Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “It’s simple, really,” Smoke assured him. “When we were riding in, these two punks braced us. I managed to talk our way out of anything nasty. Then, a few minutes ago, they called me out, demanded gun play.”

  “So you shot one and beat hell out of the other one. That was a mistake. Their fathers are important men in this community.”

  Smoke eyed the deputy askance. He wondered if the young lawdog was for real. “That’s unfortunate. They should have spent more time in the upbringing of their children. Both of them drew first. The one I shot had his hammer back.”

  “Was that before or after you took it away from him?” the badge asked nastily.

  Cold, gray eyes fixed him in place. “I’d back water, were I you.”

  Weighing the menace, he swallowed hard. “Look, those boys’ paws are wealthy, influential men.”

  In other words they had the local law in their hip pockets, Smoke reasoned. “I don’t care if they are the King and Queen of Sweden. I gave you the facts; the least you can do is try to verify them.”

  “So I managed to ascertain,” the deputy said tightly.

  Ascertain? What sort did they hire around here for deputies? Smoke put it away. “Then you know I acted in self-defense. So, if you will excuse me—”

  “I’m not through yet. What’s your name?”

  “Smoke Jensen,” Smoke provided tiredly.

  The lawman blanched. He swallowed hard to remove the lump that had formed in his throat. “I don’t need this. Not today, not any day. Smoke Jensen? Well, Mr. Jensen, I have to draw up a report on this. I’d appreciate it if you dropped by before you left town and signed it.”

  “Fine. Say in about three hours?”

  “Excellent. The office is two blocks down, a small stone building on the left.”

  “No doubt,” Smoke offered dryly. “C’mon, Bobby.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to make the effort on Bobby’s behalf,” Smoke Jensen stated an hour and a half later in a small, neat house five blocks off the main drag.

  He had learned of a childless couple from the padre at the church in the Mexican section of town. “Although they are not of my faith,” the priest had added, as though in caution. Smoke found the Goodmans, Marvin, and Ella, to be warm, hospitable people who made over Bobby and provided fresh-baked cake and good, strong coffee. Ella even produced a large glass of milk for the boy.

  “We—we’ve been without the happiness of a child in the house for long enough,” Marvin stressed.

  “Yes, dear. I know how you have longed for a son to take fishing, show off your office to, and make into a friend,” Ella cooed. Smoke read her guilt at failing to conceive on her face.

  “Yes, well,” Smoke injected, not wanting to prolong the farewells. “I have to be on my way. Bobby, the Goodmans very much want you to live with them. You behave and study hard in school. What’s happened is in the past. Leave it there.”

  Smoke started for the door. “Lemme come to your horse with you,” Bobby pleaded, rising from the overstuffed chair where he had been sitting.

  Out in the street, Smoke self-consciously patted the boy on the head and started to climb aboard Sidewinder. “You take care of your pony, hear?”

  Suddenly he was being clutched around the legs by thin, strong arms, and Bobby buried his face into Smoke’s shirt, above his belt buckle. “I don’t want you to go, Mr. Smoke. You—you saved my life,” he choked. “Ol’ Rupe woulda killed me if you hadn’t come along.” Long withheld, tears coursed down the boy’s tan cheeks. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll stay with those folks and do what they ask, even—even go to school. But when you come back, take me with you to your ranch, please. I don’t want to live in this town.”

  “I—er—I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. And the longer it is, the more heartbreak you’ll bring to the Goodmans by leaving,” Smoke offered.

  Bobby hadn’t considered that. It gave him pause, then he tilted his head back and gazed up at Smoke with something close to adoration. Close enough to make Smoke uncomfortable. “You will stop and see me, won’t you? Just for a while, a visit?”

  Smoke cleared his throat. “I can manage that, I suppose.”

  With a visible effort of will, Bobby conquered his emotions, relinquished his hold on Smoke, and took a step back. He extended his hand to be shaken in a manly fashion. “Then, good-bye, Smoke Jensen. You take care of yourself, too. I—I’ll miss you.”

