Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (40 page)

“Injuns!” Harper Liddy shouted from that direction.

From his vantage point in a stand of cottonwood, Iron Claw watched the last of his dog soldiers glide into position around the horse herd. He switched his gaze beyond them to the two figures at the fire. The woman’s posture spoke of some worry. Perhaps over the girl Sees-the-Sky told him about. The one who got sick over the side of the rolling lodge. He sensed the moment of indecision in the man. The time could not be better.

Iron Claw raised his face to the sky and uttered a piercing signal. “Kiii-yip-yip-yip!”

Cheyenne dog soldiers designated to move the herd whooped and howled in reply and began to flap blankets at the horses. Startled, the animals bolted. Yet, the white men who watched them did not lack courage. Several acted at once to channel the creatures as they thundered across the ground. Others sought the cause.

When they found it, gunshots crackled in the night. The sudden discharge served to prompt half of the remaining warriors to charge the camp. That, Iron Claw reasoned, would turn the herdsmen back to defend their brothers.

The darkness filled with shrieking war cries, arrows began to moan and hum through the air into the camp. Iron Claw watched as the big man smoothly shoved the woman to the ground and drew a long-barreled revolver. The white man went to one knee and fired in the direction of an arrow’s flight. A brave cried out and began to thrash in the sagebrush, his hip shattered by the bullet. Iron Claw revealed himself at the edge of the copse and raised his rifle to signal the rest to join the attack. They responded with enthusiasm.

In seconds, Cheyenne warriors swarmed into the camp.

Smoke Jensen cocked his .45 Colt after shooting the warrior in the bushes and looked for another target. “Stay down, Della,” he commanded.

From the wagon, a shot blasted into the night. Smoke looked that way. “Make sure what you are shooting at, Tommy. There are some of ours out there, too.”

“Sure, Smoke. I’ll watch careful. Yike!” The last came when an arrow thudded into the thick side of the wagon only three inches from Tommy Olsen.

Smoke snapped a shot at the warrior who had launched the arrow at Tommy and saw the Cheyenne flop over backward to twitch in agony from the shoulder wound. A quick check showed Smoke that the Leaning Tree hands had managed to channel what looked to be a little more than half the remounts into a ravine, where they held them in a milling, confused mass. Then came another outburst of war whoops, and more Indians charged into the clearing.

Trask and Bolt stood back-to-back and laid down a withering fire that caused the Cheyennes opposite them to recoil and seek a softer spot. They found none as other off-duty hands doubled up to defend themselves. Men whirled around as frantically as the horses.

Not many of the hastily fired rounds found a home in flesh. Smoke watched as the Cheyennes rallied to charge again. It could only be a matter of time, he thought. There were far too many of them. They were about to be swallowed up in screaming Indians. From the slope to one side came a strident yell.

Suddenly, the attack broke off. Swiftly, the Cheyennes deserted the field. Smoke could only stand and wonder.

From his vantage point outside the cottonwoods, Iron Claw judged the progress of his warriors. More importantly, he gazed over the disappearing rumps of the horses that had been successfully driven off. He made a quick decision. Turning, he spoke to Spotted Feather, the dog soldier society leader.

“We have enough horses. To try for more will risk the lives of too many brave men. And it might be bad medicine to kill a white woman and those children.”

Spotted Feather smiled grimly. “You are right as always.”

“What is an older brother for, Spotted Feather?”

Iron Claw’s younger sibling put humor into his smile. He spoke in the ritual manner of his warrior society. “You may stop them whenever you wish.”

Iron Claw raised his voice in a sharp, barking hoot like a hungry coyote. At once the warriors ceased their fighting. Many withdrew beyond the limited light in the camp. Quietly they sat their ponies. Iron Claw stepped forward to where he could be plainly seen.

He raised his arm in the sign for a parlay. The big man at the fire pit repeated it and strode for a big ’Paloose horse. Iron Claw eased his excited, cavorting mount into a mincing circle as he watched the white man approach at an easy trot. When less than fifteen feet separated them, Iron Claw could not prevent the display of chagrin and embarrassment that washed over his face.

“I see you, Smoke Jensen.”

“And I see you, Iron Claw. Why are you stealing my horses?”

Iron Claw shrugged and lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile. “Because they are here. And…I did not know they were your horses. They will be returned, old friend.”

“Thank you, Iron Claw.”

“Have your winters been light?”

Smoke produced a grin and a frown at the same time. “Now you want to get sociable? Yes, my winters have not been a hardship.”

“I think of you often and ask the Great Spirit to watch over you and that black-haired wife. Your children are all grown?”

Smoke nodded. “Yes. Except for a boy we adopted recently.”

Iron Claw raised eyebrows in surprise. “You are getting to be more ‘Injun’ every time I see you. He is a good boy?”

“I think he is.”

“Then take your horses to where you were going and return to him, Smoke Jensen. The Cheyenne will not harm you more.”

