Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (6 page)

“You got his papers?”

“Sure do. He’s prime stock. Raised him myself.”

“Say, you’ve been here before, ain’tcha?”

“That’s right. Last time about two years ago.”

Thumb and forefinger massaged his whiskered chin. “As I rec’llect yer name’s Johnson, Jennings, something like that?”

“Jensen. I breed horses down in Colorado.”

A light gleamed in aged eyes. “Yeah. Do a fair bit of gun-fighting, too, as I recall.”

“Huh! Let’s keep that between the two of us, all right?”

Thin lips spread to reveal toothless gums and the old man cackled. “I ain’t got any problem with that. M’lips are sealed.” He went to the roan gelding and ran an experienced hand down the forelegs. He lifted a thick lip and studied the teeth. His keen eyes noted that even with the heavy pack load, the back remained straight and firm.

“If he comes from your stock, you’ve got a deal, Mister—ah—Smith.” He pointed to the corral beside the livery barn. “I got me a fine little mare out there. I’ll let her go for the swap and thirty dollars. She’s a Morgan an’ been broke to a packsaddle.”

Smoke gave him a genuine smile. “I’ve been wanting some Morgan blood in my remount herd. I’ll sign the papers over and we can seal it with a drink on me.”

“Fine as frog hair by me. My name is Issac Rucker. Put it on the transfer an’ I’ll get you Debbie’s papers.” He winked. “I could feel it weren’t broke. I had me a sharper dope a horse with a broken leg with laudanum and try to pass it off as only a strain.”

Their transaction completed, Smoke and Issac walked toward the saloon at the corner of Spencer and Lode Streets. The Bucket of Blood looked exactly as it did when Smoke last paid it a visit. Green and white bunting decorated the balcony railing. Cut out letters of green blotting paper spelled out
Erin Go Bragh!
above the center of the back bar. The piano tinkled mournfully, playing
The Minstrel Lad.
It had been
Danny Boy
when Smoke had been here last. A huge, portly, handlebar-mustached man stood behind the mahogany, a spotted white apron folded double and tied around his ample middle. He saw Smoke and recognized him immediately.

“Ah, faith an’ it’s Kirby me lad. C’mon me boyo, cozy up an’ take a wee dram. Jensen may not be a name from the auld sod, but yer an honorary Irishman whenever you are in me darlin’ place.”

Smoke winced. If he had any hope of going unrecognized, Sean Doolin’s big mouth had ruined all that. If anyone in here connected the name Kirby Jensen with Smoke Jensen, the word would be all over the town in five minutes. He and Issac Rucker crossed to the bar. Doolin slapped down two large, fish-eye shot glasses and poured them with pale amber Irish whiskey and added a tot to his own. He set the bottle aside and raised his glass in a toast. Smoke and Issac joined him.

“Up the Irish!”

A surly punk halfway down the bar raised his head and glowered at them. “Up their backsides, I say.”

Smoke turned to stare at him. He saw a long-haired, trashy piece of barely human refuse, of about twenty-two years, whose lank, greasy hair showed no familiarity with brush or comb. He had a snotty sneer smeared on his thin-lipped face and a two-day stubble of pale, yellow beard. He wore a six-gun slung low on his right thigh, secured by a rawhide thong. The holster, an old, worn military one, had its cover flap cut away to give quick access to the butt of the .44 Colt Frontier it held. Probably considered himself a gunfighter, Smoke appraised.

The sad thing was that he would most likely die without ever knowing how wrong he was. Smoke looked again at the hateful expression, tiny, mean eyes, and unshaved jowls, then decided he might as well try to enlighten the lout.

“Who or what are you?”

Smoke’s words hung in the air a long moment before the punk worked his mouth and deliberately spat tobacco juice at Smoke’s boots. “If you don’t know, you’ve got a treat comin.’ I’m Tyrone Sayers. Folks here-about generally tremble when they learn that.”

Smoke slid into his black, leather gloves as he forced his voice into a high, squeaky register. “Oh, I am trembling. Don’t you see? As far as I can tell, your name is spelled S-H-I-T.”

