Ordeal of the Mountain Man (8 page)

He fell like a heart-shot deer. Not even a moan escaped his lips. Smoke looked from him to Marshal Larsen. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Drag this piece of garbage out of here and put him in a cell.”

 

 

They had to do something. Della Olsen realized that after the shock of her husband's murder began to wear off. For days she could not count, she had sat in a daze, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, not even caring. She dimly recalled that Tommy had cooked for his sisters, cared for her, saw that she kept her hands and face clean.

Through the miasma of her grief she recalled Tommy sweating as he dug the graves for Sven and the boy they had taken in, Elmer Godwin. Tommy's hands had been blistered and raw when he completed the sorrowful task. That had caused him to delay the burial until the next day, his throbbing hands smeared with salve and bandaged. Now, as she stirred herself to organize thoughts for their future, she heard in memory his sweet, child's voice singing Sven's favorite hymn.

“Rock of ages, cleft for me/Let me hide myself in thee.
” Now she sang aloud in the gentle morning sun as she turned her eyes to the dark mounds that rested under the spreading boughs of an ancient spruce. Tears sprang to her eyes, which she hastily brushed away.

“Come on, children, we have to collect everything we can find. They are—our memories.”

Tommy had been a real man, someone to lean on in the time of her darkness. She looked now and saw the wagon he had repaired. How hard he had worked, sweating as he labored. With his shirt off, she could see his immature muscles strain and tremble with the effort to work the jack and raise the wagon bed. Sven had taught him well, she thought, as she dimly recalled him replacing two spokes and sweating the steel tire onto the damaged wheel.

It had taken all his strength to lift the heavy object into place. Then he had tightened the hub nut and freed the jack. The beaming pride that had shone on his face made her heart lurch even now. Della heard the sound of a horse's hooves and looked up in surprise. Her satisfaction in her son soared as she saw him leading their old plow horse up toward the barnyard.

“Look what I found, Maw,” he called out cheerfully. “We can use the wagon now.”

“That's fine. That's wonderful, Tommy. Put him in the corral and come help us collect what belongings we can find. Maybe we can leave yet today.”

Tommy took his role of man of the house seriously. “In that case, I'll jist hitch up now.”

With their scant possessions loaded, Della handed the girls up into the wagon box and took her place on the driver's seat an hour later. Tommy took the reins and slapped the rump of the swayback, old gelding, and they rolled down the lane. With only a brief, backward glance at the graves, the Olsen family left the ruins of their ranch.

 

 

Smoke Jensen had finished a cup of coffee and made ready to return to a stint of duty on the deadline when Boyne Kelso stormed into the office, Mayor Norton in tow. The officious Kelso wasted no time on amenities.

“Sheriff, you have to release Harmon Eckers and his sons. Right now if not sooner.”

Smoke appraised him coolly. “Why is that?”

“You have no idea what you have here,” Kelso blurted.

“What I have here, Mr. Kelso, are two wet-behind-the-ears squirts, drunk as skunks, and shooting up the town. And their father threatening to break my back like a twig.”

“That's not important.” Kelso ignored Smoke's mood. “Harmon Eckers is the most influential rancher in the area. He runs eight hundred head of cattle, and employs three dozen hands. And he has friends,” Kelso concluded ominously.

“Then it's likely he'll not be seeing them soon,” Smoke told him. “He threatened a peace officer, and his sons broke the no-guns law and shot up the property of other people. Now, you'll have to excuse me. I have a saloon to clean out of drifters and trash, then I'm due on the posting line.”

Smoke Jensen entered the Trailside saloon and came face-to-face with an even dozen angry hands from the Eckers' ranch. A bull of a man Smoke figured to be the foreman took a step away from the bar and faced him.

“We're gonna mosey over to that jail of yours and take out our boss and his sons. An' there ain't a damn thing you can do about it.”

Laughing, Smoke raised his gloved left hand in a stopping motion. “I beg to differ with that.”

Two more who rode for the Eckers brand joined the first, which made him even more vocal. “There ain't no way we're gonna allow any two-bit, tin-horn lawman to stand in our way.”

