The Last Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

9

There was a chill to the air when Smoke kicked off his blankets and rose to add twigs to the still smoldering coals. They were camped along the Arkansas, near Twin Lakes.

“Cold,” Preacher complained, crawling out of his buffalo robe. “Can’t be far from Leadville.”

“How do you figure that?” Smoke asked, slicing bacon into a pan and dumping a handful of coffee into the pot.

“Coldest damn town in the whole country.” Preacher put on his hat then tugged on his boots. “I’ve knowed it to snow on the Fourth of July. So damned cold ifn a man dies in the winter, best thing to do is jist prop him up in a corner for the season. Ifn you wanna bury him, you gotta use dynamite to blast a hole in the ground. Tain’t worth the bother. And I ain’t lyin’, neither.”

Smoke grinned and said nothing. He had long since ceased questioning the mountain man’s statements; upon investigation, they all proved out.

“Them names on the list, Smoke. Any more of ’em in Colorado?”

“Only one more, but we’ll let him be. He’s in the army up at Camp Collins. An officer. Took the name of a dead man who was killed in the first days of the war. I can’t fight the whole Yankee army.”

“We goin’ back to the Hole?”

“For the time being.”

“Good. We’ll winter there. Stop along the way and pack in some grub.”

* * *

Major Powell and his detachment were gone when Preacher and Smoke reached the Hole in mid-September. Two horses were missing from the herd, and the money for them was in the cave. The soldiers had tended to the gardens, eating well from them. Emmett Jensen’s grave had been looked after. But the flowers were dying. Winter was not far off.

The two men set about making the cabin snug against the winds that would soon howl cold through the canyon, roaring out of Wyoming, sighing off Diamond Peak. Preacher did a little trapping, for all the good it did him, and for awhile, the man called Smoke seemed to be at peace with himself.

Preacher was surprised and embarrassed that Christmas morning to find a present for him when he awakened. He opened the box and aahed at the chiming railroad watch with a heavy gold fob.

“That little watch and clock shop in Oreodelphia,” Preacher recalled. “Seen you goin’ in there.” He was suddenly ill at ease. “But I dint get nothin’ for you.”

“You’ve been giving me presents for years, Preacher. You’ve taught me the wilderness and how to survive. Just being with you has been the greatest present of my life.”

Preacher looked at him. “Oh, hush up. You plumb sickenin’ when you try to be nice.” He wound the watch. “Reckon what time it is.” He turned his head so Smoke could not see the tears in his eyes.

Smoke glanced outside. “’Bout seven, I reckon.”

“That’s clost enough.” He set the watch and smiled as it chimed. “Purty. Best present I ever had.”

“Oh, hush up.” Smoke smiled. “You plumb sickenin’ when you try to be nice.

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