Jeremiah “Liver-Eating” Johnson didn’t start life as a legend. He was born John Jeremiah Garrison on July 1st, 1824, in Little York, New Jersey – hardly the Wild West. But from a young age, the call of danger and adventure pulled him far from the comforts of home. When the Mexican-American War broke out, he lied about his age and enlisted in the Navy. That path didn’t last long. After striking an officer, no one knows exactly why, he deserted, slipping into the shadows of the American frontier and changing his name to John Johnson.
He could’ve vanished into obscurity like so many deserters. Instead, he built a new identity in the unforgiving wilds of the West. And in doing so, he laid the groundwork for one of the most feared and gruesome reputations in American history.
Big Man, Bigger Presence
Standing at 6’2″ and weighing over 260 pounds, Johnson towered over most men of his time. He didn’t blend in; he stood out like a grizzly in a henhouse. His imposing figure gave him work as a wood supplier for steamboats before he eventually moved westward in search of gold.
Like many dreamers of the era, he ended up in Alder Gulch, Montana. But when the glitter of gold lost its shine, Johnson realized he wasn’t made for the pan. He was made for the mountains. That realization set him on a path to becoming a mountain man – one of the last true frontiersmen, with blood on his hands and legends trailing behind him.
The Making of a Mountain Man
Johnson didn’t just wander into the wilderness and hope for the best. He apprenticed under Old John Hatcher, a seasoned mountain man living off the grid in Colorado. From Hatcher, Johnson learned how to survive – not just to get by, but to dominate. Hunting, trapping, fire-starting, and combat with both wild animals and hostile humans became second nature. He became fluent in survival, as comfortable skinning a beaver as he was swinging a tomahawk.
By the time Hatcher retired and headed east, Johnson was fully transformed. No longer a runaway sailor or a gold-hungry prospector, he was now a hardened mountain man with few words, quick hands, and an eye for danger.
A Wife, A Cabin, A Blood Oath
In 1846, Johnson took a Flathead Indian woman as his wife – a trade made with her father in exchange for furs. The two settled in a cabin along the Little Snake River. Johnson taught her to shoot; she taught him her native tongue. They were building a life together, and by all accounts, she was pregnant when he left her alone for the winter to go trapping.
What he returned to was pure horror. The cabin was burned, his wife dead, her body desecrated by animals and exposure. Nearby, beneath her ribs, he found the small skull of their unborn child. He concluded that members of the Crow tribe had slaughtered them.
What followed wasn’t justice. It wasn’t grief. It was something darker.
The Liver-Eater Emerges
Johnson didn’t mourn quietly. He didn’t write letters or plead for peace. He declared war. And not the kind with strategy and treaties – the kind built on rage and raw vengeance.
Over the next decade, Crow warriors began turning up dead across the region. They weren’t just scalped; their livers were removed. Some mountain men claimed Johnson consumed them. Whether he ate every liver or simply removed them for symbolic effect, the result was the same: sheer terror. In Crow culture, the liver was essential for a peaceful journey to the afterlife. By taking it, Johnson wasn’t just killing men – he was damning their souls.
This gruesome habit earned him the nickname that would follow him for life: Liver-Eating Johnson.
The Crow Killer
His vendetta turned into a campaign. It’s estimated that Johnson personally killed more than 300 Crow warriors during his ten-year blood feud. The tribe eventually formed a war party of 20 elite fighters to hunt him down. Not one came back.
The psychological warfare was just as brutal as the physical. Johnson wasn’t just a killer – he was a message. A ghost story that the Crow passed down to their children. A warning that one man could wage his own war against an entire people – and win.
And while history now views Johnson through the lens of myth and brutality, to the mountain men of the era, he was simply feared – and sometimes admired.
Not Just the Crow
Though his main target was the Crow, Johnson’s violent path didn’t stop there. In one infamous account, he poisoned 29 Blackfoot warriors with strychnine-laced biscuits. It wasn’t a necessity of survival. It was vengeance as entertainment.
Another tale speaks of his capture by the Blackfoot, who planned to sell him to the Crow. Stripped, tied, and guarded in a teepee, Johnson escaped by kicking his captor unconscious, scalping him, and cutting off his leg, which he later turned into smoked jerky. He then traveled over 200 miles through winter wilderness to reach safety. That’s not just frontier toughness. That’s a blend of grit and madness that borders on mythical.
From Outlaw to Lawman
Strangely, after years of bloodshed, Johnson pivoted to a more “civilized” life. When the Civil War broke out, he joined the Union Army as a sharpshooter despite his past as a Navy deserter. Either the army was desperate, or they simply didn’t care who he was as long as he could shoot straight. After the war, he continued serving as a scout during the Indian Wars and later as a deputy sheriff in Coulson, Montana, then Leadville, Colorado, and eventually as the town marshal of Red Lodge.
It’s hard to square the man who once scalped enemies and ate their organs with the image of a civic official. But Johnson never fit neatly into anyone’s moral box. He was, at his core, a product of the Wild West: brutal, contradictory, and unapologetically wild.
Becoming a Legend
As the West began to change, buffalo gone, beaver trapped out, native lands stolen, Johnson adapted. He joined traveling Wild West shows, even appearing alongside Calamity Jane. Newspapers, hungry for larger-than-life stories, spread his myth across the country. Some accused him of cannibalism. Others called him a hero. The truth didn’t matter. Johnson had become folklore.
Eventually, even Johnson began reshaping his own story in interviews, sometimes softening the edges or changing details to suit the audience. His name was already etched into frontier legend. All he had to do was lean into it.
The Final Trail
After decades of surviving in the wild, Johnson’s final years were spent in a place he had long avoided: a city. He died penniless at a veterans’ home in Los Angeles in 1900, buried near what would become a freeway. It was a quiet end for a man who had lived with so much noise, violence, and vengeance.
But his story didn’t end there.
In 1972, the film Jeremiah Johnson starring Robert Redford reignited interest in his life. Two years later, a group of seventh graders successfully petitioned to have his remains moved to Cody, Wyoming, closer to the wilderness that had defined him. His headstone reads, simply, “No more trails.”
A Myth as Raw as the Land
Was Jeremiah Johnson a psychopath? A patriot? A grieving husband? The truth is probably all of the above. He was a man made by his era – violent, untamed, and driven by a sense of justice that had more to do with blood than law.
Modern readers may struggle to reconcile the man with the myth. But perhaps that’s the point. Johnson didn’t just live in the Wild West. He was the Wild West – rough, merciless, and unforgettable. And whether you see him as a villain or a folk hero, one thing is certain: Jeremiah “Liver-Eating” Johnson carved his name into the American frontier with fire, steel, and fear.
Ed spent his childhood in the backwoods of Maine, where harsh winters taught him the value of survival skills. With a background in bushcraft and off-grid living, Ed has honed his expertise in fire-making, hunting, and wild foraging. He writes from personal experience, sharing practical tips and hands-on techniques to thrive in any outdoor environment. Whether it’s primitive camping or full-scale survival, Ed’s advice is grounded in real-life challenges.