  Smoke’s big hand engulfed that of the boy. They shook solemnly and Smoke swung astride of Sidewinder. A light touch of rein turned the spotted-rump steed’s head, and Smoke gigged him with blunt spurs. Typical of the breed, Sidewinder fought mastery by a human and looked back at the forlorn figure of the boy sadly waving to Smoke. The big blue eyes of the horse seemed to contain the same sadness the lad’s prolonged sigh revealed.

  Five

  With purple-blue shadows touching the eastern horizon, and the mountains on the western vista crowned by a slice of intense orange light, Smoke Jensen made camp for the night. He estimated his location to be about halfway between Raton and Springer, New Mexico. He slipped the cinch and relieved Sidewinder of the burden of his saddle. Trail-wise for many years, Smoke forestalled his own comforts to cool out the big appaloosa stallion. While he walked the animal and then gave it water, he munched on a cold biscuit. He had some fresh fatback, obtained in Raton, and a can of peaches. It would do.

  His ground cloth and blanket went into place next, once he put Sidewinder’s nose down in some grass that had survived the worst of the summer’s heat. When his Spartan meal had been consumed, Smoke sat hunched over the tiny fire that boiled his coffee. Its orange-yellow light reflected off the rock overhang that Smoke had selected as much for concealment as partial shelter. He’d put plenty of Arbuckle’s Fino into the small granite pot, and the aroma told him it was ready shortly after the moon rose and a chorus of coyotes serenaded the night.

  Smoke had taken only three sips when he heard the muffled thud of hoofbeats. He tensed momentarily, set his cup aside, and eased back out of the direct light of the fire. His right hand dropped naturally into position by the big, well-worn .44 Colt tied down at his hip. The sound grew louder, and he slipped the hammer thong.

  Those spoiled brats back in Raton could take prizes for stupid, Smoke considered. Surely they weren’t so dumb as to come after him, in light of their last meeting. The hoof beats neared the rounded breast of the hillside where Smoke made his camp. Only one horse, which stopped abruptly.

  “Hel—hello the camp?” a thin, soprano voice offered tentatively.

  Smoke came to his boots in time with the recognition of that voice. “Bobby? What are you doing out here? How did you find me?”

  “Can I come on in?”

  “I’ve a mind to paddle your bottom all the way back to Raton,” Smoke growled. “Yeah, come on in.”

  Bobby Harris and his paint pony appeared in the firelight. The boy sighed heavily and dismounted. “Stand, Dollar,” he commanded.

  Smoke studied him in silence, curiosity growing. “You didn’t answer my questions, boy.”

  Bobby shrugged. “I learned to make out Sidewinder’s sign a long ways back. All I needed to do was find it on the road south and follow. Uh—at least until dark. Then I figgered all I had to do was keep on until I saw a campfire.”

  “You could have gotten the wrong camp, found a heap of trouble,” Smoke growled.

  “Naw,” Bobby gave him and blushed. “Dollar knew Sidewinder’s smell. She whuffled when she caught a whiff.”

  Puzzled, Smoke frowned. “Where’d you learn all this trail savvy?”

  “Before ol’ Rupe took to drink so much, he taught me a lot about readin’ sign, huntin’ an’ trackin’ men.”

  “Humm. He wasn’t completely worthless,” Smoke judged.

  “Only the last couple of years. But what he did kilt maw, so I ain’t got a tear.”

  “Me neither, son,” Smoke admitted in sympathy. Abruptly, he grew
brusk. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  Bobby studied the toes of his boots. “You ain’t gonna believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  Bobby’s eyes rolled up, and he sucked in air enough to get through his ordeal. “They weren’t the nice people you thought, Mr. Smoke. They locked me in a room and didn’t give me any supper. They—they were gonna sell me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s God’s own truth, Mr. Smoke. I heard them talkin’ after they ate their supper. They thought I was out in the wash house, takin’ a bath.” Bobby’s expression clearly revealed his opinion of bathing. “I was in the kitchen, instead. They talked about selling me to the highest bidder. Someone who had lots of hard work to get done and didn’t want to pay out wages. Or keep me and rent me out. That woman, Ella, said that. I was so scared, I just took all my new stuff and skedaddled.”