“Back me, Norvie!” Tyrone Sayers erupted in instant violence. His hand dropped to the butt of his revolver and began to yank it free, while Sean Doolin grabbed up a bung starter and started for Sayer’s companion. “Take it outside, boyos,” he commanded.

Sayers ignored him. He had not cleared the back-plate of leather when Smoke went into action. Instead of drawing, he rapidly stepped forward and slammed a hard right fist into the punk’s mouth. Sayers flew backward and the small of his back smashed into the top rail of the bar. His gun-arm continued moving and he freed the long-barreled Colt. That’s when Smoke hit him again. The revolver thudded on the sawdust-covered floor. His friend went for his gun then.

A loud
thop!
sounded as Sean brained Norvie with his wooden mallet. He went rubber legged and slumped to the floor, his head resting on a spittoon, while birdies sang in his head. Smoke did not even hesitate during this one-sided exchange.

He waded in on Sayers. His elbows churned back and forth as he worked on the exposed gut of the stupid lout. Sayers wheezed and gasped and tried to escape along the bar. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and had to duck fast to escape a sledgehammer blow to his head. Lightning fast, Smoke recovered and smashed a vulnerable nose.

Blood flowed in twin rivers from Tyrone’s mangled beak. His eyes watered and he pawed at them to clear his vision. Smoke went back to Tyrone’s middle again. Tyrone decided he had had enough of that. From a soft pouch holster at the small of his back he drew a stubby .38 caliber Herington and Richards and whipped it toward Smoke Jensen.

Chin down to protect himself from any retaliation by Sayers, Smoke did not see the little gun coming until it lined up with the middle of his belly. “Smoke, look out!” Issac Rucker shouted.

Smoke reacted instantly. With his left he batted the small revolver out of line with his body. It discharged through empty air in the same moment that Smoke Jensen drew his .45 Colt and jammed the muzzle into one ruined nostril on the face of Tyrone Sayers.

He didn’t have to say it, the tiny .38 was on the way to the floor already, but he did anyway. “Drop it.”

Through his pain-dulled mind, Tyrone Sayers finally made the connection between names. “Jesus Christ! Smoke Jensen!”

“Nope. It’s just Ike Rucker…and Smoke Jensen,” the liveryman said through a chuckle.

All of the strength went out of the legs of Tyrone and he sagged to the floor. He barely caught himself on the edge of the bar. “I didn’t know. For the love of God,
I didn’t know!
Please, Mr. Jensen, don’t kill me.”

Smoke eased off a little. “I think you’ve learned some manners. Get a hand on your partner there and clear the hell out of here.”

Tyrone Sayers could not take his eyes off the six-gun burrowed into his nose. “Yes, sir, anything you say. Yes, sir, right away.”

With a grunt he came to his boots, grabbed the unconscious lout beside him by the shirt collar and dragged him to the bat wings. When they disappeared through the batwings, Sean Doolin slapped a big palm on the bar.

“By all the saints, that was a sight to behold. Another round on me.”

By the time Smoke Jensen had consumed a substantial meal to rid his head of the buzz brought on by the Irish whiskey and ridden out of Baggs, Tyrone Sayers had cleaned up and his friend had regained consciousness. Tyrone was full of plans, which he quickly shared with Norvil Yates.

“Norvie, dough dit Billy Beterson nund br’ng hip here.” Tyrone talked funny because he had twin fat lips, and two rolls of cotton batting stuffed in his nose with a heavy layer of tape to hold them in place.

“What do you want Peterson for?”

Tyrone explained in his mushy voice. “There’s a bounty out on Jensen. Big money, we’re gonna collect it.”

Right then, it seemed to Norvil Yates that his friend would not fare well in the prophet business.

Back at the Sugarloaf, a worried Monte Carson dropped in on Sally Jensen. He stood on the porch, hat in hand, and related what he had learned the previous day in Big Rock. His expression revealed the level of his discomfort.

“I have some more news about those escaped convicts.”

