Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (14 page)

“True, I’ve been there before, know a few of the folks.”

“Yep. That could make a difference. Any of ’em know you’re comin’?”

Smoke smelled the danger plain as if someone had set fire to an outhouse. He decided to play it out. “No. Didn’t write ahead or anything.”

The spokesman cut his eyes to his companions before he replied to Smoke. “That’s a might nice saddle, all silver-chased and such.”

“Thanks.”
Any time now,
Smoke cautioned himself.

Pale, gray eyes suddenly hardened to iron. “Much too nice for a saddle tramp like you.” A gloved hand reached for the plow-handled grip of a Frontier Colt. “We’ll jist relieve you of it.”

Smoke Jensen sighed regretfully in the split-second it took for his long, strong fingers to curl around the butt-grip of his Colt Peacemaker. He and the highwayman drew almost as one.
This fellow is good,
Smoke acknowledged as the sear notches on his hammer clicked past. His attacker had the muzzle of his .44 clear of leather at the moment when Smoke Jensen dropped the hammer on a primer.

Bucking in Smoke’s hand, the big .45 sent a hot slug flying into the chest of the would-be thief. An expression of disbelief and wonder washed one of intense pain off the face of the robber. His own weapon discharged downward and grazed the right front shoulder of his mount. The horse shrieked, reared, and threw its rider. Amazed that he still held his six-gun, the bandit hit with a spine-wrenching jar.

Fighting back pain, he raised his Colt and tried to ear back the hammer. Smoke Jensen had changed his point of aim in the short time the horse panicked. He deliberately put a round in the right shoulder of the man to his right front. Then brought his attention back to the first gunhawk. The Colt in the hand of Smoke Jensen spat a long spear of flame as it expelled another bullet.

This one popped a neat, black-rimmed hole in the forehead of Smoke’s assailant, exploding messily out the back of his head, which showered the third highwayman with gore. Convinced by this display of speed and accuracy, he let the English Webley drop back into his holster and raised his hands with alacrity. His horse did a nervous little dance and that caused his eyes to widen and fear to paint his face.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’. I give up.”

“I gathered as much. Control your mount, then reach across with your left hand, and pull that iron from its pocket.”

With that accomplished, the youthful thief looked at Smoke Jensen. “What are we gonna do now, mister?”

“We’re going to play a little Indian game of trust. You are going to load your dead friends on their horses and then take them to the nearest town and turn yourself in to the sheriff for tryin’ to rob and kill me. If there’s any money on your heads, tell the sheriff to hold it for me.”

“Wh—who are you? Who should I say?”

“Smoke Jensen.”

“Oh, sweet Christ. I never knew.”

“Well, now you do.”

A new idea came to the rattled gunman. “What if I don’t do like you say an’ turn them an’ myself in?”

“Then I’ll hunt you down and kill you,” Smoke spoke simply.

Instantly ghostly pale, the youth worked his lips a moment before any sound would come. “I believe you. By God, I believe you would. I swear it’ll go jist like you say, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke gave him a bleak smile. “Somehow, I believe you’re telling the truth.”

Monte Carson laid the three telegraph message forms on his desk, his eyes fixed beyond the open door to the sheriff’s office in Big Rock, Colorado. The first report came from the warden at Yuma Prison, detailing the depredations committed by the escapees in Arizona.
Brutal bastards,
Monte allowed. The other two came from Utah. Swollen to a gang now, the murders and robberies grew larger in scope. The third had included the information that the gang had last been seen headed for Wyoming.

That gave him pause to think. Frowning, he rose with an anguished creak from his chair and poured coffee. Seated again, he ground his teeth in a chewing motion and once more stared far off into the dark sea of pines on the distant slopes. At last he came to his conclusion. He smacked his lips and slapped an open palm on his desk. The loud report caused the jailer, Monte’s friend of years, to jump.

“Abner,” Monte announced in his best snake oil salesman voice, “I think this is a good time for that little vacation I’ve been promising myself. Get in a little fishin’, spoil myself with fancy food in Denver, visit friends.”

