Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (17 page)

“But he will come with an army. We need ours intact to face him.” He paused and turned away to study the confused and terrified people. “I have something to tell these people.”

From his position in the front row, Irving Spaun got a good look at the man who must be the leader of The Enemy. That’s how he looked at these invaders—The Enemy. In his mind’s eye, Irving even saw the capital letters. He had noted earlier, after opening his bank to the outlaw scum, that Dr. Fred, Frederick Barbour, had been pressed into service to tend the wounded. Not the injured townsfolk, but The Enemy wounded. Irving silently hoped that Dr. Fred would hurry a few of them on to meet their judgment.

Unfortunately, Barbour was a dedicated healer. He could no more harm a patient than take his own life. Irving closely watched the exchange between the—for want of a better word, he called him the foreman—and the boss. Then the man in charge turned to face the assembled townspeople. He raised his arms to signal for silence and, when the gathering stilled, he revealed the most astonishing ideas that Irving had ever heard.

“Good afternoon. My name is Victor Spectre. I have come here for a cause that needn’t concern you. Shortly, some of my men will escort you to your place of business and your homes. The purpose of their visit is to obtain every firearm you possess. And all of the ammunition.”

A burly, retired rancher interrupted in an angry bluster. “We got a right to own guns.”

Spectre shook his head sadly, as though faced with a truculent, but dim-witted child. “Not when they might endanger some of my men. Believe me, it is for your own good. Some of your friends and neighbors have already died because they chose to resist us. From now, until we leave this town, we are in charge. You will obey us without question or hesitation.”

“Like hell we will,” the outraged rancher snarled.

Spectre turned to his foreman and spoke quite casually. “Augustus, shoot him.”

Faster than any man Irving had even seen, except Smoke Jensen, this Augustus fellow drew his six-gun and fired. The bullet entered the open mouth of the rancher and exited low in the back of his neck. He went down loosely, an un-strung marionette. Two women screamed and another fainted dead away. Smiling pleasantly, Spectre turned his attention back to his horrified audience.

“I will repeat. You will obey without hesitation or question. Now, another matter. Singly or by twos my men will be divided off and you will provide for them in your homes. They will have a room to themselves, and you will cook for them. In return, they will leave you strictly alone. This is to be merely a board and room situation. They are under orders to take their…pleasures elsewhere. Such will remain the case, unless some of you become obstreperous. In which case, my men will be free to exact recompense in any manner they see fit. Do we understand one another?” Several low mutters rippled through the people of Dubois. “I can’t hear you.” More replies now, some in normal speaking tones. Victor Spectre nodded meaningfully to Gus Jaeger.
“I can’t hear you.”

More joined in, all cowed, unwilling to be loud enough to draw attention. To Irving’s disgust his fellow citizens seemed mesmerized by this petty dictator. Their timidity had the reverse effect.

“I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU,”
Spectre bellowed.

“Yes, we understand!” came a shouted reply.

“That’s better. You will answer loudly, promptly, and truthfully any and all questions asked by myself, my associates, or my men. From here on, until our departure, of which I told you, this is our town.”

Quickly then, Gus Jaeger designated men to take the residents to their stores and homes. Thorough searches were made. The outlaw foreman took three men along with him when they went to search the mercantile. Shortly after entering, two of the trash emerged with wheelbarrows heaped high with cases of ammunition, armloads of rifles, and half a dozen handguns. When the search ended, Jaeger escorted Irwin to the bank.

There he surveyed the vault and two free-standing safes. Satisfied, he nodded. “This seems secure enough. We’ll keep the money here until we’re ready to leave town. Now you take me to your home. We’ll have a little look there. No doubt the mayor has the nicest house in town. Victor and his partners will stay there. As no doubt the next richest man in town, you will have the pleasure of hosting me.”

“Oy veh!
I am flattered and honored at the privilege,” Irving replied sarcastically.

Jaeger glowered and raised his hand menacingly. “Any more smart-mouthing will earn you a fat lip.”

“My wife keeps a kosher kitchen,” Irving cautioned.

“I don’t care what she calls it, Mr. Banker, so long as it’s clean and there’s plenty of grub.”

Irving sought to educate this lout.
“Kosher
means ‘pure—clean.’”

“Fine. Now, I want ham and eggs and biscuits for every breakfast.”

Irving made bold to interrupt. “We do not eat ham or any pork.”

Gus cocked an eyebrow. He’d never heard such nonsense. “Well, she’ll fix it for me. You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

“You don’t understand. If my wife cooks pork in our kitchen it is no longer kosher. It will be contaminated.”

Growing angry, Gus growled at the banker. “I don’t give a damn about that. So long as there’s not cockroaches crawlin’ everywhere and moldy food laying around, I’ll eat what I want and you can do the same.”