Sally nodded. “Not good from the looks of you.”

Monte tugged at one side of his walrus mustache. “That’s a fact. They have cut a bloody path across Arizona, following the Colorado River. It is suspected that they are in Utah now.”

Sally had seen outlaws come and go, had faced terrible odds herself. For some reason she could not bring herself to be overly concerned about these men. “Just how much havoc can three men create, Monte?”

“It’s not three anymore, Sally. They have a regular gang. There’s more than twenty of them. And it appears they are heading northeast. Could be to here. I’d feel better if you came into town, where I could keep an eye on you.”

“Honestly, Monte, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Smoke would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

Sally forced a light laugh she did not quite feel. “And I would never live it down if I picked now to turn delicate and vaporish.”

Caught on the horns of the proverbial dilemma, Monte fingered his hat nervously and brought up a lame excuse. “Well, if you hear from Smoke, pass along what I told you.” He took his leave and cantered off down the lane.

After Monte had ridden out of sight, Sally remained standing on the porch, looking after him. She ran over in her mind what he had said and his offer to provide protection. Then she looked through the curtained window into the living room. A golden oak shelf clock ticked steadily, its brass pendulum hypnotic in the stillness. The hands would be in soon, she mused. She would take Bobby aside and tell him to be cautious. She might even tell him why, Sally decided.

Twenty minutes later a loud clatter arose in the barnyard. Hungry hands tied off their mounts to a corral rail and made for the row of washbasins along one side of the bunkhouse. Sally made herself keep her peace until all had eaten and some sat back with quirleys sending ribbons of blue-white tobacco smoke into the noon sky. Then she went out and gathered in Bobby Harris.

They walked a distance from the hands before Sally spoke what was on her mind. “Something has come up that makes me feel I should caution you to be very careful when you are away from here. In fact, I think I will rescind my rule about wearing a gun. Take your Colt Lightning when you go out this afternoon.”

“Why? What’s happened?” the boy asked eagerly. “It’s Smoke, isn’t it?”

“No,” she hastened to assure him, then read the disbelief in his clear, youthful face. “Well, yes, somewhat.” She had allowed herself to be mousetrapped and it angered her. Reluctantly she related all that Monte Carson had told her. Fire blazed in Bobby’s eyes when she finished.

“I should have gone with him,” Bobby said stubbornly.

“No, Bobby. Smoke is not hurt. We don’t even know if he is in danger.” Unwilling to hurt the boy, she unwittingly did just that. “Believe me, there’s nothing you could do to help him more than staying here, being armed and keeping a sharp eye.”

Bobby’s face turned red.
“Yes, there is!”
He turned away from her and started for the house. “I’m takin’ my stuff back to the bunkhouse.”

Suddenly apprehensive, Sally called after him in a rush. “You don’t understand, Bobby. I’m asking you to keep a watch out for me as well as yourself.”

Bobby turned his head to throw back a hot retort. “I can do that well enough from across the ways. Right now, the hands are better company than you are.”

Gus Jaeger crawled back down the slope of the ridge to where the gang waited. The long, thin wisp of hairs that descended from his lower lip moved in agitation when he spoke. “There can’t be more than three families living there. They’ve got ’em a palisade around the houses and barns. Brats runnin’ around in the yard. Didn’t see sign of but two grown men.”

Victor Spectre showed his appreciation of such skill with a big smile. “You did a good job. How far are we from the Great Salt Lake?”

“It’s about fifty miles north and a bit west,” Gus answered.

Spectre nodded. “This must be one of those outposts—what do the Mormons call them? Desseret Towers?—that are strung across Utah. That means they will have quite a lot of valuables. No handy bank to go to after closing shop for the day. Get the men ready, Augustus, we’ll take them, like we did those Utes.”

Twenty minutes later the outlaw band stormed down on the Mormon encampment. Too late, they discovered the place to be a regular fort. Their rude awakening came in the form of a screeching in the air, followed by an explosion some thirty yards in front of the lead element of the gang. The heavy roar of an artillery piece followed.

