Return of the Mountain Man

“A lot of us would like to be doin’ something other than what we’re doin’, Ben. But a man gets his trail stretched out in front of him, sometimes you just got to ride it to trail’s end, whether you like it or not.”

“You be careful, Mister Buck.”

“See you, boy.”

Buck rode out easy. He could feel…something in the air. A feeling of tension, he thought. And he wondered about it. The pot was about to boil over in Bury, and Buck didn’t know what had caused the fire to get too hot. But he knew that sometimes just the slightest little push could turn over a cart—if the contents weren’t stacked right.

A mile out of town, Buck cut off the road and reined up, hidden in the timber. He waited for half an hour. No riders passed him. He rode out of the timber, heading for the creek.

“Buck, this here is Becky,” Sam said. He was trying very hard not to grin, and not being very successful.

Becky’s hair was as red as Sam’s, her tanned face pretty and freckled across the nose. She was a slender lady, but Buck could sense a solid, no-nonsense quiet sort of strength about her. Two red-headed kids stood close by her. A boy and a girl. About four and six, Buck guessed. They grinned shyly up at Buck. He winked at them and they both giggled.

Buck took the lady’s hand and was not surprised to find it hard and callused from years of hard work.

After talking with Becky and the kids for a few moments, Buck took Sam aside. “You stay here with her, Sam. Until I get back from Challis. Don’t be surprised if you spot some old mountain men while I’m gone. I’m going to swing by their camp and tell them I’m just about ready to strike. I’ll tell them about your lady friend here, too. They’ll probably ride by to see if they can get her anything. And they’ll be by. They don’t hold with men who hurt womenfolks.”

“Who are your friends, Buck? These mountain men, I mean?”

Sam stood open-mouthed as Buck reeled off the names of some of the most famous mountain men of all time. Sam finally blinked and said, “Those are some of the meanest old codgers that ever forked a bronc.”

“Yeah,” Buck said with a grin as he swung into the saddle. “Ain’t they?”

He waved good-bye to Becky and the kids and pointed Drifter’s nose south. A mile from Becky’s cabin, Buck turned straight east, toward the new camp of Preacher and his friends. Even Buck, knowing what to expect, drew up short at the sight that soon confronted him.

Greybull and Beartooth were wrestling. Dupre was fiddling a French song while Nighthawk and Tenneysee were dancing. Together. Audie was standing on a stump, reciting pretty poetry to the others.

“I hate to break this up,” Buck said.

“Then don’t!” Preacher said. “Jist sit your cayuse and listen and learn. Go ahead, Audie. Tell us some more about that there Newton.”

“Isaac Newton, you ignorant reprobate! I was merely stating Sir Newton’s theory that to every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.”

“Then direct it to him,” Buck said, pointing at Preacher. “’Cause he sure is contrary.”

Audie looked pained while the others laughed. He glowered at Buck. “If I had you in a classroom I’d take a hickory stick to the seat of your pants, young man.”

“I don’t know nothing about Newton,” Buck said, still sitting on Drifter. “But I did like that poetry. Can you say some more of that?”

“But of course, young outlaw called Smoke,” Audie said with a wave of his hand. “Dismount and gather around.”

Dupre had stopped his fiddling, Nighthawk and Tenneysee their dancing, Greybull and Beartooth their wrestling.

“‘I came to the place of my youth’,” Audie said, “‘and cried, The friends of my youth, where are they? And echo answered, Where are they?’”

“That don’t make no damn sense,” Phew said.

“And it don’t even rhyme,” Deadlead growled.

“It doesn’t have to rhyme to be poetry!” Audie said. “I have told you heathens that time and again.”

“Say something that’s purty,” Preacher said.

“Yeah, that fits us’ns,” Powder Pete said.

“What a monumental task you have verbally laid before me,” Audie said. “Very well. Let me think for a moment.”

“And I don’t reckon it has to rhyme,” Matt said.

Audie smiled. He said, “‘And in that town a dog was found. As many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.’” Still smiling, Audie stepped off the stump and walked off, leaving the old mountain men to scratch their heads and ponder what he’d just said.

“Is he callin’ us a bunch of dogs?” Lobo asked.

“I don’t think so,” Preacher said.

Deadlead looked at Nighthawk. “What do you think about it, Nighthawk?”

“Ummm.”