Horrified at the image of filth and vermin in his home, Irving gathered the last of his reserves and spoke with defiance. “She will cook for you in the washhouse. I will not allow my kitchen to be tainted.”

To Irving Spaun’s surprise, Gus Jaeger began to laugh. “By God, you’re a feisty son, aren’t you? All right, Mister—er—?”

“Spaun. Irving Spaun.”

“Mr. Spaun, have it your way. Just so long as I have my ham and eggs, biscuits, and some fried potatoes would be nice. Do you odd folks eat—ah—beef?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, then, have the missus pick up a nice roast at the meat market for tonight.”

“How is this food of yours to be paid for?”

Gus gave him a smile. “The usual way you pay for anything you buy, with your own money.” With that they left for the house.

Once all of the arms and ammunition had been confiscated, Olin Buckner came to where Victor Spectre stood beside the great pile of munitions. “This has gone nicely. Men who are unable to resist must obey.”

Victor nodded agreement, well satisfied. “Before long, the poor fools will find themselves totally dependent upon you, me, and Ralph for the barest necessities for survival.”

“That’s how it should be,” Buckner replied contentedly. “The best and the brightest should rule and lesser mortals submit.”

“The next thing is to pair up the men whose homes we’ve searched with their wives and children and place them in their houses under guard. Those who are involved in providing services in the stores, saloons, the bank, the hotel, and cafe are to be sent to their tasks.”

“What about any single men?” Buckner asked.

Spectre made a show of considering it, though he had his mind made up long before entering the town. “They could provide a constant risk. We’ll have some of the more hardened among our men take them off a few at a time. We can offer them the chance to join us. If they refuse, they can dig their own graves before being shot.”

When the last of the single males refused the offer to join the gang, and had been mercilessly shot down, Victor Spectre turned his attention to the single women. Those he had kept in the central square while the killing went on. Now he summoned all of his men. Back on the bandstand, he gestured to the frightened, weeping women.

“You men have all fought well. There are some among you who conducted yourselves with outstanding bravery. It is my intention to reward you suitably for this outstanding service.” He named the ones cited to him by Gus Jaeger. “Your compensation awaits,” he went on with a gesture to the women. “You will each have a private room at the hotel for tonight. And you will be free to take your pick of these lovely maidens to keep company with you.”

Their loud cheers drowned out the rest of what Spectre had to say. When the designated men had made their selections and hauled off the frightened, protesting women, Spectre held his hand up to silence the other men. “For the rest of you, deserving as you are of some prize, you may pleasure yourselves with the remainder of the feminine pulchritude of Dubois for the balance of the afternoon. Have at them, good fellows!”

“Hot dang! That’s for me,” Dirk Jensen yelled gleefully, his long, greasy blond hair swinging freely around his shoulders. He exposed his crooked yellow teeth in a lustful leer and headed for the nearest single woman, a girl of around fourteen.

Shrill screams began to rise moments later as the raping began.

Early on the morning of the second day in Dubois, Gus Jaeger stepped out on the porch of the home of Irving Spaun and rolled a cigarette with papers and tobacco from the pouch of Bull Durham in his shirt pocket. He lighted it and drew the smoke deeply into his chest, held it a while. Then he sighed it out with satisfaction. His belly was full of the sweetest ham he had ever tasted, four eggs, home fries with onions, and a platter of biscuits. Pleased with himself, he ankled down the steps and headed for the carriage house at the back of the lot.

There he saddled his horse and led it out into the alley. Leather creaked as he swung into the saddle. At a gentle walk, Gus headed toward the mayor’s house, where he was to meet with Victor Spectre and his partners. He found them still at the breakfast table.

“Pour him a cup of coffee,” Victor commanded the maid standing in attendance on the table. “Did you sleep well?” he asked Gus.

“Yes, thank you. That Mrs. Spaun is a great cook. I’ve never had beef so tender and juicy. We had roast last night,” he clarified with a chuckle. “With braised potatoes and something she called asper—aspergrass?”

“Asparagus,” Victor corrected. “A meal fit for a king. Well, we have a lot to do today. Wait in the drawing room, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Victor Spectre and Ralph Tinsdale came into the small room, made to look larger by a bay window. Spectre settled on a Louie Quinze chair, a cup and saucer in one hand. “Now then, I want you to select six men to act as messengers. I will send them out with flyers I am having printed today.” His cordial smile turned bleak. “I am putting a price of twenty thousand dollars on the head of Smoke Jensen. The posters will advise anyone interested in trying for the reward to come here to Dubois. I am also offering excellent pay, board, and room until Jensen is captured and brought to me to kill.”

“That’s mighty generous, Mr. Spectre. Are our men eligible for that bonus?”

“Of course, Augustus. I conceived of this idea last night. It is a splendid way to fill our ranks. Maybe tenfold of our losses. Also, it serves as insurance in the event my primary ploy to draw Jensen to us fails.”

