Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re a…savage, man! A savage, I…say.” He moaned out the last word.

  “I’m a savage, hey?” Preacher said with a smile. “Me and you, John Lucas, we have shore got different interpertutions of that word.”

  “You can’t even…speak proper English,” John gasped.

  “Can too. If I want to.” Preacher finished his coffee and bread and poured another cup. “You want a cup, John Lucas?”

  “No.”

  “It’s gonna be the last one you ever taste on this earth. You reckon they got coffee in hell?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m a baptized Christian.”

  Preacher had him a good laugh at that. “Christian, hey? Church shore ain’t what it used to be.”

  “If I had the strength, I’d kill you!” John Lucas said, blood leaking out of his mouth and nose.

  “Oh, and I wouldn’t blame you, neither. I ’magine I did mess up your day quite a bit.”

  “I feel sorry for my…poor mother.”

  “I do too,” Preacher said solemnly, nodding his head in agreement. “I ’magine it grieved her old heart something terrible to see her boy turn out to be such a rotten no-count scallywag like you. You want me to post a letter to her?”

  “I don’t want you to…do anything ’cept…die, you bastard!”

  “You closer to doin’ that than me, John Lucas. But I will be nice and plant you. I ain’t plantin’ none of these others though. You was kind enough to engage me in civil conversation over vittles, and that was fairly polite, so I’ll bury you.”

  “Oh, Lord!” John shouted. “I’m comin’ home!”

  “I hate to break this news to you, but you shoutin’ in the wrong direction, John Lucas.”

  “I see the light, Lord!” John gasped.

  “Them’s probably the flames of the pits,” Preacher muttered.

  John Lucas belched, broke wind, and died.

  “Hell of a way to check out,” Preacher said, pouring the remainder of the coffee over the fire.

  He then buried the man like he said he would and, using a knife taken from the scabbard of one of the others, Preacher carved into a tree: JOHN LUCAS, 1839. HE WAS A FOOL.

  5

  Preacher took his time tracking the remnants of Bedell and his gang as they headed deeper into the Absaroka wilderness. Wilderness to most of them, home ground for Preacher. He suspected that sooner or later, probably sooner, they would have an ambush set up for him.

  They had to be hurting, for Preacher knew they had precious few supplies left them, and if they had doubled back—which they had not done, as yet—they would have found that Preacher had burned all the supplies he hadn’t taken with him. So far he had heard no shots at all, so they weren’t eating any fresh meat. He didn’t know what they were doing for food, for they were no more than a few miles ahead of him and in this country he would have heard any shots.

  “Goin’ hungry, probably,” he muttered.

  Just then his ever-roaming eyes caught a bit of color that didn’t fit in with the surroundings. He left his saddle about one second before the rifle boomed. Rolling to his knees, Preacher brought his Hawken to his shoulder and sighted in. His shot was true and the man stumbled out of cover, both hands holding his punctured belly, his face pale with pain and shock. Tom Cushing fell to his knees and cried out.

  “You’ve killed me, Preacher!” he screamed.

  “I damn sure tried my best,” Preacher called over the distance.

  Tom Cushing fell forward on his face and began sobbing like a baby.

  Preacher squatted where he was and reloaded. Then he slowly looked all around him. His packhorses were grazing and Thunder, after looking around, joined them. Preacher walked up to the crying man and stood over him. Tom rolled over onto his back and stared up at the mountain man.

  With tears cutting paths through the grime on his face, Tom said, “You played hell with us, Preacher.”

  “You should have took my advice back in Missouri, Tom. I told you to go on home and leave me alone.”

  “You gonna bury me proper and read words from the Good Book over my grave?”

  “I ain’t plannin’ on it.”

  “But you cain’t just leave me for the varmits!” the gut-shot man wailed.

  “Why not? That’s what you’d a-done for me. And don’t say you wouldn’t have. You don’t wanna die with a lie on your lips.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Tom squalled. “My poor body’s gonna be et by a bear.”

  Preacher kicked the man’s rifle away from his reach and threw his pistols into the brush. Then he sat down on a rock and chewed on a piece of jerky. “You best hurry up and expire,” he told Tom. “I ain’t gonna sit around here no two or three days and listen to you complain.”

