring up, to the south of the SJ Ranch. Midway in the valley, by a stream that rolled gently past a gradually rising knoll, Smoke pulled up.
“Here?” Preacher looked around, approval of the site evident in his eyes. He had taught the young man well.
“Right here,” Smoke said. “We’ll build the cabin on that small knoll.” He pointed. “Afford us the best view in the valley and give us some protection as well. See that spring over there?” he asked Nicole. “It feeds into the creek. Comes out under the knoll. We can dig a well and tap into it, or its source.”
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, looking around her.
“Yep,” Preacher teased. “Be a right nice place for a man to start raisin’ a family. Shore would.”
Smoke blushed and Nicole laughed. She had grown accustomed to the mountain man’s teasing, and liked him very much. But it was to the tall young man she more often cast her blue eyes. The thought of him being the much-talked about and feared and hated gunfighter was amusing to her. Smoke was so gentle and shy.
Nicole had a lot to learn about the West and its men. And she was to learn very quickly and harshly—in the time left her.
10
First a house was built, of adobe and logs and rocks, with rough planking and sod for a roof. Smoke would not settle for a dirt floor; instead he carefully smoothed and shaped the logs, which had to be dragged from the forest, which lay to the northeast. The work was hard and backbreaking, but no one complained, except Preacher, who bitched all the time, about almost everything. Neither Smoke nor Nicole paid any attention to him, knowing it was his way and he was not going to change.
Nicole never spoke of leaving, and Smoke never brought it up. Preacher just grinned at them both.
Twice during the summer of ’70, the trio came under attack from the Utes, and twice they were beaten back, with the Utes taking heavy losses from the rifles in the fortlike home on the small hill. Nicole, to the surprise of the men, proved not at all reluctant to learn weapons, and became a better than average shot with a rifle. On the final attempt by the Utes to drive the whites from the land, Nicole showed what backbone she had by knocking a brave off his circling pony, wounding him slightly, then calmly finishing him off with another round. Turning from the peephole, she saw two braves attempting to chop their way in through the back door. She killed them both.
The Utes in the huge valley never again attacked the home, choosing instead to live under a wary peace with the two men and the woman they came to call Little Lightning.
But it was with awe in her eyes that Nicole watched Smoke handle his guns: with calmness and cold deliberation. Death at the end of his arms. Even in haste, he never seemed to hurry, choosing his targets, almost never missing, even at the most incredible range.
Arriving too late to plant a garden, Smoke and Preacher hunted for food, drying and curing the meat for the harsh winter that was ahead of them. When the rough house was up, the well dug, close to the house, and food to last them, Preacher saddled his horse one morning and rigged a pack horse.
“Headin’ east,” he told them. “Over to the Springs, maybe. Mayhaps beyond. They’s things we be needin’. Pump for the kitchen; pipe—other things. I’ll be back—maybe—’fore the first snow. Ifn I ain’t, I ain’t comin’ back till spring. I may decide to winter in the mountains with some old cronies still up there. Don’t know yet. See you younguns later.”
He rode off, not looking back, for if he had done that, Smoke and Nicole would have been able to see the twinkle of mischief in the eyes, the eyes full of cunning and knowledge—of a man and woman and a long winter ahead.
Preacher had decided the young folks needed some time to themselves, and he was going to give it to them. He also wanted to test the wind; see if the legend of Smoke had grown any since the shootings of the past summer. He suspected the stories had mushroomed—and he was right.
Nicole touched Smoke’s arm. “When will he be back?”
“When he feels like it.” Smoke was experiencing a rush of emotions; a sense of loss in the pit of his stomach. This would be the first time in five years he and Preacher would be separated for any length of time. And Smoke knew, although he could never put it into words, he loved the cantankerous old mountain man—loved him as much as he had his own father.
“Why did he leave like that?” Nicole asked. “Without even a fare-thee-well?”
“Lots of reasons.” The young man’s eyes were on the fast disappearing dot in the valley. “He knows he doesn’t have many winters left, and he wants to be alone some—that’s the way he’s lived all his life. And he wants us to have some time together.”
He looked down at the petite woman. She met his gaze.
The wind whistled through the valley, humming around them, touching them, caressing them with a soft, invisible hand, making them more conscious of their being together.
A flush touched her face. “I’ll . . . I’d better see to the breakfast dishes.”
