Butchery of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Old Main Building

After Smoke finished with his account of the encounter with Fast Lennie Moore, he, Professor Armbruster, and Wes went into the faculty lounge, where they had coffee and freshly made bear signs.

Over coffee, Smoke told them about the Jordan automobile he had bought for Sally, and Wes, particularly fascinated by it, asked him all sorts of questions, most of which Smoke couldn’t answer.

“I’m not all that familiar with modern gadgets,” Smoke said. “For example, I’m barely able to understand how a telephone works, let alone a radio, or even how, when I speak into the microphone, you can play my voice back to me. All I know is that the man who sold the car said it had a sixty-five horsepower engine. But I don’t understand that either, because even if you hooked sixty-five horses to the machine, they wouldn’t be able to run at seventy miles an hour. The car will run seventy miles an hour though. I know this, because I drove it that fast.”

Professor Armbruster and Wes laughed.

“Well,” Armbruster said as he put his cup down. “Are you ready to continue the account of John Jackson?”

“Yes,” Smoke said.

The three men returned to the recording studio, and as soon as Wes was ready, he gave the sign to Professor Armbruster.

“What happened after John burned the cabin, in effect cremating his wife and child?”

“John went on the warpath,” Smoke said. “That’s what happened.”

Montana—1872

John saw smoke drifting up through the trees ahead, and he heard the sound of Indians talking. He had no idea whether these were the same ones who raided his cabin or not, but he didn’t care. They were Crow, and it had been Crow Indians who had killed Claire and Kirby. And in John’s anger and hatred, all Crow were the same.

Pulling his pistol, he urged his horse into a gallop, heading straight for the campfire of the Indians. He didn’t know how many were there, and he didn’t care. He intended to kill as many of them as he could before he was killed, and the idea that he might be killed disturbed him not in the least.

With a loud and enraged scream, John burst into the clearing. There were three Indians sitting around a fire, cooking some kind of meat. They looked around at John in shock and fear.

John began shooting. He killed two of them instantly, but the third managed to get to his feet and start running.

John put his pistol away and took out a hatchet that hung from his belt. Easily overtaking the running Indian, John swung his ax, blade first. He split open the fleeing Indian’s skull, and his brains began pouring from the wound, even before he fell.

John left him where he lay, and he returned to the campfire to make certain than the two he had shot were dead.

They were dead, and John dismounted and stared at their bodies, wondering what he could do to send a signal to the other Indians, to let them know that this was more than just a random killing.

Then he recalled something Claire had once told him.

“To the Crow, the liver is the most important part of the body,” she had said. “Without it, they don’t believe they can make it to the afterlife.”

John carved open the stomach of one of the Indians, then he cut out his liver. He did the same with the other two. Then, he skewered the three livers on a stick, and put them over the fire to cook.

Once they were cooked, he took a small bite from each of the livers, then cut the rest of them up in small pieces and scattered them about to be consumed by animals and insects.

The Indians had been cooking a rabbit, and he ate what he could, then wrapped the rest of it up in a piece of cloth and took it with him.

Two days later he saw a couple of Crow Indians hunting, and he rode quickly to be able to put himself in position in front of them. He waited until they were almost on him, then he suddenly jumped out in front of them, shooting them both.

Again, he carved out their livers, and again, he roasted them over a fire, taking but one small bite from each of the livers before carving them to spread them around.

Fort Shaw

“He’s doing what?” Major Clinton asked, shocked at the report that had been delivered by two old mountain men.

“He’s killin’ Injuns ’n he’s eatin’ their livers,” Emerson said.

“Who is doing that?”

“Whoever it is that’s doin’ it,” Seth replied. Seth was one of the two mountain men who had come to the fort.

“You don’t know who it is that’s supposed to be doing this?”

“There ain’t no supposed to be doin’ it about this. Whoever it is, is actual doin’ it,” Seth said.

“You’re telling me that someone is killing Indians, and eating their livers,” Clinton said.

“Yep, but not all Injuns. From what we’re a-hearin’, it’s only the Crow that’s gettin’ their livers et,” Seth said.

“Is it supposed to be a white man who is doing this?”

“That’s what the Injuns is sayin’,” Emerson said.

“Well now, that just doesn’t make any sense at all,” Major Clinton said.

“Well, yeah, it does when you stop and think about it,” Emerson replied. “You see, most Injuns don’t pay that much attention to such things. Oh, they figure if they take a scalp, well you’ll be wanderin’ around in the Happy Hunting Grounds without your hair. But now the Crow, they figure you can’t even get there at all if you ain’t got your liver.”

“Where did you hear about this?”

“It’s all over the mountains,” Seth said. “All the other trappers, all the peaceful Injuns, is all a-talkin’ about it.”

“An’ here’s the thing, Major, this has got all the Injuns spooked. So far whoever it is, is only killin’ the Crow,” Emerson said. “But what if he is somebody who’s suddenly got hisself a big taste for Injun liver? ’Cause I reckon when you get right down to it, one Injun liver probably tastes pretty much like any other Injun liver. So if this here Liver-Eatin’ feller can’t get him a Crow, why, more ’n likely he’d settle for just any Injun.”

“Leastwise, that’s more ’n likely what all the other Injuns is thinkin’ right now, the good ones an’ the bad ones,” Seth said.

“But so far he has just been killing Crow, right?” Clinton asked.