Rather than share Spectre’s elation, Gus frowned. “You’ll have every proddy son of a bitch in three territories crowdin’ in here. Half of them won’t even be able to use a gun. We’ll have one hell of a time keepin’ control.”

“Not to worry. That’s what your veterans are for. They took this town. They should have pride enough in it to keep down the rowdy element.”

Gus smiled at this. “You know people rather well, don’t you, Mr. Spectre?” It was more statement than question.

Victor’s chest swelled and he all but patted himself. “I pride myself on that, Augustus. Now, make sure that business is conducted as usual. See that those quartered with the merchants and businessmen get their charges out and about. We can’t entirely prevent people from coming into town. If we isolate ourselves, it would attract too much attention. So, I want you to arrange to have any damage covered up, make that unfortunate situation with the saloon look like a fire, and clean up the spilled blood.”

Rising from the velvet loveseat he occupied, Gus Jaeger started for the door. “I’ll see to it right away.”

Victor Spectre allowed himself a moment to gloat as he stared out the three-sided opening of the bay window. Then he sighed out softly, “Smoke Jensen, your hours are surely numbered.”

Unaware of the conquest of Dubois, Smoke Jensen dropped down from Togwatee Pass into Jackson’s Hole two days after the town fell to Victor Spectre and his outlaw army. The tension that had swelled within him over the past week soothed away when he gazed upon the sheltered basin. For as far as the eye could see, lush, tall grass waved in a gentle breeze. Sunlight sparkled off the rippled water of the Snake River as it meandered through the middle of the declivity. White stones, as fine as crushed gravel, lined the watercourse. Pines and tall Douglas firs perfumed the air.

Smoke breathed deeply of the crisp, clean air, made thin and precious by the altitude. All of nature was alive with animal and bird sounds, which reached Smoke’s ears in pleasant waves of tweets and warbles, the scrabble of claws, and grunts or snorts of larger creatures. Relaxing further, Smoke soaked up the peaceful feel of it all. Unbidden, his mind wandered back to the first time Preacher had brought him here to trap beaver and hunt elk….

It had been a crisp early spring. Deep drifts of snow lay along the shaded western slopes of the surrounding mountains. A thin wafer of clear ice clung to the bank and exposed pebbles in the Snake River. Preacher’s usually guarded expression eased into serenity as they rode lower onto the floor of the basin. Preacher waved a hand in a sweeping gesture.

“Ol’ Jackson was one smart hombre, Smoke. Look at this place. The last real corner of Paradise in the High Lonesome, or anywhere else for that matter. Pure, untouched. We won’t build a cabin here. Nawsir, we’re gonna fix us a stone lodge. Build out of rocks is what.”

“How’er we goin’ to put a roof on it?” Jensen asked.

Preacher frowned. “We’ll have to cut a couple of trees, I allow for that. An’ when we’re through with it, come next spring, we’re gonna tear it all down.”

All these years later, Smoke Jensen found the Hole still well-populated with elk. Huge piles of antlers had been erected by earlier visitors, and the soft ground held numerous hoof impressions. He caught sight of several dozen of the magnificent animals as he ambled his way to the southeast, in search of a campsite. Shortly he came upon the right place.

Located far enough from the Snake so that its waters burbling over smoothed rocks would not hide the sound of any approach, the small clearing would serve well for his first several night’s stay. Smoke strung a short picket line, with the halters of his horses rigged so they could walk along and graze. Then he unsaddled Thunder and Debbie. Stretching out the kinks of a long day’s ride, he drew a deep, rich breath and set off to locate windfall for a cookfire.

Hunger made itself known while Smoke assembled a stone ring on a bare circle of earth which he had cleared with a folding shovel. He completed the task and padded to the rack that held one of his parfleche panniers. From that he took a stout Cheyenne hunting bow and quiver of arrows. Then he added a coil of rope and a folded layer of cheesecloth. Anticipating the flavor of fresh roasted meat, he strode off to hunt for his supper. When he came abreast of the horses, he spoke softly to the ’Palouse stallion.

“Let me know if someone comes by, Thunder.”

Raised around animals, Smoke had no delusion that the critters understood his words in a literal sense. Yet, like most men alone in the wilderness, Smoke found himself talking to his horses. He kept his eyes to the ground, searching for an animal trail. He soon found one. A narrow path, most likely made by deer. Hoofprints verified that, along with small, still moist droppings. The slightly rounded points of the front of the impressions pointed to the river.

When he drew close enough to hear the gurgle of the clear, swift water, he selected an arrow and nocked it to the string. Creeping now, he made a slow approach to the opening. Ahead he identified the spotted, buff side of a young deer. The graceful little creature had its neck bent, mouth in the chill water. A tiny flag of brown and white flickered as a dragonfly buzzed its hind quarters. Cautiously, Smoke moved to one side and searched for any larger hind.

