Venom of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, they might be somebody I know,” Preacher said. “I’ve made a few enemies in my time, you know.”

  Hawk snorted as if to say that was quite an understatement.

  “What about the horses?” he asked.

  “Horse ain’t goin’ anywhere without me and Dog, and that pony of yours will stay with him. So will the mule.”

  Taking his usual long-legged strides, Preacher started toward the hill.

  As he walked, he looked around for any other signs of impending trouble. The landscape was wide open and apparently empty. Two hundred yards to the south, the Missouri River flowed eastward, flanked by plains and stretches of low, rolling hills. Preacher didn’t see any birds or small animals moving around. The earlier gunfire had spooked them, and it would be a few more minutes before they resumed their normal routine. The animals were more wary than Preacher, probably because they didn’t carry guns and couldn’t fight back like the mountain man could.

  “Since you ain’t gonna recognize either of those carcasses, as you pointed out your own self, you keep an eye out while I check ’em.”

  Hawk responded with a curt nod. Preacher left him gazing around narrow-eyed and strode up the hill.

  The man who had fallen down the slope and wound up in the open lay on his back. His left arm was flung straight out. His right was at his side, and the fingers of that hand were still dug into the dirt from the spasms that had shaken him as he died. He wore buckskin trousers, a rough homespun shirt, and high-topped moccasins. His hair was long and greasy, his lean cheeks and jaw covered with dark stubble. There were thousands of men on the frontier who didn’t look significantly different.

  What set him apart was the big, bloody hole in his right side. Preacher could tell from the location of the wound that the ball had bored on into the man’s lungs and torn them apart, so he had spent a few agonizing moments drowning in his own blood. Not as bad as being gutshot, but still a rough way to go.

  Remembering how close a couple of those shots had come to his head, and how the ambushers had almost killed his son, too, Preacher wasn’t inclined to feel much sympathy for the dead man. As far as he could recall, he had never seen the fellow before.

  The one lying in the brush under the trees at the top of the hill was stockier and had a short, rust-colored beard. Preacher’s swiftly fired shot had caught him just below that beard, shattering his breastbone and probably severing his spine, too. He was dead as could be, like his partner.

  But unlike the other man, Preacher had a feeling he had seen this one before. He couldn’t say where or when, nor could he put a name to the round face, but maybe it would come to him later. St. Louis was a big town, one of the biggest Preacher had ever seen, and he had been there plenty of times over the years. Chances were he had run into Redbeard there.

  Now that he had confirmed the two men were dead and no longer a threat, he looked around to see if they’d had any companions. His keen eyes picked up footprints left by both men, but no others. Preacher crossed the hilltop and found two horses tied to saplings on the opposite slope. He pulled the reins loose and led the animals back over the crest. Hawk stood at the bottom of the hill, peering around alertly.

  Preacher took a good look at his son as he approached the young man. Hawk That Soars. That was what his mother had named him. She was called Bird in a Tree, a beautiful young Absaroka woman Preacher had spent a winter with, two decades earlier. Hawk was the result of the time Preacher and Birdie had shared, and even though Preacher had been unaware of the boy’s existence until recently, he felt a surge of pride when he regarded his offspring.

  With Preacher’s own dark coloring, he hadn’t passed along much to Hawk to signify that he was half-white. Most folks would take the young man for pure-blood Absaroka. He was a little taller than most warriors from that tribe, a little more leanly built. His long hair was the same raven black as his mother’s had been.

  One thing he had inherited from Preacher was fighting ability. They made a formidable pair. Months earlier, to avenge a massacre that had left Hawk and the old man called White Buffalo the only survivors from their band, father and son had gone to war against the Blackfeet—and the killing hadn’t stopped until nearly all the warriors in that particular bunch were dead.

