Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Contents

  Title Page

  Fixin’ To Get Killed!

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Copyright

  FIXIN’ TO GET KILLED!

  The young cowboy tossed off the shot of whiskey and leaned back from the long mahogany bar, the heel of one riding boot hooked over the brass rail.

  “You callin’ me a liar, mister?” he said. “I say Smoke Jensen is an invention of them dime novel writers. If he saw a real gunman he’d turn tail.”

  “I think you wouldn’t last five seconds if you challenged Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said, realizing he was enjoying himself.

  “You don’t talk to Herbie Cantrell like that!” the young braggart yelled. “I got six notches on my guns.”

  “Any fool can take a Barlow and cut notches in a pistol grip,” Smoke replied.

  Herbie began to froth at the mouth. “D’you want to die, mister?”

  “No,” Smoke said levelly. “Do you?”

  “That does it!” Herbie shouted as his hand dipped to the butt-grip of his .45. Half the cylinder had barely cleared leather when the man facing him drew with such blinding speed that Herbie only managed to blink before a powerful blow hit him … and then a loud, ringing crash … and then blackness washed over Herbie Cantrell.

  One

  He rode with accustomed ease on the big, spotted-rump appaloosa horse. The gray-and-black animal had an ebon muzzle and ear tips that gave it the appearance of a Siamese cat. Any illusion of cuteness ended there. Sidewinder was a killer horse. He had stomped an abusive former owner into a puddle of crimson mud. He had kicked the slats out of more than one stall and severely bitten all the way through the shoulder of another would-be owner. Sidewinder never made trouble for the man riding him now. A mountain-bred creature, he took to the High Lonesome every bit as much as Smoke Jensen. The two had a natural affinity. Off to Smoke’s right a catbird made its mimic cry from the branches of a tall pine.

  Trees grew taller this far south, Smoke noted. Lower altitude and more sunlight in the broader valleys. Smoke’s ranch, the Sugarloaf, nestled between tall, steep walls of granite that provided a natural bastion against the inroads of civilization. They hadn’t kept out the telegraph, which reached Big Rock, Colorado, some eight years earlier. Nor the railroad. That was about all of civilization that Smoke Jensen wanted.

  Raised from his early teens by the renowned old mountain man, Preacher, Smoke had cleaned his heels of civilization with a will. He gloried in the crisp, clean, sweet-smelling air of the High Lonesome. Cold water to bathe in bothered him not at all. And a splendid diet of succulent venison, beaver tail, hoe cakes and biscuits helped him grow tall, broad and strong. Life in those days—long after the fur trade had died out because of a trendy change in fashions—had been one long, glorious romp for Smoke Jensen. Not always, he reminded himself as Sidewinder picked his way along the rutted highroad outside of the thriving community of Pueblo.

  Inevitably, the dark side of life intruded on the idyllic existence in the Shining Mountains. Smoke learned to shoot, not only to hunt for food, but to defend his life. He killed Indians and white men with equal and growing skill in his teen years. Always, though, the peace and tranquility of the sprawling Rocky Mountains soothed his soul. Now civilization had chosen to intrude once more.

  This time it came in the form of a letter from an old friend. Carbone had written Smoke to inform him that he had hung up his guns. The notorious Mexican gunfighter had become a gentleman rancher, a haciendado as he put it. Also that Carbone’s ace boon running mate, Martine, had done the same. In the years since their last joint venture with Smoke Jensen, they had married and produced a flock of kids, according to the letter. And they had prospered.

  Only now something threatened their new-found way of life. Smoke wondered what was going on down in Mexico that they should feel it necessary to send for him. Carbone’s missive had been less than fully informative. He’d mentioned bandits and an outlaw army, led by someone who called himself El Rey del Norte. Smoke’s Spanish was limited at best, and rusty from lack of recent use, but he knew that meant “The King of the North.” North of what? For all of Carbone’s vagueness and the oddity of that name, Smoke was on his way, and that spoke volumes.

