A Man and His Mountain

By Rob Linson

A Man and His Mountain is the story of a man who starts and builds one of the biggest ranches in the southwest.

It tells of the struggles against weather, wilderness, and men, in a time when the country was untamed, and so were the men.

It was a tough time and required a tough man, to handle it. At times he took matters into his own hands, for there was no law.

During this time, good or bad, he finds a woman. Together they raise a family, strong and just.

Together, the family builds the great Star Ranch. They also add to the stories, legends and history of the great American southwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469114064

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was the spring of 1867 and I had just turned nineteen, I guessed it had to be nineteen. No one knew for sure. The folks who raised me always said I was about a year old when they found me. They were gone now, so that was one of the reasons I was here.

Even growing up in Taos, I had never liked the place. With no one left to hold me there I had decided to strike off into the world and find my place. The gold fields up in Colorado seemed to be the place.

I was a week gone out of Taos with maybe a week to go before I made Cherryville. About as far from nowhere as a man could get. I was riding the shoulder of the biggest mountain up in that country when it happened.

Up out of nowhere a huge black bear rose up only a few feet in front of us. One swipe from a huge paw broke my pony’s neck and sent us both tumbling down the slope. The lead rope from my pack mule was torn from my hand. Before the dust settled I heard the mule’s terrified screams cut short. A spring bear just out of hibernation is one of nature’s meanest critters.

I must have passed out for awhile. When I woke up it was late afternoon and everything was still. I had a throbbing headache and was a bit shaky when I stood up. As my mind cleared I pulled my Winchester from the saddle boot and levered in a shell. Now, I wasn’t looking for trouble with a spring bear, but unasked for he had brought trouble to me and mine. I figured to make our second meeting a little rougher on him than me.

I scrambled back up the slope to the trail and soon realized there would not be a second meeting, at least today. The bear was gone. And so was my mule, mostly anyway. What the bear hadn’t eaten, he carried off.

I was starting to get mad now. That poor old mule had been a damn good one, as mules go and my pack with everything I had in the world was scattered to hell and gone over a hundred yards of trail. That bear didn’t know it, but he was running up a pretty good score that I intended to settle with him. Right now I had other worries, but we would meet again. Of that I was sure. I would damn sure see to it.

I spend the rest of the afternoon gathering up my stuff and moving it some ways down the slope next to a small creek. No telling what other critters would show up tonight for a free meal.

I set about making camp and with a meal of my own under my belt I settled in for night. I went to sleep with my Winchester in the crook of my arm.

I was awake and up an hour before sunup. Not that I’m an early riser, but that high up in the spring, it was still cold. The fire felt good and the hot coffee in my tin cup felt good in my hands and even better in my belly. After the sun came up I would scare up some breakfast.

Several hours later found me sitting on a stump, Winchester across my knees, taking stock of the place. I liked where I was sitting. My mountain would provide wood and logs. It would also be protection in the winter when the winds blew and the snow came. The valley below was wide and mostly open. I would be able to see what was going on around me. I could raise a small cabin over yonder, near the creek. A lean-to would do until I got the cabin up.

It never occurred to me that I had made a decision to stay. I couldn’t carry all I had and I wasn’t leaving it, so it came natural like the plan ahead. That was life, one day at a time.

CHAPTER 2

The next month or so was spent felling trees up on my mountain. With no horse or mule it was easier to roll the clean logs down than trying to drag them around. The one room cabin was larger than I planned, but the space was nice. A huge fireplace took most of one end. A bed made of Aspen with my bedroll tossed on top made for good sleeping. A rough table and a bench finished the cabin. For the first time in my life I had a home of my own. My own cabin on my own land, built next to my own mountain. I found myself to be pretty well satisfied.

With the cabin well enough along for now and my gear all hung inside, I decided to take a break and go hunting. The rabbits and squirrels around the cabin were getting wise and besides that I needed meat, real meat, red and juicy. Grabbing up the rifle I headed up to my mountain.

