~*~ Short Western Fiction  ~*~
"Last of the Mountain Men"
by Jim Williams

" 5 BOOKS ON 10 CASSETTES " The Virginian by Owen Wister " Desert Death Song and Trap of Gold by Louis L'Amour " Pistolero by Bill Brooks " Frontier Stories by Jack London " The Old West by Jim Williams
In this outstanding collection, the Literate Listener(tm) has assembled five of the best western audio books available. From true classics like The Virginian by Owen Wister, and Frontier Stories by Jack London, to modern bestsellers like Pistolero by Bill Brooks. This Western collection is an unparalleled value for the western fan.

From Publishers Weekly:
Williams knows how to spin a yarn. Full of cowboys, cattle rustlers, drunks, gamblers, horse thieves, hanging judges and oh, yes one lawyer, this entertaining recording will make three hours in the car fly by. Williams's friendly, familiar voice draws the listener in. Adept at character voices, he gives comic life to wizened old prospectors, dopey drunks and snooty, educated men. Mild references to hangings and saloon whores aside, the audio should not offend family sensibilities. Still, the humor is targeted to adults, not children (upon seeing a gravestone inscribed "Here lies a lawyer and an honest man," a bystander remarks, "I didn't know you could bury two people in the same grave!").

Jim's other writing credits include WESTERN HORSEMAN and LIVESTOCK WEEKLY magazines. His drama, "A Close Encounter of the Confederate Kind," (Shoestring Theatre) recently aired nationally on many public radio stations. A lifelong broadcaster, he and his wife, Joan, also a writer, are Goleta (CA) residents. Jim is busy writing his third book of western stories and a novel.

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Mountain men roamed Americas unexplored West, trapping beaver, from about 1820 to 1840. This hardy breed of rugged men, with their buckskins and long rifles, faced hostile Indians, wild animals, hunger, and often death, hundreds of miles from their families and civilization. They often hunted together as employees of big Eastern fur companies. But sometimes they hunted alone as "free" trappers in the rugged Rocky Mountains, or along remote rivers and streams, relying on their own cunning and courage to stay alive. This is one such story...

Snow was coming. Buck saw its dark festering clouds clutching the sky. Winter was here. In these mountains, snow meant big storms and biting wind. There had been a cold rain the day before. He' d stayed too long in the high country. The trapping hadnt been good.

The lone mountain man walked on, occasionally glancing toward the rapidly changing sky. His gloved left hand pulled a fur collar higher around his neck and beard. A thick fur cap and tattered blanket-coat stopped some of the cold. Buck stopped to readjust the heavy pack and small bundle of fur pelts wobbling on his stooped back. He flipped his coat's hood over his fur cap. An ancient flintlock rifle was balanced in his right hand, his frayed glove aware of its cold steel. Buck spoke---

"Snows coming." His pace quickened, became deliberate as his worn boots sought firm footings on rain-slick pine needles. An uneven muddy ground twisted before him. He turned his head, vainly searching the trees and cliffs for shelter. It was late in the day as a sharp wind cut through his clothes. He could feel its icy fingers. The fall days had gotten shorter. Buck spoke again---

"Should have gotten out of this high country earlier," he said. "Should have known winter was coming."

Buck often talked to himself. Why not? There was no one else within miles or days.

There wasn't panic in Bucks eyes-yet. But it hovered below the surface.

The tall, young man struggled forward, trying to move faster, hampered by his cumbersome backpack. A metal hatchet, long knife and pistol were at his waist.

"Damn!" he said. "Sure wish I was out of these mountains."

The old animal trail snaked downhill toward a small grassy meadow ringed by gigantic boulders and cliffs. Off to the left was a huge moss-covered stone, resembling an overturned tower. The long horizontal outcropping supported the base of a high cliff. A ledge began at one and of the stone, abruptly ending in a small cave at the opposite end.

Buck smiled.