  Smoke mulled that over. The boy’s voice held the ring of truth. Eyes big with fear at recounting this outlandish tale, he had a nervous quaver to his small chin. At last Smoke nodded, his plan firm.

  “No sense in taking you back there. Time’s too short and the law wouldn’t be too happy to have me back in town again. He made that clear when I signed that report.” The beaming smile Bobby gave him almost changed Smoke’s mind. “Though I’d like to bring this little story up to the Goodmans and see how they react. People like that … they don’t have a jail cell miserable enough or a pit deep enough to keep them in.” Smoke sat down on his blanket. “We’ll be moving on to Santa Fe.”

  “Can I—”

  “May I,” Smoke fired back, the father reflex surfacing.

  “May I have something to eat? I’m hungry.”

  Smoke grinned. “There’s some cold biscuit, fatback if you fry it, coffee.”

  “Coffee,” Bobby repeated. “For me? Really?”

  Oh hell, Smoke thought. There goes a perfectly simple trip to take a hand in some sort of Mexican range war. What can I do with the kid?

  More of the aspen on the Sugarloaf had turned gold. A hint of frost hung in the early morning air. Sally Jensen pushed a stray strand of thick, dark hair away from her forehead. It would be a wonderful day.

  Sally knew that from the first taste of autumn, like spices on her tongue. She loved the fall like Smoke savored spring. A smile curved her lips as she visualized Smoke, his massive barrel chest and bulging muscles of his huge upper arms bared to the first warming rays that promised renewed life. He would work like that for hours, alongside the hands, bare to the waist, chopping wood or chucking post holes with an auger.

  She knew he had learned that lesson from Preacher, the redoubtable old mountain man who had raised him. Sally could almost hear the words. “No man worth his salt asks another man to do something he wouldn’t do hisself.”

  That was Preacher all right. And that was her Smoke. He’d used another name when they were married. They had met shortly before Smoke nearly wiped out the small town of Bury, Idaho, in vengeance against those who had murdered his first wife and small son, Baby Arthur. Sally, she freely admitted to herself, had been a spirited young schoolteacher who had come West to find a more adventurous life than that offered in staid New Hampshire. They had fallen in love and married.

  For several years, she and Smoke lived in peace. Then Smoke’s reputation caught up with them. He assumed his real name again and did, as always, what a man had to do. The man responsible for this emergence of Smoke Jensen, gunfighter, was Tilden Franklin. He wanted to be king of the entire valley that countained the Sugarloaf. Worse, Sally recalled with a frown, he had long coveted her and had made the news public.

  In the end, all Tilden Franklin got was half-a-dozen .44 slugs in the belly, from the guns of Smoke Jensen, and an eternal leasehold on a plot of valley ground, six-by-six-by-three feet in size. That had bought the young couple two years of blissful peace. Then Davidson, an old and implacable enemy of Preacher and anyone friendly to the old mountain man, and Davidson’s twisted partner, Dagget, showed up to wreck havoc upon the Sugarloaf and avenge their unnatural hate on Smoke Jensen.

  They lost in the end, and Smoke became a new father of twins.

  Sally loved children. She had to or she would never have become a teacher. The family increased over the years, Sally mused, and grew older, and now resided far from the Sugarloaf. And, oh, how she missed them.

