Butchery of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Del Norte, Colorado—Fall 1870

Preacher was walking toward a saloon when he saw a young man wearing a brace of pearl-handled pistols.

“Hey, grandpa! You a little old to be out by yourself, ain’t you?”

Preacher didn’t say a word in response to the young punk, nor did he look at him, or even change his stride. But as he walked by, he drove the butt of his rifle into the loudmouth’s stomach. The young man bent over double, puking in the street. Unable to resist, Preacher pulled the two pistols from the loudmouth’s holsters. He dropped the pistols into the horse trough, then went into the saloon, where he ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser.

A moment later the town marshal came into the saloon and stepped up to the bar.

“You’re the one they call Preacher, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You have a young friend, a gunman named Smoke, I believe. Thought you might like to know that the bounty’s been upped. Someone’s wantin’ him real bad.”

“Who is it that’s a-wantin’ him?”

“That would be Potter, Stratton, and Richards. Potter is into politics, Richards is in mining and cattle, and Stratton owns the town of Bury. They want the boy, and they got the money to get the job done. What did the boy do, to get ’em so mad?”

“He knows where a lot of gold is buried, gold that them three stole from the Confederacy, then the boy’s papa stole back from them,” Preacher said.

“I figured it had to be somethin’ like that. There’s a couple of gunfighters out on the front porch, Felter and Canning, and they got some more hardcases with them, camped just north of town.”

“I thank you,” Preacher said.

Preacher left town a short while later.

He knew he was being watched, but he thought it was Indians, and the Indians didn’t worry him, because, for the most part, he and the Indians had gotten along well for the last fifty years. He was surprised when he felt a hammerblow to his shoulder, the heavy slug tearing through the tissue to come out his back.

“Get him alive, don’t kill him! He can tell us where Jensen is!” someone shouted.

Preacher felt a second slug tear into his leg, careen off his leg bone, then rip a big hole in his hip, taking a piece of bone with it. Now Preacher saw the three men who were following him. He snaked his Henry from the sheath, and began firing, jacking new a new shell into the chamber after each shot, getting off three rounds in less than four seconds. Two of the men were knocked from their saddles, and he knew that it had been killing shots that took them down. He shot the horse of the third man and it went down, crushing its rider beneath him.

With the three men down and Preacher badly wounded, he rode on, barely able to stay in the saddle. When night came he picketed his horse and wrapped himself up in a blanket, not sure if he would live through the night, but determined to do so, so he could warn Smoke.

Old Main Building

“Preacher did survive the night, and though I don’t know how he did it, managed to stay alive long enough to get back to the cabin I had built for Nicole and me,” Smoke said.

“He was badly shot up, his leg was infected, I don’t know how he could stand the pain. Finally he put on his best buckskins, then telling us good-bye, rode off, presumably to die.”

“But he didn’t die then, did he?” Professor Armbruster asked.

“No. For the life of me, I don’t know how he survived, but he did.”

“Then, your baby was born?”

“Yes, the baby was born with the first snow that winter, and we named him Arthur, after Preacher. There was nobody there but Nicole and me. She told me how to cut the umbilical cord. I did that,” Smoke chuckled, “then she sent me outside because she thought I was getting sick.

“We were taking a chance on staying there, but I knew that as long as the passes were filled with snow, that the bounty hunters looking for me wouldn’t be able to get through. That meant that, for the time being at least, we were safe . . . but come spring we were going to have to move.

“Then, come April, just before we were going to leave, a really bad thunderstorm broke, and it scattered the herd of horses we were raising. I had to get them back. I hated leaving Nicole and the baby but . . .” Smoke stopped speaking for a moment, and waved his hand.

The professor moved the toggle switch on the speaker box. “Wes, hold it for a moment, would you?” Professor Armbruster said.

“Yes, sir,” Wes replied, his voice coming back over the box.

“Take your time, Smoke.”

“It’s been fifty-two years,” Smoke said. “You wouldn’t think I would still feel it this intensely. I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense, you have nothing to be sorry about,” Professor Armbruster replied. “Some memories are so firmly embedded that they aren’t just a part of our minds, they are also a part of our souls.”

“Yes. I love Sally, very much, and we have had a wonderful marriage. But there will always be a part of me that loves, and misses, Nicole and our baby.”

“Would you like a drink of water? A cup of coffee?”

“A cup of coffee would be good.”

Again, Professor Armbruster spoke into the box. “Wes, we’re going to take about a half-hour break.”

“Very good, sir.” Wes replied.

Smoke followed Professor Armbruster into the staff and faculty lounge, where there was a table on which stood a big coffeemaker and a large silver tray of doughnuts.

Professor Armbruster drew a cup of coffee and handed it to Smoke, then made another for himself. Smoke walked over to look through the window, out onto the campus. He saw half a dozen young men wearing raccoon coats, straw hats, and white spats, and he chuckled.

“Raccoon coats,” he said. “They came along too late for the trappers of my generation. Beaver and marten, that’s all anyone wanted then. About the only thing coon was good for was eating, and making caps. Now look.”

“It started back East in the Ivy League schools,” Professor Armbruster said. “Now, no college man is worth his salt if he isn’t wearing a raccoon coat.”

“Preacher and John would have had a big laugh over this.”

“Have you ever seen a football game, Smoke?” Professor Armbruster asked.

“I’ve seen a few of the high school games in Big Rock. The Trappers, they call themselves.”

“Yes, we’ve gotten some players here, from Big Rock. Have you ever seen a college game?”

“No.”

“You absolutely have to see one while you are here. I do hope you and Mrs. Jensen will be my guests for the football game this weekend.”

“Yes, we would be pleased to come to the game,” Smoke said.

A car drove up in front of the building, a Model T Ford, sporting fox and raccoon tails and bearing painted signs: STRUGGLE BUGGY, 23 SKIDOO, IT’S THE BERRIES, IT’S A LOLLAPALOOZA, and of course, GO BUFFALOS, referring to the Colorado football team.

The driver, who was also wearing a raccoon coat, squeezed the bulb on the horn mounted on the door of his car, and several laughing young men and women hurried toward him.

Smoke shook his head as he watched them, and wondered how many of them could survive one year in the Rockies on their own. He finished his coffee, then took the empty cup back.

“Professor, I’m ready to go back, if you are.”

“Absolutely,” Professor Armbruster replied.