Abner cocked a shaggy, gray eyebrow. “Like Smoke Jensen, for instance?”

Monte pulled a contrite expression. “Am I that transparent?”

A grin revealed long, yellowed teeth, and Abner nodded. “With them telegraphs on yer desk, an’ Smoke headed into the same country, don’t take a locomotive designer to know what’s in your head.”

“Right you are,” Monte admitted. “Smoke’s bound for the Yellowstone country. And he’s the most valuable friend I’ve got.”

Abner studied his boss. “You figger to go all alone?”

Monte pushed back and came to his boots. “I reckoned Hank Evans might make good company. If I push it, I might catch up before this mob of killers finds Smoke.”

Spectre, his partners, and their gang—thirty-eight strong now—entered Wyoming by way of Flaming Gorge. Everywhere they could look, beauty surrounded them. The delicate, pastel greens of aspen and cottonwood set the air to shimmering as their foliage quaked in the steady breeze. Earth tones ranged from black loam, to yellow, white, ochre, burnt umber, and red-orange, in strata of rock and soil that undulated along the raw faces of the eroded canyon walls. A cheery, blue stream burbled along over water-smoothed pebbles. Wildflowers nodded and bobbed in a riot of yellow buttercups, blue violets, bright red ladies slipper, and fields of white petaled daises. Birds twittered and trilled their mating calls from every point of the compass.

Sadly, all of nature’s splendor went unnoticed by the grim-faced riders, who kept their heads straight ahead, eyes on the trail. Dorcus Carpenter and Farlee Huntoon vociferously ran it down, maintaining that their own mountains of West Virginia were much prettier, worth more as farm land, and produced the best white lightning in the whole United States. Gus Jaeger growled to them to shut up.

Only the scout, half a mile ahead on point, observed and appreciated this peaceful environment. For a moment, it profoundly touched his inner self. Sighing, his eyes misted slightly, he even gave thought to putting spurs to his mount and riding the hell away from this nest of vipers he had joined. Then the reality of the huge amount of money they had been offered reined in his conscience and he went about his job as expected. At half-past eleven he picked their nooning site and began to gather firewood.

After putting away a tin plate of warmed-over sow belly and beans, Victor Spectre selected seven hard-faced, humorless outlaws and called them together out of hearing of the rest of the gang.

“I have a special job for you men,” Spectre informed them. “While we ride on into Wyoming, I want you to take supplies enough for eight days and head southeast into Colorado. There, you will grab a certain woman and bring her back to the little town of Dubois. Think you can do that without any problems?”

Nate Miller drew himself up, thumbs hooked behind the buckle of his cartridge belt. “Sure, Mr. Spectre. Nothin’ to it. Where is it we’re going?”

“Your target is the Sugarloaf. That’s the ranch owned by Smoke Jensen.”

Soft breezes, heavily perfumed, sighed across the rippling grass on the northern slope of the Green Mountains. Smoke Jensen had located a low pass, hardly more than a gentle incline to a sway-back saddle and, beyond the notch, a rolling scarp, carpeted in rich green buffalo grass that had already grown belly-high on Thunder. In the distance, beyond the last rampart, Smoke noted a thin, gray column of woodsmoke. If Smoke recalled correctly, that would be the digs of Muleshoe Granger, an oldtimer who clung to the ways of the trappers, regardless of little or no market for pelts. Granger had a Shoshoni wife and—had it been four?—kids the last time Smoke had been through. Smiling, Smoke altered course to put him in line with the cookfire’s stream.

Halting some fifty yards from the log-fronted building dug into the hillside, Smoke raised an empty right hand and hailed the bent, bow-legged figure who had paused to study his approach. “Hello, the cabin. Is that you, Muleshoe? I’m Smoke Jensen. May I ride on in?”

Delayed by distance, Granger’s words reached Smoke a bit muffled. “Why, shore. C’mon in.” When Smoke reached the dooryard, Granger continued. “We’s fixin’ to take a bite to eat. Step down and join us.”

