Heart of the Mountain Man (3 page)

4

Big Jim Slaughter pulled his Winchester from its saddle boot and waved it over his head at the sentry standing on a nearby ridge. It was the third such sentry he and his gang had passed in the last few miles as they approached their hideout known only as the “hole-in-the-wall.” It was a natural valley high in the mountains surrounding the small Wyoming town of Jackson Hole. Accessible only by a narrow pass that meandered between several higher peaks, it had been a hiding place for men on the run for longer than anyone could remember. Easily defended, it had simply never been worth the trouble or the many dead men it would take to roust the criminals out of the place.

Slaughter led a column of twenty men, all hard cases who were wanted by the law across the country for everything from rape to armed robbery and murder. Riding next to him was an attractive woman in her late thirties. She had long brown hair, tied loosely behind her neck with a small, silk ribbon, and was wearing a man's shirt and trousers. She rode her horse with practiced ease, as if she spent a lot of time on horseback. Her face was serene and composed and she showed no trace of fear or trepidation, a fact that bothered Jim Slaughter.

As they rode down a dry gulch, cut out of the surrounding mountainside by hundreds of years of seasonal snowmelt runoffs, he glanced at her, his face showing his puzzlement.

“Mrs. Carson,” he said, his voice neutral, “excuse me, but all the way here from Colorado, you've acted like you were out for a ride in the park. Doesn't the fact that you've been kidnapped by a gang of men and taken from your home to a strange place bother you?”

Mary Carson turned her calm eyes to Slaughter and gave a half smile. “Does it bother me? Yes. Do I fear you? No.”

Slaughter shook his head. He was beginning to admire this woman more and more. Monte Carson was a lucky man.

“Why not?” he asked. He'd raped and killed and beaten hundreds of times before, and he'd never failed to see the haunted look that appeared in someone's eyes the moment they knew for certain they were going to die or be seriously injured, the acknowledgment of defeat and terrible sadness. It was a look he knew well, and he had come in some perverted way to look forward to it and enjoy instilling it in others.

“Because I know my husband will come for me eventually.”

Slaughter snorted. “Even assuming he tries, and assuming he is able to make it past the sentries and guards we have set up to discourage visitors, what makes you think you'll be alive when he gets here? How do you know I won't just turn you over to this”—he hesitated as he glanced at the scum riding with them, then back at her—“pack of animals ridin' along with us?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Slaughter?”

“No, just wondering why you seem so unconcerned about your fate.”

Mary looked away from him, her eyes taking in the mountains that surrounded them, the blue sky, and the grass-covered slopes still layered with wildflowers and blooming shrubs. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke. “I've lived a good life, Mr. Slaughter. I was married to a fine man for five years, and when he was killed I was lucky enough to find another wonderful man. Out here on the frontier, we learn to accept death as just another part of life, and not necessarily the worst part either. So, if I die . . . if you kill me, then so be it. I've had more than my share of goodness, and I'll die knowing I've had more than you'll ever have if you live to be a hundred years old.”

Slaughter nodded. There was more than a little truth in what she said. He stared ahead down the trail without answering, thinking back on his life. It'd been a hardscrabble existence ever since he was a kid. After his mother died when he was no more than five or six, his father dove into a whiskey bottle and lived there until he died, at Jim's hands, ten years later.

Daily beatings became a way of life for the young Slaughter, until finally, one day when he was sixteen, he took the razor strap out of his father's hands, knocked the surprised man down, and beat him to death with an ax handle. Instead of burying him to hide his crime, young Jim threw his dad in the hog pen, figuring they had to eat too, just like worms or buzzards. When he saddled the plow horse and rode off to make his way in the world, he never looked back.

“All right, Mrs. Carson, you're right,” he finally said. “I haven't got anything against you, so you have nothing to fear from me or my men, if your husband does what he's been told to do.”

Mary stared at him for a moment, before asking in a low voice, as if she feared the answer more than anything Slaughter could do to her, “What about my husband, Mr. Slaughter? What business do you have with him?”

Slaughter laughed, a sound many of his men who'd ridden with him for years had never heard. “Old business, Mrs. Carson. A matter of some money he's owed me for a long time.”

Mary's face showed her surprise. “Money? Why would Monte owe you money?”

“I suspect there's lots of things about your husband you don't know, Mrs. Carson.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Perhaps I'll let him explain them to you . . . if he's got the
cojones
to come after you like you think he does.”

Mary faced forward and put her heels to her horse's flanks, causing it to move forward so she wouldn't be riding next to Slaughter any longer.

He shook his head, thinking how lucky Carson was to have such a woman, and wondering if he knew it.

* * *

Smoke glanced across the operating table at Doc Spalding. “Doc, why don't you mosey on over to Louis's place and have a steak, on me?”