  Smoke Jensen was, in the original meaning, a man of his word. He never lied. Not to anyone, for any reason. Old Preacher had taught him the value of honesty, courage, determination and all the virtues that, to his consternation and sorrow, Smoke found dying out far too fast in his own country. Those lessons in basic morality had served him well over the years. Got him in and out of fights far better than sheer brute strength or viciousness alone. Fighting had been a large part of Smoke’s life. He recalled that barely a year ago he had been in a fight-to-the-finish against Major Cosgrove and Jack Biggers, with Pasco, the nephew of Carbone siding him.

  That had been up in Red Light, Montana, where Smoke and his wife, Sally, had fought for the rights of Smoke’s niece, Jenny. Before that brouhaha ended, nearly half of the trash class of gunfighters west of St. Louis had been hustled off to meet their Maker, a town lay in ruins, and those behind the scheme to defraud Jenny had paid the ultimate price. Pasco had remained behind as a working hand on Jenny’s ranch, as had a number of others.

  Once more taking in the splendor of his beloved mountains, Smoke Jensen wished them well. Jenny was a good girl and deserved the huge, valley-wide ranch she had acquired. There would be time, too, on his journey south, Smoke speculated, to figure out more of what plagued his old friends.

  On the south slope of a long ridge, the three men sat their horses. With the animals shoulder-to-shoulder, they completely blocked the road. Hard-bitten men, their grim expressions reflected the purpose of their presence at this particular spot. Len Banks, on the right, and Lonny Banks, on the left, were brothers, and shirt-tail relatives of the man in the middle, Myron Forbes.

  Neither of the Banks brothers particularly liked what Forbes had in mind. Yet, they felt compelled to see it through. It would take all three of them, they knew that much. One hell of a tall order to face down the man they sought.

  “He has to come this way,” Myron Forbes said, desperate urgency crackling in his words. “From what we learned, he has to.”

  “Could be he stayed over in Pueblo,” Len Banks suggested.

  “Then we wait,” Forbes bit off.

  They saw the hat first. A slowly growing silhouette against the cobalt blue of the Colorado sky. As it progressed over the top of the ridge, it increased in definition; a black, XXXX Stetson Cattleman. Then the face resolved itself; square, rockhard jaw; long, darkly tanned cheeks, with shadowed holes where the eyes would be; longish blond hair riding the slight breeze behind.

  “Gawdamn, I think it’s him,” Lonny Banks blurted.

  “If it is, today’s the day he dies,” Myron Forbes gritted.

  Black-tipped appaloosa ears showed next, then the well-shaped head. The rider crested the ridge in a few strides and started down toward the trio of murderous intent. When he drew within twenty-five feet, he reined in. />
  “Howdy, boys,” Smoke Jensen offered politely.

  “You Smoke Jensen?” Myron Forbes growled.

  Smoke Jensen recognized the challenging tone and sighed sadly. He released his reins and used his bent left thumb to ease up the brim of his hat. “I might be. Why?”

  “If you are, we came to kill you,” Forbes snarled.

  “Do you mind telling me why, exactly, you intend to kill me?” Smoke asked in the reasonable tone he forced himself to use.

  “You oughtta know. I’m Myron Forbes,” the big man snarled.

  “I’m supposed to know you?”

  “Know the name, for sure. You killed my baby brother. Shot him in the back.”

  Smoke Jensen slowly shook his head, the sadness a heavy mantle around his shoulders. “I’ve never shot a man named Forbes so far as I know.”

  “Gawdamn, Jensen, you killed enough you don’t know all their names?” Lonny Banks blurted.

  Again Smoke sighed, his large, calloused right hand resting on his saddle-hardened thigh, close to the smooth butt of his long-used .44 Colt. “I regret to say that is true. Some Blackfeet, Arapaho, a punk or highwayman here and there. But I’ve never back-shot a man unless he turned at the last second, after my hammer fell. And I’ve never shot a man who wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “You seem mighty sure of that,” Len Banks challenged.

  “I am,” Smoke told him, his level, gray gaze never leaving Myron.

  “You’re lying, goddamnit!” Myron Forbes shouted, working himself up for what he’d come to do.

  “I never lie,” Smoke said softly.

  “Yes, you do,” Myron rushed to contradict. “With his dying breath, Bubba told me it was Smoke Jensen who shot him.”

  “Someone claiming to be, maybe, but not me,” Smoke persisted.

