“It’ll have to do,” he said. “Close as I can make us to being really married.”
She kissed him and said, “Let’s go home.”
11
Preacher was sitting on the rough bench in front of the cabin when they rode into the yard. He was spitting tobacco juice and whittling on a piece of wood.
“Howdy,” he greeted them, as if he had been gone only a day instead of months. “Where you two younguns been?”
“We might ask you the same question,” Smoke replied.
“Ramblin’. Seein’ God’s country in all its glory.”
“We got married,” Nicole said proudly, showing him her nail ring.
“Right nice,” he acknowledged, looking first at the ring, then into her eyes. “You with child, girl?”
She blushed. “Yes, sir.”
“Figured ya’ll get into mischief while I’s gone. Tain’t no big deal; I helped birth dozens of papooses in my time. Woman does all the work; man just gets in the way. Who spoke the words?”
“Nobody,” Smoke said. “Couldn’t find a minister. Went all the way into Utah Territory looking.”
“Well . . . I always believed it was what was in your hearts that counted. Knowed you was in love when I seen you fall off your horse.”
“I didn’t fall off my horse!”
“Did, too.”
“Did not!”
“I’ll go fix supper,” Nicole said.
When she had closed the door to the cabin, Preacher said, “Good thing you didn’t ride east, boy—warrants out for you all over the place.”
They walked to the lean-to and stabled the horses, rubbing them down with burlap. Preacher gave Smoke the news.
“Got warrants for you with your pitcher on ’em at the Springs and at Walsenburg. Don’t ride no further east than the Los Pinos—you hear?”
Smoke looked at him, then opened his mouth to protest.
“You married now, son. You got ’sponsibilities to that there woman who’s a-carryin’ your child. And you got men huntin’ you. That there Potter and Richards . . . ’mong others. Price on your head, too. Big money. They some ’fraid of you, boy—or something like it.”
“It’s a mystery to me. What’d you hear about Potter and Stratton and Richards?”
“They all up in Ideeho Territory. Up in the wild country. All live in or around a town called Bury.”
“B-e-r-r-y?”
“No. Like you plant somebody in the ground. Way I got the story, Smoke, your Pa rode in that there town like a wild man, reins ’tween his teeth, both hands full of Colts. Kilt three or four, wounded two-three more, and took a right smart ’mount of gold them men took from the Rebs. Way I heared it, no one knowed him up there in Bury, so he hung around for a week or two ’fore he made his move, listenin’ till he learned where the gold was.”
“Wonder what he did with the gold?”
Old eyes studied the young man. “You interested in it?”
“Not in the least.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
“If they leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.”
“It ain’t gonna work thataway, boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You got bounty hunters sniffin’ your back trail. They’s at least three thousand dollars on your head, dead or alive. All of it put up by them three men up in the territory. That’s big money, boy—big money. That’s why I come back so soon. Got to have somebody watchin’ your back.”
“Don’t those bounty hunters know the truth about me? About what happened to Pa and Luke?”
“They don’t care, son. They after the money and to hell with how they earn it. Most bounty hunters is scum. I’d shoot a bounty hunter on sight—take his hair.”
“We’re going to raise horses here, Preacher. Run some cattle directly. You and me and Nicole. We’re going to raise a family, and our children will need a grandfather—that’s you, you old goat.”
“Thank you. Nicest thing you’ve said to me in months.”
“I haven’t seen you in months!”
“That’s right. You keep them guns of yourn loose. When the girl gonna birth?”
“November, she thinks.”
“Just like a woman. Don’t never know nothin’ for sure.”
* * *
The summer passed uneventfully, with Smoke tending to his huge gardens and looking after his growing herd of horses. Preacher hunted for game, curing some of the meat, making pemmican out of the rest.
In the first week of July, much to Preacher’s disgust, Nicole sent him off to the nearest town for some canning jars.
“What the hell is a cannin’ jug?”
“Jars,” she corrected. “They have screw-down, airtight lids. They keep food fresh and good tasting for months.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Probably,” Smoke said, saddling Preacher’s pony.