Doc Spalding looked up from where he was washing blood off his hands. He glanced at Smoke, then at the injured man on the table. He'd just taken two bullets out of him. “I take it you want to have a private word with this miscreant, Smoke.”

“If you don't mind, sir.”

Doc sighed and threw the dirty towel in a basket next to the table. “Try not to make any more work for me today, all right? The man's lost a lot of blood and his heart won't stand much more . . . grief.”

“You got my word on it.”

Doc stared at Smoke, his eyes narrowing at the expression on his friend's face. He shook his head. It went against everything he'd ever believed in to leave the gunman with Smoke looking like that, but Mary Carson was a good and kind woman and a dear friend of everyone in town. If a little judicious absence was what it took to get her back, then so be it.

After Doc left the room, Pearlie and Cal lined up on the other side of the table, hands on hips, waiting to see what Smoke had in mind.

Smoke reached down and slapped the man lightly across the face, causing his eyelids to flicker open.

“What's your name, mister?” he asked.

The man's eyes moved from Smoke to Cal and Pearlie, and his lips tightened into a white line. Evidently he wasn't prepared to speak just yet.

Smoke nodded to Pearlie, and they both took leather straps Doc used to tie down unruly patients on whom he was doing surgery, quickly fastening the man's hands to rails alongside the table.

“Hey,” he said, a look of fear entering his eyes, “what the hell do you think you're doin'?”

“I'm fixing to do a little surgery on you, pardner, and I don't want your hands to get in the way. And I don't intend to use any of that chloroform the doc used either.”

Smoke inclined his head toward Cal. “Cal, shut that window over there, would you? I don't want any citizens to be scared by any hollering that might occur.”

“Sure, Smoke.”

“Smoke?” the man asked. “You're not THE Smoke Jensen, are you?”

“One and the same, pardner. Now,” Smoke said as he pulled his Bowie knife from its scabbard on the back of his belt and held it up so the light from the lantern in the room sparkled off the blade. “I'll ask you a question, and you'll answer. For every question you don't answer, I'm gonna remove one of your fingers. After ten times, if you're still reluctant to answer, I'll start on your toes.
Comprende?”

The man shook his head. “You can't do that,” he cried, his voice trembling with terror.

Smoke grabbed his right hand, bent all the fingers over except the index finger, and held the knife against it where the man could see.

“First question. What's your name?”

“Blackie . . . Blackie Johnson.”

“Who sent you to brace Sheriff Carson?”

“I . . . I can't tell you that. He'd kill me!”

Smoke stroked the finger lightly with his knife, the razor-sharp blade slicing through skin as easily as if it were butter on a July afternoon.

“Wait! Hold on!” Blackie screamed.

“Last chance, Blackie, or they're gonna start calling you Stubby,” Smoke growled, his eyes glittering with hate.

“Slaughter, Big Jim Slaughter sent us,” Blackie said, his voice hushed as if he was afraid to say the name out loud.

“What were your instructions?”

“We was supposed to tell 'im to bring the money to Jackson Hole an' Slaughter'd find him there and give him his wife back.”

“And where is Slaughter going to take Carson's wife?”

Blackie shook his head, flinging fear-sweat off his forehead. “Please, Mr. Jensen, don't ask me that. Slaughter'd skin me alive if he found out I tole you any of this.”

Smoke smiled, but there was no friendliness in his face. “How's he gonna find out, unless you tell him?”

Blackie licked his lips, his eyes staring at the blood oozing from his finger. “He's gonna take her up to the hole-in-the-wall.”

“How many men does he have up there with him?”

Completely defeated now, Blackie made no more pretense of hesitation. He spoke in a low voice. “Anywhere from twenty to thirty, depending on the time of year and how many men are off spending the loot they've earned.”

“Is there a back way in?”

“No. Only one way in and one way out, an' it's always guarded real well. Jensen, if you're thinkin' of tryin' to get in there without Slaughter knowin' it, you're crazier than he is.”

Smoke looked at Pearlie. “Get this man a bandage for his hand. He's gonna draw us a map of the area around the hole-in-the-wall and Jackson Hole, then we're going to keep him locked up here until we get back.”

“What . . . what if you don't make it back?” Blackie asked, sweat pouring off his face in a steady stream.

“Why, then the good citizens of Big Rock will hang you by the neck until you're as dead as we are, Blackie, so you'd better put everything you can remember in that map.”

5

Smoke sat at the kitchen table in his cabin with Sally, Cal, and Pearlie, finishing a plate of scrambled hens' eggs, bacon, flapjacks, and sliced tomatoes.

Cal was watching Pearlie, who had his head down and was shoveling eggs into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten for days.

“I swear, Pearlie, you got to have a hollow leg,” Cal said with some astonishment. “There ain't no other explanation for you bein' able to put away that much grub at one sittin'.”