  Since then, they had been trapping beaver with White Buffalo and a pair of novice frontiersmen, Charlie Todd and Aaron Buckley, they had met during the clash with the Blackfeet. During that time, Todd and Buckley had acquired the seasoning they needed to be able to survive on their own, and they had decided to stay in the mountains instead of returning to St. Louis with the load of pelts. Preacher, Hawk, and White Buffalo would take the furs back to sell. Todd and Buckley had shares coming from that sale, and Preacher would see to it that they got them when he and Hawk made it back to the Rocky Mountains.

  White Buffalo had surprised them by choosing to remain with a band of Crow they had befriended while they were trapping. Cousins to the Absaroka, the Crow had always gotten along well with Preacher and most white men. They had welcomed Preacher, Hawk, and White Buffalo to their village . . . and White Buffalo had felt so welcome he had married a young widow.

  Preacher had warned the old-timer that the difference in age between him and his wife might cause trouble in the sleeping robes, but White Buffalo had informed him haughtily, “If she dies from exhaustion, I will find another widow to marry.”

  You couldn’t argue with a fella like that. Preacher and Hawk had agreed to pick him up on their way back to the mountains, if he was still alive and kicking, and if he wanted to go.

  That left just the two of them to transport the pelts downriver to St. Louis. Preacher figured they were now within two days’ travel of that city on the big river, and so far they hadn’t had any trouble.

  Until today.

  Hawk heard him coming and turned to watch him descend the rest of the way.

  “Two men,” Hawk said as he looked at the horses Preacher led. “Both dead.”

  “Yep.”

  “Old enemies of yours?”

  Preacher shook his head. “Nope. One of them sort of looked familiar, like maybe I’d seen him in a tavern in the past year or two, but the other fella I didn’t know from Adam.”

  “Then why did they try to kill us?”

  Preacher pointed at the heavily laden pack mule standing with Horse and Hawk’s pony and said, “Those pelts will fetch a nice price. Some men ask themselves why should they go all that way to the mountains, endure the hardships, and risk life and limb when they can wait around here and jump the fellas on their way back to St. Louis. I can’t get my brain to come around to that way of thinkin’—if you want something, it’s best just to go ahead and work for it, I say—but there are plenty of folks who feel different.”

  Hawk grunted. “Thieves. Lower than carrion.”

  “Well, that’s all they’re good for now.”

  Hawk nodded toward the horses and asked, “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Take them with us, I reckon. We can sell them in St. Louis.”

  “If those men have friends, they may recognize the animals and guess that we killed the men who rode them.”

  Preacher blew out a contemptuous breath. “Anybody who’d be friends with the likes of those ambushers don’t worry me overmuch.”

  “And what about the dead men themselves?”

  “Buzzards got to eat, too,” Preacher said, “and so do the worms.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Preacher’s estimate was correct. Two more days on the trail found them approaching St. Louis. Above the point where the Missouri River flowed into the Mississippi, he and Hawk crossed the Big Muddy on a ferry run by a Frenchman named Louinet, a descendant of one of the trappers who had first come down the Father of Waters from Canada to this region a hundred years earlier.

  Preacher saw the wiry, balding man eyeing the two extra horses and said, “Found these animals runnin’ loose a couple days ago, back upstream. You hav
e any idea who they might belong to?”

  Louinet shook his head. “Non. Since you found them, I assume they are now yours.”

  “Reckon so. I just figured I’d get ’em back to whoever rightfully owned ’em, if I could.”

  “If those animals were running loose with saddles on them, then the men who rode them almost certainly have no further need for them.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Preacher said with a grim smile.

  He wasn’t worried about who the two ambushers had been, but if Louinet had been able to give him some names, it might have helped him watch out for any friends or relatives of the dead men. But if they came after him and Hawk, so be it. They had only defended themselves and hadn’t done anything wrong. Preacher was the sort who dealt with problems when they arose and didn’t waste a second of time fretting about the future. It had a habit of taking care of itself.

  That attitude was entirely different from being careless, though. Nobody could accuse Preacher of that, either.