“I’ve got to check on the herd,” Smoke said, keeping his eyes averted. “Keep a gun close by. I’ll be back by midday.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she replied, her voice husky.
He again met her gaze, for the first time seeing a fire among the gentle blue.
It scared the hell out of him.
Smoke spent the morning checking on his herd, looking over the new colts, crisscrossing the valley floor, his eyes alert for any Indian sign. He knew he was stalling, putting off the trip back to the house—and to Nicole. He was not expecting any trouble from the Utes, for when they saw he was not going to be run off the land, and was not—at this time—the forerunner of more whites, they had made gestures of peace toward him, and he had accepted that offer.
Twice he had shared meat he had killed with the Utes. And once he had come upon a young Ute boy who had been badly injured in a fall near Ute Peak. Smoke had spent two lonely nights with the boy, watching over him, tending to his injuries. He had then constructed a travois and carried the boy to his camp.
The years with Preacher had stood Smoke well, for he had slept in countless Indian camps and had learned their ways—as much as any white man could—and Smoke knew sign language, which seemed to be universal among the many tribes.
The next morning he had ridden out of the Indian camp, as safely as he had ridden in. There had been no more trouble from the Utes. But the Ute were not the only tribe in this part of the country; there were Piute, and to the south, Navajo and some Apache. And the Apache were friends to no white man—and damn few other Indians.
In this section of the young nation, if one grew careless, one could get suddenly dead.
He turned Seven’s nose north. Toward the cabin. Toward Nicole.
He stabled the Appaloosa, rubbed him down, and forked hay for him. Then Smoke washed at the stream behind the hill.
Nicole was silent as she ladled beans and venison on their plates, then sat down across the rough-hewn table from Smoke. There was unexpected tension between them. They had been alone before, several times, when Preacher was off wandering; but this was different. They were really alone.
“How’s the stock?” Nicole asked, her eyes fixed on the plate.
“Fine. Two colts growing like weeds. No sign of Apaches. Saw some deer. Didn’t think to shoot. We got food enough for a time.”
After that, conversation did not lag—it died.
Smoke was aware of his heart thudding heavily in his chest. Nicole was nervous, twice dropping her fork. The meal seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. Smoke suddenly noticed she had changed her dress since his leaving that morning. She had put on her best dress. Usually she wore men’s britches she had tailored to fit her. The dress seemed to bring out her womanhood.
Smoke reached for the honey pot to sweeten his coffee and knocked over the clay jug.
“I’ll get it,” they spoke in unison, as honey dripped from the table to the floor.
They both rose and bent down, banging their heads together. Smoke put his hand on the edge of the table for support and it toppled over, dumping him to the floor, everything on the table spilling and pouring on his head and all over her.
“Oh—hell!” Nicole said.
That startled Smoke. It was the first time he’d ever heard a lady swear.
They looked at each other: Smoke, with beans and venison on his head; Nicole, with honey and gravy dripping off her chin. They began laughing and pointing at each other.
He offered his hand and she took it, both of them rising to their feet, slipping in the mess on the floor. He took off his shirt and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the creek, to take a bath. I’ll holler when it’s all clear.”
She smiled, and Smoke was not at all sure he liked the look in her eyes.
Standing in the water, with lather from the waist up, Smoke could not believe his eyes when Nicole appeared on the bank, towels in her hand. He closed his eyes and turned his back, speechless, when she began taking off her stained dress. Then she was by his side.
“Give me the soap,” she said. “I’ll scrub your back.”
“Nicole . . .” he managed to croak.
“Turn around, Smoke—look at me.”
He turned, and she laughed when she saw his eyes were tightly closed.
“You’ll have to open them sometime,” she whispered.
He did.
And there was no more need for words.
* * *
Full dark when he slipped from her side to step out into the coolness of Colorado night. He left Nicole sprawled in sleep in his bed. Smoke rolled a cigarette and lit it, the match explosive in the night. He inhaled deeply.
He felt drained, but yet, ten feet tall. He felt weak, but yet powerful. They had made love, and told each other of their love, for what seemed like hours, on the cool grass of the creek bank. They had bathed and soaped each other, then walked naked back to the house where they made love again. Then they had slept.
In all his young but eventful life, the man called Smoke had never before experienced anything to compare with the sensual events of that afternoon and early evening with Nicole, in the quiet valley.