Smiling, Smoke did just that. “I’d be obliged.”

Muleshoe’s family had grown to seven, Smoke noted. Those under twelve were buck naked, sun-browned like berries. The youngest was a mere toddler, who clung shyly to the skirt of his mother’s elk-skin dress, and peeped around her ample hips at the stranger. While they ate, Muleshoe Granger gave Smoke Jensen a fish-eye from time to time, then smacked his lips, licked the gravy from an elk stew off his fingers and gave a curt nod.

“Seems as how I should know you. As I recall, we met long whiles back. Ain’t you ol’ Preacher’s young sidekick?”

“That I am. And I’ve been through these parts several times on my own.”

Muleshoe blinked. “That a fact? Well, they say the first thing goes is the memory.”

Smoke gave a low chuckle, and a nod toward the younger children. “It must be true. At least it’s not something else.”

“What you gettin’ at, Smoke?”

“Last time I visited your digs was about ten years ago. You had only four children then, as I recall.”

Muleshoe laughed out loud and slapped a hard-muscled thigh. “Nope, it was three. But, by jing, you’ve got the right of it there. Plenty lead in the old pencil. Moon Raven’s carryin’ another in the oven right now.”

Shyness overcome by an empty belly, the toddler had come forward. His sister, a girl of seven or so, helped him to a bowl of stew. All the while, he stared fixedly at Smoke Jensen. Smoke pointed to the youngsters with his chin.

“That’s good to hear. You know, you two bake up some mighty fine-lookin’ youngins.”

Muleshoe beamed. “The pride of Granger Valley.”

Smoke looked around. “You’ve named the place, then?”

“Yep. Had to. Folks is movin’ in faster than fleas. Why, I’ve got me a neighbor all crowded up to me, cheek by jowl. He’s not more’n ten miles over to the east. I had to file with the territorial government to hold what’s mine.”

“Civilization spoils everything, doesn’t it,” Smoke observed.

Muleshoe nodded. “Yep. There’s powerful truth in those words. Now, are you real pressed for time? Or do you figger to stay the night? The youngins would love to hear some tales about Preacher,” he coaxed.

“I’m not in that great a hurry. If you’ll put up with me, I’d be pleased to spend the night.”

Muleshoe gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s good. Bein’ as who you are and where, it might be best. From what I hear, you might be ridin’ into some real danger.”

“How’s that?” Smoke asked.

“A friend rode through the day before yesterday, told me about a whole passel of men ridin’ grim and hard in the saddle to the west of us. Says they come up outta Utah.”

Smoke nodded his understanding. “That fits with what I’ve been hearing. You can be sure I’ve caught wind of them from time to time. But, tell me, have you seen anything of Three Finger Jack lately?”

With evening coming on, Victor Spectre, Ralph Tinsdale, and Olin Buckner had settled in camp stools at the front of one of the three Sibley tents they had acquired along the way. A decanter of whiskey gave off long, amber shafts of brightness in the flicker of firelight, as it passed from hand to hand. For all the outward appearance of conviviality, tension fairly crackled from one man to the next. Buckner’s tone became quarrelsome as he vented his impatience.

“This protracted journey across the wilderness is becoming burdensome, Victor. I have never been much of a horseman. My rump and thighs still ache after each day’s ride.”

“You’ll toughen up soon enough,” Victor told him unsympathetically.

“I agree with Olin,” Ralph Tinsdale injected. “If our purpose remains the same, to revenge ourselves on Smoke Jensen, then why don’t we simply head to the Sugarloaf and kill him in his own yard?”

Victor Spectre shook his head in resignation. Small wonder these two had been taken by Jensen so easily. Then he made a final effort to explain. “For one thing, it would be too quick and too easy. I want Smoke Jensen to die slowly and hurt a great deal while doing it. Then there’s the fact that Colorado is quite civilized now. There are trains and the telegraph, thousands of residents, and competent lawmen.” He did not go quite so far as to admit he feared being trapped in the more populous country around the Sugarloaf. Not by the law, but rather by Smoke Jensen. Gus Jaeger approached, his face even more horselike than ever.

