Mountain Man
The silence of the virgin mountains was broken by the soft crying of a tiny baby, and the huge rough hands of the mountain man reached down to gently pick her up. Not another living person for a hundred miles, but here was this tiny speck outside his old log cabin with a note pinned to her chest that he couldn’t read. His weather-beaten, scarred face broke into a huge smile as he looked at the tiny figure of the baby girl almost covered by his massive hands. She was the prettiest little thing, with her face screwed up and tears running from her eyes. Not much hair at all, and indescribably wonderful to hold.
From somewhere deep inside, he remembered long forgotten words to a lullaby once often sung to him as a child. In a voice long unused to speaking he sang to her, and surprised himself with the purity of his song. "Mountain Man in love?" he mused, and his grin got wider still.
"You crying for your Momma?" he asked her "Only me here Speck, but we’ll walk to town and find a Momma for you." He gave her the last of that morning's milking in his old cracked mug, and she gurgled happily, and as he looked into her hazel eyes, he felt strangely at peace for the first time in a long, hard life.
It didn't take long to get ready. His well used old rifle and a handful of ammunition, his large two-edged axe, the cracked mug, and a rope for old Bessy, his milker. He tore up his worn blanket and made a papoose arrangement so that he could carry Speck on his back. These were his only possessions, apart from the cabin that he had built himself, and they were all that he had ever needed, and they would be enough now.
They left then, the huge mountain man, muscles tempered by years of hard living. Tiny Speck half asleep from the movement nestled on his back and Bessy the cow, plodding happily beside them. He was not a man for looking back, and he didn't this morning either. The future was ahead of him, and he had something that needed doing.
On the third day out the mountain lion jumped them, just as he had finished collecting the wood to build a fire for his night's meal. His rifle was over by Speck so he grabbed the large axe instead, and stepped between the cat and the little one. He knew that he had to win this fight. It was about more than just himself and the snarling cat, now he had another life to care for.
They stood facing each other, hungry cat and hardened man, their eyes never leaving each other, circling, each looking for the best position to strike. His axe cut fur from the top of its head as it ducked, and its return swing, with a paw as big as his head, grazed him as he glided swiftly to the side. Both had their teeth bared now, and neither was going to give up. Suddenly the big cat lunged, catching him by surprise. It moved under his axe and sank massive teeth deep into his left arm. As his axe fell from nerveless fingers, his right fist slammed into its head, then again and again he pounded it before it could release its grip on him. Finally it staggered free, dazed, and he picked the axe up with his good hand and sank it deep into the stunned cat killing it cleanly.
As soon as he had calmed Bessy down again, he milked her with his one good hand, and then fed and washed Speck. Only then did he tend to his wounds, washing his torn and useless arm in the stream. With nothing to bind it, he finally pushed his useless hand into the top of his pants where it would stay until it healed.
It took another three days for the fever to hit. His arm had swollen to twice its normal size, and the sun blurred and shifted, making it hard to follow. He stumbled upon a deserted trapper's cabin, and they moved in there. He kept Bessy inside, gave the bed to Speck and slept on the floor within easy reach of her. Whenever his tortured brain was capable, he fed and washed Speck, and milked and looked after Bessy. And often as he became aware, he was singing that same lullaby for her.
It was three weeks of hell before he was fit to continue. And much longer before his arm was capable of being used freely, but there was no further trouble on the way down the mountain, or along the trail to town.
Sunrise. On a quiet road leading into town, a big man stood. He had a baby on his back and a cow at his side. His left arm had been savagely mauled and hung useless at his side. And if you looked closely, there was a tear in his eye.
**********************
The large axe swung and another piece of wood was added to the growing pile. He was a little older, a little greyer. His arm was healed, but it was still a little stiff, but he smiled as he worked.
Until suddenly a voice called from inside the cabin, "Come on Mountain. You want this rabbit as burnt as the one you cooked last week?" She stood at the doorway, a young, pretty girl, her hazel eyes laughing at him, and a smile from ear to ear.
"OK Speck, I'm coming." He called back, grinning wider still.
He had never made it all the way into town that day. A little boy had read him the note that he was unable to read so long ago. It had said: "My lovely wife died in childbirth, and I will join her by my own hand as soon as our baby is safe. I walked a long way to find you Mister. She is a child of the mountains; please don’t take her to town, let her grow free and happy, just as we always have been ourselves. She deserves that. It was signed, Joshua James."
He had turned around then, and headed back to the mountains. He took Speck and Bessy with him. And he never regretted the decision once. Neither was alone in this world anymore, both had someone who cared greatly, and neither one would give up the other for anything.
"Weren't ‘THAT’ bad Speck," he laughed.
"Was too!" she poked her tongue out and laughed as well.
And their laughter echoed across the mountains they loved.