  “Sweet Baby Jesus!” Tom said. “You the hardest man I ever seen in all my borned days!”

  “You come after me, Tom. I didn’t start this affair. I told you to leave me alone.”

  “Do something for me!”

  “Cain’t. Ain’t nothin’ I can do. Can you move your legs?”

  “No. I can’t feel nothin’ from my waist down.”

  “You’re done for.”

  That really set Tom to hollerin’. He squalled and blubbered, prayed and cussed.

  “If you’ll shut up and stop all that blasphemin’, I’ll bury you proper,” Preacher finally told him. “Way you’re actin’ now, you’re givin’ me a headache.”

  “You promise you’ll see me in the ground proper?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I promise.”

  “Bless you, Preacher.”

  “Just get on with it, Tom.”

  It got kind of rough for Tom toward the end, as Preacher knew it would. But he could work up no sympathy for the man. Folks who choose to ride a dark and twisted trail do so willingly and with full knowledge that at trail’s end lies a violent passage to the other side. But Preacher had to admit that Tom’s end was sort of pitiful. He didn’t go out like a man. One minute he was cryin’ and prayin’, hollerin’ and turnin’ the bloody ground into a revival, the next instant he was gone.

  Preacher had dug the hole while Tom was implorin’ Heavenly choirs to sing him home gently. Preacher had found Tom’s horse and stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and turned him loose. He rolled Tom up in his blanket and laid him to rest, then covered the shallow grave with rocks.

  Preacher took off his hat and looked up at the amazing blue of the skies. “Lord, You do what You’ve a mind to with this sorry piece of crap. That’s all I got to say.”

  He then swung into his saddle and headed out. “One less,” he muttered. “Eight or nine to go.”

  That afternoon, he rounded a curve in the animal trail and whoaed up at the sight before him. Four women were sitting on a fallen log. They had propped their rifles against a tree and their pistols were Iying on the ground a dozen feet from them. Their horses were picketed nearby. The women looked up at Preacher and one said, “I’m Camille. This is Lydia, Nadine, and Melba. We left Bedell. We’re tired, hungry, cold, and lost. We give up. We surrender to you.”

  “Hell, I don’t want you,” Preacher told them. “I wouldn’t even take the lot of you on a bet.”

  “You can’t just leave us here!” Nadine screamed loud enough to shake leaves from the trees.

  Preacher winced and Thunder laid his ears back. Damn whore had a voice that would put a puma to shame. “I’ll give you enough food to see you through and blankets to keep you warm. And I’ll point you in the right direction. Other than that, you ladi…women is on your own.” And God help any Indian who blunders up on you, he added silently.

  To a person, the ladies cussed him loud and long. Preacher swung down from Thunder and faced them. When they had paused for breath, he said, “You cuss me one more time and I’ll leave you out here with just what you got, and you damn well better believe I’ll do it, too.”

  The four whores sat in sullen silence and stared at him. “That’s better,” Preacher told them.
He unloaded supplies and laid them out on the ground. “That way,” he said, pointing.

  “But what if we’re taken captives by the red savages?” Camille hollered.

  “Just squall once or twice,” Preacher replied. “I guaran-damn-tee you they’ll turn you loose faster than you can blink. Injuns ain’t stupid. Goodbye.”

  Preacher got gone from there as fast as he could. The women could not tell him where Bedell and his shrinking band of crud and crap had gone, and Preacher believed them. He didn’t know if the women would make it out of the wilderness, and he didn’t much care. But they had a pretty good chance of making it. They stunk to high heaven and no self-respecting Injun would get within ten feet of them. They were as vicious a lot as Preacher had ever run across and he wouldn’t trust none of them any further than he could throw a grizzly. But he was glad he wouldn’t have to harm no more of them. Shootin’ a woman sort of cut across the grain…even women like them that had thrown in with Bedell.