"Thisll do just fine," he said, pleased with his good fortune. Some anxiety left his squinting eyes as he again searched the swirling clouds. The afternoon wind snapped his fur collar and rummaged through his long beard, its inquisitive fingers revealing streaks of premature gray. A snowflake drifted in front of Buck's tired eyes--then another and another. Suddenly it was colder and darker.

Buck crawled into the cave. Thick black soot covered its low stone ceiling. Someone had been there long ago. Maybe Indians or primitive man. The dusty floor smelled of animals, amid evidence of fresh paw prints.

"Wolves," said Buck. He'd heard their distant howling back on the trail. His long rifle could handle them should they return. But he was low on powder and shot. He rechecked the old weapon's charge of black powder. He might need it before morning. Sooner, if the wolves returned. Their howling seemed closer. He slid the weapon onto a ledge on the back wall.

Buck kicked at the small stones and bones littering the dirt floor, pockmarked with shallow wallows.

"Wolves have been here," he said. But the cave was Bucks now.

"Survival of the fittest," grunted Buck, slipping his pack off his back. He leaned it next to his rifle.

Dry branches were nearby. Buck broke the wood and tossed it into his new home. He felt his luck had turned. The cave would protect him against a threatening night of snow, wind and freezing cold.

His trapping hadnt gone well for his months in the high mountains. Only the small bundle on his back; a few beaver, rabbit, and one elk skin. Buck spoke with disgust---

"Aint enough beaver skins to buy whiskey at the next rendezvous," said Buck. He referred to the annual hell-raising gathering of mountain men where they also traded their fur pelts for guns and supplies, and, occasionally, for the affections of a woman or two.

More snow flakes settled beyond the cave. Buck dragged broken tree limbs inside, chopping furiously, using his metal hatchet. The heavy weapon doubled as a building tool, and had helped save his life more than once, especially during an encounter with a Blackfoot Indian. Buck had tried to make friends with all Indians. He'd been successful until an Indian brave's beautiful young squaw made side-glances at Buck that angered her warrior husband. The Indian, a tall sub-chief, wore a captured Army jacket with sergeant strips. Scalps covered his battle shield.

Bucks accuracy during a show of hatchet throwing convinced the brave that baffling someone who had such a weapon wasnt wise. Buck had been relieved. The Indian so admired the hatchet that he offered to trade his young squaw for it.

"She good cook," the Indian had said. "Keep you warm cold nights."

But Buck refused.

The Indian and Buck parted friends, with both men agreeing on trade goods. But the squaw got a beating from her husband.

Using a pine bough, Buck swept bone fragments from the cave floor. He made a fire pit, using large stones as a buttress against the wind, and built a pyramid of sticks and twigs in the center. Buck's battered tinderbox slowly smoked into life, his foggy breath gently blowing against the flint-and-metal sparks. The tiny bed of dry grass ignited, its embryonic warmth reaching out. The tinderbox's flame snagged a breeze, and cautiously licked the stack of twigs. The reluctant flame expanded, gradually spreading its tentacles of fire and warmth.

The snowfall increased. But Buck felt secure for the night. A faint smile covered his wind-stroked face. Now he could relax, and begin to think about filling his belly.

The smoke from his small fire mixed with the darkening wind. Buck stretched his gloved hands toward the warmth.

"God, that feels good," he said.

Assured the blaze was burning steadily, Buck added small pieces of bark. The fire sputtered and sprang into fuller life, its light, shadow-dancing on the walls of Bucks stone sanctuary.

That's much better," he said.

The howling of the wolves seemed closer as the mountain man sought more wood. Some was damp. He dropped it alongside the fire to dry. Within minutes it began steaming.

Buck would wait out the storm inside his burrow. It could be days before it passed. Maybe weeks, or maybe it wouldn't stop until spring. Or maybe he'd die there. That sent a chill though his body that wasnt caused by the icy wind.

The cave would protect Buck from the cold night and the desperate wolves seeking return of their den. He had their cave. Protection! Survival! Life! All good reasons for them to want back what was now Bucks cave.