“And don’t forget the lids,” Nicole reminded him. “And the vinegar. And you come right back, now, Preacher. No dillydallying around, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said sourly. “And don’t fergit the lids!” he mimicked under his breath. “ Shore hope none of my compadres see me doin’ this. Never live it down.”
He continued to mutter as he rode off. “I fought a grizzly bear and won one time,” he said. “Now I’m runnin’ errands to git jug lids. Ain’t nobody got no respect for an old man.”
If anyone else had called him an old man, Preacher would have dented his skull with the butt of his Henry.
The nearest town of any size—other than the Springs, and Preacher could not go there; too many people knew him and might try to track him back to Smoke—was Del Norte, located just a few miles south of the Rio Grande, on the eastern slopes of the San Juan Forest.
He knew of a town being built at the site of old Antoine Robidoux’s trading post, up close to the Gunnison, but he doubted they would have any canning jars and lids, so he pointed his pony’s nose east-northeast, to avoid settlements as much as possible. He rode through the western part of the San Juan’s, across the Los Pinos, through the Weminuche, then followed the Rio Grande into Del Norte—a long bit of traveling through the wilderness. But Preacher knew all the shortcuts and places to avoid.
As Preacher rode into town, coming in from the opposite direction, deliberately, his eyes swept the street from side to side, settling on a group of men in front of a local saloon. Most were local men, but Preacher spotted two as gun-hands.
He knew one of them: Felter. An ex-army sergeant who had been publicly flogged and dishonorably discharged for desertion in the face of the enemy; the enemy being the Cheyenne up in the north part of the state. But Preacher knew the man was no coward—he just showed uncommon good sense in getting away from a bad situation. After his humiliation and discharge from the army, Felter had turned bounty hunter, selling his gun skills—which were considerable—to the highest bidder. He was an ugly brute of a man, who had killed, so it was said, more than twenty men. He was quick on the draw, but not as quick as Smoke, Preacher knew. Nobody he had ever seen or heard of was that quick. He cut his eyes once more to Felter. The man had been accused of rape—twice.
The other man standing beside Felter looked like Canning, the outlaw. But Preacher was not sure of that. If it was Canning, and he was riding with Felter, they were up to no good—and that was fact.
In a general store, Preacher sized up the shopkeeper as one of those pinch-mouthed Eastern types. Looked like he might be henpecked, too.
Preacher bought a little bit of ribbon for Nicole to wear in her hair, and some pretty gingham for a new dress—she was swellin’ up like a pumpkin.
“Got any cannin’ jars?”
The shopkeeper nodded. “Just got a shipment of those new type with the screw top. Best around.”
“Can you pack ’em for travel over some rough country—headin’ east?” Preacher lied.
“I can.”
Preacher ordered several ca
ses and paid for them. “Put ’em out back. I’ll pick ’em up later on. My old woman is ’bout to wart me plumb to death. Up to her bustle in green beans and sich. Know what I mean? Never should have got hitched up.”
“Sir.” The shopkeeper leaned forward. “I know exactly what you mean. By all that is holy, I do.”
“Walter!” A shrill voice cut the hot air of the store. “You hurry up now and bring me my tea. Stop loafing about, gossiping like a fisherwoman. Hurry up!”
Preacher cringed at the thought of being married to someone who sounded like an angry puma with a thorn in its paw. God! he thought, her voice would chip ice.
“Walter!” the voice squalled from the rear of the store, causing the short hairs on the back of Preacher’s neck to quiver.
Black hatred flashed across the shopkeeper’s face.
“Git you a strap,” Preacher suggested. “Wear ’er out a time or two.”
The man sighed. “I have given that some thought, sir. Believe me, I have.”
“Good luck,” Preacher told him. He walked out into the street, his Henry cradled in his arms.
A young man in a checkered shirt, a bright red bandanna tied about his neck, dark trousers tucked into polished boots, and wearing two pearl-handled pistols, grinned at the mountain man.
“Hey, grandpa! Ain’t you too old to be walkin’ around without someone to look after you? You likely to forget your way back to the old folks’ home.”