  Bedell looked at what was left of his gang. The brothers, Slug and Pug, and the two French trappers turned outlaws, Villiers and Pierre. So this was the end of it, Bedell thought. All my fine plans, hopes, and dreams, smashed to naught by a damn ignorant, savage mountain man. He watched as Villiers straightened up from warming his hands over the little fire.

  “This is it for me,” the man announced. “I ain’t runnin’ no more. I been in these mountains for most of my life. And if I’m to die, it’ll be right here.”

  Pierre nodded his head. “I’m with you. I’m tired of bein’ chased.”

  Slug looked at Pug and the brothers slowly nodded their heads. “We’ll stand with you,” Pug spoke for both of them.

  “I’m leaving,” Bedell said, standing up and walking toward his horse. “I’ll not just give up and let that wretched bastard kill me.” He swung into the saddle and rode off, taking one packhorse with him.

  “Good riddance,” Villiers said, watching the man ride away to the east.

  “I never did like that man,” Slug said. “I ain’t got no use for nobody who thinks he’s better than me.”

  “Look at him now,” Pierre said. “Dirty, ragged, and scared.” He laughed aloud as Bedell vanished from view. “Think about it, boys. We had, all told, about a hundred men. And this is what’s left. Squattin’ over a fire in the Absarokas, waitin’ to shoot it out with a human wolf. I…” He stopped as the howl of a timber wolf cut the cold air. Pierre shivered. “There he is, boys.”

  And he was very close.

  Pug looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Can we make a deal with him?”

  Villiers laughed bitterly. “Deal? With Preacher? Forget it. Load up full, boys. Now we really get to see the elephant.”

  Slug stood up in time to catch an arrow directly in the center of his chest. His hands clutched at the arrow for a few seconds, then he fell over backward.

  “No!” his brother screamed, snatching up his rifle and firing it blindly at the timber.

  “Damn fool!” Pierre shouted. “Get down.”

  But the admonition was too late. Preacher’s second arrow took Pug in the neck and dropped him, the bloody point sticking out the other side.

  The two renegade trappers exchanged glances. “Can we talk, Preacher?” Villiers shouted.

  Silence greeted his question.

  “Damnit, man, I didn’t kill your horse!” Pierre yelled.

  A funny-looking arrow came whizzing out of the timber.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Villiers asked. “What’s that tied to the end of it?”

  “It’s a fire arrow,” Pierre said. “Oh, shit!” he hollered. “It ain’t either. It’s a…”

  The bag of black powder exploded. The explosion didn’t do a lot of damage, but it did scare the crap out of the men as it showered them with dirt and burning bits of cloth that Preacher had stuffed in with the powder. Both men instinctively jumped up, slapping at themselves and hollering. It was to be their last jump before slipping into hell. They both realized their mistake too late.

  Preacher shot them both.

  Villiers opened his eyes. He wasn’t in a lot of pain, but he knew he was hard hit. He cut his eyes over to Pierre. He was dead, sitting with his back to a boulder, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He slowly moved his head. Preacher was sitting by the fire, drinking the last of their coffee and staring at him.

  “How bad am I, Preacher?”

  “Lung-shot. I dusted you from side to side. You want some coffee?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Preacher put the cup in his hand.

  “It don’t hurt none, mon ami.”

  “Mayhaps it won’t. You ain’t got long.”

  “We played out our string with the wrong man, didn’t we?” He took a sip of coffee and slipped his left hand behind his sash.

  Preacher smiled. “I tossed away that little pistol of yours, Villiers. Yeah, you shoulda stayed with trappin’. Bedell was a bad choice.”

  “That’s a good little derringer pistol, Preacher. That’s an Ethan Allen.”

  Preacher nodded.

  “Gettin’ dark, Preacher.”

  “I’ll tell the boys you died well.”

  “Merci. Did the others die well?”

  “Not many of them.”

  “That does not come as any surprise to me. They were riffraf.”

  “Got any kin, Villiers?”

  “Non. But thank you for asking.” Villiers began coughing hard. He spit out blood.

  Preacher waited and then asked, “Vic Bedell cut and run, did he?”

  Villiers caught his breath and nodded his head. “Oui. He was a coward. But you watch him, Preacher. Cowards are dangerous when cornered.”

