Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (18 page)

Smoke told them simply. “Same way I knew those others were around. From your smoke smudge.”

“Naw,” Ezra objected. “We’ve been real careful.”

Smoke nodded to the fire. “Those squirrels are dripping fat onto the fire. It made a cloud in the branches of this pine.”

“They’re almost ready, too,” Zeke advised. “You’ll sit a spell and share a couple with us, won’t you? There’s coffee hot in the pot now.”

“That’s kind of you, Zeke. I’ll take that coffee. And I’ll eat some squirrel. I have some biscuits left over from breakfast.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Ezra enthused.

Smoke cut his eyes to take in the whole of their camp. “Tell me, why is it fellers as smart as you are camped under the tallest tree around?”

Zeke grinned. “It ain’t thunderstorm season yet. Otherwise you wouldn’t find us nowhere near this giant. Now, put some daylight in that saddle and let’s swap a few lies.”

Smoke and the old mountain men sat cross-legged and drank coffee and told tales about Preacher for half an hour. At which time, Ezra pronounced the squirrels ready to eat. While they tore at the succulent, tender flesh, and gnawed on biscuits and wild onion bulbs, Zeke gestured to Smoke with a hind leg of squirrel.

“D’you know yer a wanted man again?”

Smoke thought on that a moment. “No. What’s the story?”

“There’s word out for gunhands to gather and hunt you down, Smoke. Big reward for your hide. Twenty thousand dollars. Alive, that is.”

Smoke whistled soundlessly. “Who has that sort of money?”

Zeke continued his tale. “There’s this feller, Victor Spectre he calls hisself. He an’ a whole passel of rowdies tooken over the town of Dubois.”

“What!” Smoke blurted. “When did this happen?”

Ezra got in his two bits’ worth. “Couple—three days ago now. From what we’ve heard fellers driftin’ through here say, there was some powerful killin’ done. Folks they spared are kept prisoner in their own homes.”

His jaw seriously torqued by this news, Smoke abandoned caution. “Damn that filthy slime. This fight’s between him and me. The people of Dubois are special to me.”

Both of the oldtimers nodded eagerly. Zeke summed up their thoughts. “Reckon this Spectre feller knew that.”

Recovered slightly, Smoke conquered his rampant emotions. “Nothing can be done about that now. He would have to have a regular army to take the town. Thank you for the warning. I appreciate it. And, thanks for the food, which was good, and the company, which was even better. I think I’ll move along, see who those others are.”

Zeke gave Smoke a knowing wink. “They’re noisy and they smell bad. Could be you’re walking into a hornet nest.”

Having been warned over and over, Smoke Jensen needed no further urging to make a wide, slow, careful approach to the other camp in the basin. Two small, conical peaks stood between him and the unknown visitors. Smoke took advantage of that to advance undetected to within three hundred yards. The column of smoke continued to rise into the morning sky. A shower of sparks formed an ascending ball around it as someone threw something rather heavy on the fire.

Fools, Smoke thought in disgust. If there had been a war party of Blackfeet or Cheyenne in the area, or any other tribe, these idiots would already have their hair curing on scalp stretchers. Might as well advertise their presence with a brass band. He dismounted and tied off Thunder in a grove of cottonwoods. Then he wormed his way through the thicket of young trees, taking thirty minutes to do so, until he could clearly distinguish sounds from the camp. A cast-iron skillet gave off a musical ring, metal utensils clattered and the men talked volubly. Smoke made a quick count of seven different voices.

Their topic of conversation riveted Smoke’s attention. “You know what I’m gonna do with the money for catchin’ Smoke Jensen?”

“Naw, Polk, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell us.”

“Right you are, my friend. I’m gonna get me a room in the fanciest hotel in San Francisco, rent me a pair of the purtiest ladies of the night, and give the room service manager a thousand dollars and tell him to keep the champagne and food coming until it’s gone. Then I’m gonna give him another thousand and get two different girls.”

“Awh, you won’t be able to keep it up that long, Polk.”

“Tell me about it, Curruthers. What is it the gals down in Dallas call you? Ol’ False Start Carruthers, right?”

A tin cup bounced noisily off the thick trunk of a pine. “Damn you, Polk, that ain’t true. I don’t care what that Lill told anyone who’d listen. It ain’t so. I was jist a little drunk is what. An hour’s rest and I sure showed her where Johnny hid the garden hoe.”

Another voice joined the banter. “Curruthers, Polk, ain’t either one of you with any sense when it comes to money and wimmin. I been talkin’ with Yancy and Rand. They’re talkin’ about poolin’ their shares an’ buyin’ land. Run a few hunnard head of cattle an’ even hire men to work them. I sort of thought it would be an idee to throw in with them. Three shares buys a whole lot of cows and other people’s sweat.”

Curruthers sneered. “Gonna become big-shot ranchers, huh? Fat chance.”

Polk sniggered. “You do, Hooper, an’ we’ll come rustle them beeves.”

Hooper grew serious. “They hang rustlers down in Texas, Polk.”

