Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (38 page)

Gradually the gap widened. Then the hooves of the horses began to lose purchase as the tree hung up on some unseen obstruction. Smoke got them stopped and dismounted.

“Tend to the horses, Tommy. I’ll see what’s gone wrong.” When the ropes slacked off, Smoke went forward and bent to peer under the trunk.

At first, he could not see any obvious cause. Then he noticed a thin ridge of rock jutting above the ground. In moving the tree that far it had butted three broken branches against the stone. Smoke drew his Greenriver knife and attacked the first of these, whittling at it to form a notch. When he had cut better than halfway through, he sat on the ground and worked his booted foot into position. With all the effort he could exert in that position, he kicked the protruding partial branch.

Nothing happened. He tried again. Once more, no result. On his third kick, Smoke heard a satisfying crackling and the limb flew free. At once he started on the second. It would play hell with the edge on his blade, Smoke reckoned, and no way to hone it in the near future. This piece proved to be afflicted with dry rot and quickly yielded to the cutting edge of Smoke’s knife.

When it fell away, Smoke went after the third. It proved to be stubborn, nearly as stringy as oak. Smoke remembered a lesson taught by Preacher about the growth of trees. “When a branch gets whipped and twisted a lot by wind, it gets springy. The fibers are long instead of close and compact. It gets so they are jist like hardwood.”

Which might have been the case with this difficult stump. Heat radiated up smoke’s arm as he cut at the defiant wood. He made little progress over several minutes; then the blade sank into the heartwood, and the rest became easy. In another two minutes he had cleared the final obstruction.

Back in the saddle, he nodded to Tommy, and they again set the horses in motion. The ropes stretched and sang, and the animals strained into their burden. Then, with a grinding crunch, the tip of the fallen pine lurched forward and opened a grudging space. Quickly the man and boy halted the remounts and their own horses. Fists on hips, Smoke inspected the opening.

It was disappointing at best. Barely three horses at a time could squeeze by the sheer wall of the pass and the obstruction of the tree. That would have to do, Smoke noted, because the thick trunk had jammed tightly against a boulder at the side of the trail. He looked back at Tommy.

“Let’s get ’em headed up and moving through. We’ve lost more time than we can afford.”

Glancing at the horizon, Reno Jim Yurian produced the first smile he had worn since the herd had been run off. Five men astride unsaddled horses trotted toward him. He estimated that the drove had a two-day lead on them, provided they could find the animals again. He had to admit, he had greatly underestimated this Smoke Jensen.

Reno Jim reviewed what he knew of the man. Few on the frontier, or back east for that matter, had not heard of him. Thanks to the proliferation of dime novels, Smoke Jensen had been a legendary figure long before he went on that lecture tour in New England and New York City. Not that his trip had lasted for long. Trouble had come looking for Smoke Jensen, and he had quickly obliged.

That much Yurian had read in the San Antonio newspaper. An account that lasted over several days. In an amused tone, its first installment recounted a chase through Central Park, with picnickers scattered and food crushed beneath the hooves of several horses. In his usual manner, the reporter had recounted, Smoke Jensen ended the altercation with a blazing six-gun.

Someone like that could be real trouble. Yet Reno Jim had discounted it as sensationalism. Well now, by dang, it seemed Smoke Jensen was indeed larger than life. And mean as a wet bobcat. Reno Jim abandoned his dark reflections to hail the approaching riders.

“You’ve done good, as far as it goes,” he informed them when they halted before him. “Any sign of more of our horses?”

“Yep,” answered Yancy Osburn. “Seen a few, but they shied. Thing is, boss, they ain’t comin’ from Powder River Pass. They showed up north of this trail.”

“Well, then, saddle up and get out there and round up as many as you can. We’re going after that herd. Smoke Jensen might be mean as hell, but he’s only one man.”

By nightfall, Smoke Jensen and the herd had nearly reached the 8,950-foot summit of Granite Pass. Tommy had bagged four plump squirrels. He grumbled ferociously over the difficulty of removing their skins. At one point, he looked up at Smoke Jensen, blood on both hands, one cheek and his little square chin.

“Why do these squirrels have to have their hides attached by so many of these darned thongs?”

Smoke took pity on the boy. “They are not ‘thongs,’ Tommy. They are erectile tissue. Squirrels need them to bunch up their skin in cold weather.”

Eyes large with wonder, Tommy looked down at the creature he was working on. “Gosh, how did you learn all that stuff?”

“From Preacher. He knew all about animals. And at one time, there was a larger market for squirrel hides than beaver. Here, let me show you an easier way.”

Smoke started at the back end of the animal and made a long cut from bung to neck, then worked the skinning knife in under one side. He cut through the elastic retractors down one side, reversed the blade and severed the opposite ones. He peeled back the hide and did the back.

“There. Think you can do it like that?”

Tommy thrust out his chest. “Sure. Let me at it.”

“You’ve got to gut this one first; then I’ll put it on the fire to roast.”

