The Story Of A Mountain Man

By John J. Law

John J. Law is a writer of tall tales with an interest in the facts and real life adventures of a rare breed of man, the mountain man. He finds himself in the Shoehorn Saloon, somewhere between Wyoming and nowhere, when he is approached by the one true mountain man he'd heard so many stories about. Francis Santana.
Francis began to ramble long into the night about his exploits as a trapper and explorer. He went into detail about a lot of his adventures, and the exact chronology of the events described herein are probably doubtful, at best. Francis was not very good with dates and the exact times when things happened. What he was good at describing his various adventures in vivid detail. The man had a wonderful knack for telling a story, and it is as he said. There was pride in his voice, and a genuine sparkle in his eye, as he spoke. This was a man who was proud of his achievements, and for good reason. It was because of men like Francis that people were rapidly settling in the West.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Dec 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223801696

Book preview

Prologue

This is a story about memories. The kind of memories that run around your head like an otter or badger around the plains. When you think that you've spotted the nasty critter, well, he just up and slips back down into that little hole in the ground where he came from. Yep, those are the slippery memories, the ones that are hard to grasp, and often can get lost a blurry haze of trauma and regret. Still, once you do get a hold of them, you will realize that they are the best memories a man could ever have. That's because you'll know that they're the truth, not your mind or heart playing tricks on you. They just had to be.

This is also a story about booze, a lot of booze. If you ask any good man, they will say that booze or moonshine is essential for getting you through a lot of tough spots. The Good Lord saw it fit to kick out Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, and, well, here we are paying for their transgressions. That makes life down here oftentimes, a lot less than ideal. When tough times come knocking, a good dose of liquid courage is enough to get any man through a tough day with a smile on his face.

Finally, it's also a story about guns. Guns probably are the most prominent thing about this story. This is a story with a lot of gunfire, shots being fired, and all manner of men and creatures being killed. No, this is not a story for the faint of heart. During the times chronicled herein, a man needed to survive any way he could. If that meant shooting another man in cold blood, or getting the drop on him unawares well, so be it.

A lot of men have heard the story of the Mountain Man and dismissed it as mere hearsay. The product of loose lips and over exaggerating minds. Some would agree heartily on this assessment, but I say nay to either of them. The Mountain Man was real, and his exploits were very much so, as well. 

This is his story. Or at least one of several.

CHAPTER ONE  

A Dying Breed

My story begins in the Shoehorn Saloon. If you want specifics, it's located somewhere between Wyoming and nowhere. Hell, even I don't remember exactly where that saloon is now. I've traveled a good part of this country of ours and the saloon's exact location faded into memory. You might say that there was nothing remarkable about the Shoehorn saloon. It was simply a small establishment in the middle of a small town. 

In my line of work, I've usually drifted around small saloons like this one. And it would've stayed unremarkable... if not for the burly man that walked in that night.

To say that the man had a strange appearance about him was putting it quite mildly. The saloon was full of its usual clientele; gamblers, thieves, scalawags and what have you. Yet even in that diverse crowd of miscreants, the stranger still managed to stand out as he entered the establishment. The men in the bar all could not help but stare at this strange-looking man who seemed to wander into the saloon by mistake. These were hard-boiled men who were used to stealing or killing at the drop of a hat. These were men who would not hesitate to do anything just to get by. Yet even they found this stranger unnerving and unsettling. He was an uncommon man among uncommon men, as my good friend Chael Wetherby would always say. Weatherby was a Jewish immigrant who prided himself on his pugilistic and wrestling skills, but I am getting way ahead of myself.

The stranger had a round belly on him, and you could see that his thick leather belt struggled to keep his pants up. The man also wore furs of various wild animals on his back, giving him a shaggy, almost canine appearance. For whatever reason that the fates commanded, the man also seemed to have an eternal smile on his face. It was not a smile of glee, nor of contempt. If anything, you could not fathom the real intentions behind that smile. You could say that his strange grin masked the man's true intentions. 

The furry man approached my corner of the bar and sat right beside me. I immediately detected a strange odor on him. The odor was akin to the smell of a bear emerging from its cave after a long dirt nap. Or perhaps it was the scent of my old lazy dog, as she got up from the front porch. Either way, it was a very animalistic vibe about the man... something almost primal.

Bartender? Gimme your strongest booze, the man said.

The barkeep, being a man of few words, complied almost immediately and tossed my furry friend a small glass of real, powerful whisky. The man swallowed it all in a single gulp. I paid him no heed as I tended to my own personal writings. My own shot of whiskey was only half consumed, and that I had a very bad headache that day. I would have preferred to ignore him that night, as I was struggling to complete a story in my head. As fate would have it, it was the big furry man who spoke to me first.

What are you writin' there? A story? Piece of the news? I reckon you're a writer of some sort... are you not? 

You could say that, I replied casually.

The man grinned at me as he ordered another shot of whiskey. So you are a writer. Are you one of them mythmakers who write those dime novels? The stuff that old wives and bored men read to pass the time? I wish I could read, my momma always told me. I should learn how to read someday, but I never followed her advice. Instead, I made my living with these bare hands of mine.

The man held his hands out and I saw his open faced palms. His palms were as thick as oak trees, and his fingers were as gnarled as the claws of a bald eagle. Yeah, one look at them hands and I realized that this man has done a lot of dirty work in his time.

Yes, sir. I do write them dime novels for a living. I wish I did somethin' else, but it is what it is.

Upon my reply, the large man let out a huge laugh. His laugh was more akin to the growl of a large bear and I forced a smile upon my lips. Upon hearing that guttural sound, I could not summon much mirth. The sound only inspired fear, like the sound of any predator's roar would.