Buck knew envious wolves might soon be watching with glowing orange eyes from the darkness. Angry, cold animals, snarling, circling, knowing the hairy man-beast inside their shelter threatened their existence.

Daylight was fading rapidly as Buck, slipping and sliding on the new snow, dragged logs back to his shelter. He propped them against the cave opening, slowly enclosing his new home, stuffing the cracks and patting them tight with thick layers of snow, building a protective cocoon.

Inside, his snapping fire blocked the side of the cave that extended under the long overhanging ledge. The narrow opening provided a crawl entrance for Buck and acted as a protective barrier against the night and intruding animals.

The wind increased, howling through the high mountains like a wailing, deranged banshee from Irish folklore.

Buck spread a thick layer of pine needles on the long stone shelf in the back of the cave. His backpack would be his pillow; his furs, a thin mattress.

Satisfied, he rolled a log near the fire, to dry and eventually become its heart. Buck smiled, lit his old pipe and settled back, wrapped in his furs and tattered blankets, waiting for his small, battered coffeepot to boil. Adding the inner bark of the red willow helped stretch his tobacco supply. His sugar and coffee were gone. But tea made from a sassafras root would do.

Buck filled his tin cup with the steaming liquid. A handful of pemmican--an Indian mixture of powdered dried meat and berries--provided his evening meal, along with some deer jerky, softened in the tea.

Using his small bundle of furs, Buck began stitching together a crude blanket. He might still trade the furs at the next mountain-man rendezvous. But avoiding freezing was more important than preserving his pelts.

The restless wolves came closer, howling just beyond Bucks shelter. He could see them. They paced, snarling, yapping at each other, and growling at the strange creature occupying their den. They frantically pawed at the caves outer wall. Bucks yelling drove the wolves back several times. But each time they returned. Buck knew hunger could bring them crashing through his flimsy barricade. His musket was cocked and ready.

Buck watched their shadowy bodies again dash through the night, then race forward, only to reverse course before ripping through his shelter. He hadnt wanted to kill the hungry wolves, but twice he fired his rifle, driving them back. Then suddenly they fled, taking their mournful howls with them.

Buck had to be careful not to waste his supply of powder and shot. There wasn't much left.

Exhausted, Buck tried to sleep, his body cramped atop the stone ledge, bundled in his blankets and furs. He soon moved from the unyielding shelf to curl next to the fire, to spread the last of his pelts on the ground to insulate himself from the cold earth. Buck rose several times during the night to tend his fire, carefully rationing his small wood supply. Hed get more in the morning. The tea forced him to frequently relieve himself outside.

The night churned in a cold, dense white fog, driven by winds that tore at the cave from distant mountain peaks.

Buck got little sleep his first night. Snow blew into long drifts, entering his frozen world through the caves side entrance, ending in a perfect half-circle by the smoky fire.

Dawn arrived bringing a gale-force blizzard that threatened Bucks security. He scraped snow into his coffeepot and twisted its base into the glowing coals of his fire, letting his numbed hands absorb what little heat was there. He added tree bark to the embers, then, crouched under the low ceiling. He slapped his hands together and pranced on legs and feet, trying to replace numbness with life.

The new storm brought thicker sheets of snow, the wind driving a blinding whiteness that cut visibility to only a few feet beyond Bucks cave.

The big mountain man thanked the Almighty for letting him survive his first night. Frost covered his clothes; his buckskins stiff from the cold. He hung over the comforting fire and his bubbling coffeepot. The tea burned his cracked lips.

"Wasted warmth," he said, wishing the heat would never leave his shivering body.

Buck continued thickening the cave's outer wall, fighting to keep the wind out, and precious warmth in. He improved the caves small entrance, building a long crawl hole of snow under the stone overhang. It was like the entrance to an igloo, its mouth turned from the wind. Then Buck sealed it with snow. A tiny vent near the ceiling let smoke escape. Some blue light entered Bucks crystal prison through his wall of snow and wood.

