The First Mountain Man (25 page)

“Save this poor creature, Lord!” Edmond shrieked and Ballard and Preacher both jerked.

“He's just getting' warmed up, Ballard,” Preacher warned. “I'm a-tellin' you.”

“I can't take much of this. I wanted some quiet prayin' for my soul. Not no revival. Listen, Preacher. They's a bunch of missionaries done build them a church just north of the Blues,” Ballard said. His voice was getting weaker. “They got the Cayuses all stirred up. Even some of the real small tribes is smearin' on war paint. Be careful.”

“We'll do it, Ballard. You rest easy on that.”

“I think I'll just give up the ghost, Preacher.”

“Whenever you're ready, Ballard. I'll plant you deep. That's a promise.”

“Preacher?”

“Right here.”

“I can't lift the jug, ol' hoss. Ain't this a pitiful way for a man to go out?”

“I don't know of no real good way.”

“You do got a point.”

Edmond was shoutin' salvation and damnation to those gathered around.

“See you, Preacher,” Ballard said.

“See you, ol' son.”

The mountain man closed his eyes and died.

10

Preacher, Beartooth, Dupre, Nighthawk, and Jim wrapped the dead mountain man in his robes and carried him deep into the brush and timber.

“Do you want any of us to accompany you?” Richard asked.

“No,” Preacher told him. “We'll do this private.”

“I think I understand now,” the missionary said.

Preacher looked at him and smiled. “Yeah, Richard, I think you do myself. You've come a far ways, and I ain't talkin' about distance in miles traveled.”

“Thank you, Preacher.”

Preacher studied him for a moment. “You come on and you go with us, Richard. I think you've earned that.”

The men dug a deep hole and planted Ballard, covering the grave with rocks. Richard said a very short and quiet prayer, and it was over.

“When I go to the Beyond,” Nighthawk said, “I want to be buried Indian way. Remember that, all of you.”

“Damned heathen,” Beartooth said with a grin.

“Makes me closer to the Gods,” the Crow said. “Much better than having to dig out of the earth.”

Richard was thoughtful as they walked back to the wagons. “He does have a point.”

Edmond was still preaching when they returned.

“Long-winded feller,” Preacher remarked. “But the folks seem to be enjoyin' it. Never took to no lengthy sermons myself. I recollect my pa sayin' that he figured more souls was won in the first five minutes of a sermon and more souls was lost in the last five minutes.”

Richard was in quiet agreement with that.

“Too much talk about gods and spirits makes head hurt,” Nighthawk said.

“Let's take a long look at this crossin',” Preacher said. “'Cause it sure ain't gonna be easy.”

It took five days of brutally hard work to build the rafts and get across the flood-swollen river. There were a lot of cuts and bruises and badly strained muscles, but fortunately no broken bones.

Within a few more years, the Hudson's Bay Company would have one small ferry boat operating there. The movers would pay three dollars a wagon to cross. By then, most of the area Indians would be “tamed”—with only an occasional uprising and massacre of the settlers—and the Indians would swim the river with the stock, moving them along. But that was years ahead.

On the afternoon of the first day past the river, Swift galloped up to Preacher. “Two families have pulled out, Preacher. They say they're going to stay right here. They're not going any further.”

The news came as to no surprise to the mountain man. He'd been expecting something like this for weeks. “They's actin' like damn fools by doin' it, but I ain't gonna waste no time jawin' with 'em. Leave 'em be.”

“Man, they'll die out here!”

“That's their problem. I didn't sign on to hold nobody's hand. 'Sides, they got a chance of survivin' here. They's cabins all over the wilderness. Life'll be hard for 'em, but they could make it.”

“That's all you've got to say on the subject?”

“There ain't nothing else to say, far as I'm concerned.”

The wagon train rolled on, leaving two families behind, standing silently by the side of the trail, waving at those who continued on. Preacher did not look back.

He had it in his mind that the movers weren't about to stay out here in the wilderness. They'd had a gutful of it and were planning on headin' back East to civilization. How they planned on getting back across the rivers and the like was anybody's guess. He could be wrong about their plans, but he didn't think so. And it was just as well, for this country was no place for cowards or the faint-hearted. The wilderness seemed to bring out the best in some and the worst in others. It oftentimes appeared to Preacher that the sometimes savage vastness seemed to know the cowardly or timid who came into it. The silent earth they were buried in was the only homestead they ever occupied.

