Butchery of the Mountain Man

CHAPTER SIX

Cholon—November 1867

The five captured Black Flag soldiers were tried and condemned. They walked to their death without tremor or hesitation. They were chatting together, and chuckling, as if they were going to some sort of social event, instead of their own execution. They threw curious glances at those who were gathered to watch them die, the witnesses not there by choice, but by command.

They were ordered to stand five meters apart, and they did so, spitting out the red juice of the narcotic betel leaves they were chewing. Behind them, and not seen by the condemned men, the five executioners, all wearing black hoods and carrying wide-bladed swords, approached them. A French officer stood in front of the five men for a moment, then shouted, “Vive la France!”

That was the signal, and at the shout all five executioners swung their blades at the same time. The severed heads of the prisoners bounced off the cobblestone square, as the headless bodies tumbled forward.

Later that same afternoon, John was standing at a window in the headquarters building in Cholon, looking down at the Saigon River. A large boat was docked at a pier, an eye painted on the bow in order to allow the boat to see, and avoid, demons. A young man wearing a conical straw hat was squatted on the bow, working with fishing net.

“Bun mae! Bun mae!” The haunting calls came from an old woman who was walking the cobblestone road alongside the river, calling out for customers to buy the hot, small baguettes of bread she was selling. A man, pushing a cart that contained a steaming cauldron of soup, was using a young boy to advertise his product, the young boy walking in front, beating sticks together in a precise rhythm that was the specific signature of this man’s soup.

[This was probably very similar to the Annam soup now known as pho, though in fact pho did not become an Annam staple until 1907. It is very likely that the soup peddler Jackson refers to here was Chinese, as Cholon had already become a center for Chinese immigrants into Annam.—ED.]

John watched as customers bought both the bread and the soup. It was nearly time for lunch and he wished he could be down there on the riverfront, buying the soup and bread, rather than standing here, awaiting his appointment with General de Lattre.

What did de Lattre want? He had asked that question of Capitaine Ernest Doudart de Lagrée, his new commanding officer, but de Lagrée told him that he didn’t know.

“I am but a capitaine. Generals do not consult with me.”

“Private Jourdain,” a sergeant said. “General de Lattre will see you now.”

John nodded, then stepped into the general’s office. De Lattre had piercing dark eyes, and a vandyke beard.

“Private Jourdain reporting as ordered,” John said, saluting the general. The general made a casual return of the salute.

“Private Jourdain, I am pleased to report that I am sending you back to Paris, where you will receive the Légion d’Honneur, the highest award that can be given to a member of the Foreign Legion.”

“Why?” John asked.

John’s response was totally unexpected, and the general looked up in surprise.

“Why? You ask why? It is because of your heroic stance in the battle so recently fought.”

“General, I wasn’t a hero, I was a survivor,” John said. “If anyone is to get the medal, it should be Capitaine Beajou, Sergeant Major Dubois, and the sixty-one others who died in the battle.”

“Your hesitancy to accept the medal is commendable, Sergeant Jourdain.”

“I’m a private, sir.”

“You were a private. I have promoted you to sergeant. And, as I was saying, your hesitancy to accept the medal is commendable, but it is being awarded to you precisely because you are still alive. You will go back to Paris, be awarded the medal, be given two weeks of leave, then assigned as a recruiter to bring other young men into the legion.”

“To come to Algeria, or Indochina to die gloriously?” John asked.

“Yes, yes! You do understand!” General de Lattre said.

What was obvious to John at that moment was that General de Lattre didn’t understand that John was being sarcastic.

“You are happy to go to Paris, are you not?”

“Yes, General. I am happy to go to Paris.”

Old Main Building

“And did John go to Paris?”

“Oh, yes.”

“All of this happened before you and John Jackson ever met, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I must confess that in my own research, this is new to me. I never knew that he had been a member of the French Foreign Legion. Also, I am curious. How is it that you can speak in great detail and with such authority about events that transpired before the two of you met?”

Smoke chuckled. “Professor Armbruster, this is just a guess, mind you, but I would be willing to bet that you have never wintered in the mountains with just one other person.”

Armbruster laughed. “You would win that bet,” he said.

“Well, when there are just two of you, in a small twelve-by-twelve cabin, and you spend an entire winter together—sometimes snowed in for days at a time—all you can do is talk. There is very little about John’s life that I don’t know. And, though at the time I had very little history of my own to share, there was little of my life that John didn’t know.”

“I wonder why John never told anyone else about his experience with the French Foreign Legion. There is, after all, a certain élan about that. You would think it would be something he would speak of with a degree of pride.”

“It wasn’t a part of his life that he was particularly proud of,” Smoke said. “For one thing, he didn’t feel all that good about being part of a military establishment that was depriving a people of their freedom. And for another thing, he wasn’t proud of being a deserter.”

“A deserter?”

“Yes, the enlistment period for serving in the legion was five years. John served less than one year. When he returned to Paris to accept the Légion d’Honneur he was given a two-week leave. During that leave, he boarded a ship at Le Havre, bound for Southampton, England, and from there, took a ship back to the United States.”

“All this you are telling me about John Jackson, the difficulty he was having in adjusting from the war, and his time with the Foreign Legion, was before you met him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I’m curious, Smoke. You say you had very little history of your own at the time, but hadn’t you already located, and, uh, dealt with, the men who killed your father and brother?”

“Yes.” Smoke’s answer was nonspecific.