He completed the last of that boast well within reach of Smoke Jensen. Setting himself—a subtle change of position missed by the pugnacious ranch hands—Smoke took advantage of that. His right fist, encased in a thin, black leather glove, shot out and caught the Eckers foreman a fraction behind the point of his chin. Smoke put shoulders and hips into it, and the blow lifted the surprised cowman's boots off the floor.

His eyes showed whites before he hit the boards. Smoke followed up immediately while momentary surprise froze the two range hands. He chose the one on his right first and delivered a one-two punch to chest and jaw that put out the man's lights in a blink. By then the other cowboy was moving.

He made a grab for Smoke Jensen's left arm, only to close his fingers on air. Smoke turned so quickly the hapless youth did not even see the fist coming that knocked him back against the bar. Dazed, he shook his head in an effort to clear his vision, wiped blood from his split lip, then launched himself at Smoke again.

Smoke waited him out. He blocked the first wild blow, caught the other on a shoulder point, then snapped a short, hard right to the cowhand's face. Blood spurted from a mashed nose, and the icy blue eyes crossed for a moment. Smoke followed up with a tattoo of rights and lefts to chest and belly. His knees sagging, the young cowboy gave up any attempt to cover himself and fell forward into the arms of Smoke Jensen.

Smoke swung him to the left and dropped the groggy youth into a chair. At once the battered man slumped over and laid his head on the green baize table. Four more of Eckers' hands decided to enter the fray. They started toward Smoke, one of them drawing a knife from his boot top.

They stopped as quickly at the loud, double click of shotgun hammers. “That's far enough, boys,” Marshal Grover Larsen said from the open rear doorway. He held a ten gauge Greener, the muzzles lined up with their bellies. Slowly they eased back against the bar. Smoke Jensen looked them over thoughtfully.

“Not a one of you went for a gun, which speaks well for you. I can understand hotheadedness. What I can't abide is a cowardly act.” With that he walked over to the one who had pulled his knife.

Smoke reached out and plucked the blade from a numb hand. He raised it before the man's eyes and took the tip between thumb and two fingers. Slowly Smoke bent the steel until it snapped in front of the hilt. A fleeting smile played across his lips as he dropped the broken knife to the floor. He pointed a finger at the man's suddenly ashen face.

“This one goes to jail. The rest of you drag these two out of here and get out of town.”

Abruptly, Smoke turned his back on them and walked to the door. Meekly, the knife artist followed him.

 

 

Night caught up to Della Olsen and her children before she wanted it. She estimated that they had barely made twenty miles from their burned-out ranch in the past two days. The tired old horse Tommy had rounded up had to stop and rest far too often. An hour ago they had made camp.

Sarah-Jane had gamely gathered wood and buffalo chips for the cookfire. The eleven-year-old had taken her father's death harder than the other children, though Della had to admit that her daughter's spirits had lifted since starting for Buffalo, the nearest town. Sarah-Jane looked on the journey as an adventure.

While Sarah-Jane brought fuel, Tommy unhitched the horse and slipped a feed bag over the nag's nose. Then he unloaded the wagon and made a ring of stones to contain their fire. Della busied herself slicing bacon on the lowered tailgate of the wagon, paring potatoes and cutting onions. It would be a spare meal; Tommy had not found any game to shoot.

“Maw, what are we going to do when we get to Buffalo?”

Della looked into her son's clear blue eyes. “I don't know, Tommy. I'll find us a place to stay, take work somewhere. You and the girls will attend school.”

Tommy made instant protest. “Awh, Maw, do we have to?”

“Yes, son. Lord knows I've done the best I can teaching you at home. At least you all can read and write and do your sums. But that's not enough. There's a whole world of things to learn out there.”

Tommy swelled his chest. “I should get work, too, Maw. I'm too old to go to school.”

“Buffalo has a four-year upper school now. I'm sure they will welcome you.”

Thunderstruck, Tommy gaped at his mother. “You mean people go to school even after they are too old for the eighth grade?”