He stepped back into the house, pulling on his boots and buckling his guns around his lean waist. Shirtless, he stepped back out into the purple night.
He checked the grounds around the house, then the corral and the lean-to that served as a barn. Quiet. It really was an unnecessary move, since Seven would sound an alarm if a stranger approached, but it made Smoke feel better to double check. He went back into the house and stoked up the fire, putting on coffee to boil, the pot hanging on a swivel iron, attached to the fireplace wall. He sensed, rather than heard, Nicole enter the room.
She was barefoot, wearing one of his shirts, and he thought she had never appeared more beautiful.
“Would you like me to fix supper?”
He rose and shook his head. She came into his arms.
“I love you,” he said.
Her reply was a loving whisper; a commitment spoken from the heart.
* * *
Preacher did not return that winter of 1870/71, and although Smoke did not admit his feelings aloud, Nicole knew he was worried about the old mountain man, fearing he might be hurt, or dead.
And it was Nicole who finally eased his mind, calming the unrest in him.
“How old is Preacher?” she asked one evening. A steady rain fell in the valley, occasionally mixed with sleet and snow. The winter had been a hard one, requiring brutal work from both of them just to stay alive.
“He’s pushin’ seventy. Least that’s what he’ll admit to bein’. Getting old.”
“And he’s lived a very long, exciting, and fruitful life. He wouldn’t want to die in a bed, would he? He’d want to pass this life the way he’s lived—in the wilderness. And wouldn’t he be sad if he knew you were sad?”
He smiled, his mood lifting from him. He looked at her, something he never tired of doing. “Yes, Nicole, you’re right. As usual.”
She came to him, sitting very unladylike in his lap, in the wood and rawhide chair, the frame covered with a bearskin. “We’ve got to get married, Smoke.”
“We are. We said we wanted to wait until Preacher came back.”
“Well . . . I’m pretty sure we’re going to have a baby.”
He sat stunned in the chair. “Nicole, we’re better than a hundred miles from the nearest doctor.”
“I went to nursing school, honey. There is nothing to worry about. All I want is for us to be married. I want the baby to have a legal name.”
“Preacher told me there was a little settlement of Mormons just west of here—over in Utah Territory. It’ll be a week there and a week back. Can you stand the ride?”
She smiled and kissed him. “Just watch me.”
* * *
The air was still cool when they rode out of the valley, heading for Utah. But spring was in the air, evident in the leafing trees, the plants, and the flowers that grew wild, coloring the valley. Nicole sat her little mare; Smoke rode Seven.
Nicole looked back at the cabin she had called home for months. “How dangerous is this trip?”
“We might go there and back without seeing an Indian. We might be ambushed ten miles from the cabin. No way to answer that question. I don’t know much about Utah Territory, so we’ll be seeing it for the first time—together.”
They camped on the third night just north of the Hovenweep, near Keely Canyon. They had seen a few Indians on the third day—the first since leaving the valley—Weminuche Ute. But they did not bother the man and woman, but only watched through obsidian eyes, faces impassive. They were armed with ancient rifles and bows and arrows, and perhaps they did not want to risk a fight against the many-shoot rifles of the man and woman; perhaps they did not feel hostile that day; perhaps they were hunting and did not want to take the time for an attack. With an Indian, one never knew.
On the fifth day, Smoke figured they were in Utah Territory—probably had been all day—and the settlement of Mormons should be in sight. But all they found were rotting, tumble-down cabins, and no signs of life.
“Preacher said they were here in ’55,” Smoke said. “Wonder where they went?”
Nicole’s laughter rang out over the deserted collection of falling-down cabins. “Honey, that’s sixteen years ago.” Her eyes swept the land, spotting an old, weed-filled graveyard. “Let’s look over there.”
The last faded date on a rotting headmarker was fourteen years old.
In the largest building of the more than a dozen cabins, they found a rusting tin box and pried open the lid. They found rotting papers that crumbled at the touch.
Smoke took Nicole out into the sunlight. “I know what I’ll do,” he said.
He took a small hammer and a nail from the side pack of his packhorse, carried in case an animal threw a shoe. He built a fire and spent an hour heating and hammering the nail into a crude ring. When it cooled, he slipped it on her third finger, left hand.
The Last Mountain Man Page 11