“Mr. Spectre, the men are getting down-right antsy. They want for the walls of a saloon around them, some good whiskey, and some wimmin to tussle with. When are we going to get around city lights again?”

Spectre sighed. “In due time. What’s wrong with the liquor we’ve provided for them? Isn’t it good enough?”

“Nothin’ wrong, really. Only that they’d like someone to share it with.” Gus snickered. “What’s up ahead?”

“An Indian reservation. A rather large one. Which reminds me. In light of what you’ve said, make it clear to the men that they are not, I repeat
are not,
under any circumstances, to attempt to bed any of the squaws. Indians are quite strange in their attitude toward women. If you are their friend and a guest, they will offer you a daughter or a wife to warm your bed, and think nothing of it. But if you lay eyes, let alone a hand, on any woman not offered to you, your scalp will decorate their shield. Make certain the men are aware of this. Tell them, also, that if any of them do pester the Indian women, I’ll personally kill them before the bucks have a chance to.”

Jaeger frowned. “That’s mighty cold…sir.”

“It’s meant to be. Now, go on and cool their ardor with a little whiskey.” After Gus Jaeger departed, Victor Spectre returned to the subject of Smoke Jensen.

“This little town up north, Dubois, is ideal for what we want to do. Not so large as to be difficult to take over, yet not so small that we cannot house this little army of ours within the city limits. And, from others I’ve met in prison, Smoke Jensen has a soft spot in his heart for the people of Dubois. All we need do is take it over and send word. Smoke Jensen will come to us. Further, if my other little project bears fruit, we’ll have a most attractive bait to dangle in front of him.”

Two days later, Smoke reached the lodge of Chief Thomas Brokenhorn of the Shoshoni at midday. Small children ran naked and shrieking among the Shoshoni brush summer lodges. Cookfires sent up their columns of white, while savory odors emanated from the pots supported over them by tripods. Warriors gathered from their homes to form a silent column, along which Smoke rode to the central lodge. He could not shake the feeling that their formation exactly mimicked that of the punishment gaunt-let. He banished the unease when he saw the broad grin on the face of his old friend, Brokenhorn, who stood before his lodge with arms folded over a barrel chest.

“You have come far, old friend,” Chief Brokenhorn declared by way of greeting.

“So have you,” Smoke responded, meaning the older man’s elevation to Civil Chief. “You were only leader of the Otter Society when I last saw you.”

“Thank you, Swift Firestick. Dismount and make my lodge your own. We will eat, smoke, and talk of old times.”

“It would be a pleasure, friend Thomas. Although it is recent times I am most interested in.”

Brokenhorn nodded curtly. “Yes. Some very bad men rode through here yesterday. You must be seeking them.” A kindliness lighted his eyes. “They are many. Come, take of the food of my woman, first, burn a pipeful, then we talk of these matters.”

Monte Carson received a warm welcome from Morgan Crosby. Traveling light and fast, the lawman had made it that far in only four days. He filled his belly with some of Morgan’s good cooking and settled back with a pipe he had taken to smoking of late.

Morgan broke one of their frequent long, silent spells. “I reckon you’d be interested in hearin’ anything about Smoke Jensen?”

Monte took a long pull on the pipe. “I didn’t come all this way for exercise. He’s been here?”

“Yep. Five—six days ago. Had some right unpleasant fellers on his trail, though.”

“What did Smoke do about that?”

“It’s what we did, you should be sayin’.”

Monte let a thin stream of white trickle from his lips. “All right, what did you two do about it?”

Morgan chuckled throatily before answering. “Mind now, I’d never seen Smoke Jensen in action before. He’s ‘bout as smooth as a well-oiled locomotive. Betwixt us, we convinced those fellers it were a bad idea to try takin’ Smoke in with no more than five of ’em on their side.”

A grunt came from Monte. “All right, where’s the bodies buried?”