Suddenly defensive, Polk bleated in an effort to forestall any confrontation. “Hey—hey, I was only funnin’. I’d never rob from a partner. Ain’t honorable.” He added a shrill giggle. “Besides, I’ll be in San Francisco gettin’ my ashes hauled.”

Another voice, silent so far, rumbled with a dash of cold water on their plans. “You heard what they did in Dubois. If we ride in an’ throw our hat in the ring with them boys, and we do get Smoke Jensen, you’d best use your share to find a deep hole to crawl into and pull it after you. There’ll be U.S. Marshals an’ the Army, and who knows who else huntin’ us down. They took a
town,
boys. They pestered the single women and killed a lot of folks. Ain’t gonna be likely forgotten.”

Polk jeered at him. “Ballard, yer gettin’ yeller in your old age.”

“Hell, he ain’t thirty.”

Polk’s voice sobered. “For some folks, that’s old.”

At last, the seventh man, who had listened to all this with interest, contributed his idea. “I’ll tell you what we should do, if we’re smart. I say we ought to find this Smoke Jensen all on our own and bring him in. Collect our reward and ride the hell out of there. Sure’s my name is Liam Quinn.”

Smoke Jensen had heard enough. He also noticed that for all their big talk, none of them seemed eager to move on to Dubois. Carefully, he selected several landmarks to pinpoint their locations in the dark, and moved on.

We’ve crossed over into Wyoming,
Sally Jensen thought. She judged they had done so some two days ago, based on the change of terrain to high plains prairie. The mountains, though some were tall and rangy, had a smooth, rounded-over appearance. And, for miles one could see waving seas of grass, patches of it golden-brown remnants from last year’s growth. She had yet to learn where they were going.

“We’re takin’ you to the man in charge,” or “You’ll meet yer husband up ahead a piece,” was all she could get out of Nate Miller, the outlaw leading this band of ruffians. Sally had gone beyond worry or fear. Instead, a cold, hard anger built within her, one tempered by caution and experience, but deadly in nature all the same. She no longer sought a means of escape along the trail.

That would come later. Most likely when Smoke was near. She would bide her time, reinforce her anger and loathing of these unwashed border trash, and make herself ready physically and mentally. To do the latter, she reviewed incidents in which she had been involved with Smoke, or because of him. One occurrence hardened her more than the others.

It had been the time when she had been beaten, shot, and left for dead by unsavory louts who belonged to the Masters gang. She had gone to her father’s home in New England to recuperate and the gang had followed to get retribution on Smoke Jensen. They had died there, in New Hampshire, and she had given birth to the twins. Louis Longmont and Jeff York had lent Smoke a hand and had been proud godfathers for the newest additions to the Jensen clan. Now, she drew on memories of the pain, the despair she had felt, her fear for the babies she carried. It forged the malleable metal of her present outrage into a white-hot bar of steel.

To maintain her physical condition, she found little she could do. She ate every scrap they allowed her, of course. And, when left unattended to take care of nature’s demands, she lifted heavy rocks to maintain the strength in her arms. She walked about the camp furiously whenever untied. And she moved with snakelike sinuosity in the saddle as they rode, to tone her torso. It wasn’t much, she acknowledged, but it helped. The time
would
come, and she
would
be ready to act.

Only a sliver of moon hung over Jackson’s Hole when Smoke Jensen eased into position outside the camp of the gunmen. A decided chill hung on the May night, the air damp and tingly, borne on a breeze that wafted over deep banks of rotting snow. To ward off the cold, the thugs had built a large, roaring fire. Anyone this careless and stupid deserved what they were about to get, Smoke thought in indignation.

Still, he had anticipated the gigantic bonfire and smiled in satisfaction as he considered the two sticks of dynamite he had brought along. They were already capped and fused when he shoved them down the front of his trousers, behind his cartridge belt. With everything in readiness, he drew his .45 Colt and fired a round over the heads of the hapless men gathered around the blaze. In an instant they all went to the ground as one.

Smoke Jensen called to them in harsh tones. “You men don’t belong here and you’ve picked the wrong man to go after. Saddle up, put out that fire, and get out of here while you still have your lives.”

One of the men stood up. “You’re not scarin’ us, mister.” He sent a round into the dark, in the direction Smoke’s voice had come from. Only Smoke had moved. Now he raised the Peacemaker and blasted the bold gunhawk to perdition with a slug through the heart. Immediately the clearing became a scene of panic.

Three of the saddle trash made a wild scramble for their mounts, while the other trio elected to fight back. They came to their knees and shot wildly into the surrounding blackness. Night vision ruined by the bright blaze, they had not the slightest chance of seeing Smoke Jensen.

Smoke howled like a wolf and moved to yet another position. He fired at the confused gunmen and moved as return rounds crashed into the underbrush where he had been. Now that he had the remaining six properly aroused, he heaved first one, then the second stick of dynamite into their fire.

Almost at once, the first exploded and knocked the defenders flat. Then threw flaming wood everywhere. The second followed a second later, the ground shaking underfoot even worse than before. Shock and blast extinguished what had been left of their fire. Smoke tracked muzzle flashes, noted that only four remained, and picked a target. The roar of his .45 drowned out the noise of the others’.

