By western author Nick Brumby

“I waved the knife with the liver on it in the air and I cried out, “Come on and have a piece! It’ll stay in your stomach ‘til dinner…”

John “Liver-Eating” Johnson was a mountain man in the very best traditions of the Old West.

Born John Jeremiah Johnston, Johnson lived a very full life. He started off as a sailor, but his seafaring career ended after he floored his commanding officer while enlisted in the Navy. At times he was a scout, soldier, gold seeker, hunter, trapper, woodhawk, whiskey peddler, guide, deputy, constable, and log cabin builder.

in 1864 he joined Company H, 2nd Colorado Cavalry, of the Union Army in St. Louis as a private and was honorably discharged the following year. During the 1880s, he was appointed deputy sheriff in Coulson, Montana, and a town marshal in Red Lodge, Montana.

However, Johnson is perhaps best known for his exploits against the Crow. His wife, a member of the Flathead tribe, was killed by a young Crow brave and his fellow hunters. This prompted Johnson to embark on a revenge vendetta against the tribe the likes of which have rarely if ever been equaled.

A six-foot-five wall of muscle, Johnson was not to be messed with. He supposedly killed and scalped more than 300 Crow and then devoured their livers to avenge the death of his wife. As his reputation and collection of scalps grew, Johnson became an object of fear.

As Johnson himself put it:
“We was attacked by Injuns and we licked ‘em, licked ‘em good. There was fifteen of us and we killed thirty-six of them and wounded sixty. It was toward the close of the fight that I got my name. I was just getting’ my blood up and feelin’ like fightin’. We was short of ammunition and as I saw an Injun runnin’ toward the cover, I threw my gun to Bill Martin and took Bill’s knife. I wasn’t goin’ to waste no good cartridges on him, for I could lick any Injun I laid my paws on. I was considered the best shot with a rifle in Montana at that time, but I wanted to save my cartridges.”

He continued: “We had a three-hundred-yard run to the bushes…. [I] threw him down just at the edge of the brush…. Then I scalped him and then I sang and danced some more. Then I ran my knife into him and killed him and part of his liver came out with the knife. Just then a sort of squeamish old fellow named Ross came running up. I waved the knife with the liver on it in the air and I cried out, “Come on and have a piece! It’ll stay in your stomach ‘til dinner!…. And I kind of made believe to take a bite.”

One tale ascribed to Johnson is that while on a foray of over five hundred miles in the winter to sell whiskey to his Flathead kin, he was ambushed by a group of Blackfoot warriors. The Blackfoot planned to sell him to the Crow. He was stripped to the waist, tied with leather thongs and put in a teepee with one guard.
Johnson managed to break through the straps. He then knocked out the guard with a kick, took his knife and scalped him. He escaped into the woods and fled to the cabin of Del Gue, his trapping partner, a journey of about two hundred miles.

Eventually, Johnson made peace with the Crow, who became “his brothers”, and his personal vendetta against them finally ended after 25 years. He passed in in a veterans’ home in Santa Monica, California, and his remains were later relocated to Cody, Wyoming.

About Nick Brumby

I like a good story. And of all stories, I love westerns the most.

As a kid, I spent far too many afternoons re-watching Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns, picking up ‘Shane’ for just one more read, or saddling up beside Ben Cartwright when ‘Bonanza’ was on TV each afternoon.

I’m a former journalist and I love horses, dogs, and the occasional bourbon whiskey. I live with my wife, daughter and our ever-slumbering hound in a 1800’s-era gold mining town – our house is right on top of the last working gold mine in the area. There may not be much gold left, but there’s history wherever you look.

I hope you enjoy my westerns as much as I enjoyed writing them!

Happy trails,

Nick