Without the cave, Buck knew he would be dead--a quick frozen meal for the wolf pack--or his remains undiscovered until spring, animals fighting over his thawing carcass. In the open he couldn't have started a fire or kept one going. The cave meant a chance at life.

Buck remembered an old trapper telling how he had survived a snowstorm by crawling into an ice cave.  Remembering the story, Buck used his knife to dig a shallow circle between him and the fire, as the old trapper had done. Buck scraped live coals into the depression and brushed a thin layer of dirt over the top.

He eased himself onto his folded elk skin, his back cushioned by his pack against the back wall. Sitting cross-legged over the coals, Buck pulled his blankets and furs around his head and tucked them under his feet and backside. He scraped away the dirt, and let the heat from the coals slowly spread to his feet and legs, filling his blanket-and-fur tent. He was cramped, but began to feel warmer. He leaned back and tried to sleep.

During that restless second night, Buck added small bits of wood to the fire, and rolled its hot stones under his makeshift tent, then straddled them, relishing their warmth. Frequently his legs and muscles rebelled. He longed to stretch out, but couldn't. He returned to a disturbed sleep, only to be awakened later by his cramped legs. Buck unwound his stiff body, drank some tea, exchanged cold stones for hot ones, and fed the fire.

The days became weeks. Buck continually searched for food and wood in the surrounding mountains, his hands and feet unfeeling like the walrus-icicles dangling from his mustache and beard. He staggered back to his cave, dragging what little wood he could find. Occasionally shooting a rabbit for food.

Animals usually avoided man, but the starving wolves became bolder. Shots from Buck's rifle failed to drive them away. His gunpowder supply was almost gone. Only a few shots remained.

Each time Buck left the cave, he buried his meager food supply in the floor, and topped it with layers of heavy stones. The wolves often invaded the cave, but couldnt reach the food. Buck drove them away again and again, his flintlock spewing noise and smoke. But one time the packs leader, a big silver gray wolf, refused to move. His thin, muscular body stood between Buck and his cave, growling a challenge.

"Get away you son of a bitch, yelled Buck, his rifle aimed at the wolf.

But the wolf lowered its head, and bared its teeth, threatening the mountain man. The snarling beast clawed the snow, its long fangs dripping saliva, its powerful jaw snapping at Buck.

The wolf crouched on its haunches. Buck raised his rifle and pulled the trigger, the flint hammering the striker. There were sparks, but the weapon didnt fire.

"What the hell?" stammered Buck. Then he saw that a thin layer of ice had kept the sparks from igniting the weapon's tiny pan of gunpowder that would have set off the weapons main charge.

The wolf edged closer as Buck tried--but failed--to clear the ice from the pan of powder. Desperate, he cocked the weapon again and pulled the trigger. The hammer smashed forward. Sparks flew. But the weapon didnt fire.

The wolf advanced.

"If its a fight you want," yelled Buck, "youll get one you bastard." He gripped the rifle's barrel by both hands and waved the long weapon, preparing to use it as a club.

"Come on--try me," shouted Buck.

The wolf slowly moved forward through the snow, its flared nostrils smelling fear from the man creature. The animal came closer and crouched. Then it suddenly raced forward, leaping as Buck swung the rifle, hitting the big wolf in its shoulder, knocking it sideways into the snow.

Buck dropped the rifle as the wolf clamped its jaw on his left arm. The two rolled in the snow, the snarling animal ripping Bucks sleeve and sinking its teeth into his wrist. Buck yelled with pain, his right hand clawing at his waist, trying to reach the pistol buried inside his bulky coat.

The animal was on Buck's chest, tearing at his bearded throat. Buck lashed out with his arms and feet. He rolled onto his stomach, then onto his back, the wolf still clinging to his throat. Buck's coat fell open, exposing his pistol. His right hand lifted the weapon, and fired point-blank into the wolf's underbelly. The animal leaped into the air, and collapsed across Buck's chest, its teeth still clamped on Buck's throat. Then the animal went limp.