  “I know.”

  The coffee cup had overturned, the hot coffee scalding Villiers’ hand. The man seemed not to notice. Preacher reached over and took the cup. Villiers didn’t notice that, either.

  “I’m glad it was you who did the deed, Preacher. I’m really glad it…”

  Villiers fell back and died.

  Preacher did not bury any of the men. They would not have expected that courtesy and he damn sure didn’t offer it.

  He’d seen Bedell’s tracks and had guessed accurately that Bedell would try for the east. “Run all you want to, Bedell,” Preacher said. “I’m right behind you.”

  6

  Preacher lost the trail.

  He tracked him to Rock Creek, and then the trail went cold. He just couldn’t believe it. Preacher hadn’t lost a trail in years. He sat on Thunder and did some fancy cussin’, turnin’ the air fairly blue. But he still knew Bedell was headin’ straight east, so that’s the direction Preacher took. It was getting cold. Preacher headed south and west, making about twenty-five to thirty miles a day. By the time winter struck its first hard blow, he was out of the high country and onto the plains, heading east. Not that it wasn’t cold on the plains, for it damn sure was. But nothin’ like bein’ caught ten thousand feet up and the temperature seventy below zero and the winds screamin’ at better than fifty miles an hour.

  Preacher stopped at an Indian village and swapped his spare packhorses for a new set of buckskins, and they was fancy ones, too. He’d save them to wear when he hit the civilized middle of the nation. A couple of days out of the village, some young bucks come along lookin’ for a fight. There was four of them, and they wanted to impress the girls. Preacher spoke to them in sign language and they relaxed when they learned who he was and what he was doing. Preacher continued on without incident.

  He rode across Missouri in the middle of winter, and he marveled at the nice roads. Why, they was even graded ever’ now and then to smooth them out. Folks back here sure lived an easy life.

  And St. Louis liked to have plumb startled him out of his ’skins. The place was boomin’. People ever’where and both the gentlemen and their ladies walked around all gussied up and fancy lookin’.

  Didn’t take Preacher long to get his fill of that place. Some
folks was beginnin’ to look down their snooty noses at him. By talking with tavern owners that knew him from the past, and trappers who were now in other businesses, Preacher learned that Bedell had come through. He had conned money out of some people and headed on east. One of Preacher’s old friends told him on the quiet that he’d heard that Bedell was heading for the southern part of Ohio.

  “Totin’ guns is rapidly becomin’ a thing of the past once you cross the Mississippi, Preacher,” a friend told him. “Law and order is the thing now.”

  “They leave me alone and I’ll damm shore leave them alone,” was Preacher’s reply.

  He pressed on, determined to find Bedell.

  He rode the ferry ‘crost the Mississippi and stepped onto Illinois soil. It was like a whole new world to the man who had spent nearly his entire life in the wilderness. He hadn’t ever seen so many people. They were everywhere he looked. And they was all lookin’ at him! He didn’t understand how anybody could ever get any rest with all the commotion. Why, you couldn’t ride an hour on the roads without seein’ somebody a-foot, or in a wagon, or on a horse. Damned if he’d want to live like this.

  In a small town just across the Wabash, Preacher had his first run-in with civilization. He had stopped at a tavern on the edge of town, a coach stop, for a glass of ale and a plate of food. He had become accustomed to the stares and whispers from people and didn’t pay much attention to it anymore. He had cut his hair and shaved, leaving only a mustache, and he had bought himself a new hat in St. Louis. Other than that, he still wore his buckskins and high-topped Apache moccasins. If people didn’t like the way he dressed, they could all just go right straight to hell.

  He heard the door open and felt the blast of cold air. But he did not turn around to see who it might be. He just wasn’t that interested.

  “Who owns that funny-looking, rump-spotted horse in the livery?” a loudmouth asked.

  Preacher took him a swig of ale and turned his head. A big-bellied man wearing a star on his chest stood in the center of the room. Preacher took a dislike to him right off. He knew the type and had no use for them. “I do, lard-ass,” he told the man. Then he resumed his eating.