“Don't say ain't, Cal,” Sally said without thinking about it. She'd been a schoolteacher when she met Smoke, and had tried her best, without much luck, to teach Cal proper English usage in the few years he'd been staying with them.

She glanced up at Smoke and he looked back, smiling, both of them remembering the first time they'd met Cal . . .

* * *

Calvin Woods, going on eighteen years old now, had been just fourteen four years ago when Smoke and Sally had taken him in as a hired hand. It was during the spring branding, and Sally was on her way back from Big Rock to the Sugarloaf. The buckboard was piled high with supplies because branding hundreds of calves made for hungry punchers.

As Sally slowed the team to make a bend in the trail, a rail-thin young man stepped from the bushes at the side of the road with a pistol in his hand.

“Hold it right there, miss.”

Applying the brake with her right foot, Sally slipped her hand under a pile of gingham cloth on the seat. She grasped the handle of her short-barreled Colt .44 and eared back the hammer, letting the sound of the horses' hooves and the squealing of the brake pad on the wheel mask the sound. “What can I do for you, young man?” she asked, her voice firm and without fear. She knew she could draw and drill the young highwayman before he could raise his pistol to fire.

“Well, uh, you can throw some of those beans and a cut of that fatback over here, and maybe a portion of that Arbuckle's coffee, too.”

Sally's eyebrows rose. “Don't you want my money?”

The boy frowned and shook his head. “Why, no, ma'am. I ain't no thief. I'm just hungry.”

“And if I don't give you my food, are you going to shoot me with that big Navy Colt?”

He hesitated a moment, then grinned ruefully. “No, ma'am, I guess not.” He twirled the pistol around his finger and slipped it into his belt, turned, and began to walk down the road toward Big Rock.

Sally watched the youngster amble off, noting his tattered shirt, dirty pants with holes in the knees and torn pockets, and boots that looked as if they had been salvaged from a garbage dump. “Young man,” she called, “come back here, please.”

He turned, a smirk on his face, spreading his hands. “Look, lady, you don't have to worry. I don't even have any bullets.” With a lightning-fast move he drew the gun from his pants, aimed away from Sally, and pulled the trigger. There was a click but no explosion as the hammer fell on an empty cylinder.

Sally smiled. “Oh, I'm not worried.” In a movement every bit as fast as his, she whipped her .44 out and fired, clipping a pine cone from a branch, causing it to fall and bounce off his head.

The boy's knees buckled and he ducked, saying, “Jimminy Christmas!”

Mimicking him, Sally twirled her Colt and stuck it in the waistband of her britches. “What's your name, boy?”

The boy blushed and looked down at his feet. “Calvin, ma'am, Calvin Woods.”

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared into the boy's eyes. “Calvin, no one has to go hungry in this country, not if they're willing to work.”

He looked up at her through narrowed eyes, as if he found life a little different than she described it.

“If you're willing to put in an honest day's work, I'll see that you get an honest day's pay, and all the food you can eat.”

Calvin stood a little straighter, shoulders back and head held high. “Ma'am, I've got to be straight with you. I ain't no experienced cowhand. I come from a hardscrabble farm and we only had us one milk cow and a couple of goats and chickens, and lots of dirt that weren't worth nothing for growin' things. My ma and pa and me never had nothin', but we never begged and we never stooped to takin' handouts.”

Sally thought,
I like this boy. Proud, and not willing to take charity if he can help it.
“Calvin, if you're willing to work, and don't mind getting your hands dirty and your muscles sore, I've got some hands that'll have you punching beeves like you were born to it in no time at all.”

A smile lit up his face, making him seem even younger than his years. “Even if I don't have no saddle, nor a horse to put it on?”

She laughed out loud. “Yes. We've got plenty of ponies and saddles.” She glanced down at his raggedy boots. “We can probably even round up some boots and spurs that'll fit you.”

He walked over and jumped in the back of the buckboard. “Ma'am, I don't know who you are, but you just hired you the hardest-workin' hand you've ever seen.”

Back at the Sugarloaf, she sent him in to Cookie and told him to eat his fill. When Smoke and the other punchers rode into the cabin yard at the end of the day, she introduced Calvin around. As Cal was shaking hands with the men, Smoke looked over at her and winked. He knew she could never resist a stray dog or cat, and her heart was as large as the Big Lonesome itself.

Smoke walked up to Cal and cleared his throat. “Son, I hear you drew down on my wife.”

Cal gulped. “Yessir, Mr. Jensen. I did.” He squared his shoulders and looked Smoke in the eye, not flinching though he was obviously frightened of the tall man with the incredibly wide shoulders standing before him.