I passed the place where my mule and horse had met their fate and continued on up. The white bones of my horse hadn’t put me in a really good mood. One of these days old bear, you and me will meet again. Then we’ll see who pays the piper. One thing I’ve learned in this world-be careful what you wish, you might just get it.

One minute I was hiking along the shoulder of my mountain, at peace with the whole world, the next I was running down my mountain with a huge black bear coming right along behind. He must have just eaten or was feeling lazy on an early summer day, who knows what bears think. He suddenly stopped, stood on his hinds legs and roared as if to say stay off my mountain! he should have never given me an even break. As I seen him stop, I stopped, whirled, and threw the Winchester to my shoulder and as the Buckhorn sights crossed his chest I pulled the trigger.

The roar of the riffle shattered the high mountain quiet. Followed by the equally load roar of a wounded bear as he ran, rolled, and stumbled down the slope towards me.

I didn’t have to tell my feet to move, they were doing just fine by themselves! Another hundred yard dash down the mountain and I could see I was leaving him. I knew then that the bear was hard hit. I gained courage form this. Enough courage to stop, whirl, and raise the rifle again. Only this time I controlled my pounding heart and held a deep breath of air in my wheezing lungs. A long, careful sight just behind the ear, and I squeezed the trigger. Again the rifled roared, but the bear didn’t. He seemed to hesitate and then gently fold up to rest on the ground.

I waited until I was sure he was dead and then, to tell the truth, I waited a while longer. Then I picked my way back up the mountain so I could come at him from above. He was as dead as he ever would be, and I didn’t feel a bit bad about it. Was this the bear I met earlier in the spring? I don’t know, but I like to think so. It’s easier to sleep at night knowing all debts are paid.

The rest of the summer was spent exploring my mountain, gathering wood for winter, and watching the elk and deer. When it got cool enough in the fall I would hang my winter’s supply of meat.

It was about this time when I got my first visitors. I had finished my morning chores and was stepping off down to the creek for fresh water when suddenly, there they were. Six Indian warriors stood in front of me. They weren’t there, then they were, kind of spooky really.

I had no idea what to do and couldn’t even think. I simply walked on by, dipped my bucket of water and started past them. I turned and motioned them to follow. I didn’t have a plan or even the start of one it just seemed the thing to do. When I reached the cabin I resisted the urge to slam the door and grab my rifle. A glance showed them to be standing in my yard. They had followed as I had invited them to.

Custom of the time said you always invited people in and you always fed them. Well, they weren’t coming in, I decided, but I would offer them something to eat.

They sat on the ground and waited while I rustled up some grub. They didn’t seem real impressed with yesterday’s biscuits. They ate all of a dozen while talking quietly among themselves.

After eating, they sat and seemed to wait for something more. I had very little sugar left and I wasn’t sharing that. I didn’t use tobacco. Then I had a thought. I went inside and came out with one of those new tin cans with peaches in it.

Opening it with my knife I began to spear peach slices out and lay them on the blanket before them. They looked at the peaches and then at each other. No one moved. Then it came to me; they didn’t know what peaches were! I took one small slice and popped it in my mouth. I smiled and rubbed my belly to show how good it was. One had the courage to try and the look on his face told all. In seconds the peaches were gone and all six were licking their fingers and talking excitedly among themselves.

Then one Indian, apparently their leader motioned towards the empty can. I handed it to him and a quick look was followed by a look of disappointment. I had told the truth, there were no peaches. Then the can interested him. Over and over he turned it looking at it from all angles. You could tell this was something new. Then I had a new thought. I motioned for him to give me the can. His eyes said he didn’t like that and he reluctantly gave it to me. Picking up a half dozen small stones I dropped them in and pushed the lid back down. I handed it back and motioned for him to shake it. The first sounds of rocks rattling in the tin can surprised him, then delighted him. Although they spoke and motioned, he would not share his new medicine can. I actually felt bad that I didn’t have five more empty cans!

In a few minutes the leader stood up, he never said a word but all knew the meeting was over. One by one they turned and left. The leader was last and before he left he said a few words in his Indian language and held out the can. I smiled and said in my best English, You can keep it, you dumb Indian bastard! then I pushed the can back to him. His smile was beautiful and his pleasure very great. I had made a friend. I was also lucky he didn’t speak the language. He turned to follow his companions and just like when they came, there they were and then they were gone.