An expression of childlike innocence lighted the face of Morgan Crosby. “There ain’t no bodies buried.” He paused, slapped his thigh and cackled. “After Smoke rode out, I drug ’em off to feed the coyotes and buzzards. One of them got away. Though he be carrin’ about six of my double-aught buck. Big feller he was, else he woulda been critter bait, too.” Then he went on to describe the fight.

Monte Carson considered this. No doubt in his mind that Smoke Jensen could have handled all five by himself. Better than even odds when they split up like that. And Smoke not getting a scratch. Typical. Monte finished his bowl, knocked out the dottle, and ground the tobacco embers under one boot sole. He stretched and came upright.

“Which way did Smoke head?”

“That-away,” Morgan told him, a finger pointed to the northwest. “Up Yellowstone way.”

Monte nodded. “That fits with what he told me.”

“Which is?”

“Smoke’s bound for Jackson’s Hole.”

“A feller could take on a small army if he knew his way around there,” Morgan opined. “An’ I reckon that’s what’s after him from what I’ve learned.”

“Smoke knows the place well enough. Ol’ Preacher taught him every nook and cranny.” Monte turned to face Morgan, still seated on the porch. He extended his hand. “Much obliged for the vittles. Sure sets nice in the belly. There’s still a lot of daylight to be used so I reckon I’ll head on out. Plenty ground between here and the Hole.”

“Come by any time, Sheriff Carson.”

“Please, Monte.”

Crosby beamed. “Make it Morgan, then. Be proud to have you stop by and stay a while. An’ bring your friend with you.”

“I’ll try. Believe me, I will. Good day to you, Morgan.”

“An’ to you, Monte.”

Five minutes later, Monte Carson rode out of sight of the snug, though bullet-scarred cabin.

A large, whole ribcage of elk had been properly demolished, along with stewed squash, mixed with nuts, wild onions, and berries. With signs and rudimentary Shoshoni, Smoke Jensen related the story of the Great Elk Hunt he had gone on when only a slight bit older than his attentive audience. Some twenty children from the village had gathered around Chief Brokenhorn’s fire to gawk at the tall, lean white man and hear his exciting stories.

“It was a hard ride for me,” Smoke recounted. “I was still little enough my legs stuck out from the sides of my pony. Some of you must ride the same way, right?” Giggles and whispered accusations rippled through the cluster of Indian youngsters. Smoke waited them out and went on. “Preacher and I joined with a whole lot of other trappers for this hunt. It would be the biggest ever. Five hands of men, in my language, twenty-five, came from all parts of the mountains. Preacher, of course, was the best hunter of them all. He was first to find the herd, first to kill a bull elk. I got to dress it out.” More giggles and knowing nods.

“That arrangement didn’t last long. By the third day, Preacher let me pick an elk out of the herd and take it as my own. ‘First,’ he told me, ‘say a little prayer to the bull’s High Self, askin’ permission to take its life. Say that you have hunger and will be even more hungry in the long winter to come. Ask that the animal’s spirit be born as the biggest elk of all.’ That made my chest swell and I thought I was really something. Preacher told me he learned to pray like that from the Shoshoni.”

“That’s right,” Tom Brokenhorn injected. “He did. In the time of my grandfather. And I remember that hunt. I was no bigger than Chusha over there.” He indicated a boy of seven or so, squatted as close as he could get to Smoke Jensen. “Many of us joined in on that hunt and we all ate well the whole of winter.”

Smoke went on to describe the surrounds each day and the shooting of elk with rifles and bow and arrow. He concluded, “Preacher told me later that three hundred bull elk and fifty young elk were taken in that hunt. We made meat for a week after.”

“Tell us something more,” Chusha pleaded.

Smoke stretched and forced a yawn. “Four stories is enough for one night. Your fathers will be wondering where you have gone. And your mothers will worry. Go on. I’ll have another story in the morning before I leave.”

After the last, reluctant boy had walked off among the lodges, Smoke realized he actually was sleepy. He roused himself and headed for the lodge that had been prepared for him. Tomorrow he would head to the Arapaho camp.