“Of course. Some people, like doctors and lawyers, even go on to college.”

Tommy's fair, freckled brow furrowed. “That don't sound like something I'd like to do.”

“It isn't likely you will get the chance.” Della cast a regretful glance in the direction of the ranch. “Although your father and I had our dreams.”

After the meal, a sky full of stars brought back painful memories to the children of their father. Della busied herself with the cleanup, her concentration broken when she heard the sniffles and muffled sobs of little Gertrude. She turned to find Tommy seated between the girls, an arm around the shoulder of each.

“I know it hurts. I ...” Tommy's voice broke. “I miss Paw, too. And Elmer. There's this great big empty place inside me. But we have to go on, you know. We have to look out for Maw.”

Tears welled in Della's eyes, which she hastily wiped away. How strong her boy was. A thrill of pride ran through her.

“But, Tommy, we're . . . jist so little,” Gertrude complained in a tiny voice.

Tommy's shoulders heaved as he drew a deep breath. “We're big enough. We have to be. Look, you two, dry your tears. We'll go roll up in our blankets. We can watch the stars cross the sky.”

“What will it be like when we get to Buffalo, Tommy?” Sarah-Jane asked, rising.

Tommy paused a moment, sorting his thoughts. “There'll be wonderful things. Horehound drops and rock candy an' . . . an' real ice cream.”

Right then, a coyote yowled mournfully. The girls squealed in sudden fright. Even Tommy shivered. Della knew, at that moment, that everything would work out all right. This man/boy of hers, only turned fourteen this summer, would see to that. While the girls scampered off to the wagon, Della walked over to her son and put her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly.

“Thank you, son. Thank you for helping with the girls. They need the comforting . . . and so do you.”

“Me, Maw? Shucks, I'm okay. An' so are you, right?”

Della smiled to herself and tousled his hair with her chin. “Yes, son, I really am.”

Once more the coyote howled as the family took to their bedrolls in the wagon box. Slowly the coals ebbed until only the frosty light of the stars shone down upon them.

 

 

Early morning brought more frontier trash to be expelled from town. Roused from only four hours' sleep, Smoke Jensen thought his head might be stuffed with wool as he hurriedly shrugged into trousers and boots. He pulled a shirt over his head and tucked it behind his belt. A wild yell and a gunshot reached his ears through the thin walls of his room at the Wilber House Hotel as he buckled his cartridge belt in place. The twin Peacemakers rode his frame like old companions. Smoke clamped his hat on his head and started for the door.

Out on the street, small knots of curious townspeople gathered to watch the unfolding of what was fast becoming a regular event. Down at the end of the block, Deputy Fred Chase faced six proddy saddle bums, a hand on the butt of his Colt. Smoke lengthened his stride.

He came up on the quarrelsome thugs from an angle that left them unaware of his presence. One, slightly in front of the other five, gestured angrily and bellowed in a rusty voice. It served well to hold the attention of Fred Chase. A mistake that Smoke noted at once. He would have to talk to Fred later. For now, his attention riveted on another lout who sought to take advantage of the deputy's distraction.

Smoke stepped up soundlessly behind him as the young punk drew his six-gun. Smoke's arms darted out, and he grabbed the back of the man's shirt and vest. Unceremoniously, Smoke dragged him from the saddle. In a flash, Smoke had his .45 Colt in his hand and slammed the barrel across the head of the would-be sneak-shot.

Immediately, the others became aware of Smoke's presence. His eyes cut from one to the other, clearly defying them to make a move. None of them did. Quickly, Smoke waded in, yanked another from his seat and disarmed him. While he worked his way through them, Smoke wondered, not for the first time, if it was all worth it. From his right, Smoke heard a solid clunk and looked to see a grinning Fred standing over the supine figure of the self-appointed leader of the collection of garbage.

Smoke nodded his approval. “Send them on their way, Fred. I'm going to go see who is in for an early drink.”

 

 

On his way to the Sorry Place saloon, Smoke came upon a quartet of surly, low-browed louts milling in the street outside the general mercantile. They turned sour looks in his direction. One of them, a lank shock of dirty blond hair hanging down over his nearly nonexistent forehead, poked a thick, stubby finger at Smoke.

