Showing results by author "John J. Law" in All Categories

“They say he resides here. Or at least that is what the stories say.” The two men stood in front of a large cave. The cave's entrance seemed to beckon to the men to step inside. The entrance and the cave itself reminded Billy Weston of some old medieval paintings he had seen. In the paintings, a giant head of a hound ushered in souls to hell itself. The giant hound's gaping mouth was the entrance to the underworld, just as the cave's dark entrance seemed to be the gateway to a dark and terrible place inside.

“They've got us surrounded, John!” Potts said. Colter nodded grimly. “I know. They're signaling us to paddle to shore. I don't think we have much of a choice,” he said. Potts did not answer his friend. He was already hastily loading and priming his musket. He would be able to get a single shot off at best. At worst, the Indians would probably scalp him before he even managed to fire. Both men silently acknowledged that their deaths were imminent. Colter paddled the canoe up to the shore. The sight of so many Blackfeet was intimidating and he didn't know what to do.

The Indians called him "Death Wind" for his ability to blend into the forest, swoop down and bring death and destruction, and just as quickly blow away. His shooting skills were next to none, and it is said that if he could spot any target in the distance, he would never miss. He also gained his fearsome name from the fact that he was known to sprint far, fast, and wide through the forest. This was truly an amazing feat for a man that was solidly built and easily over six feet.

Jim Bridger was one of the most famous mountain men that ever lived. Even during the Green River rendezvous camp of 1835, his reputation had already preceded him. Bridger was known far and wide as one of the best, if not the best and most reliable mountain men around. His competence, hardiness, and experience in his trade had been long established. The "King of the Mountain Men", as he would later be known, arrived at the Green River rendezvous camp to socialize, trade, and indulge in the usual activities of camp. However, he also came there for another reason.

The grizzly stared back at young Colter and gave a loud roar. Its roar echoed throughout the vast wilderness and the sound of the animal’s fury made Colter’s blood run cold. The young mountaineer had interrupted it from its grisly task of killing Fulton, but he wasn’t sure if he had made it in time. Fulton was clearly in a bad way with blood pouring from his scalp, all over his face. And the young and inexperienced mountaineer had only his tomahawk to face down the nasty grizzly in front of him.

The flames flickered in front of the bounty hunter, as he sat alone in his little camp. He had no one for company, but his guns and his coffee. He had a horse tied nearby, but he did not consider the animal as company. He had taken it from someone he had shot and killed and there was no bond between them.

As a bounty hunter, Judson Law was constantly finding himself in stressful situations. After a long ride, he came into a small town in search of a hot bath, a meal, and a good rest. What he got was far more than he bargained for. Judson Law would find himself in a fight for his freedom and his life, from a very unusual source. 

The bounty hunter chuckled. It was then that a young woman approached him. She looked a little beaten and exhausted, but there seemed to be a certain fire and determination in her eye. She was actually a looker if not for the curious eyepatch that she sported. It covered one of her eyes and the bounty hunter could tell that her face was very slightly contorted because of the injury to her eye. “That how you settle all your disputes at the Poker table?” she asked him. The bounty hunter couldn't place it, but she seemed to be carrying some kind of heavy burden in her heart.

“Everything has a beginning and an ending, son. We all follow our life in patterns. Cycles, if you will.”

"Who are those men, Pa?” Thomas Charles asked. Henry shook his head. He didn’t really know what to tell his boy. So, he decided to make it simple and straightforward. “You better get inside, son.” he said. Henry tried to keep his voice from trembling. Several thoughts and feelings came upon him at the same time. He tried to stay tough and firm, but deep inside of him, a storm was raging. Henry Howard knew why Papa Muertes’ boys had come a knocking on his front porch. This was no social visit. It never was with Papa Muertes’ boys.

The bounty hunter smiled at Tex. “Unlikely. Do you remember what happened when you saved my hash? That was something indeed.” Tex shook his head. “I don't want to sound like you owe me anything. I was just doing what anybody else would have done.” “I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just think that's a much better topic of discussion instead of my future wedding plans,” the bounty hunter said.

They say a picture paints a thousand words. And what is a story if not another kind of picture? This is a bigger picture with more than a thousand words. A picture that is painted in chaos and gunfire. A picture that tells a tale of chaos, death, and investment.

James Spalding, Hunter Jeffries, and Ridley Levinson were not men that would run at the slightest sign of danger. No, they were the complete opposite. If anything, the three men never hesitated to run headlong straight toward danger. It was for this reason that the three of them made for such a potent group. Alone, they were already formidable in their own right, but as a single unit, they were almost a force of nature.

It had been a long ride and when Judson Law saw the small frontier town on the horizon, his spirits lifted. He was exhausted from riding for so long, and a small room with a bed would be very welcome for him. It had only been less than a week since Judson made good on a bounty and earned a decent sum. The money he had earned would be enough for a bed, and a drink. If he were lucky at cards, perhaps the amount could be stretched a good bit. "Ain't that town a lovely sight for my sore eyes. Might as well ride on towards it, and make myself at home".

John J. Law was 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.

It was just another night in the small boomtown of Bradshaw. A prospector by the same name discovered gold in a nearby mine, and the small town sprouted in the middle of nowhere. Like wild mushrooms popping up in the middle of a dead bark, the town grew rapidly and developed a rowdy reputation. It attracted all sorts, from desperate men trying to find their fortune, to rowdy, lawless types that tried to escape theirs. The town of Bradshaw drew them all in, with the promise of striking it rich or at least evading the law.

Amos Well drew his huge Bowie knife. The knife's edge glistened against the rays of the sun. He then cut a fine incision through one of Haynes' arms. Haynes screamed, as the blade cut through his flesh. Blood spurted out of the wound. Well's knife was drenched in blood now, but he would not cut anymore. 

Toby lay on the small bed and could not move. His wrists had been tied firmly on the bedposts, along with his ankles. He squirmed around in the bed, but it was to no avail. The ropes were tied too tightly and there was no way Toby could wriggle free. Sweat began to pour down from his forehead as he contemplated his grim fate. 

"Dr. St John? There's someone here to see you." The lady knocked a few times on the door, but no one answered. “I’ll just let ourselves in. Come with me, and don't get too startled when you see him. Dr. St. John can still be quite ornery, even with his advanced disease." "Ornery? What do you mean?"

"It’s plain as day that the fort's been abandoned." “Don't matter, old timer. Now help me unload the supplies." Hunsacker wasn’t deterred in the least bit. If anything, from the tone of his voice, he seemed even more determined to stay. Corben shook his head and whistled. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was a hint of madness in the young man's eye, that much, Corben noticed. He was quiet and kept to himself, rarely speaking the entire way.