  Fury suffused the face of Myron Forbes. “You’re a coward as well as a liar!” he shouted. “Tryin’ to save yer miserable life by hiding behind still more lies. Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!”

  With that, Myron Forbes went for his gun. Lonny Banks, beside him and not too bright, did the same. Smoke Jensen moved with a blur. Before the astonished Len Banks could blink, the big .44 came clear of age-worn, well-oiled leather and barked a final denial at Myron Forbes. Myron’s thick body absorbed the lead pellet and reacted with only a slight backward jolt. A soft grunt left his lips. Then he completed his draw and fired off a round that went wild, snapping over Smoke’s head. Lonny had his .45 Peacemaker in action now and developed a sudden surprised expression when his arm shrieked in pain and went as quickly numb.

  His revolver flew from unclinched fingers, and Lonny half-turned toward Myron when the older man centered his muzzle on Smoke and screamed defiance. Smoke Jensen shot him again, this time between the eyes. Myron fell soundlessly from the saddle.

  Len Banks already had his hands in the air. Lonny found it impossible to move his right shoulder and merely raised his left paw high over the crown of his hat.

  “I’m sorry. I really am,” Smoke Jensen told the survivors. “You’ll have to get that wound tended soon,” he advised Lonny. “Are you related to Mr. Forbes?”

  “Shirt-tail relatives is all,” Len Banks allowed. “Lord, I never saw nothin’ so fast, Mr. Jensen. Y’all know I never touched iron. Never even tried to draw.” Smoke nodded acknowledgement and Len went on, his tongue in high gear. “We didn’ have much truck with this crazy idea. I mean, who ever heard of Smoke Jensen in south Texas? The real Smoke Jensen, that is.”

  “I’m headed south now,” Smoke observed, still a bit on the prod.

  “Uh—yeah, but …”

  Smoke nodded in the direction of the cooling corpse. “Bundle him up and see he gets a proper burial.”

  “Yessir,” Len gulped. “A right proper Christian burial. ’T wern’t your fault, Mr. Jensen. Myron, he sorta pushed it. An’ he got my brother shot up in the bargain.”

  “Not much of a bargain for Mr. Forbes, I’d say,” Smoke quipped dryly. “You fellows clean up the mess, then, and I’d say a quick trip back to south Texas would be in order after that.”

  “Yessir, yessir, that’s exactly what I was thinkin’,” Len hastily agreed.

  Smoke poked out the three expended cartridges and replaced them, then reholstered his .44. He lowered his hat a notch on his forehead and lifted Sidewinder’s reins. Without another word, he steered his way around the obstructing horses and continued on south toward Trinidad, Colorado.

  A soft breeze whispered through the tall, stately ranks of pines that scaled the steep slopes forming the valley which housed the Sugarloaf Ranch. It set to trembling the serrated-edged leaves of the aspens. Already some had exchanged their usual silver-green for pale yellow and rich gold. It would be an early winter. The heady aroma of fresh-baked apple pie wafted out the open kitchen window of the tidy house that was home to Smoke and Sally Jensen.

  Sally appeared in the doorway, a smudge of flour on her nose, hands on aproned hips. Crocker and the hands should be back soon and Smoke should be with them. She pushed the irritating thought away. They so frequently saw things alike that it was as though they thought with one mind. Friends were in trouble, and it was like Smoke to go at once to their aid. Hadn’t they come to help him often enough? Somehow the name, Mexico, seemed dark and mysterious. A distant, foreign land.

  Yet, Smoke had said that he would be in the mountains there. And mountains were mountains, he always maintained. All a man had to do was get to know them a little and be right at home. At least a man raised by that old rapscallion, Preacher, would be, she amended. Oh, how she loved that big slab of a man, Smoke Jensen. And how she missed him already, with him gone only a week. He’d not taken the train, said Sidewinder might take exception to being in a rattling, swaying stock car, and it would be impossible for any stranger to take care of the appaloosa stallion. Smoke had not even taken supplies and a packhorse. Said Carbone would provide everything. The rumble of many hoofs sent her gaze to the broad basin at the upper end of the valley.

