The stories of Mountain Men

“That’s a cool pouch.” I gestured toward a leather bag hanging around the neck of a tall mountain man.
He and his friend, Tailgunner, had just walked up the embankment from their camp.
As I snapped their photographs, they turned around, joking about their most photogenic side.
They were dressed in mountain men clothing with the big guy wearing a bright yellow shirt, a leather vest, something that looked like a red loincloth, fringed leggings, and worn moccasins.
He toted a rifle in the crook of his elbow and a pistol at his waist.
Tailgunner’s attire was similar, except he sported a long gray pigtail, granny glasses, and a green polka dotted shirt.
Both wore wide-brimmed hats, moustaches, and beards, but Tailgunner’s beard looked oddly divided.
My husband Ted, our little dog Kenidee, and I were on our summer road trip through the Midwest and West.
Ted pulled into Fort Laramie, a national historic site, located along the curve of the Laramie River in Wyoming.
The large fort had morphed from the original small structure, called Fort William, built as a trading post by Robert Campbell and William Sublette in 1834.
Their post thrived until 1841, when competition built another one a mile away. As a countermove, Campbell and Sublette rebuilt their fort into an adobe stronghold and called it Fort John.
It carried on a bustling trade with the Sioux, mountain men, and thousands of emigrants traveling to Utah, California, or Oregon.
To protect those emigrants, the army purchased it in 1849, renaming it Fort Laramie and operating it for about 40 years before selling it to homesteaders at a public auction.
In 1938, President Franklin D. Roosevelt designated it as a national monument, and it became a national historic site in 1960.
Some of the buildings are original, some are reconstructed, and some are rubble.
Volunteers dressed in period clothing gave the historic details of the fort, and we could see a large, reenactment camp near the visitor’s center.
After we toured the grounds, I was making a last-minute bathroom run before we traveled on to Casper, but I also wanted to visit the bookstore — if it happened to be close by.
On my way, the two mountain men walked up the slope toward me and introduced themselves, McCaffrey and Tailgunner (not their real names), and told me where they lived, Wichita, KS, and Cheyenne, WY.
“Are you out here unsupervised?” The big guy shifted his rifle onto his back.
“My husband’s waiting in the car.” With my eyes still on the intricately decorated pouch, I commented again on its beauty.
“Thanks,” he said, but he reached inside his vest and pulled out a small, handsewn buckskin pouch tied with a ribbon.
“This one’s empty. I got mouth cancer from chewing, and the ribbon’s for surviving. I’ve been clean and clear for three years.”
I stared up at him, not prepared for the switch from jokester to cancer survivor.
“I had it, too.” Tailgunner lifted his chin with its divided beard.
“They cut me from here to here.” He demonstrated how the doctors had split his mouth open to remove the cancer.
“Then, they took my fibula and reconstructed my jaw.”
In the silence, I could hear people in the camp talking and laughing.
“My pain got so bad,” McCaffrey finally said, “that if it weren’t for Tailgunner and Big Tom down there in the camp, I would’ve checked out. I was in unknown territory. I didn’t know what to do or where I was going.”
His eyes filled with tears. “If I would’ve checked out....” He paused and pulled out a large handkerchief.
As the sun beat down on the three of us, I could feel my own throat tightening in sorrow for what these two men had been through, and I’ll admit I was grateful I hadn’t worn mascara that day.
The big guy cleared his throat. “If I would’ve checked out, I wouldn’t have been here to see my daughter get married or two grandkids born. My wife, my buddies and the good Lord,” he pointed up, “got me through it.”
He showed us the scar where his jaw had been reconstructed. “I’m not as pretty as I used to be, but that’s okay.”
“This is me.” Tailgunner gestured at his polka dot shirt. “When I found this, I bought the whole bolt, so nobody else would have it, and when I got sick, my buddies tore a strip off my shirt and hung it in the Spirit Tree.”
He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Small acts can mean a whole lot.” McCaffrey blew his nose. “They make a difference. When my eyes get to leaking like now, I’m not ashamed of it.”
He pocketed his handkerchief and straightened his shoulders. “Hey, before we go, would you like a picture with us?”
“Sure,” I choked out.
After we posed, I said, “Thank you so much for sharing with me.”
“Our pleasure, ma’am. We’re heading up to fill our canteens.” McCaffrey pulled out the leather-covered canteen slung around his shoulders.
“It’s been hotter than blazes today. You take care,” and they sauntered off toward a nearby building.
When I finally made it back to our vehicle, Ted started the ignition. “Did you find the bookstore?”
“No, something better.” I pulled the seatbelt over my shoulder and clicked it into place. “I ran into mountain men with life-and-death stories to tell.”