Return of the Mountain Man

5

“When you gonna tell the boy you still alive and kickin’?” Beartooth asked the mountain man who had been following Buck.

He was called Beartooth because he didn’t have a tooth in his mouth. And hadn’t had in forty years. No one knew what his Christian name was, and it wasn’t a polite question to ask.

“I might not never,” the mountain man said. “He thinks I’m dead. Might be best to keep it thataway. I’m only goin’ in if and when he needs help.”

“He’ll need help,” Dupre said. “Plenty guns up at Bury. And they all going to be aimed at your friend.”

Dupre had drifted up from New Orleans in the late ’20s. His accent was still as thick as sorghum.

“You ain’t seen Smoke—’scuse me, Buck—git into action,” the mountain man said. “He’s hell on wheels, boys. Best I ever seen. And I seen ’em all.”

“Don’t start lyin’, Preacher,” Greybull said.

Greybull was a mountain of a man. It took a mule to pack him around.

“What do you think about it, Nighthawk?” Preacher asked.

“Ummm,” the old Crow grunted.

“Whutever the hell that means,” Tenneysee said. “Damned Injun ain’t said fifteen words in the fifty year I been knowin’ him.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“Might make the lad feel better if’n he knowed you was still breathin’,” Pugh said. Pugh was commonly referred to as “Phew!” He hated water. “Then again,” Pugh said. “It might make him irritable. He probably said all sorts of kind words ’bout you. An’ thinkin’ of enough kind words ’bout you to bury you probably took him the better part of a month.”

“Phew,” Preacher said. “Would you mind changin’ positions just a tad. Right there. Don’t move. Now the wind is right. Why don’t you take a bath? Damn, you’d make a vulture puke.”

“Well, if you ask me—” Audie said.

“Nobody did,” Beartooth said. “Hell, nobody can see you.”

Audie was a midget. About three and a half feet tall. And about three and a half feet wide. He was a large amount of trouble in a very compact package.

“As I was saying,” Audie said, “before your rudeness took precedent.” Audie had taught school in Pennsylvania before the wanderlust hit him and he had struck out for the west, on a Shetland pony. When the Indians had seen him, they’d laughed so hard they forgot to kill him. “I think it best that Preacher keep his anonymity for the period preceding our arrival in Bury. Should Preacher reveal his living, breathing self to the young man, it might prove so traumatic as to be detrimental to Jensen’s well-being.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said, nodding his head in agreement.

“Whut the hale’s far you shakin’ your head about, you dumb Injun?” Greybull said. “You don’t know no more whut he said than us’ins do.”

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“Whatever Audie said, I agree with him,” Matt said. Matt was a Negro. Big and mean and one-eyed.

Matt was probably the youngest man present. And he was at least sixty-five. He had lost his eye during a fight with an angry mountain lion. Matt had finally broken the puma’s back.

“Good Gawd, Audie!” Deadlead said. “Cain’t you talk American? What the hell did you jist say?”

Deadlead had earned his nickname from being a crack shot with a pistol. Like most of the mountain men, no one knew what his Christian name was.

“Ummm,” Nighthawk said.

“I say we break camp and meander on up towards Bury,” Powder Pete said. “Old as we is, some of us might not make the trip if we wait much longer.”

“I opt fer that myself,” Tenneysee said. “What do you say, Nighthawk?”

“Ummm.”

“I’ll not have this town filled up with would-be gunhands looking to make themselves a reputation,” Marshal Dooley said. “Get your truck together and hit the trail, West.”

“Friendly place you have here, Marshal,” Buck said with a double-edged smile.

“Yes, it is,” Dooley said, ignoring the sarcasm in Buck’s tone. “Something about you invites trouble, boy.” He waved a hand absently. “I know, I know. You didn’t start the fight. And I understand from talking with witnesses you even tried—slightly—to back away from it. That’s good. But not good enough. Clear out, West.”

“In the morning soon enough?”

Dooley wavered. He nodded his head. “Stay out of the saloons tonight and be gone by dawn.”

Buck stepped out of the office onto the boardwalk. He didn’t object to being asked to leave town. He didn’t blame the law. It was time to be moving on. And there was no point in delaying his departure until morning. Buck was getting that closed-in feeling anyway. And so was Drifter. Last time he’d looked in on the animal, Drifter had rolled his eyes and tossed his head. And then proceeded to kick in the back of his stall.

Buck walked to the hotel, gathered up his gear, and headed for the stable. He had bought his supplies earlier and was ready to go.

“Ready to go, Drifter?” Buck asked the stallion.

Drifter reared up and smashed the front of his stall.

“Guess so,” Buck mumbled.

The band of mountain men met Lobo at the base of Grey-rock Mountain, about halfway between the Sawtooth Wilderness area and Challis. Lobo briefed the men on what he’d seen in town.

It was rumored that Lobo had once lived with wolves.

“Faster than greased lightnin’,” Lobo said. “I never seen nothin’ like it afore in my life. An’ the lad didn’t even blink an eye doin’ it.”

“Tole you!” Preacher said to the men, grinning.

“Don’t start braggin’,” Powder Pete told Preacher. “It’s bad ’nuff jist havin’ to look at you.” Powder Pete was so called because of his expertise with explosives.

“Did the law run him out of town?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t hang around to see. Law might ask him to leave. But if that there boy gits his back up, there ain’t nobody gonna run him nowheres.”

“Wal, les’ us just sorta amble on toward the northeast,” Preacher said. “If I know Smoke—and I do, I raised him—he’ll take his time gettin’ to Bury. He’ll lay back in the timber for a day ’er so and look the situation over. We’ll cross the Lost River Range, head acrost the flats, and turn north, make camp in the narrows south of Bury. I know me some Flatheads live just west of Bitterroot. Once we set up camp, I’ll take me a ride over to the Divide, palaver some with ’em. They’ll be our eyes and ears. That sound all right to you boys?”

“Quite inventive,” Audie said.

“Ummm,” Nighthawk grunted.

Buck crossed the Salmon to the east bank and began following the river north. He stayed on the fringe of the timber that made up the northern edge of the Lemhi Range. He would follow the river for about thirty-five miles before cutting to the east for about ten miles. That should put him on the outskirts of Bury. Once there, he would make camp south of the town and look it over.

The dozen mountain men, with about six hundred years of survival and fighting experience between them, were riding hard just south of Challis. With their rifles held across the saddle-horns, their fringed buckskins and animal-hide caps and brightly colored shirts and jackets and sashes, the last of the mountain men were returning for one more fight. They were riding hard to help—if he needed it—the youngest mountain man. One of their own. A young man who had chosen the lonely call of the wilderness as home. A young man who preferred the high lonesome over the towns and cities. A young man they had taken under their wing and helped to raise, imparting to him the wisdom of the wilderness, hopefully perpetuating a way of life that so-called civilized people now sneered at and rejected. This gathering, this aging motley crew, knew they were the last—the very last—of a select breed of men. After this ride, never again would so many gather. But hopefully, just maybe, their young protege would live on, known for the rest of his life, as the last mountain man.