The Mountain Man: Sample Read - Adam Lewis LaValley (popular e readers txt) 📗

how to use them.
But as he glanced back at the campsite, trying to remember anything he might have forgotten, something vaguely threatening caught his attention.
A dark figure started smoothly near the edge of a small ravine opposite him. It was covered head to toe in bushy fur, and had the appearance of a bear. The sun had not raised yet – the light being seemingly invalid, not wanting to awaken from its slumber. Darkness can prove an enemy if a person cannot understand his surroundings. It can not be told what the figure exactly was. If anything, Thomas knew his life was in danger.

Chapter 2

Thomas tossed aside his pack of supplies and took cover behind a contingent of pine trees, using their trunks for protection; snow fell to the ground in great heaps as he buffeted the branches, trying to raise his rifle through the thick atmosphere. Pines stuck to his beard. He quietly eared back the hammer of his weapon and waited for the coming presence of the character.
The dark figure deliberately made its way across the bumpy terrain; it stumbled a few times, but still came ever closer, apparently undisturbed. The creature grunted. It stopped a few feet off from him, but he still could not get a good observation. The only thing he could tell was that it did not walk on all fours, and it was doing a lot of breathing. If that was the case, then this was a man and he was in some state of shock.
The man did not notice him; he moved on.
Thomas’s heart thumped profusely against his chest. He carefully slipped out from behind the trunks and followed in closely behind the unperturbed figure, trying to mimic his footsteps. Snow crunched beneath their feet; but the stupid person obviously did not have a thing for hearing. The mountain man stood six feet behind; musket raised, he let off a round into the emptiness above, causing birds of all ethnicities to take to the frozen morning sky and a resounding imitation to bounce off surrounding objects. His intended act of intimidation worked: the figure uttered a startled cry, dropped – or tripped, it can be observed – to the snow-covered ground, and placed his arms on his head.
A startlingly breezy wind brushed past and the echo died. After reloading, the mountain man made his way to the collapsed stranger. He aimed the gun at his back and got a good look at him: a young, short black-bearded lad of twenty-five or so; the fur he wore was of European craft and he bore no weapons.
Thomas eyed him methodically and searched around quickly for fear of any others that may ambush him. Multiple stories had gone around – bands of greedy men killing frontiersmen for their valued wealth. Could this be one? He rubbed his nose and turned his attention back to the young man. First things first: Where was he from?
“Parlez-vous français?” he asked.
The lad was unresponsive; his eyes showed with total fear.
Thomas retreated his steady aim, like a soldier ordered not to shoot; but he still held his finger on the trigger. No weapons could be seen on the man, but it did not mean he was not hiding any.
"Deutsch? Sie sind Deutscher?” he asked in German, a demanding tone evident in his voice. “Oder Englisch? Speak any English? Come on now, out with it!”
He nodded feverously. “I…I can speak both.” The man spoke with an English accent.
The mountain man let out an exhausted, exasperated exhalation, propped the stock of his musket against a stubborn stone, and leaned against it. Red cheeks made him look all the more raged. “What exactly were you trying to do out here, boy? Get killed? Luckily I did not shoot your back when you were turned.” He held out a hand and pulled the boy up with ease. Snow stuck like glue to his fur coating.
“My apologies, sir. I need–”
Thomas cut him off rudely; his own blood still ran with animate activity, and the only way to settle it was to get the answers he needed. “Why were you coming so quickly through these parts? This is dangerous territory; if you be coming to take my hard-earned furs, then you got another thing coming.”
The Englishman spoke chokingly. His breathing was ragged. He stumbled with the first few words, but then went on: “No, no…please, I need help. Savages killed my partners and…my God, took our supplies. We were on a peaceful mission, and they just…slaughtered them all.” Tears hung in his eyes. It was as if he resisted their falling. He sniffed. “They took their scalps and all! Bloody awful! And the supplies – hundreds worth! Bloody…bloody awful…”
The mountain man looked off behind him, caught by surprise when a large black bird took off from a branch, trailing snow from under its wings. It was to be expected, was it not? After all, this was native territory. If this man was not prepared for his venture, then that was his problem. Had he not heard of the tales, the mad stories running about? But he could not ignore the problem. Not everybody was prepared for this sort of situation. The lad reminded him…of himself when he took to the forests and mountains – scared and unassuming; but he always contained a bold, impromptu personality. And he never backed down.