The next morning as I went out I was scared half to death by a shadow at the end of my porch. Closer inspection showed it to be a fresh killed deer cleaned, skinned, and hung on the end of the porch. I had indeed made a friend and the years to come would only show me how good a friend he would become.

Fall came early that year, and hard on its heels came winter. A full-grown winter with deep heavy snows and winds that screamed down the mountain and around the cabin. Sunlight was scarce and what there was of it was pale and weak.

Spring couldn’t come fast enough to suit me, and come fast it didn’t. Week after week, month after month it drug on. My mountain was covered in many feet of snow and ice. Like all else in this country it was cold and hard.

I worked on the inside of the cabin until I ran out of material and ideas. I now had storage in one corner, several shelves with a flour sack hung in front, and more pegs carved form Aspen lined one wall. I had even attempted to make a wooden bucket. There I had failed. At best my bucket might do to handle several hands full of wood chips to start the fire. Oh, well!

My bed now had a new bear skin to help keep me warm at night, and even with the fire burning high it was cold. So cold I could see my breath until well into the day. The meat hung on my porch had to be brought in two days before I needed it just to thaw out enough to hack chunks out with an ax. Slicing meat for frying was almost impossible. I ate a lot of biscuits and stew that winter.

Even if it was still winter the notches on my winter stick said spring wouldn’t be far away. With plenty of thinking time on my hands, I began to plan on what I needed when spring finally did arrive. A trip out was my first concern. Since I hadn’t planned to winter over, most of my supplies were gone. I began to make a list: flour, salt, coffee, and beans. Just about everything in the way of groceries. I would have to have a mule again, not only for packing in everything I wanted, but the use to plow a garden, pack game down, and drag logs.

I also intended to get nails, rope, glass for a window, and some tools. Tools, well I guess to plow a garden I would need a plow also. Maybe it would be smart to buy a team of mules and a wagon to haul all this stuff. This might get pretty expensive. Then I had a real shock. Money.

Money? What exactly was I going to use to buy all this with? I had been on the way to the gold fields when I had been forced to stop here. Damn bear! I knew without looking, that I had about five dollars to my name. That wouldn’t even buy summers grub, much less another winter’s worth. I had several more weeks before I could travel and it was spent figuring all the ways to make a few dollars.

When spring came and the snows began to melt, I still didn’t have any good ideas. I might have to pack up and walk on into Cherryville to work or find a little gold and then come back. I kind of chuckled to myself. Looked like I had made another decision without thinking about it. It seemed I had made up my mind to stay and live here, all I had to do was figure out how.

The next day dawned clear and warm. It came to me I needed to get out and move around, forget my problem. Maybe the answer would come while hiking on the mountain, and a fresh rabbit, even a winter thin rabbit would make a good change of diet. With that thought in mind I picked up my rifle and started up the mountain.

It wasn’t long before the exercise and the beautiful day did make me forget all about my troubles. It was so nice to be out. Then right on cue a rabbit jumped up and ran for a gully winding up the mountain. I wasn’t fast enough to get a shot off, so I ran to the edge to see where the rabbit had run.

I got there just in time to see him dodge under a slab of rock. Well, that was okay. I didn’t want to ruin the day with a loud rifle shot, much less ruin the rabbit. A fire makes rabbit pretty much into stew anyway, and I wanted fried rabbit. I would just cut a forked stick and twist him out.

I was on my knees, jabbing and twisting around under the rock with my stick when a shadow crossed the rock. My first thought was bear. I froze! My rifle was several feet away leaning on another rock. Ever so slowly I turned my head. If it was a bear, it was unlike any I had ever seen because the first thing I saw was a beaded moccasin. Looking up I saw my Indian friend from last fall. My, was I happy about that! As I stood up and faced him I saw that he only had four braves with him, and one I have never seen before.