  Once they were on the other side of the river, Preacher and Hawk rode on, with Hawk leading the string that consisted of the pack mule and the extra mounts. They didn’t reach St. Louis until dusk, and as they spotted the lights of the town, Hawk exclaimed softly in surprise and said, “They must have many campfires in this village called St. Louis.”

  “Those ain’t campfires,” Preacher said. “They’re lights shinin’ through windows. Lamps and lanterns and candles. You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Windows, like in the trading posts where we stopped from time to time?”

  “Sort of, but a lot of these have glass in ’em.” Hawk just shook his head in bafflement, so Preacher went on, “You’ll see soon enough, when we get there.”

  More than likely, window glass wouldn’t be the only thing Preacher would have to explain to his son before this visit was over. This was Hawk’s first taste of so-called civilization, which held a lot of mysteries for someone accustomed to a simpler, more elemental life.

  As they rode into the settlement sprawled along the west bank of the Mississippi, Hawk gazed in wonder at the buildings looming in the gathering shadows. He wrinkled his nose and said, “Ugh. It stinks.”

  “You’re smellin’ the docks and the area along the river,” Preacher said. “It’s a mite aromatic, all right. There are a lot of warehouses along there full of pelts, and not everybody’s as careful about cleanin’ and dryin’ ’em as we are. They start to rot. Then you’ve got spoiled food and spilled beer and lots of folks who ain’t exactly as fresh as daisies. It all mixes together until you get the smell you’re experiencin’ now.”

  Hawk shook his head. “The high country is better.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me about that, boy . . . but this is where the money is.”

  “This thing you call money is worthless.”

  “Oh, it has its uses, as long as you don’t get too attached to it. Your people trade with each other, and it’s sort of the same thing.”

  “We trade things people can use,” Hawk said. “It is not the same thing at all.”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” Preacher said. “You’ll learn.”

  And the youngster probably would learn some things he’d just as soon he hadn’t, the mountain man thought.

  The pelts were the most important thing to deal with, so Preacher headed first for the local office of the American Fur Company. Founded by John Jacob Astor in the early part of the century, the enterprise had grown into a virtual monopoly controlling all the fur trade in the United States. In recent years, the company had declined in its influence and control, a trend not helped by Astor’s departure from the company he had started. But it was still operating, led now by a man named Ramsay Crooks, and Preacher knew he wouldn’t get a better price for the furs anywhere else.

  Despite the fact that night was falling and some businesses were closing for the day, the office of the American Fur Company, located in a sturdy building with a sprawling warehouse behind it, was still brightly lit. Preacher reined Horse to a stop in front of it and swung down from the saddle.

  “Tie up these animals and keep an eye on ’em,” Preacher told Hawk. “I’ll go inside and talk to Vernon Pritchard. He runs this office, unless somethin’s happened to him since the last time I was here.” He added, “Dog, you stay out here, too.”

  Preacher wasn’t sure it was a good idea to leave Hawk alone on the streets of St. Louis, but the youngster had to start getting used to the place sooner or later. Besides, Dog wouldn’t let anything happen to him or any of the horses. Preacher took the steps leading up to the porch on the front of the building in a couple of bounds, then glanced back at Hawk, who was peering around wide-eyed, one more time before going into the building.

  A man in a dusty black coat sat on a high stool behind a desk, scratching away with a quill pen as he entered figures in a ledger book. He had a tuft of taffy-colored hair on the top of his head and matching tufts above each ear, otherwise was bald. A pair of pince-nez clung precariously to the end of his long nose. He looked over the spectacles at Preacher and grinned as he tried to straighten up. A back permanently hunched from bending over a desk made that difficult.

  “Preacher!” he said. “I didn’t know if we’d see you this season.”

  “You didn’t think anything would’ve happened to me, did you, Henry?”

  “Well, of course not,” the clerk said. “You’re indestructible, Preacher. I fully expect that forty or fifty years from now, you’ll still be running around those mountains out there, getting into all sorts of trouble.”