Smoke smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “Just wanted you to know you stared death in the eye, boy. Not many galoots are still walking upright who ever pulled a gun on Sally. She's a better shot than any man I've ever seen except me, and sometimes I wonder about me.”

The boy laughed with relief as Smoke turned and called out, “Pearlie, get your lazy butt over here.”

A tall, lanky cowboy ambled over to Smoke and Cal, munching on a biscuit stuffed with roast beef. His face was lined with wrinkles and tanned a dark brown from hours under the sun, but his eyes were sky-blue and twinkled with good-natured humor.

“Yessir, Boss,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Smoke put his hand on Pearlie's shoulder. “Cal, this here chowhound is Pearlie. He eats more'n any two hands, and he's never been known to do a lick of work he could get out of, but he knows beeves and horses as well as any puncher I have. I want you to follow him around and let him teach you what you need to know.”

Cal nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”

“Now let me see that iron you have in your pants.”

Cal pulled the ancient Navy Colt and handed it to Smoke. When Smoke opened the loading gate, the rusted cylinder fell to the ground, causing Pearlie and Smoke to laugh and Cal's face to flame red. “This is the piece you pulled on Sally?” Smoke asked.

The boy nodded, looking at the ground.

Pearlie shook his head. “Cal, you're one lucky pup. Hell, if'n you'd tried to fire that thing it'd've blown your hand clean off.”

Smoke inclined his head toward the bunkhouse. “Pearlie, take Cal over to the tack house and get him fixed up with what he needs, including a gun belt and a Colt that won't fall apart the first time he pulls it. You might also help pick him out a shavetail to ride. I'll expect him to start earning his keep tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir, Smoke.” Pearlie put his arm around Cal's shoulders and led him off toward the bunkhouse. “Now the first thing you gotta learn, Cal, is how to get on Cookie's good side. A puncher rides on his belly, and it 'pears to me that you need some fattin' up 'fore you can begin to punch cows.”

* * *

Smoke and Sally grinned at each other, and Smoke glanced across the table at Pearlie, who was still stuffing food in his mouth as if he were in an eating contest at a state fair.

Pearlie had come to work for Smoke in as roundabout a way as Cal had. He was hiring his gun out to Tilden Franklin in Fontana when Franklin went crazy and tried to take over Sugarloaf, Smoke and Sally's spread. After Franklin's men raped and killed a young girl in the fracas, Pearlie sided with Smoke and the aging gunfighters he had called in to help put an end to Franklin's reign of terror.
¹

Pearlie was now honorary foreman of Smoke's ranch, though he was only a shade over twenty-two years old. Boys grew to be men early in the mountains of Colorado.

Sally wiped her lips daintily with the edge of a linen napkin, her eyes on Smoke's. “What are your plans now, Smoke? Did the map that man Blackie made give you enough information to try and rescue Mary?”

Smoke shook his head. He held his coffee cup in both hands, his elbows on the table, and looked at Sally over the brim. “It shows how to get into the hole-in-the-wall, and the approximate location of the sentries, but we're going to need to know more than that to get in and back out alive, especially if we're bringing Mary out with us.”

Pearlie looked up from his plate. “You know, we could get fifty men from Big Rock to ride with us if they knew we was goin' after Mary Carson. There ain't a man within fifty miles don't owe the Carsons more'n they can repay for favors the two of them have done.”

Smoke shook his head. “It's not a question of numbers, Pearlie. If we go blasting our way into the hole-in-the-wall, Slaughter'll kill Mary before we can get within a mile of him.”

“Well, what's the answer, then?” Cal asked.

“I'm going to have to find out more about the mountains around Jackson Hole, and the hole-in-the-wall,” Smoke said.

“How're you gonna do that?” Pearlie asked.

Smoke grinned. “Why, from the men who know more about mountains than anyone else, of course.”

Sally nodded. “You're going to go up into the high country and ask some of your mountain man friends about the area.”

“Yes. Fall's coming on so they'll be down from the higher peaks, getting ready for the winter. It shouldn't be too hard to find a couple of old cougars up there who've been to Wyoming before.” He took a final drink of his coffee and put the cup down. “And if they've been there, they'll know every path and pass and crevice in the area like the back of their hands.”

Cal cleared his throat. “Uh, do you mind if Pearlie and I go with you up into the mountains, Smoke?”

Smoke grinned. “No, as a matter of fact, I'm looking forward to it, boys. Mountain lore is a part of your education that's been sorely missing until now. You might even learn a little about how to survive in the mountains from those old beavers.”

Sally laughed. “And if you're not careful, the Last Mountain Man might also teach you a few things he's learned over the years,” she said.

“Go get your gear packed, and put in some heavy clothes, 'cause it's going to be twenty degrees colder up in the high lonesome than it is down here,” Smoke said, his eyes glittering at the prospect of once again traveling the peaks where he grew to manhood.