They exchanged the sign for peace, and Iron Claw turned his mount. He raised his feather-and brass-tack-decorated rifle to signal the dog soldiers. Without a backward look, they all rode quietly away.

Riding a lathered horse, his face beet-hued, Boyne Kelso ran recklessly down the main street of Muddy Gap. Flustered women put gloved hands to their mouths to stifle yelps of surprise. Men and dogs fled from his hazardous path. Kelso reined so viciously to the left that it drew blood from the tender mouth of his mount. Then he yanked up short in front of the sheriff’s office.

Muttering angrily under his breath, he stormed to the door and slammed through. “Where’s that idiot Larsen?” he demanded of a surprised Fred Chase.

“He’s at dinner. Over to the Iron Kettle. What’s got you so riled?”

“You damned well ought to know. I want my boy out of jail this instant.”

“That ain’t gonna happen, Mr. Kelso. Not with the charges against him.”

Kelso shoved his mottled face toward the deputy. “And what might those be?”

Fred Chase made it clear he enjoyed this. “We’ll take the minor things first. Brandon is charged with trespass, forced entry of a building, first-degree assault, and worst of all, attempted rape.”

“What utter nonsense. My boy is not a criminal, nor is he depraved. Now get him out here so I can hear the truth of this.”

“He stays where he is. No exceptions.”

Kelso started to protest, then turned for the door. “Tell Larsen I’ll be back.”

Boyne Kelso had been at the holding pens in Bent Rock Canyon, happily counting their growing profits, when one of the Yurian gang brought word about his son being shot by Virginia Parkins and taken to jail by Marshal Larsen. It had taken him three days to get back. He’d be damned if it would take one minute more to free the boy.

To do so, he would have to have help, he reasoned. With a darkening scowl, he recalled the impudent smirk on the face of Fred Chase. How dare that stupid clod defy him? He started at once to round up supporters. His first stop would be the mercantile.

“What can I do for you, Deacon Kelso?” asked Eb Harbinson.

“You can come along with me. That mad dog lawman, Larsen, has locked up my son for absolutely nothing. And he’s left orders that the boy’s not to be let out for any reason. It came to me that a little moral persuasion is needed here.”

“But, I…have the store to run.”

“You’ve got clerks. I need you to back me.”

Boyne made his next stop at the house of Mrs. Agatha Witherspoon, president of the local chapter of the Ladies’ Temperance League. She also held Bible studies for the church. Kelso had calmed somewhat when he presented his case to her. Although well aware of the actual situation, Kelso invented “facts” to support his position. Grover Larsen must have been successful in keeping the real events quiet, because Agatha Witherspoon reacted with genuine shock and indignation.

“That’s simply horrible. Why in the world would he do such a terrible thing? Your boy is a little—ah—brash at times, but that’s no excuse for someone to shoot him and put him in jail. Who is it that shot him?”

Kelso’s face darkened again. “The brazen, damned, unmarried woman who flaunts herself in front of our children in that schoolhouse.”

Agatha’s hand flew to her mouth to cover a gasp. “Young Miss Parkins? I—I can’t believe that. She is so gentle, so meek. She’s at every Bible study bee. And I hear that the children adore her.”

“I’ll show you adore,” roared Boyne Kelso. “She shot the kneecap off my son for no reason at all!”

“That—that’s terrible. Oh, he must be in such pain. Has he seen a doctor?”

“He’s in jail,
Agatha. I don’t know if the doctor has been to him or not. I’m not even allowed to visit him.”

Agatha Witherspoon made up her mind with that revelation. “That will never do. Come along. We’ll find Parson Frick. The marshal cannot deny him. He’ll get a doctor for your boy.”

Sweeping regally down the street, the Witherspoon woman led the way to the parsonage. From there they went to the home of Rachel Appleby, the choir director. Her husband, Tom, made an effort at objecting to precipitate action. He had heard a couple of rumors of late. And he had little use for that arrogant, pushy, spoiled brat, Brandon Kelso.

It did him little good. With Boyne Kelso’s tale embroidered by Agatha Witherspoon, it galvanized Rachel Appleby into immediate partisanship. Parasol shading her from the broiling sun, she hoisted the hem of her ample skirts and joined the ranks.

With his entourage in tow, Boyne Kelso returned to the jail. He stomped through the door with the church elders and minister and confronted a surprised Grover Larsen.

“I demand that you release my son at once, Larsen.”

Parson Frick added his two bits’ worth. “Yes, this is quite distressing. Hardly the Christian thing to do, withholding medical treatment.”

Brushing up against Smoke Jensen must have given Grover Larsen new backbone. Ignoring the minister, he balled his fist and extended a thick index finger, which he jabbed at Boyne Kelso. “That no-account, shiftless offspring of yours is in serious trouble.”