“Oh, my God, Liam, I’m shot,” Polk wailed as the initial shock of Smoke’s bullet wore off and his chest flamed with agony.

At the camp of Zeke Duncan and Ezra Sampson, the two oldtimers listened to the sounds of confrontation in the distance. Zeke took a long, deep pull off the contents of a glazed, earthenware jug they had found at sundown, near the place they had taken to using on the riverbank, and passed it to Ezra.

“Well, Ez, it sounds like Smoke Jensen is paying a not-too-friendly visit to those young toughs over yonder.”

Ezra cocked his head to one side, tilted up his chin and took a long swallow of the premium rye whiskey in the jug. “Does seem that way. I reckon that’s why he left us off this jug, to keep us in camp. Wonder if they appreciate the call?”

They both cackled over this witticism for some moments, passed the crock around another time and grinned like conspirators when the noise abruptly ceased. The quiet grew louder. Zeke sipped again, belched and passed the container to his partner.

“Say, Zeke, you figger Smoke will swing by an’ share this present he left with us?”

“Might be. You can never tell.”

“I sure hope he does. I’d like to hear all about those boys who waste so much firewood.” Cackling, Ezra extended the jug toward Zeke.

After he had reduced his opponents to two, he moved yet again. “You two, I have a message for Victor Spectre, Ralph Tinsdale, and Olin Buckner.”

After a short, tense silence, a voice called out shakily. “We don’t know anybody by them names.”

Smoke’s laughter mocked them. “Sure you do. You were talking about them earlier this afternoon.” He fired another round toward the cringing Ballard and Quinn.

A longer silence followed, then a weak reply from Quinn. “All right—all right. What do you want us to tell them?”

“Tell them they can hire every two-bit gunhand in the territory, and beyond, but that I’m a lot harder to kill than the best of them. I think you have found that out for yourselves.” Smoke chuckled loudly enough for them to hear him. “One last thing, so there’s no mistake. Where is it, again, that you are to meet Victor Spectre?”

“In—in Dubois.”

“Then I’ll leave you to find your way there on your own.”

Smoke had glided well out of earshot before the two badly shaken gunmen began to whisper to one another. Pleased with himself, Smoke faded into the night.

Monte Carson stood by the head of his horse, two fingers slipped behind the cheek-strap of the headstall. He gazed off thoughtfully toward the distant, sparkling waters of the Bighorn River. Between him and the wide, shallow stream lay the lodges of the Shoshoni of the Wind River Reservation. Three of the Indians rode in his direction, one held a lance, elaborately decorated with sprays of feathers. An official delegation, Monte thought, sure of that. He turned to Hank Evans.

“Company comin’ will have at least one minor civil chief along. Might not be the one who presents himself as leader. So keep a sharp eye, Hank, and see if you can spot the real chief.”

Hank Evans worked his cheeks and lips and spat out his used-up cud of Union Leader cut plug. A stream of tobacco juice followed. “You’re gettin’ crafty in yer old age, Monte.”

Sheriff Carson chuckled. “Naw. It’s just a little something I learned from Smoke Jensen a few years back. Injuns don’t take a back seat to the white man when it comes to diplomatic tricks. Smoke pointed that out and explained that most times it is the fault of different language or different ways of seein’ the same thing that makes a parlay go sour, or a treaty fail.”

Hank studied the Shoshoni representatives as they rode nearer. “If you’d ask me now, I’d say it was that older feller with the lance. His mouth looks like it’s used to givin’ orders. And there’s that hawk nose and them hard, bright eyes.”

“Don’t be in a rush. Take a little more time and be sure. It could be the difference between being welcomed or told to get the hell off their land.”

“Or keepin’ our hair,” Hank added wryly.

Monte nodded. “There’s that, too.”

Close now, the riders reined in. Monte made the universal sign for peace and it was returned. Then he signed that they had coffee, sugar, biscuits, and molasses. Grinning, the Shoshoni dismounted. Before they did, the one dressed as a chief cut his eyes to his lance-bearer and received an almost imperceptible nod.

Hank Evans took note of that as he dismounted. He prepared a clear space for a fire and set out the makings for a quick brew. Water came from his canteen, coffee from a cloth sack, as did the biscuits. A small, screw-top jar held blackstrap molasses. The Indians settled on their horse blankets and Monte sat with them, cross-legged. While Hank prepared their snack, Monte signed that he was looking for a man.

“What man is this?” the lance-bearer asked in fair, though accented and lilting, English. His eyes locked with Monte’s.

“Smoke Jensen.”

“Ah, Swift Firestick.”

Monte blinked at the thick-shouldered younger man. “Is that a serious name?”

Chief Tom Brokenhorn, in his guise as the lance-bearer of a civil chief, smiled. “No. It is a joke that Smoke Jensen shares with me.” He rose and changed places with the even younger man in the middle, while Hank distributed tin cups of coffee and biscuits slathered with molasses. “From the description he gave to me, you must be Monte Carson. I am Chief Brokenhorn.”

Monte cut his eyes to Hank, who gave him an “I-told-you-didn’t-I?” grin. “Smoke speaks highly of you, Chief Brokenhorn.”