  Preacher laughed. “I’m gonna do my best to prove you right.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right now, though, I’ve got a load of pelts out there. Vernon around to make me an offer on ’em?”

  Henry’s smile disappeared and was replaced by a look of concern. “You just left them out there?”

  “Dog’s guardin’ ’em. And I told my boy to keep an eye on ’em, too.”

  “You have a partner now?”

  “My son,” Preacher said.

  That news made the clerk look startled again. He hemmed and hawed for a moment and then evidently decided he didn’t want to press Preacher for the details. Instead he said, “Mr. Pritchard is in the warehouse. You can go on around.”

  “Thanks.” Preacher paused. “Henry, why’d you say that about me leavin’ the pelts outside, like it wasn’t a good idea?”

  “St. Louis has gotten worse in the past year, Preacher. There are thieves and cutthroats everywhere. I hate to walk back to my house at night.” Henry reached down to a shelf under the desk and picked up an ancient pistol with a barrel that flared out at the muzzle. He displayed the weapon to Preacher and went on, “That’s why I carry this.”

  “Put that sawed-off blunderbuss away,” Preacher said. “You’re makin’ me nervous.”

  “Preacher being nervous.” Henry shook his head. “I’ll never live to see the day.”

  Preacher lifted a hand in farewell and went back outside. Just as he stepped onto the porch, he heard a harsh voice say, “Damn it, Nix, Jenks, look at that. That’s a redskin sittin’ there with a nice big load o’ pelts. Hey, Injun, where’d you steal them furs?”

  Preacher paused and eased sideways, out of the light that spilled through the door. He drifted into a shadow thick and dark enough to keep him from being noticed easily. He wanted to see what was going to happen.

  Hawk had dismounted long enough to tie the animals’ reins to the hitch rail in front of the office, then swung back up onto his pony, which he rode with a saddle now rather than bareback or with only a blanket, the way he had when he was younger. He stared impassively at the three men who swaggered toward him but didn’t say anything.

  They were big and roughly dressed. Preacher could tell that much in the gloom. He didn’t need to see the details to know what sort of men they were. The clerk had warned him about the ruffians now making St. Louis a dangerous plac
e, and Preacher knew he was looking at three examples of that.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, redskin,” continued the man who had spoken earlier. “I want to know where you stole them furs. I know good an’ well a lazy, good-for-nothin’ Injun like you didn’t work to trap ’em.”

  Hawk said something in the Absaroka tongue. The three men clearly didn’t understand a word of it, but Preacher did. Hawk’s words were a warning: “You should go away now, before I kill you.”

  One of the men laughed and said, “I guess he told you, Brice—although I ain’t sure just what he told you.”

  Brice, the one who had spoken first, stepped forward enough so that the light from the doorway revealed the scowl on his face. He said, “Don’t you jabber at me, boy.” He waved an arm. “Go on, get outta here! You don’t need them furs. Leave them here for white men, and those horses, too.” He sneered. “You can keep that damn Injun pony. It probably ain’t fit to carry a real man.”

  After spending months with Preacher, Charlie Todd, and Aaron Buckley, Hawk spoke English quite well. Only occasionally did he stumble over a word or have to search for the right one. So Preacher knew Hawk understood everything Brice said.

  He also knew that Hawk had a short temper and probably wasn’t going to put up with much more of this.

  Brice came closer. “Are you not listenin’ to me, boy? I said git! We’re takin’ those pelts.”

  “They are . . . my furs,” Hawk said in English, slowly and awkwardly as if he wasn’t sure what he was saying. “Please . . . do not . . . steal them.”

  In the shadows on the porch, Preacher grinned. Other than that, he was motionless. Hawk was baiting those would-be thieves, and Preacher had a pretty good idea what the outcome was going to be. He wouldn’t step in unless it was necessary.

  “Don’t you mouth off to me, redskin,” Brice blustered. “Get outta here, or you’re gonna get the beatin’ of your life.”

  “Please,” Hawk said. “Do not hurt me.”