“B’God, they’ve got a six pounder in there.” Gus Jaeger accurately named the weapon.

Spectre reined in when the outlaw foreman did. He frowned, perplexed. “Does that mean trouble?”

“If they have any grapeshot or canister, it sure as hell does,” Gus opined.

So far the residents of the small community had not bothered to close the gate in the stockade that surrounded their dwellings. Another shell burst close by and the cannon roared again. A staggered line of smoke clouds rippled along the parapet and rifle balls cracked through the air around the hard cases. Some looked around nervously.

In their trade of banditry, they were not accustomed to organized resistance. These Mormons had quickly proven that they were nothing to be trifled with. Victor Spectre studied the next volley of fire from the wall.

“How many grown men did you say?” he asked Jaeger.

“Two’s all I saw. There could have been more inside buildings.”

“Looks to me like everyone over the age of ten has a rifle and knows how to use it. We had best come up with something better than a frontal assault.”

Gus Jaeger considered that a moment. “They can only point that cannon one direction at a time. And if they’re puttin’ all their guns on the side opposite us, it could be we should ride around the place like Injuns and look for a weak spot.”

“Good thinking,” Spectre approved. “See to it. I’ll take five of the best sharpshooters and keep them busy over here.”

Jaeger liked that. “Now you’re talkin’, Mr. Spectre.”

He had it set up in two minutes. While Spectre and his two partners and the marksmen provided covering fire, Gus started off with the remaining twenty-three gunmen. Again the cannon opened up. This time, tiny plumes of dust spurted upward from the hard ground in the midst of the riders who fired at the walls as they angled across the defended portion of the wall. Grapeshot.

Three horses went down shrieking, their riders and two other men wounded by the one inch balls. One of the outlaws sat slumped in his saddle and tried to put his mangled intestines back inside his body while he groaned horribly. While the attackers recovered from this new turn of events, the gate swung closed. Shouts came from inside and the crack of a whip. Slowly the black muzzle of the cannon appeared as it rolled up an incline and leveled on a rammed earth platform, the barrel protruding over the spiked tops of the barricade.

In frustration, two of the sharpshooters fired on it. Their bullets rang on the cast barrel and flattened, to moan off harmlessly skyward. With only poor targets to choose from, the snipers had little effect. Victor Spectre watched the gang disappear out of sight around a corner of the stockade.

At once a fusillade erupted as more rifles joined the defense. “Who are they?” Spectre asked rhetorically.

Again the cannon spoke. The grapeshot crashed into the earth less than ten yards from where they had positioned themselves. It made Spectre’s skin crawl. He made a quick, disappointing estimate of their chances. He rose in his stirrups and called to the marksmen.

“This will never do. We’re too far outnumbered. Ride clear of that place and then join the others. We’re breaking this off.” The cannon barked again to give his words emphasis.

When the withdrawal began, the gate opened and armed, mounted men swarmed out. Considering himself fortunate to have escaped with such light casualties, Victor Spectre increased the gait to a gallop and streamed after his gang. The Mormons obliged him by doing the same.

It became a horse race, rather than an assault. One that they barely managed to win. Victor Spectre was pleased to discover that Gus Jaeger had correctly anticipated him and led the gang away to the north. He and his partners streamed along in their wake. The crack shots along with them turned to fire at the angry Mormons.

Gradually the distance closed between the leaders and the outlaws. When Spectre got within hailing distance, he shouted gustily, “Keep going. Take that notch ahead. I don’t think they will follow us beyond that point.”

“You had better be right,” Gus Jaeger said through gritted teeth, softly enough not to be heard.

A vast sea of tall, lush grass extended to the north, east, and west for as far as the eye could see from the last ridge that overlooked the Great Divide Basin. Smoke Jensen made camp in a small clearing in the midst of a large stand of lodgepole pine. To his northwest lay the small town of Wamsutter, Wyoming Territory. After hobbling Thunder and Debbie, he set about gathering windfall for a cook fire.