He found one at once. A yearling, weighing about 125 pounds. Perfect. Exercising immense care, Smoke raised the bow and drew back the sinew string, while he appealed to the animal’s spirit for understanding. The ball of his thumb touched his cheekbone and he took aim. His release was smooth. The keen-edged metal head entered flesh right behind the front leg and the shaft plunged inward to the fletching. Pierced through the heart, the yearling uttered a shrill bleat and reared, then fell, mortally wounded.

Momentarily saddened by the necessity of having to take the creature’s life, Smoke nevertheless looked on grimly until the end. The fawn had sprinted away at the cry of alarm and pain. Walking carefully, Smoke stepped out onto the riverbank. Quickly he dragged the deer to a low limb and tied the forelegs together. He swung the short length of rope over the branch and pulled the creature upright.

With swift, sure strokes, he field-dressed the deer. He set aside the heart and liver, which he washed in the stream and wrapped in cheesecloth. Then he scooped out a hollow and buried the intestines. Lowering the carcass, he cleansed it in the Snake, and washed his arms. Grunting, he hefted the meat over his shoulders and started back to camp. He would eat the liver raw, while a rack of ribs and a front haunch roasted. The heart would be for breakfast. The rest, he decided, he would smoke in a rock smoker he would build tomorrow. He would hang the meat high in a tree. The hind quarters could cure for a few days, until he would be ready.

Using carefully graduated sizes of smooth, flattened rocks from the riverbed, Smoke Jensen started on his stone smoker early the next morning, after a breakfast of fried venison heart and cottage fries with wild onion. There were camus bulbs and wild turnips in the basin, he knew. He could look forward to a rich venison stew. Far from being a gourmand, nothing prevented Smoke from the appreciation of good food when he had it. Smoke had reached the fifth tier, the rocks meticulously fitted together, when he noticed a thin column of gray-white rising above the trees at some distance to the northeast.

Pilgrims. It had to be. No one who knew anything about the habits and wandering nature of Indians would be that careless. Unless, of course, the party was large enough not to worry. Dismissing it, he worked on until he had used the last of the stones he had retrieved from the water. When he waded, barefoot, into the Snake to pluck more rocks from the shallows, he noticed a barely perceptible blur in the air at a considerable stretch in the opposite direction of the column of smoke. Someone knew what they were doing, he surmised. They had built their fire under the wide spread of tree limbs, which would diffuse the smoke. Mountain men, or some like himself, who had been raised by that hearty, savvy breed. Smoke cut his eyes back to his work project.

“Well,” he said aloud. “I’ve made my feet ache enough for one day.”

He climbed out of the water, dried his feet and shoved them into boots. After he saddled Thunder, he mounted and rode out on a circuitous route around these curious signs of other humans.

After a careful search of the area around the well-tended fire, Smoke Jensen moved in close enough to see the men seated under the wide-spread limbs of an ancient pine, its branches thick with long, silken needles. At once, he recognized two oldtimers. Zeke Duncan and Ezra Sampson had been fur-trapping partners for the better part of fifty years. So adapted had they become to life in the High Lonesome, not even advanced age could separate them from it. Their hat-sized fire gave off smoke for only one reason.

Drops of liquefied fat dripped into the coals from the six squirrels they had set to slow-broiling over it. A lattice of green willow branches supported the carcasses of the tree-dwelling rodents. Although he had eaten no more than three hours earlier, the aroma of the cooking meat smelled delightful to Smoke. Quietly he edged back deeper into the underbrush and crawled a hundred yards before standing and walking to where he had ground-reined Thunder.

Mounted, Smoke Jensen rode out a ways, then turned back, angled toward the camp and howdied them loudly when he came within view. A cheery answer came back to him. “Ride on in and set a spell.”

Then, when he had ridden close enough to be recognized, Zeke did a little dance step, beaded and quilled moccasins twinkling in the sunlight and called out with delight. “Why, you be that ring-tailed rattler, Smoke Jensen. So, you’re the one snuck up on us a while back. That’s right, you be Preacher’s little friend.”

They still never miss a thing,
Smoke thought with respect.

“Not so little anymore, Zeke,” Ezra advised. “Yer welcome, Smoke.” Eyes sparkling, he gave Smoke a wink. “Be a whole lot more welcome if you’ve got a jug of Who-Shot-John along.”

“Not with me. I have a crock along for medicinal purposes back at camp.”

“Where might that be?” Zeke asked.

“Over yonder a ways,” Smoke told him, pointing in the general direction.

Ezra cocked a snow-white eyebrow. “It ain’t over where them dummies have got that signal fire a-goin’, would it be?”

Zeke butted in. “Not likely, Ez. Preacher would have taught him right. But, say, how come you knowed we was here?”