It was several seconds before Buck could breathe or move. His wrist and throat were bleeding. He pried open the wolf's jaws and rolled the dead animal to one side.

The remaining wolves seemed confused, running and howling. But within minutes they settled down, began circling and growling, prepared to attack. Buck raised his pistol and shot the nearest wolf. Then the next. The pack turned and fled.

Still bleeding at his throat and wrist, Buck dragged  himself back to the cave, there to bind his wounds as best he could, and to reload his weapons. Snow on his wounds helped stop the bleeding.

Buck feared the vicious pack. But he also admired their beauty and grace, their perfect bodies built for speed and endurance. He also admired their savagery and courage, and their willingness to fight and die for the packs survival--as the big gray had done.

Buck skinned the three wolves and sealed their remains with snow and rocks in his underground food locker. He wasnt ready to eat wolf yet, but he might. Starvation made men do strange things. The animals' thick fur would keep him warm, too.

That night the blood-lusting pack returned to howl in front of Bucks cave, their fiery red eyes staring from the dark, their bodies darting forward, jaws snapping, then suddenly retreating, their powerful legs scattering the snow.

Bucks two wounds healed slowly in the days ahead. He stayed by the fire, drinking tea, puffing on his pipe, rationing his meager supply of tobacco and food. Drinking and smoking eased his hunger and helped keep him warm.

A week later, Buck stumbled on the frozen remains of a small deer wedged in the top of a snow-covered tree. He believed the doe had plunged to her death from the cliffs above, probably chased there by the same wolf pack. He climbed the fir, cutting the branches with his hatchet, the wolves watching nearby. He was forced to shoot at the animals before he could drag the deer back to camp.

Buck gorged on venison, thrilled with his good luck. But the wolves, smelling the roasting meat, became frantic. He tossed the deers frozen guts, head and feet toward the hungry animals. The others held back as the packs new leader lunged for the food, snatched the largest chunk and raced to a ridge above the cave. Between prowls the wolf devoured its food as the pack below eagerly consumed the remains of the deer.

Survival now seemed possible, but Buck knew he must carefully ration his food, and be constantly on the alert against the wolf pack. He had to prepare for what could still be a long winter. But if a break in the weather occurred, he must be ready to leave before another storm struck. He cut the deer skin into long strips and, using fir saplings, made a pair of crude snowshoes, webbing the inner circles with deer hide. He also made a small sled, and braided a leather rope.

Days later the storm broke. A warm morning sun revealed a pristine day under a cloudless sky. Buck took advantage of the moment, packed his supplies, and pulled his loaded sled down the mountain.

Before leaving he hacked up the frozen bodies of the wolves, scattering the remains to the packs survivors--an ironic gesture of good will. The animals didn't know or seem to care that it was their own kind. Meat's meat, thought Buck. He hoped the wolves would survive until spring.

Buck tipped his fur hat toward the cave that had saved his life. It again belonged to the wolves. The circle of fire stones and black ceiling would forever prove Buck had been there. Inside, he had scratched crude letters in the fire-blackened stone, reading them aloud---

"Survived the long winter of 1840, here. Buck Longworth, Mountain Man."

Two days later Buck reached low, rolling hills, forever leaving behind the deep snow and mountains. He was the last of his breed. Most beaver were now gone from America's mountain wilderness--trapped out by countless mountain men who had preceded Buck. Bucks days as a lone trapper were over.

"There are many ways to make a living," said Buck, "and Im going to find one where its warm all the time."

And there was a young woman back home who had been on Bucks mind these many months. Maybe hed look her up.

Buck turned and saluted the mountain one last time. The warm sun felt good as he readjusted his tall backpack, and moved toward flat country and home.

*~*~*~*~*
Copyright © 2001 Jim Williams. All rights reserved.