Smoke took the carcass and doused it in the crystal stream that burbled over smooth stones alongside the trail. Then he began to thread it on a green stick. For a second, he flashed back four days to when he did the same with an eight-foot rattler. He had given the huge rattle—there were eleven buttons—to Tommy. The boy wrapped it in a strip of cloth and shoved it deep in one pocket of his overalls. A good thing, too, Smoke thought. Out in the open, it would have the horses spooked all the time. Della came over while Smoke propped the squirrel over the coals.

“Smoke, I wonder if there is anything we can do to get washed off. The girls and I, that is. We’ve been taking on a goodly lot of dust of late and…well, I feel grimy.”

Smoke looked left and right, then nodded toward a bend in the trail below them. “You can go down there, around the bend, and wash to your heart’s content.”

“But who’ll guard us from wild animals or—or men coming along?”

“Take Tommy’s little rifle. You can stand watch while the girls bathe, then Sarah-Jane can be lookout for you.”

Della still seemed unconvinced. “There doesn’t seem to be much privacy that way.”

Smoke stifled the chuckle he felt building. “It’s the best we’ve got. After you finish, Tommy and I can take our turns.”

Pulling a face, Della confided to Smoke, “If you knew that boy like I do, you’d be in there with him. It’s near impossible to get him out of the water.”

Smoke answered her drily. “Cold as this is, I doubt it will be a problem.”

Squeals came from beyond the bend only a few minutes after Della and her daughters disappeared. Their cleanup lasted only a scant five minutes. The three came back with a rosy glow from the icy water. Smoke went next, and wisely stripped only to the waist to wash away the accumulated dust. The snowmelt stung his skin and sent shivers along his spine.

Tommy had finished the last squirrel when Smoke returned. Eagerly the boy headed for the bend. Della had been right about her son, Smoke noted when he clocked Tommy at a full fifteen minutes before he reappeared.

“I thought you’d frozen solid,” Smoke remarked.

“Naw. It was jist right. Though it would have been better with the sun shining.” A hiss and plume of steam rose from the fire as one of the squirrels dripped fat. Tommy sniffed the air and rubbed his belly. “I’m hungry.”

Della turned the meat while she looked up at Smoke. “How much longer?”

“Three, maybe four more days. We’ll be on the Crow reservation by then. Before midmorning we’ll reach the summit. I want to take a half-day rest. It’s all downhill from there.”

“I thought we were going to Buffalo first.”

“Can’t risk it, Della. Reno Jim Yurian and his gang would be laying for us on that trail. Even if they don’t recover any of their mounts, they know Buffalo is the closest place to get more. Then they will be after us.”

Early the next morning the riders sent out by Reno Jim Yurian returned with a dozen more of their missing horses. At once, Reno Jim named off as many of his best men, including Utah Jack Grubbs. They quickly saddled the animals and stood waiting for instructions.

“I’m coming with you. That gives us seventeen men. We are going to track down Smoke Jensen and finish him off. If any man sees Jensen first, save him for me. I want to make him die slowly,” Yurian told them ominously.

Hazy sunlight bathed the schoolhouse in Muddy Gap. Inside, classes went on as usual. Outside, Brandon Kelso presented a far different agenda to his companions, Willie Finch and Danny Collins. Only the day before he had been released from jail by Marshal Larsen. His father had promptly boxed his ears for allowing himself to be caught in such a stupid way. Now he planned to get revenge.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go in there and run all the kids out. Then we take care of that smart-ass schoolmarm.”

Not the brightest of youths, Danny Collins had to ask, “How we gonna do that?”

Brandon grabbed his crotch and grinned wickedly. “You jist follow my lead.”

With that he marched to the front steps and climbed to the stoop. Brandon’s massive hand closed over the door-knob, and he slammed the portal inward with explosive force. Ginny Parkins looked up sharply to find her nemesis framed in the opening. She bit her lip in trepidation, then recalled the message that had accompanied her gift from Smoke Jensen.

“You can march yourself out of here this minute, Brandon Kelso.”

“Naw. Ain’t gonna do that.” Brandon waved to the upturned faces and staring eyes of the students. “All you kids get out of here. This is a school holiday.”

Willie Finch put in his bit. “Yeah, everybody out. Exceptin’ you, Prissy Pants.”

Brandon’s face turned dark red with self-induced rage. “That’s right! Scatter…all of you.” His beady eyes narrowed and fixed on Ginny as he advanced on her. “Not you, though. We’re gonna give you something you have obviously never had. But you’ll surely appreciate it once we’re through with you.”

Backed against the blackboard, Virginia Parkins fought panic as she sought some means to defend herself. She grasped a piece of chalk and hurled it at the face of her tormentor. The white stick hit edge-on and cut a gouge below his right eye. Enraged, Brandon charged her.

Nimbly, Ginny slipped under his grasping arms and dashed for her desk. Fighting to control her movements, she yanked open the top drawer and whipped out the small .38 Smith and Wesson given her by Smoke Jensen. She turned to face Brandon, and being inexpert in the use of the weapon, she fired it low.