I stuck out my hang and we greeted each other the Indian way, he grasped my arm between wrist and elbow, with me doing the same. And then he rattled off a couple sentences in his native tongue, pointing to the rock. I couldn’t understand a word he said and was trying to figure out how to explain what I was doing, when to my surprise the new brave spoke in Spanish. He wants to know if you dig for the yellow rock with a stick?

Now coming from Taos, Spanish was a second language for me. I explained that I wasn’t looking for yellow rock. I was looking for supper, and again pointed to the rock. Conayo, I said, rabbit. There were grins all around as he translated. Then one of them held up a stick with three fine rabbits threaded on it. Further talk revealed that we would all go to the cabin and eat. They would share the rabbits if I would share the white man’s sweet stuff in the hard container. It took me a second to understand because the translator was only repeating the warriors talk word for word. Peaches! They wanted peaches. I had saved back two cans for just such a purpose. Sure was glad I did. I motioned toward the cabin and grinned and nodded. With smiles all around we headed down.

We finished off a fine meal of fresh rabbit, with fresh biscuits made from the very last of my flour. Being in a good mood, having company and all, I then opened both cans of peaches. I ate one slice to be polite, but I wanted my new friends to have the peaches.

We talked for a spell after supper, always in a three-way conversation. Remembering what the warrior had said about me digging for yellow rocks with a stick prompted me to ask what he had meant. He explained that when the white men came into the mountains, there were many deer and many elk and places to make lodges and be content. Instead, they dug in the ground like badgers looking for the yellow rock. This they loaded up and carried off, very happy. The warrior said he didn’t think that the white men were very smart. Yellow rocks were worthless and also heavy. Why carry off a bag of rocks?

You might guess I was real interested in this line of talk. I asked if they knew where some of this yellow rock might be. The warrior said he knew but didn’t want to say. He didn’t want his friend to be another foolish white man.

I tried to explain the value of this yellow rock, but wasn’t having much luck. If they didn’t know what money was, how could I explain the value of gold? Then I had a thought, I told them the yellow rock could be traded at the white man’s town for peaches. Ah ha! Now their eyes told me they understood. The warrior asked if they showed me where the yellow rock was found, would I trade it for peaches. I explained that I would trade for many things I needed. And yes, even a small rock would bring many peaches. That was good enough for them. They agreed to take me to the yellow rock that next morning.

The next morning, to my surprise, we went back up my mountain. Not too far from where we met they pointed out the yellow rock. Gold. Not a lot, just a small pocket, but enough to get the things I needed. That night when I crawled under my bearskin, my mind was once again on the list of things I would need. Only this time I thought for real because I could buy them now. Once again my mountain provided for me.

I spent one full day digging out a small pouch of gold. It would be enough. The next two days were spent on the trail. I didn’t go back to Taos. I headed for the village of Cimarron. It was supposed to be somewhere southeast of my mountain. A man named Maxwell ran things there and it was said that if you had gold you could buy most anything.

As I waded across the little creek I could see Cimarron. It seemed that people were everywhere. I found the trading post next door to the two-story mill Maxwell had built to grind grain. That was some kind of building. It was tall and made of rock. I was awestruck.

Some gold, some trade goods, my wagon and team, it all came together in one afternoon. I slept in the wagon that night to guard my supplies. With this many people around they sure must have their share of thieves and thugs. As a matter of fact, Maxwell himself had warned me. He also warned me to watch my back on the trail. Word of the gold would get around and men would be sure to wonder where it came from. I would be careful, but not because of the gold. I would be careful because I didn’t want anyone else around my mountain, my home.

The trip back took only a day and part of another. Not like the three-day hike out. Before the sun went behind the mountain I was home. That cabin looked good to me. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow; there was so much to do.

A few days were spent felling logs and making a warm, snug barn for the mules. I even built a shed to park the wagon under. The harnesses and tack hung in the cabin. I couldn’t chance loosing it to Indians or having porcupines and other small critters chewing it up for the salt.

Next I broke out my new one bottom John Deere plow, the newest thing from back east. Boy was I proud. I was well on my way to being a big time farmer. First I would plant corn, maybe forty acres or so. It would keep good over the winter and feed my mules. I also had a whole bag of seed corn, enough to plant twice that much.