“What is your name?”
“Lawrence…Lawrence Washer. Please sir, will you help? We must catch the natives and get back the supplies!”
Thomas licked his dry lips and raised a steady hand. His demeanor seemed to convince the Englishman that he was going to help. “Calm down, my friend. How long ago were you attacked?”
Lawrence pushed his hair back and put his hands to his sides. His fur coat was rugged and worn. “Two days ago, approximately. I…cannot say accurately.” The man’s lip quivered; he coughed and then clenched his teeth.
The mountain man noticed the pain he was enduring. Beneath the man, the snow was red. He picked up the musket, moved toward the Englishman, and inspected his leg: Fresh blood coated his leggings.
“What happened to your leg?”
Washer glanced down; he looked at the wound as if it were never there before. Blood came out at a fast rate. If he had ignored it for this long, who is to say he would not have died of the injury? The Englishman pulled back the fur and revealed a flimsy, pathetic attempt to stop the flow. The bandage – which Thomas thought must have been white – was now almost completely tarnished in a reddish color.
“I was wounded during the assault – a tomahawk was thrown and smote my leg; it partially embedded. My, it…it hurts so badly” – for Thomas moved closer and unwound the destroyed fabric; it caused Washer to grimace and grunt profusely – “and I haven’t a remembrance of how I removed it, because I was so enveloped…by the pain.”
“Tomahawk you say?”
“Yes, quite,” was the gritty reply. “I remember how it came – like a glistening, silver edge of death calling for me, wanting me to join in its path of victims. Never before have I known this feeling. It…it’s a startlingly new experience.”
Thomas nodded reprovingly. He turned and grabbed a handful of snow; he then rubbed the drying blood surrounding his skin and inspected the gash. It was as long and thick as his thumb, surely fatal if unattended for a time. The mountain man stared up at him in surprise. “And you expect to catch the attackers on this leg? You could die from loss of blood if you do not get proper attention.”
The Englishman tried to argue, but Thomas had him sit on a dry boulder so he could tend to his wound. From his pack – which still laid in its hiding place, like a hare in its hole – he withdrew a minuscule sack which accommodated fresh, white bandages. After washing the gaping streak – which Lawrence found to great discomfort – the bandages were wrapped expertly around his leg.
It seemed to reenergize him. “Thank you,” Washer gasped awkwardly. “We are losing time, though. The savages–”
“Have probably gotten away,” Thomas cut-in. A deep frown stretched across his handsome face; the trees bustled all around. “It is too dangerous to go off alone, anyways. I realize what you must be feeling, but there is little to do about it. Besides, you cannot travel on that leg. You hear me? We need to find you a proper doctor. Also, I’ve got my year’s earnings to make. Just came back after a long winter in the new territories, dodging enemy tribes and such. We are two days out from the nearest town, and I’m almost out of food – sharing a meal with another person makes it all the more worse. Cannot leave you out here alone, either – you will die. If that does not convince you…well then, I may just have to knock you out cold and bring you to town myself.”
Lawrence gapped. He closed his mouth and nodded. “I believe,” he replied, “I did not get your name.”
“Call me Thomas,” the mountain man stated happily.
The two men shook hands. Thomas then offered Washer his musket to be used as a crutch, and lent him a quick meal. Once the time was ripe, and the sun was rising, the men headed east toward civilization – from ventures in the wild lands of the North American territory that would have otherwise killed them.

Chapter 3

A powerful, deathly blizzard hit; only a few hours had passed. It seemed someone did not want the two men to make it to town.
Thomas pulled at his fur coverings, the warmth now quickly departing from his body at an elaborate pace; his tracks in the snow were deeper, and the ground steadily raised – a new white pile forming over the older ones. He appeared to have aged quickly: a staunch silvery clothe ensconced the brown beard he wore only hours before – miniscule icicles being established in the wiry hair like settlers in a dense, foreign land. It was barely visible in this environment.
Lawrence trailed not too far behind, limping with increased effort; straining with all his might to not scream into the bowls of icy hell as his unavailing wound continued to become a plight. His head hung low, so as to keep track of the trail his friend was creating. Painful groans emanated as he took every step; he harbored the musket’s muzzle as the snow poured down