After the brief rains that fell the day Ballard died, the sun returned and it came with a vengeance, baking the hand in midsummer's heat. The trail was dust that coated wagons, animals, and people. And the stretch they were coming up on was void of water.

“Top your barrels,” Preacher told them at a creek. “Fill everything that'll hold water. Your animals come first. You drink after them. Swift, we'll be headed straight north once we make this next thirty or so dry miles.” He took a stick and drew in the dust. “Here's the Snake, and this here's the Burnt River. I'm takin' us right between 'em.” He moved the stick north. “Once we get up here, that's close to Lookout, we'll rest. We'll be about thirty-five miles from where I figure Bum and Red Hand is gonna hit us.”

“Maybe they'll have given up by then?” Swift said hopefully.

“Don't count on it,” Preacher told him.

They moved on through the heat and the choking dust. That afternoon, they buried the Ellsworth baby. No one among them knew why the baby died. She had appeared to be a perfectly healthy baby.

“Damn fools!” Preacher said. “Fools to start a two thousand mile journey through the wilderness with a woman that's with child.”

The mother's wailings could be heard as she stood over the small mound of earth, being comforted by other women. Richard had told Edmond that he, not Edmond, would conduct the brief service. Edmond protested, but Richard prevailed.

“Maybe they didn't have no choice in the matter,” Dupre said.

“This family did,” Preacher said sourly. “They sold a good business back East to become movers. Ellsworth told me he wanted a great adventure. I asked him why he didn't wait 'til his woman birthed? He just looked at me and walked off. Damn fool!”

“We stayin' the night here?” Beartooth asked.

“No,” Preacher said. “We'd use too much water and we ain't got it to spare. We got to push on.”

“Gonna be hell gettin' that mother away from that grave,” Jim said.

“Yeah,” Preacher's reply was short.

Preacher walked away, back to his horse. He cinched it up tight and swung into the saddle, riding up to Swift, who was unsaddling his horse. “Put it back on, Swift.”

“What?”

“Your saddle. We're pullin' out in a few minutes.”

“Man, you can't be serious! Mary is sick with grief. She's flung herself across the grave.”

“Well, unfling her. Pour some laudanum down her throat and knock her dopey and put her in the wagon. Swift, I ain't tryin' to be no mean, heartless man. But we got to move. We stay here, and we use up the water. No matter what you tell these people, half the water'll be gone come the mornin'. And we won't be no closer to more water. Now get the goddamn people to their wagons. Toot on that bugle and do it!”

“I refuse to be so cruel! The mother has a right to her grief.”

“Her grievin' ain't gonna change a damn thing. The baby's dead. She's with Jesus, Swift. There ain't nothin' in that hole in the ground.”

“We're staying right here for the night.”

“Then go to hell, Swift. You either get these people movin', right now, or I'm gone, and I won't be back. I told you from the git-go, I tell you to stop, we stop, I tell you we go, we go. And you agreed to those terms. Now I'm tellin' you, Swift. Get this train rollin'!”

Swift looked up at Beartooth, Nighthawk, and Dupre rode up. He looked up at Jim, saddling his horse. “What's he doing?”

“Gettin' ready to pull out with us,” Preacher told the man.

“You'd all leave us? Swift looked at the unflinching grazes of the mountain men.

They sat their saddles silently, staring their answers at the wagonmaster.

“My God, but you're a cruel, heartless pack of brutes!”

“To your wagons!” Preacher shouted. “Let's go. Move it, people.”

“No!” the grieving mother screamed.

“I said, get to your wagons and goddammit, do it now or I leave you here!” Preacher roared.

Slowly, with undisguised ill-feeling toward him in their eyes, the settlers began moving toward their rolling homes. Mary screamed and Ellsworth fought his wife. She kicked him, she slapped him, she bit him and she cursed him and fought him from the grave to the wagon. He manhandled her into the wagon and her other children held her down.

“Pour some laudanum in her,” Preacher told Richard. “Force a whole bottle down her. Knock her out, get her drunk, and tie her in.” He looked at Swift. “Toot that bugle, wagonmaster. Toot it loud and toot it now.”

