The crows and grackles were the first to awaken and begin their morning chorus, which was soon followed by other song birds. "Shut up!" Ambrose Ferguson grumbled as he rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with the crook of his right arm; trying to get a little more sleep. He even tried to adjust the worn striped blanket to make himself more comfortable, but it wasn't working.
His outburst only caused the birds to sound out more warnings to others around Ferguson's little camp. The mountain man pulled his arm away from his face and looked up into the dawn sky. It still hinted of night with a few stars still shining brightly and the night blue was only just giving away to the dawn.
Ferguson slowly pushed himself up onto his right elbow and ran his left hand through his bushy grey beard and over his face to clear his fuzzy morning eyes. He made a face as he arched his back from the position that he was in – there was a faint but welcome snap and a satisfied look washed over his face, "Tonight, I look forward to a real bed," he grumbled as he sat up and continued to arch his back.
With a yawn, Ambrose Ferguson stretched his arms wide out to his sides; even they ached. Sleeping on the ground had that affect, he surmised. Of course, he recalled, some of the wounds from days of his youth were also catching up to him.
Ferguson slowly pulled his legs up under himself and got to his feet. He looked down at the smouldering ashes before he tossed a few twigs into the fire pit. He figured that there was still enough life in the ashes to ignite a fire so he could have some coffee to get his day going.
Ambrose ambled past his shaggy horse and pack mule to untie the rope that suspended his food pack in the air; the best bear defence he knew of. He lowered the pack and searched through it to find the coffee and the pot. As he went through his kit he noticed that the fire indeed started. As Ferguson walked to the stream, passed the fire, he dropped a few more twigs and a section of a branch onto the little flames.
Smoke from the fire hung in the damp early morning air and drifted down to the stream where Ferguson was fetching water in his dark blue and white speckled enamelled tin pot. While he was there he took the opportunity splash some cool water into this face and around his neck to help him wake up.
The mountain man's eyes scanned the creek for wildlife, but there was nothing to be seen. Just as well, as he figured he was only a few miles away from Dodge and he had enough venison jerky to last him the rest of the journey. Ferguson stood and walked back to his camp, knelt next to the fire and placed the pot near the flame, and then he added some ground coffee. He used a stick to stir the contents of the pot.
While Ambrose waited for the coffee to heat, he wondered if Matt Dillon was still the marshal in Dodge. He remembered a time many years ago that he had some dealings with the lawman, one that got him a bullet in his left shoulder and a few days behind bars in the jail house. He vaguely remembered that it had something to do with they pretty redhead that ran the Long Branch Saloon, "Kitty Russell," he smiled to himself. "If she still owns the saloon, I'll be sure to give her and it a wide berth," he snorted and shook his head with a bit of a laugh.
Ambrose felt lucky that all he got was a few days in the Dodge jail. Had Matt known his past, it may have been a lot more and likely in a penitentiary. His past is where he wanted to keep it; he felt that living off the land for the past ten years had changed him, although he did still wear his six-shooter at his right side. A large Bowie styled knife was kept in a decorative beaded sheath on his left hip.
The coffee was slowly coming to a boil as Ferguson busied himself with his blankets. He picked up his ragged hat and placed it on his wild grey hair, which hung down to his broad shoulders. The colour of his hair was a sharp contrast to the red and black flannel shirt he wore. To complete his appearance was his buckskin trousers with the fringe down the outside of the leg. Even his pants were weathered and worn from the many years of self exile.
The coffee pot sputtered causing Ferguson to turn and look over his shoulder. A weary smile curved his lips and he moved over to the fire. He pulled a tattered bandana from his waist and took the coffee pot by the handle. Carefully he poured some of the black liquid into a cup he picked up from next to the fire pit. The steam lifted from the coffee as did the aroma. Ferguson blew across the top of the cup and then cautiously took a sip, "Coffee without grounds. I look forward to that too," he muttered to himself.
The mountain man walked to his pack and pulled a small sack out. He reached inside and pulled out a hardtack biscuit, which he began to chew on – the look on his face noted that the biscuit was stale. He held it out to his mule and even the pack animal didn't wan it. "Fussy," he grunted to the mule, whose ears bent backwards showing his disapproval.
Ferguson tossed the half eaten biscuit into the small fire, "Well, I'm hungry now. Best get packed and get on the road to Dodge," he said as he walked to the fire and pour the cup of liquid and grounds into the fire. He then scooped up the pot and poured the contents over the fire, which spattered as it slowly died. Ferguson dragged his boot through the ashes to further put the fire out.
Within a few minutes Ambrose Ferguson had his packs tied to his mule and he was ready for the ride to Dodge. With every hoof forward, the taste of home cooking salivated in his mouth. No more venison and grouse for a while – he wanted a big juicy steak with potatoes and beard for sopping up the left over gravy.
Ferguson continued to scan the forests and the hills as he wanted a lasting memory of the time he spent with them. He knew that he wasn't going to live much more than a year, so his decision to retire and live in Dodge seemed sound to him. Slowly he rode along the winding trail toward Dodge City.
The sun was now higher in the sky and over the hill tops. Ambrose estimated that he would likely reach Dodge by mid afternoon which suited him. By then there would be plenty of selection of food and drink available. The memory of the sweet smell of perfumed women stirred something within him. He nudged his horse to speed him up by a few more paces.