“That’s right,” Emerson said.

“There must be a reason.”

“I figure it’s revenge,” Seth said. “Whoever it is that’s a-doin’ this was more ’n likely done wrong by the Crow. And he’s doin’ this to get back at ’em.”

“You men have your ear to the ground. Have you heard about anything that the Crow may have done to get someone angry enough to do this?”

“Hell, Major, the Crows is always a-doin’ somethin’,” Emerson said. “I ain’t got enough fingers and toes to cipher up how many men I know that’s got a bone to pick with the Crow. Includin’ me, but I ain’t the one that’s a-doin’ this.”

“I ain’t either,” Seth said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ you that whoever is doin’ it, I say, good for him.”

“We need to find out who this is,” Major Clinton said. “And when we find out, we need to put a stop to it.”

“What fer?” Emerson asked. “The Crow is some damn evil Injuns. And I figure whoever it is that’s a-doin’ this, is doin’ us all a favor.”

“No,” Major Clinton said. “Don’t you see? Whoever is doing this could set off a full-scale Indian war.”

“Yeah, I reckon he could at that.”

“You must do what you can to find out who this is, so we can find him and put a stop to it,” Clinton said.

In the village of Iron Bull

“It is a ghost,” Running Bear said. “It is a ghost and he can stay alive only as long as he can eat the livers of the ones he has killed.”

“We must kill him before he kills any more of us,” Iron Bull said.

“You cannot kill a ghost,” Running Bear insisted.

“And so, what would you have us do, Running Bear? Would you have us continue to give him the liver of Apsáalooke to eat?”

“We must do something,” Brave Horse said. “Our women and our children are frightened, and they cower and weep in the lodges.”

“There will be much honor to the one who kills Liver Eater,” Iron Bull said.

“There will be much honor to the one who kills Liver Eater.” The words of Iron Bull resonated in Two Leggings’s mind as he searched for Liver Eater.

“Hear me, people of the Apsáalooke!” Iron Bull would say at the council fire. “We are here to speak aloud the name of Two Leggings! Songs will be sung and his name will be spoken in all the lodges because of his bravery!”

Two Leggings composed Iron Bull’s speech as he waited on the trail for Liver Eater. He had seen Liver Eater earlier, coming toward the mountain. He would have to come along this trail on the only pass that would let him through. And when he did, Two Leggings would be waiting for him.

Two Leggings began to chant, quietly, the song of a warrior.

“As a warrior I must go bravely into those dark places within myself. I must learn the truth of my being. It takes much courage to do this, and I have the courage within.”

Two Leggings knew that in order to have the greatest honor in the campfire circle, he must kill Liver Eater with his own hands, and not shoot him from afar. He could hear Liver Eater approaching, and he climbed onto a rock and waited.

John saw several birds fly from the trees just ahead of him. Something had spooked them and though he knew it could have been a mountain lion, or a wolf, or even a coyote, it put him on guard. If it was a coyote he would run when John approached. And, more than likely, even a mountain lion or a wolf would give him room, if there was no food source to contend.

But John felt a tingling in his skin, an awareness that was beyond that of any animal. He had seen nothing more than the sudden flight of birds, but he had a distinct impression that someone was waiting for him in the path ahead. And, just as strongly, he believed that it was only one person.

John loosened the pistol in his holster. Unlike his friend Smoke, John had never mastered the art of the quick draw. But even as he thought about that, he chuckled, because he realized that no one was Smoke’s equal in the speed with which he could draw his pistol.

John was an excellent shot with pistol and rifle, and for his purposes, that was enough.

As John was deep in contemplation he rode by a large rock. Suddenly, and without warning, an Indian leaped down from the rock, grabbing John and knocking him off his horse. The horse whinnied and moved ahead quickly, its steel-shod shoes clacking loudly on the rocky pathway.

John felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as he, and the Indian who had a tight hold on him, hit the ground. He reached for his pistol, hoping to be able to pull it and shoot the Indian at point-blank range, but the pistol was no longer in his holster.

John and the Indian rolled around on the ground, each trying to get the advantage of the other. The Indian was holding a war club, but John was holding on to him so securely that he couldn’t free his arm to use it. But if the Indian couldn’t use his war club, neither could John free his hand long enough to get to his Bowie knife.

The two rolled on the ground for a moment, then John was able to bend his knees and get his feet into the Indian’s stomach. Because he was on his back, beneath the Indian, it gave him leverage and he straightened his legs, throwing the Indian away from him.

Quickly, John got to his feet and pulled his knife. The Indian had regained his own feet almost as quickly, and now the two men were facing each other. John was in a crouch and armed with a knife, which he was holding low with the blade parallel to the ground; the Indian was more upright, and he was holding a war club.

They moved around each other in a rather macabre dance, the Indian making a few motions with the war club, while John merely moved his knife back and forth like the head of a coiled rattlesnake.

Suddenly the Indian, with the club raised over his head, rushed at John. John leaned to one side so that when the Indian brought the club down, he missed. John counterthrusted with his knife, and the blade penetrated the Indian’s stomach all the way to the hilt.

John withdrew the blade then, and as the Indian clamped both his hands over the belly wound, John made a slicing motion, cutting the Indian’s throat. The Indian collapsed, and died quickly. John removed the Indian’s liver, threw it away, then remounted and rode on.