Preacher sat his horse by the side of the trail and watched the wagons roll past, following Nighthawk, Dupre, and Beartooth. He wanted to be damn sure they all headed out. The hot looks he received bounced off him like raindrops off his fringed buckskins. When the last wagon passed, followed by the livestock, Preacher rode back to the head of the column.

“You shore didn't win no new friends back yonder,” Beartooth observed.

“No. But I kept some old ones alive.”

* * *

They prodded on, through the dust and the heat and the dryness, each step drawing them closer to the mountains where Preacher was certain Bum and Red Hand were waiting. When they made camp that evening, Preacher saw to it that the water was carefully rationed. They had just enough water left to make the next crossing. They had twelve waterless miles to go before they came to Burnt River. Once they left there, it was just over thirty dry miles to the Powder.

Preacher walked the camp. Very few people had anything to say to him. That in itself did not trouble him. Preacher was a hard man in a hard land, and to survive out here, that was what it took. These pilgrims would soon discover that, or they'd die. That was the bottom line.

Preacher went back to his own kind and sat down by the fire, accepting a cup of coffee from Jim.

“We'll lose some when them renegades hit us,” the trapper said. “This won't be no little skirmish. Bum and Red Hand will throw everything they've got at us.”

Preacher sipped at his coffee and then nodded his head. “I've done all I know to do. I've seen to it they's plenty of powder and shot. I've warned 'em what they can expect. I can't do no more.”

“You know,” Dupre said, waving his hand at the encircled wagons. “This is what we're all gonna end up doin' 'fore it's all said and done.”

“What?” Jim asked.

“Either guidin' trains through or scoutin' for the Army. That's all that's left.”

“Wagh!” Beartooth said.

“Ummm!” Nighthawk said.

“He's right,” Preacher spoke softly. “What else can we do? Think about it. Another two, three years, the fur will all but be gone. Them's that's plannin' on trappin' forever is kiddin' theyselves. Can't none of us tolerate no towns or houses for any length of time. I can't see none of us clerkin' in no store. We damn shore ain't gonna get married and settled down and scratch in the ground raisin' crops—at least I ain't. So you tell me what that leaves us.”

“You must make plans on returning to civilization and law and order,” Edmond said, strolling up.

Trapper Jim said a very ugly word that summed up the feelings of all the mountain men.

“In the not too distant future,” Edmond said, ignoring the profanity, “I can envision this trail being a wide and well-traveled road. Engineers will come in and build bridges across the rivers. There will be towns along the way. The railroads will cut through the mountains and link coast to coast . . .”

“Plumb depressin',” Preacher said.

“That's the most terriblest thing I ever heard of!” Beartooth said. “Them people best stay home. What's all them people gonna do out here?”

“Bring civilization and law and order,” Edmond told him. “Raise families and build towns and schools and churches. Make a decent life for thousands of people. All sorts of factories will be built . . .”

“To make what?” Jim asked.

“All sorts of goods for the newly arrived settlers. It's the law of supply and demand. It's called progress, gentlemen. You can either be a part of it, or it will coldly push you aside. You cannot stop progress, gentlemen. It's futile to try.” Edmond turned and walked away, back to his wagon.

“What's fu-tile?” Beartooth asked.

“I don't know,” Preacher said. “But it sounds bad to me.”

“Railroads!
” Beartooth said. “There ain't nobody gonna build no damn railroad through the mountains. It can't be done.”

“Melody told me they's people back East taken to travelin' in balloons,” Preacher said.

The mountain men stared at him. “Now, Preacher . . .” Dupre said. “You have told some whoppers in your time, but . . .?”

“It's true. They make a big bag and then fill it with hot air and soar up to the clouds. They ride in baskets that's got little stoves in 'em. They keep the bag filled with hot air by burnin' wool and straw and the like.”

“That ain't natural,” Beartooth said. “If God meant for men to soar, He'd birthed us with wings.”

“How high up do they soar?” Nighthawk asked.

“I don't know. I ain't never seen one. More'n a mile, I reckon.”

“What happens if the bag busts?” Dupre asked.

Preacher shrugged his shoulders. “I reckon you'd have to fall back to the earth. What the hell other direction would you go? Up?”

“Why, that'd be the same as jumpin' off a damn mountain?” Jim said. “Who'd be foolish enough to do that?”

“Then folks back East, I guess. There ain't nobody ever gonna get me up in no damn oversized picnic basket.”