  Five hands, led by Crocker, the foreman, came on at a fast run. The clear, sweet air of the High Lonesome fogged with dust from the pounding hoofs of nearly two dozen sleek, handsome horses they drove before them. Although Eastern born and bred, educated in the best schools and trained to the duties of a society lady, Sally Reynolds Jensen thrilled at the sight. She loved to ride, and astride, not on one of those silly sidesaddles.

  She also loved her husband’s decision to reduce their prize herd of cattle to a few for personal meat and milk use and go into the horse business. The nation was growing rapidly, and expanding westward at an alarming pace. Yet that meant more demand for horses, lots of them, and prices had started to soar nearly two years ago. Not that they needed much in the way of money.

  She was wealthy in her own right, and Smoke had put aside enough to live in comfort without turning a hand for the rest of his life. Sally waved to the foreman and her husband’s employees with the towel she intended to put over the pies while they cooled.

  Burt Crocker halooed back with a vigorous wave of his stained and battered old Stetson. One hand sprinted forward and opened a corral gate. The running tide of horseflesh swerved at the prompting of the remaining handlers and surged into the circular enclosure of lodgepole pine rails. Burt trotted up to the house.

  “Twenty-three prime two-year-olds, Miz Jensen. Smoke’ll be right proud. Suppose it’s none of my business, but when you expectin’ him back?”

  “Not for some time, I’m afraid. He promised to telegraph me from El Paso. Might know more then.”

  Burt Crocker flashed a white smile. “I’ll tell the boys. Say, is that apple pie I smell?”

  “That it is. I baked four of them. There’s venison stew, the last of the garden greens and fresh bread as well. All of you get washed up and come to dinner. I imagine you’ll have an afternoon of it with those rough-run horses.”

  “That we will. Sure wish Smoke was here to oversee the shoeing. It’s gon
na be pure he—uh—hades, ma’am.”

  “Pure hell, indeed,” Sally responded with a chuckle. “My ears aren’t made of velvet, nor rose petals for that matter. If you want, I’ll give you a hand.”

  “Pardon, ma’am, but they ain’t saddle-broke as yet,” Crocker protested, hat in hand.

  “You get the forge fired up, and I’ll show you I can fashion a mean shoe,” Sally responded. “In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Something to do besides cook and clean house.”

  Exquisite taste and a sensitive understanding of the arts reflected in the large sala of the Hacienda La Fortuna, in the state of Durango, Mexico. The vaulted ceiling soared some fifteen feet above the meticulously fitted and immaculately scrubbed flagstones of the flooring. Although a warm day outside, a fire crackled in the walk-in fireplace, where a spit awaited a whole lamb or a haunch of beef to roast. The good taste, however, did not belong to the man sprawled in a throne-like chair at one end of the main hall.

  Gustavo Angel Carvajal wore the uniform of a general in the Mexican Army. That he held no such rank, and never had, constituted no bar to his wearing it. The knee-high black boots were smeared with dust, mud and splatters of blood. The ease with which his men had taken the hacienda seemed to heighten his displeasure, rather than elate him. He had a brooding countenance as he listened to the reports of his three most trusted subordinates.

  Small of stature, with bowed legs and a growing middle, Carvajal’s five and a half foot frame seemed constructed of spare parts. Close-set, ebon eyes were slightly crossed. The left one had a speck of nebulous gray-white that gave it an odd cast. His ill humor increased as he heard out the last man. When the recitation concluded, Carvajal sprang to his feet and began to pace, hands behind his back.

  “Why is it we can take this place with only two losses, yet when I send my best soldiers, my Eagle Warriors and my Jaguar Warriors, to exact tribute from two stubborn haciendados, you return empty-handed?”

  Embarrassed, and instantly alerted to the edge of madness in Carvajal’s tone, the trio of lieutenants pondered how to reply. His reference to the army of the Aztec emperor, Montezuma, revealed the possible onset of another of his flights of fancy, in which Carvajal insisted that he was the reincarnation of that selfsame emperor. At least, they thanked the God they weren’t entirely certain existed, he did not go so far in his other persona as to undertake the gruesome ritual of human sacrifice and cannibalism known to the Aztecs. Finally, the tallest, Humberto Regales, cleared his throat and hazarded an answer.