From sunup to sundown I fought with the mules. They were plow stupid. I fought with the ground-jumping plow. I was plow stupid. A second and then a third day was spent doing the same. I looked at my blistered hands and decided my corn patch was big enough, even if it was closer to four acres than forty. It would do.

To let my hands heal a little I spent a day installing my new, small, wood cook stove. It was quite a job getting the stovepipe through the roof. I had built the cabin well. I enjoyed the work and when I fired it up it was well worth it. It went a long way to making the cabin a real house. A home, my home.

About midsummer I was working to divert a part of the creek over into my cornfield. Once again my Indian friend surprised me. I turned around and there he was. The smile on his face said he enjoyed coming up on me that way. And maybe he enjoyed seeing me again too.

We had our meal together and then a smoke from my new can of tobacco. He continued to sit as if he was waiting for something else. The sly grin was on my face now, as I pretended not to notice. This was a game we were to play out many, many times over the years. Finally, he gave up his pride and motioned like he was opening a can. When I went into the cabin and came out with two canes his eyes glowed with delight. The next ten minutes were spent just enjoying the peaches, enjoying the company, and enjoying the evening in general. We both slept well with peaceful minds that night.

The enjoyment and pleasure was still with us when it came time for him to leave the next morning. When he mounted his pony I held up my hand for him to wait. I went inside and emptied a burlap sack and filled it with cans of peaches. After all, in a way he had bought them.

He took the sack I handed him in disbelief. This was riches beyond his imagination. Our parting handclasp was stronger and longer than ever. I could see in his eyes he truly wished that he had the words to speak to me. I nodded my understanding and stepped back, and then as always, he was gone.

When the sound of a horse woke me the next morning, I rushed out to see my friend. I should have known better. He hadn’t waited, but tied to the end of my porch, like the deer, was the most beautiful paint horse I had ever seen. When I looked him over I saw a hand print in mud on his left shoulder. My friend said thank you, and signed the horse over to me. I could hardly wait to fit my old saddle to this beautiful horse.

The summer pasted fast and I was soon building a log storage shed for my first corn crop. With lots of work and the team and wagon, I gathered the corn stock by stock. The ears were ripe and full, and the stocks would add roughage this winter. When the job was done I closed the heavy log door and looked at it in pride.

My next and final building job that year was to build a strong meat house. On one end I built a smokehouse, where I would cure some of this fall’s meat, and someday the smokehouse would hold pork and beef. Someday, someday.

The year rushed along. The mountain turned yellow and red dressed in all nature’s most beautiful colors. The days grew shorter, the night colder. The corncrib was full. I couldn’t hang any more meat in the meat house. A stack of loose hay stood behind the barn. A huge head-high stack of cut wood lined one side of my cabin. My store supplies would last well into the spring. I was set for winter and life on my mountain was good.

The morning came and it seemed extra quiet, the air somewhat heavy. Low gray clouds covered the mountain. By the time I sat down to my evening meal the snow had started to fall. I went outside to stand, face raised to the sky. Big round flakes landed gently on my face. It was starting to build up on the barn roof and in places on the ground. Later, when I blew out the lamp and snuggled down in bed, I knew for sure that winter had arrived.

Winter’s first snow didn’t mean the end of work. It meant new work would soon start. After morning chores I came in and fixed myself a good breakfast. Animals first, then me. Fried elk steak, biscuits and gravy, and hot strong coffee. A quick clean up, got some sourdough started again, and I was ready.

Going to the storage part of the cabin I grabbed a large sack and pulled it across the floor closer to the fire. Then, one by one, I reached in and laid out two dozen steel traps of different sizes. This would be my winters work, as well as entertainment. Something to do on those short winter days, with hides to work on the long winter evenings as well. They would bring another cash crop come spring, in case the yellow rock ran out. I couldn’t wait to start.

I’ve said it before, be careful what you ask for in this country. You might just get it. I wanted to run a trap line for winter exercise and evening work to pass the time. I got both in