The barflies on the porch laughed. All but Felter. He knew the breed of men called mountain man, and knew it was wise to leave them alone, for they had lived violently and usually reacted in kind.
Preacher glanced at the young would-be tough. Without slowing his stride, he savagely drove the butt of his Henry into the loudmouth’s stomach. The young smart aleck doubled over, vomiting in the street. Preacher paused long enough to pluck the pistols from leather and drop them in a horse trough.
“You run along home, now, sonny,” Preacher told him, over the sounds of retching and the jeering laughter of the loafers on the porch. “Tell your Ma to change your diapers and tuck you into bed. You ’pear to me to need some rest.”
Preacher stepped into the dark bar, allowed his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom, and walked to the counter, ordering whiskey with a beer chaser.
The batwings swung open, boots on the sawdust-covered floor. The marshal. “Trouble out there, old-timer?”
“Nothin’ I couldn’t handle, young-timer.”
The marshal chuckled. “Calls himself Kid Austin. He’s been overdue for a comedown for some time. Thinks he’s quite a hand with those fancy guns.”
Preacher glanced at the lawman. “He’ll never make it. They’s a lot of salty ol’ boys ridin’ the hoot-owl trail that’ll feed them guns to him. An inch at a time.”
The marshal ordered a beer, then waited until the barkeep was out of earshot. He put his elbows on the bar and said softly, “You’re the Preacher; man who rides with the young gun, Smoke. Don’t talk, just listen. The bounty’s been upped on your friend’s head. That’s the word I get. Someone up in the Idaho Territory is out to get Smoke.”
“Potter, Stratton, and Richards.”
“That’s right. Potter is big . . . politically. Richards is in mining and cattle. Stratton owns the town of Bury. Those two gunfighters on the porch, Felter and Canning, work for those three men. They got a bunch of hardcases camped just north of town. When you leave, and I hope it’s soon, ride out easy and cover your trail.”
“Thanks.”
“No need for that. I just know what happened in the war, that’s all. Can’t abide a traitor.”
Preacher glanced at him.
“Since that first shooting, back at the mining camp, the story’s spread. I reckon all the way to the Idaho Territory. But there’s more. Your friend has a sister named Jane—right?”
“He don’t speak none of her.”
“Well, she’s up in the territory now.”
“Let me guess: She’s in Bury.”
“Yeah. She’s Richards’s woman. He keeps her.”
“I’ll tell him.”
When Preacher rode out of Del Norte, he did so boldly, not wanting to implicate the shopkeeper, maybe leaving him open to rough treatment from Felter or Canning. Poor fellow had enough woes to contend with from that braying wife. Preacher picked up his jars, secured them well, then rode out to the east.
He didn’t think he was fooling anybody, for Felter knew him; knew he was friends with the young gunfighter. He would be followed.
Preacher rode easy, constantly checking his back trail. He rode across the San Luis Valley, slowly edging north. No one alive knew Colorado like the Preacher, and he was going to give his followers a rough ride.
By noon of the second day, Preacher had spotted his trackers. He grinned nastily, then headed his horses toward the Great Sand Dunes. If any of those behind him had any pilgrim in them, this is where Preacher would cut the sheep from the goats.
He skirted the southernmost part of San Luis Creek, filled up his canteens and watered his horses, and grinning, headed for the dunes. On the east side of the lake, Preacher pulled into a stand of timber, carefully smoothed out his trail with brush and sand droppings, then slipped back and waited.
He watched two men, neither of them Felter or Canning, lose his trail and begin to circle. Leaving his horses ground reined, he worked his way to the edge of the timber until he was close enough to hear them talking.
“Damned ol’ coot!” one of them said. “Where’d he go?”
“Relax,” his partner said. “The boss’s got twenty men workin’ all around. We got him boxed. He can’t get out.”
Old coot! Preacher thought. Your Ma’s garters I can’t get out!
“Relax, hell! I want that five thousand dollars.”
The ante was going up.