Rabbits bounded away at his footsteps and a quail called his mate. A rookery of crows turned a gnarled old oak black with their bodies and the air blue with their grating complaints. The air smelled sweet and clean. To his satisfaction, Smoke did not detect a hint of wood smoke. No one else shared this empty place with him. He could do with it that way for quite a while.

Smoke Jensen had always been a loner. At fourteen or so, Smoke Jensen had, in mountain man parlance, been to the mountain and seen the elephant.

His early life had been hard. A hardscrabble farm that grew more rocks than crops, always being hungry, and never enough clothing to keep warm in winter had been his lot. But then, everyone else had lived the same during the Civil War, especially in Missouri. Young Kirby had never eaten a juicy steak or a grapefruit. Didn’t even know what the latter was until years later when he had seen one in the breakfast room of a fancy San Francisco hotel.

No, his past life had not prepared him for elegance. It did teach him to survive. So he took up a notch in his belt and began to trudge along the trail with Preacher…

That had been a day to remember. When Kirby first saw Preacher, the man looked to him like one of the horrors out of a story by the Brothers Grimm. Preacher hadn’t shaved in several days and a thick, dark stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He was dressed all in skins, with Indian beadwork on the shirt, which he wore loose, outside his trousers, kept in place by a wide, thick leather belt. From that latter hung a tomahawk, the biggest knife the boy had ever seen, and a brace of revolvers in soft pouch holsters. A possibles bag hung over one shoulder by a rawhide strap, and a bullet mold dangled below that.

There was a brass compass tied to it by a thong, and a powder horn. Preacher wore buckskin leggings over trousers of the same material, with high-top, lace moccasins. The uppers of those had been done in ornate quill and bead work.

Preacher wore his hair long, and lockets of other human hair had been braided into the fringe of his shirt. A skunk-skin cap covered the crown of his head. His mustache was months overdue for a visit with a pair of scissors, and covered his mouth in a shaggy droop. Had young Kirby Jensen been four or five years younger, such an apparition would have made him pee his pants. Then he saw the twinkle in those flinty eyes and the mouth opened in a white smile.

Preacher took him under his wing and saw to his upbringing, and his education. Before a year had passed, Kirby had read from Shakespeare and from the
Canterbury Tales
of Chaucer. He had improved his ciphering to the point he could deal with fractions in his head. He also learned to trap beaver, mink, otter, and raccoons. He proved to have a natural eye and became an expert marks-man within two years. He could ride a horse nearly as well as a Cheyenne boy born to it. All in all, he concluded as he arranged tinder and kindling in a ring of rocks, he had a well-rounded education….

For which he would be eternally grateful, he vowed as he lighted the fire with a lucifer. When the twigs blazed merrily, he fed thicker chunks of wood until he had enough, then left the small fire to find himself some fresh meat for his supper. It didn’t take long. In a land rich in animal life, Smoke soon found a covey of plump quail.

With a cunning learned from Preacher, he called them in close enough to swiftly grab up three and wring their necks. He took them back to camp, plucked them, gutted the carcasses and threaded them on a green sapling to roast over the coals. Then he made biscuits. He had some dry hominy, which he had put to soaking when he first reached his chosen site. All that he wanted for was some gravy. To achieve that, he put the tiny giblets of the birds to boil with some wild onions and some crumbled sage leaves. Coffee came next.

Smoke’s stomach began to growl as he smelled the savory odor that rose when the sparse fat on the birds began to drip into the orange glow beneath them. He poured coffee the minute it had boiled enough. Sighing, he sat back against his saddle and sipped with lowered eyelids.

Tyrone Sayers peered through a thick screen of gorse and blackberry brambles at the man who lay in the clearing in such confident repose, his saddle for a pillow. Tyrone knew they would find him. A wide smile spread on his face, which made him wince as the cuts in his mangled lips split open again.
You’re gonna git yers, Smoke Jensen,
he thought in triumph as he slid back to where the others waited.

Despite the distance and the obvious fact that their target was catching a quick nap, Tyrone mush-mouthed his announcement in a whisper. “Fellers, we’ve found us Smoke Jensen.”