Heh heh heh! And what would you rather be doin', mister? Would you rather be a gunslinger? A lawman? A priest? A thief? Or perhaps a mountain man just like myself? Believe you me... most of them jobs are uncivilized like. You have a good job. Spreadin' warmth and entertainment wherever you can. Entertainin' people, makin' them happy, ‘specially in times like these... believe you me, it's a good thing.

Now it was my time to smile at this strange hybrid of man and beast before me. Is that so? If my job is pretty good, then my achin' head and my shakin' fingers definitely don't know it. I stretched out my aching hand which was shaking from all my writing towards my new acquaintance. The name's Benjamin, Joe Benjamin. What's yours?

The name's Santana. Francisco Santana. But my associates prefer to call me Big Country... because I just love this big land of ours... land that's slowly vanishin'. But you can just call me the mountain man.

Francisco Santana. Big Country. The mountain man. Truth be told, I'd actually heard about this man in various local legends, folklore and old wives' tales. The stories were as varied and as numerous as his namesakes. Some stories pictured him as a large man that was half man and half bear, living alone in the wilderness, plying his dying trade of fur trapping. Some stories said that he was so prodigious in acquiring his furs that he even managed to wrestle two grizzly bears all at once. Some even say that he pulled out the tooth of an alligator while it was sleeping just for sport. Other stories made him out as a company man, working for the big fur companies and hating every minute of it. Still other stories pictured him living out in the wilderness with his ten kids and overbearing wife. These stories portrayed the mountain man as a hardworking family man; a man who would do anything to provide for his wife and kids. I had a feeling that all of these stories had a grain of truth about them except the latter. I simply could not imagine a man like Francis being tied to a ball and chains. Either way, tonight, I would find the truth behind this man and it would probably make a great story.

I also pondered Francis' last statement very carefully. He was right. The whole landscape of the country was slowly changing before our very eyes. Once numerous buffalo were now vanishing rapidly across the plains. The march of the railway was makin' small towns like this one much more accessible to the bigger cities. The loss of the south to the north in the great war would only mean that progress and everything it brought with it would simply march on. Progress was definitely moving forward but it could not have done so without men like Santana. It was men like him, fur trappers, mountain men, and explorers that paved the way for everything that was happening today. In the rapid march of progress that they themselves had ushered, I wondered what would become of men like Francisco Santana. These men were a dying breed, and the paths that they helped opened up also threatened to swallow them whole. They reminded me of the good Saint John the Baptist who proclaimed the coming of the Good Lord only to have his head beheaded for his troubles.

Boy, have I got story for you, Francis said.

Francis began to ramble long into the night about his exploits as a trapper and explorer. He went into detail about a lot of his adventures, and the exact chronology of the events described herein are probably doubtful, at best. Francis was not very good with dates and the exact times when things happened. What he was good at describing his various adventures in vivid detail. The man had a wonderful knack for telling a story, and it is as he said. I do regret that he did not learn how to read, as I can easily imagine him being a myth maker or a tale spinner like myself, in another life. That being said, I sensed that Francis was very content with his life, and the lot that fate had dealt him. He was a lot more content than he would let on, but I could see it in the way he told his stories. There was pride in his voice, and a genuine sparkle in his eye, as he spoke. This was a man who was proud of his achievements, and for good reason. It was because of men like Francis, that people were rapidly settling in the West. 

The following is an account of his life, told in his words. Any interludes that follow are my own interjections on his thoughts.

CHAPTER TWO  

The Father of a Mountain Man

If you must know how I got to be like this, it was because of my father. It was my father who introduced me to this kind of life. In many ways, exploring and living off the wild was probably the best option for a man like him. 

Alberto Roldan Santana was my father's name, and he was originally from Mexico. His father was a Vaquero and knew how to live off the land. How he ended up in America though, I am not sure. My father did not really speak to me much. He only spoke to me in between bottles of whiskey and beer, and I'm sure you can see that, that was not quite ideal. 

What he did reveal to me was that he was a part of Lewis and Clark's expedition. If there was any doubt in my young mind of my father's claims, it was easily dashed by the possessions that my father kept. He kept a .46 caliber Girandoni air rifle, a special rifle with a twenty round tubular magazine, with enough kick to kill a deer. That was the only kind of rifle of its kind that I ever saw. I also later learned that distribution of said rifle had long been ceased, but it was very common during Lewis and Clark's time. Surely the Sioux and the other Indians residing in those territories would have trembled at the sight of such a powerful weapon for the first time.

If that were not enough, Pa also kept a special silver medal with him at all times. This was one of those special Indian Peace Medals that Lewis and Clark distributed to the tribes that they encountered. The portrait of Jefferson was inscribed in the medal, but I am not sure if it inspired peace to any Indian chief that received it. Peace through intimidation, perhaps. After the expedition, the medals were never minted again, and I'm sure that silver medal would have fetched a pretty penny if it were still with me. 

Unfortunately, I lost it as I grew to manhood, and I truly regret this.

Pa told me that he was part of the core of nine young men that Lewis and Clark handpicked personally to be a part of the Corps of Discovery as they were to be called. When he was inebriated, he often told of how much of a glorious honor it was to be a part of the corps of young men that were blazing a path into the unknown for the good of God and country. 

There were a few times when he was sober that I managed to pry the truth from him, and it was anything but honorable and glorious. Pa confessed that they were chosen not because of their loyalty or skill set, however skills was a factor. The deciding factor however, was because of their criminal records. They were all hardened criminals with long prison chances, and little to no chance of parole. Pa had killed a man over stealing a horse before, and had been jailed for it.