“How much is on the ol’ fart’s head?”
Old fart! Preacher silently raged.
“Nothin’,” the meaner-looking of the pair said with a grin. “It’s the gunfighter Richards and them want. That old man ain’t worth a buffalo turd.”
Buffalo turd! Preacher almost turned purple.
“We’ll take the old man alive, make him tell where the kid’s at, then kill him.”
You just dug your own grave, Preacher thought.
The two men sat their horses. They rolled cigarettes. “How come all this interest in this Smoke? I ain’t never got the straight of it.”
“Personal, way I heard it. The kid’s sister is Richards’s private woman up in Bury. I ain’t never been there so I can’t say if she’s a looker. Probably is. Then they’s the gold.
“Seems the kid’s brother was a Reb in the war, on a patrol bringin’ gold in for the South. Richards and them others killed the Rebs and took the gold—’bout a hundred or so thousand dollars of it. ’Bout three-four years back, the kid’s Daddy comes a-bustin’ into Bury—’fore it was a town proper—and killed some of Richards’s men. Took back some of the gold. ’Bout forty thousand of it, so I heard—but some of it was dust that had been recently washed. Richards thinks the kid has it . . . wants it back and the kid dead.”
Preacher grinned. He had thought all along Emmett buried the gold with him. Smart man.
Preacher jacked back the hammer of his Henry and blew both men out of the saddle. “Call me an old fart and a buffalo turd, will you!”
Preacher rode hard to the north, following the creek, going from first one side to the other, many times riding down the middle of the creek to hide his horses’ tracks. Just south of the small settlement called Crestone, Preacher headed west, across the valley, undercutting another settlement between the San Luis and the Saguache Creeks. He was out of supplies when he reached Saguache. Picketing his pack animals just outside of town, he rode in, just in time for a hanging.
In the early 1870s, almost every third building in the town was a saloon, and it was a rough and rowdy place. Preacher rode to a general store, got his
supplies, and asked who was getting hanged, and for what?
“Some tinhorn gambler named Anderson. Killed a man last night during a card game. Fellow caught him cold-deckin’ and braced him. Gambler had one of them little belly guns. Had the trial this mornin’. Judge and jury and all. Lasted forty minutes. Jury deliberated for five minutes. You wanna come watch him swing?”
“Thanks. I best be travelin’. Headin’ east,” he lied.
“Best be glad you ain’t headin’ west, lots of hardcases thataway. Lookin’ for that outlaw gunfighter and murderer Smoke Jensen. Got six thousand dollars on his head and the ante’s goin’ up.”
“I’m too old for that kind of nonsense,” Preacher said. “Leave the hard ridin’ and the gunsmoke to the young bucks.”
“I know what you mean.” The shopkeeper laughed, patting his ample belly. “’Sides, with me it’d be unfair to the horse!”
Outside of town, Preacher swung wide and headed west, into the Cochetopa Hills, then south into the wilderness, then angled southwest, straight through some of the wildest and most beautiful country in the world. Days later, in the Needle Mountains, he was ambushed.
* * *
He felt he was being watched as he rode, but figured it was Indians—and Indians didn’t worry him, since most of them thought him to be crazy, and he could usually ride through them, singing and cackling.
The slug that almost tore him from the saddle hit him in the left shoulder, driving out his back. Preacher slammed his heels to his pony’s side and, keeping low in the saddle, headed for a hole he knew in the mountains. Through his pain, he could hear men yelling off to his right.
“Get him alive! Don’t kill him.”
But “getting Preacher” took more doing than the men chasing him had. Another rifle barked, the slug hitting him in the leg, deflecting off his leg bone and angling upward, ripping a hole when it exited out his hip, taking a piece of bone with it. Savagely reining his pony, Preacher leveled his Henry. He emptied two saddles and shot the horse out from under a third rider, grinning with grim satisfaction as the horse fell on the man, crushing him. The man’s screamings ripped through the mountains. Preacher slipped away, hunting a hole where he could tend to his wounds; he was losing a lot of blood.
The Last Mountain Man Page 12