Her first bullet ripped into the floor. The second smashed into Brandon’s right kneecap and shattered it. A bellow of agony burst from the lout’s lips as he went down on his good knee. Ginny turned her wrath on the other two.

“Take this little monster and get out of my school,” she demanded in a cold, even tone. “Do it now or I’ll shoot you, too.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Ginny,” Marshal Larsen said from the open door, his shotgun held purposefully in both hands. “I saw them headed this way, and I thought I should come along and see what they had in mind.”

“I’m glad you did, Marshal. They had every intention of—of having their way with me.”

Marshal Larsen’s face portrayed his disgust and outrage. “They’ll not be any problem to you ever again, Miss Ginny. I’ll take them from here.”

“Arrest her, Marshal,” Brandon blubbered. “She shot me for no reason at all.”

“Shut up, you little bastard, or I’ll use this shotgun to remove some of your teeth.” To Danny and Willie, he commanded sharply, “Carry this filth out of here. You’re all goin’ to jail.”

Behind them, little Jimmy Finch piped shrilly, “Three cheers for Marshal Larsen. Hip—hip—hooray!”

Shortly after halting at the summit of Granite Pass, and running a single-strand rope fence around the remount herd, Smoke Jensen heard a distant rifle shot. Ten minutes later, a grinning Tommy Olsen walked out of the stand of aspen that graced one side slope of the passage through the Bighorn Mountains.

“I need a horse,” the boy announced.

“What for?” Smoke challenged good-naturedly.

“I bagged us a deer.”

Tipping back the brim of his hat, Smoke gave off a low whistle. “I should have seen to it we got here sooner. A rack of venison ribs sounds mighty good right now.”

Eyes sparkling from this fulsome praise, Tommy asked, “Which horse should I take?”

“How big is the deer?”

Tommy described the creature with wide swings of his arms. Smoke nodded and pointed to one of the purloined outlaw horses. “Take that one. He’s the calmest of the lot. I’ll get your mother started on making preparations, then go hunt down some wild onions and turnips. We can make stew out of the tougher parts of the legs.”

“Umm. Sounds good. I’m hungry now.”

Smoke reached out and ruffled the boy’s tousled auburn hair. “You are always hungry.”

“Uh—Smoke? When we get to the reservation will we see some real wild Indians?”

Smiling, Smoke shook his head. “The Crow are not all that wild. Never have been. They took a friendly outlook to us whites. They’ve provided scouts for the army for years.” He laughed softly. “They can just about kill you with hospitality if you happen upon them during one of their social dances. They’ll stuff you with food, heap tobacco on you, drag you into the dance circle, give you the place of honor to sleep in the lodge.”

“Lots of whiskey, I bet,” Tommy opined.

Smoke frowned. “Given their choice, most Injuns shun liquor. They don’t have much tolerance for it.”

“What’s tolerance?”

“In this case it means bein’ able to hold their whiskey. And many Injuns can’t. To most it’s like any of the other white man’s diseases. In a way it’s a good thing. Someone has to stay sober out here.”

Tommy studied Smoke in silence while the boy slipped a bridle on the horse. “You don’t seem to miss strong drink much, Smoke.”

“Never developed a fondness for it. I drink a little whiskey, though not enough to make a saloon keeper a profit, and two or three beers is my limit.”

A serious expression altered Tommy’s face. “I don’t think I’ll ever drink.”

“None of us knows for sure what we’ll do later in life. But good for you if you stick to it. You know, the Germans call beer ‘liquid bread.’ They don’t think of it as liquor.”

Tommy furrowed his smooth brow. “Then maybe I’ll have some liquid bread when I grow up.”

They laughed together, and Tommy swung up bareback on the horse. Smoke handed him his rifle. After the boy trotted away, Smoke realized exactly how good some roasted venison would taste.

Well fed on venison and with the humans and animals alike rested, Smoke Jensen sent his amateur drovers down the trail that descended the northeast slopes of the Bighorn Mountains. Spirits remained high. Confident in their improving ability to manage the horses, Smoke put Tommy on drag and rode on ahead to scout the terrain they had to cover.

He had gone some five miles from the herd when he came upon two rather large men who took their ease outside a stretched canvas lean-to. Both had rifles ready at hand and revolvers stuck into the waistband of their trousers. Smoke counted three on one of them. Smoke reined in and greeted them in a friendly manner.

“Howdy to you, too, mister,” the smaller, as compared to his barn-sized companion, replied. “Sorta off the beaten track, ain’tcha?”

“Could say the same for you two, I suppose.”

A scowl replaced the earlier smile of greeting. “This here’s our land, mister. We got papers filed an all, over to Sheridan way.”

Trying to keep it light, Smoke observed, “An ambitious undertaking. You waiting for the trees to grow to build a cabin?”

Rather than take it in good humor, the larger man glowered and roused himself, to reveal a Cheyenne backrest that had been hidden by his slab shoulders. “That ain’t none of your business,” he growled. “But it is ours, as to what you’re doin’ on our place.”

“Didn’t know anyone had homesteaded out this way. But as it happens, I’m driving a herd of remounts north to Fort Custer.”