“I don’t want nothin’ to do with no Crows,” Ned said. “Are you sayin’ Crows is the only ones this here fella is killin’ an’ eatin’?”
Before the first cowboy could answer the question, two men slapped the batwings open, stepped into the saloon, and crossed over to the bar. Everyone in the place paused and stared at the pair as they made their way across the room. They looked like before and after pictures of what life in the mountains would do to anyone crazy enough, or antisocial enough, to endure it. The older of the two had fought in the Battle of New Orleans as a fourteen-year-old boy. That was close to sixty years ago, and he showed the effects of strenuous living for all that time. The younger of the two was a boy during the Civil War, which had been over now for seven years. They were both dressed in buckskins; the old one had a full beard and long hair that hung down almost to his shoulders, the beard and hair white as snow. The younger of the two was clean shaven, with neatly trimmed hair.
Mountain men weren’t all that rare in this part of the Colorado Territory, but these two men did capture the attention of all who were in the saloon. They were both armed, as if they were about to go to war. The older of the two was carrying a Sharps Big Fifty cradled in his arms, and a Navy Colt .36, not in a holster, but stuck down in his belt. The younger of the two had a Colt .44 tied low on his thigh in a right-hand rig. A matching Colt was butt-forward in a high holster on his left hip, and a twelve-inch-long Bowie knife rested in a scabbard in the middle of his back. He was also carrying a rifle, in this case a Henry repeating rifle.
When the older man sat his rifle down and they both leaned on the bar, all the rest of the saloon customers went back to what they’d been doing, ignoring the two newcomers.
“Seems to me like you two fellas stopped by here not much more ’n a week or so ago, didn’t you?” the bartender said as he slid down to wait on them. “You’re Preacher, and you’re the one they call Smoke.”
“You got a good memory, pilgrim,” Preacher said.
“Yeah, maybe, but it ain’t good enough for me to ’member just exactly what it was you two fellers are likin’ to drink.”
“We’ll both have beer,” Smoke said.
“Two beers comin’ up.”
The two cowboys, after no more than a cursory glance at the two mountain men, resumed their conversation.
“They say the feller doin’ all the killin’ and the gizzard eatin’ is doin’ it ’cause the Injuns kilt his wife ’n kid,” Pete said, continuing to impart the information as he had heard it.
“But they don’t nobody know his name?” Ned asked.
“Nope. Don’t nobody know nothin’ a-tall about him. Onliest thing is, they say he’s one of them mountain men. Up in Montana, he is.”
“Hey, let’s ask them two,” Ned suggested. “They look like they’re mountain men. Leastwise, the older feller looks like that.”
“I wouldn’t be gettin’ them two men riled up if I was you,” the bartender said. “Don’t you boys know who they are?”
“Nope, ain’t never seen neither one of ’em,” Pete said. “They ever been in here before?”
“Oh, yeah, they been in here before. They stopped in here a week or so ago on their way to Big Rock. The young one has him a ranch there. The other ’n is pure mountain man, lives in the High Lonesome all by his ownself.”
“That means you know them then, so who are they?” Pete asked.
“Well, sir, the young one there is Smoke Jensen,” the bartender said.
“Smoke Jensen? Wait a minute! Are you talkin’ about the gunfighter Smoke Jensen? The one that kilt Fast Lennie Moore a month or so back?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, that’s who I’m talkin’ about.”
“Fast Lennie was supposed to be the fastest there was, couldn’t nobody hold a candle to him, they said. But from what I heard, Fast Lennie started his draw first, and Smoke still beat him.”
“That’s true,” the bartender said.
“But you just said he has a ranch near Big Rock,” Ned said.
“That he does.”
“What do you reckon he’s doin’ runnin’ around with that old man?”
“You don’t know who that old man is?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“Well, I don’t know his name. His real name, I mean. Long as I’ve known about ’im, I ain’t never heard him called nothin’ but Preacher.”
“Preacher? Wait, are you talkin’ about the old mountain man that’s been here for, what? Forty, fifty years?” Pete asked.
“That’s him.”
“I’ll be damn. I thought he was dead.”
“Yeah, there’s been two or three times I’ve heard he was dead too, but he’s like a cat with nine lives or something. He always seems to show up again, to put to lie that idea.”
“What I don’t understand is how someone like Smoke Jensen would be runnin’ with an old mountain man like Preacher,” Pete said.
“Smoke is pretty much a mountain man his ownself,” the bartender said. “You see, that old man most raised Smoke. Leastwise, that’s what I’ve always heard. They’re what you call tight, so I wouldn’t be doin’ nothin’ to get airy a one of ’em riled,” the bartender said.
“Ain’t Smoke the one that kilt fourteen men at that silver mining camp near the Uncompahgre a couple years ago?” Ned asked.
“That’s him, all right.”
“Yeah, you’re right, he ain’t the kind of man you’d want to get riled up at you,” Ned said.
“Well, come on, Ned, it ain’t like he kilt all them men ’cause they got him all riled up by askin’ a question, is it?” Pete asked.
“No. The way I heard it, them men kilt his wife ’n kid,” the bartender said.
“So then he had hisself a good reason for killin’ ’em. Sounds to me like they was needin’ killin’. So how is it you think we’re goin’ to rile him just by askin’ him if he’s ever heard of some mountain man up in Montana that’s killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ their gizzards?” Pete asked.
“I don’t know. If you want to ask him, you go ahead and ask, but I’m tellin’ you, I ain’t goin’ to do it,” Ned said.
“What do you think?” Pete asked the bartender. “You think a question like that would get ’em riled?”
“No, they’re both good men. They sort of like their privacy, especially the old one. But I don’t reckon there won’t neither one of them get all riled up just from you askin’ a question.”
Pete looked down at the far end of the bar where the two men stood, talking quietly to each other as they drank their beer.
“All right,” he said. “I’m goin’ to do it. I’m goin’ to ask ’em if they ever heard of this fella.”
Pete fortified himself with the last of his beer, then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, moved down the bar to ask his question.
“Beg your pardon, gents, but I’ve got a question that I’m kinda hopin’ you can answer,” Pete said when he approached Preacher and Smoke.
“What is the question?”
“Well, sir, it’s all over ever’where now, that there is a feller up in Montana, a mountain man like I expect you two is, who’s killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ their gizzards. And I was wonderin’, that is, me ’n my friend”—he nodded toward Ned, who hadn’t moved from the far end of the bar—“we was wonderin’ if either one of you fellers had heard about it, and could maybe tell us who it is that’s a-doin’ such a thing.”
“You’re saying there’s a mountain man killin’ Injuns ’n eatin’ ’em?” Preacher asked, his voice showing his incredulity.
“Yes, sir. Well, no, not quite. He ain’t eatin’ ever’thing of the Injuns he’s kilt now, mind you. From what I hear, the onliest thing he’s eatin’ is their gizzards.”