“Who says we can't wear guns in town? The man in there”—he hooked a thumb at the general store—“said we had to give up our guns or get out of town.”

“He's right. By my orders.”

Another of the thugs pushed his way forward. “There's four of us and jist one of you. How'er you gonna make us?”

With the skill of a conjurer, a .45 Colt Peacemaker appeared in Smoke Jensen's hand before the others could close fingers around the butt-grips of their weapons. “With this, if necessary.”

The first mouthy one cocked his head to one side. “Who the hell might you be?”

“I'm the sheriff. T'name's Jensen. Folks call me Smoke.”

Four faces drained of blood. “Awh, hell, we done got the wrong town,” declared the second piece of trash.

“That you do,” Smoke told him blandly.

A third one spoke up “Damn, those people down in Colorado don't talk about nothin' but how good you are with a gun, Mr. Jensen—uh—Sheriff. We'll leave, an' we won't make no trouble, honest.”

“I believe that. Now have a nice ride out of town.”

Smoke watched them depart, then turned to observe that the shot-out window of Harbinson's Mercantile had been boarded up. While he idly inspected it, Eb Harbinson stepped out onto the boardwalk. He rubbed his hands industriously on his apron tail and produced a smile.

“Sheriff Jensen, I want to tell you that I was sure wrong about you and your posting law. Yessir, wrong as can be. You know, my business has actually picked up. Those advertising flyers you suggested have been a godsend. You're doing a good job. An excellent job, in fact. I want you to know that all the good people of town are behind you a hunnard percent.”

Smoke gave him a quizzical expression. “If they are, how come none of them are rushing over to volunteer to be deputies, Mr. Harbinson? Tell me that.”

 

 

Early in the afternoon, Smoke Jensen worked at his teeth with a whittled stick as he stepped out of the Sorry Place. The pig's feet had been tasty and tender, with just the right amount of vinegar pickle to them. He ambled along the boardwalk and noted with satisfaction the lack of hard cases and drifter trash. He had nearly reached the front of the Trailside when three shots blasted out of the interior.

Smoke reached the batwings in three long strides. Over the curved top of the louvered doors he saw a bulldog-faced hard case standing over the body of a local rancher, a smoking six-gun in one hand. Smoke stepped through the swinging doors, Peacemaker in hand.

“Put it down and raise your hands,” he commanded.

Unwilling to comply, the gunman shouted his defiance as he tried to turn and fire at the same time. “Like hell I—” he got out before Smoke Jensen shot him through the heart.

Two other gunslicks, friends of the dead thug, took exception to Smoke's treatment of their companion and went for their guns. A bullet from Smoke's .45 crashed into the bar beside one of them; then the pair fired as one.

Smoke Jensen had already moved, spoiling their best chance. His third round found meat low in the belly of one shootist,” which slammed the man back against the bar and turned him part way around. Dimly he saw the reflection of Smoke in the mirror behind the row of bottles on the back bar. He tried to hold himself up with his left arm while he struggled to raise his six-gun and get off a shot.

Meanwhile, Smoke had moved again. He traded shots with the third gunman and dived low behind a faro table. A slug from the rogue's Colt scattered chips on the layout. On his knees, Smoke shot back.

A thin, high scream came from the bewhiskered gunman, who dropped his weapon and staggered three steps toward the door. All at once he began to tremble. His body went rigid, and he crashed into the sawdust. Beyond him, the wounded brigand at last had his revolver in position. Cursing Smoke, he fired.

Though not before Smoke Jensen had ducked low and rolled across an open section of floor. The bullet went wild, shattered a coal oil lamp and lodged in the wall. Smoke had far better aim with his second Colt.

Splinters flew from the rough pine planks of the bar when Smoke's bullet exited the chest of the stubborn gunhand. He looked down in surprise and blinked once, slowly, before his eyes rolled up and he teetered over the brink into eternity. Smoke came to his boots and looked around for further resistance.