“I’ve read about that. The man’s name was Casey, wasn’t it?”

“It was. Ted Casey.”

“You found him,” Professor Armbruster said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.”

“Oh, yes, I found him, all right.”

“Since your story is so inextricably related to John’s story, I wonder if you would share with me, for the purposes of my research, just what happened when you found Casey. I think that, for future historians, having the story in your own words would be invaluable.”

“All right,” Smoke said. “It started with Prosperity.”

“Prosperity? You mean when you became a wealthy man?” Professor Armbruster asked.

Smoke laughed. “No, I’m not talking about prosperity with regard to wealth. I’m talking about a town that was named Prosperity. On the banks of the Cuchara River, it was a ranching and farming community, with a rather grandiose sign posted just outside the town limits with the proud boast:

COME WATCH US GROW

WITH PROGRESS

AND PROSPERITY

IN Colorado

[The town of Prosperity no longer exists. It was one of many such towns in the emerging western United States of the nineteenth century. Some grew and died within a matter of a few months, towns that boomed with gold fever, then went bust when the gold played out . . . or more often, when the promise of gold never bore fruit.

Prosperity was not a gold town, but rather a town that had been born on the promise of a railroad. At its peak, Prosperity had a population of 1,325. It lasted for three years, then when it became obvious that there would be no railroad, it disappeared quickly. The 1890 census listed its population as 25. By 1900 it was listed only as a “populated place” and by 1910, even that mention was gone.—ED.]

Prosperity, Colorado

The city marshal, having seen Smoke approaching from some distance away, met him just outside of town.

“Welcome to Prosperity, stranger,” the marshal said. “The name is Crowell, Marshal Crowell.” He put his hand to his badge, even though Smoke had already seen it.

“Marshal,” Smoke said, touching the brim of his hat.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Marshal Crowell said.

“Folks call me Smoke.”

“Smoke?” The Marshal chuckled, more in dismissal than in humor. “That’s it? Smoke? Smoke what?”

“I’ve been spending some time in the mountains,” Smoke said. “One name is all anybody needs up there.”

“Well, Smoke, if you’re just makin’ a friendly visit to my town, then you’re welcome,” Crowell said. “But if you’re comin’ here for any other reason, well, I’m goin’ to have to ask you to just keep ridin’.”

“I’m looking for a man named Casey,” Smoke said. “Ted Casey.”

“What do you want with him?”

“That’s my business.”

“I’m the law here’bouts,” Crowell said. “I reckon that makes it my business.”

“Is that a fact?”

“You know what, mister, I don’t much like your attitude,” Crowell said. “Why don’t I just . . . ?”

That was as far as Crowell got. He was reaching for his gun, but stopped in mid-draw and mid-sentence when he saw the pistol in Smoke’s hand.

“What the hell?” Crowell gasped. “I didn’t even see you draw!”

“Like I said, where is Casey?” Smoke asked. He neither raised his voice, nor made it more menacing. Ironically, that made his question all the more frightening.

Crowell hesitated for a few seconds. “His ranch is southeast of here, on the flats. You’ll cross a little creek before you see the house. I ought to warn you, though, he’s got several men workin’ for him, and they’re all good with a gun. Maybe not as fast as you, but there’s only one of you.”

“You got an undertaker in this town?” Smoke asked.

“Of course we do. Why would you ask?”

“I’m about to give him some business,” Smoke said.

Ten miles out of town, Smoke encountered two rough-looking riders.

“You’re on private land,” one of the men said. “Turn your horse around and git.”

“You’re not being very hospitable,” Smoke said.

“Don’t intend to be. Strangers ain’t welcome here.”

“I’m looking for Ted Casey.”

“You deef or somethin’? I told you to git.”

“I’m looking for Ted Casey,” Smoke repeated.

“What do you want with Casey?”

“Just to renew an old friendship from the war,” Smoke said.

“From the war?” one of the men said with a laugh. “Boy, you’re still wet behind the ears. You ain’t old enough to have been in the war.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t very clear. I’m actually looking him up for my pa.”

“What was your pa’s name?”

“Jensen,” Smoke said. “Emmett Jensen.”

“Jensen?”

“Yeah. You remember him, don’t you?” Smoke said. His words were calm and cold.

“Kill ’im!” one of the riders shouted, and both grabbed for their guns.

They were too slow; Smoke had his pistol in his hand and he fired twice, the shots coming so close together that there was no separation between them.

The two riders were dumped from their saddles, one dead, the other dying. The dying rider pulled himself up on one elbow. Blood poured through his chest wound, pink and frothy, indicating that the ball had passed through a lung.

“Figured when we killed your pa that would be the end of it,” he said. He forced a laugh, and blood spattered from his lips. “You’re good, a hell of a lot better ’n your brother. Casey shot him low and in the back. It took him a long time to die too. I enjoyed watchin’ him. He was a coward, squealed like a pig and cried like a little girl.”

Smoke made no reply.

“So was your pa a coward.”

Smoke was quiet.

“What’s the matter with you?” the rider asked. “You just goin’ to let me talk about your folks like that? You’re yellow.”

Smoke turned his horse and rode around the two men, following the road in the same direction from which the two riders had come.

“Shoot me!” the rider shouted. “You yellow-bellied coward, don’t leave me here to die like this! Shoot me!”

Smoke continued to ride away. Thirty seconds later he heard a gunshot, the sound muffled by the fact that the shooter had put the barrel in his own mouth.

Smoke didn’t bother to look around.