“Nonsense!” Kelso thundered. “He may behave foolishly at times, but he’s innocent of any real dishonesty.”

“That’s where you are wrong, Kelso. He’s not innocent, and neither are the other two who are locked up with him. Now get out of here.”

Kelso took on a shocked expression. “You have three boys locked up in there? This is an outrage.”

“Not for what they’re charged with.”

“And what is that?”

“He, Willie Finch, and Danny Collins made improper advances to Miss Ginny. Your son attacked her in an attempt to carry them out when she refused.”

Kelso snapped hotly, “I don’t believe that.”

“Why else do you think she shot him? He went after her in front of all the kids.”

Beyond control, Boyne Kelso screamed with enough force that spittle flew from his mouth in a frothy, white spray. “That’s a goddamned lie! I’ll have your badge for that within twenty-four hours. And I’m going to have the territorial attorney charge that schoolmarm slut with assault.”

For the first few minutes, Reno Jim Yurian could not believe his turn of luck. Hailed from behind them on the trail, Reno Jim turned to see Hub Volker and the rest of the gang headed their way. How had they caught up so fast? It came to him in a rush. Yeah, the horses came back, or they went into Buffalo and got more.

That would have put them on the way to this point for almost as long as he and his sixteen men. Now he had no doubt as to the outcome of their efforts to take back the horses. It would be simple with thirty-three men. They would wash over Smoke Jensen and the family with him like an ocean wave.

Believing themselves safe now, Smoke Jensen and his small band of drovers pushed the herd on northward the next morning. Shortly before noon, the missing horses returned under the guidance of Cheyenne warriors. The animals rejoined the gather without complaint. Smoke spoke words of thanks in the Cheyenne tongue and wished them well.

Tommy turned a big-eyed look on Smoke. “You can talk that stuff?”

“Sure, learned it young. It’s an easy language.”

“Could ya…teach it to me?”

“We won’t be together long enough for you to get it all.” At the boy’s visible disappointment, Smoke relented. “I can teach you a few words, some expressions. Would you like that?”

Tommy beamed. “Would I!” He swiveled in the saddle and shouted to his sister. “Hey, Sarah-Jane, I’m gonna talk Cheyenne.”

Smoke’s confidence increased when they made thirty-four miles for the day. He located some herbs and blended them with sage leaves. This he had given to Gertrude Olsen, over the objections of her mother. By the nooning, Trudy showed obvious signs of improvement. Smoke dosed her again.

By evening, she was sitting up and took some broth. She drank water thirstily to replace that lost to the diarrhea. Della restrained her in that endeavor and smiled for the first time since the child had taken sick. She even went so far as to apologize to Smoke.

“I think you have saved her life. I want to say that I am sorry for the way I snapped at you. It was grossly unfair. Why didn’t you try the herbs earlier?”

Smoke gave her a knowing smile. “There weren’t any of the right ones around. And you weren’t desperate enough to allow me to use them.”

Della looked shocked. “Why, that’s a terrible thing to say. I would do anything for my children.”

“Even if the remedy came from an Indian medicine man?”

Della gaped at him. “I never thought of that.”

“I did.”

“Smoke, I feel foolish.”

“Not at all. You’re just a very protective mother. That’s a good sign. Your children know it and appreciate what you do for them. Now, I think Trudy needs more rest.”

“Thank you again, and I am sorry.”

Smoke turned his smile to a friendly one. “It’s all in where you grew up.”

That night, everyone slept soundly for the first time since the herd had been rustled. Smoke Jensen would soon find how beneficial that had been.

“We’ll do it the way we did before,” Reno Jim Yurian informed his gang. “It worked then, no reason it won’t now. What we’re after is the horses. Never mind the men, unless they offer resistance.”

Yancy Osburn scoffed. “What kinda resistance can one man and some brats give us?”

“You have a point, Yancy, but from the tracks we’ve seen, it looks like Jensen picked up some replacements somewhere. Be prepared for trouble.”

Hub Volker addressed the men who would be with him. “We’ll split off now, swing around on the flanks. When the boss is in place in front of the herd, he and five of the boys will charge the herd. We swing down from the side and start pushin’ them back along the trail. Those on the other side will hit at the same time. Get a movin’.”

They departed in silence, with nothing to say until the fighting ended. Each of the outlaws had wrapped himself in his private thoughts. Ainsley Burk wondered about that pretty saloon gal who had waved to him back in Muddy Gap while they were robbing the stores. Maybe he’d drop in on her and spend some of his take.

Prine Gephart astounded himself by recalling the face of the wife he had left behind in Missouri and his three freckle-faced boys, stair-stepped between five and nine. He hadn’t wanted to abandon his sons, but his wife had turned into a shrew, always complaining about not enough money. And when he had some, getting on his case about where he got it and how. Danged woman, she had driven him to robbing to supplement the meager income from their hardscrabble farm. Well, he’d shown her.