  Sally’s frown deepened as she looked toward the long, narrow lane that led from the big front gate of Sugarloaf to the ranchyard around the headquarters. Few people would brave Smoke’s rather terse greeting posted on one of the tall, lodgepole pine uprights. “If you have no business at Sugarloaf, ride on by,” it read. Now a young, slender figure, riding loose and at ease in the saddle, cantered up the final slope toward the house. When he drew closer, Sally noted he had a beguiling grin and wheat-straw hair that stuck out at odd angles.

  He reined in and called out from a distance, “Hello, the house. I’m friendly.”

  “Howdy,” Sally answered back. “Ride on in.”

  The stranger urged his mount forward and stopped at the tie-rail outside the low picket fence. He tipped his hat politely to Sally. “Mornin’. Sure is a fine day, ain’t it?” His voice held a whine that detracted from his otherwise good looks.

  “Yes, it is that. Do you have some business at Sugarloaf?” Sally asked in a neutral tone.

  The young drifter removed his hat and worked plastic features into an expression of wry contrition. “Well, not ’zactly, ma’am. I was wonderin’, is the boss hirin’?”

  A drifter, Sally recognized at once and pursed her lips. “Not that I know of. You’ll have to ask our foreman.”

  “Where’ll I find him?”

  Sally handled that one in the manner she and Smoke had frequently discussed. “He’ll be in town later this afternoon,” she said sweetly.

  The drifter’s mouth puckered. He spoke in a manner intended to dissemble. “T’truth is, ma’am, I’m a bit down on my luck. It’s a long ride back to Big Rock, an’ I ain’t et for some time. If you had any chores to do, I’d be obliged if I could he’p out a bit in exchange for a good breakfast. Sorta pad my innards for the ride back.”

  “There is some firewood needs chopping,” Sally relented, her natural compassion for the hardships of others surfacing.

  An eager expression replaced the soulful one. “I’ll make the chips fly, ma’am, you can be sure of that. I’m grateful, really I am.”

  “Might I have your name?” Sally inquired.

  “Yancy, ma’am. Named after my uncle, Yancy Yarnell,” he went on, inventing a last name, “who served with Colonel Merril during the late unpleasantness. If you’ll just direct me, I’ll get a start on that firewood.”

  Somehow it didn’t seem right. The more he worked on it in his mind, the more Yancy Riggs reckoned that life had dealt him a bad hand. He’d worked hard, bone-wearing hard, since he was big enough to take up a hoe and hack at the hard ground of his momma’s kitchen garden. Other men did the same and wound up havin’ something like this-here Sugarloaf. It stood to reason, then, that anyone who worked hard deserved the same, didn’t it?

  Another thing. Since he’d been growed enough to knock his paw on his butt and ride off, a saw handle sure didn’t seem to fit Yancy’s hand. The bow saw he used now quickly produced a rick of stove-length billets and a fresh crop of blisters on his hands. Enough, Yancy figured, for a breakfast. With axe in hand, he set to splitting the thigh-thick chunks into more manageable pieces.

  Was this all he had to look forward to? His thoughts along this line brought him to that good-looker who provided this means of earning a meal. Bet she had nice legs under that long, frilly-edged dress. She had the face of an angel. Yancy could hear her rattling pots and pans in the kitchen at his back. A man has a right to have someone like her waitin’ for him. That took Yancy to another realization.

  He’d not seen or heard from the bossman of this spread. Nor any hands, for that matter. Was that purty
young thing all alone? Despite himself, Yancy felt that familiar stirring in his loins. He hit the next stick of firewood with particular force. No, he wouldn’t, couldn’t let that happen again.

  Hot-tempered, and with a quick fuse where women were concerned, Yancy had been forced to drift out of too much of the West to allow himself to indulge in such dreams. She sure had a nice smile and lovely dark hair. Yancy groaned and split another billet. Man would be a fool to leave the side of a woman like that.

  Maybe she’s a widda-woman and in need of the kind of comfort only a man could give? Stop it! his mind demanded. Too late, though. Yancy was getting in a powerful sweat with such images in his mind. He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen window. Then cut his eyes to the doorway, where the woman suddenly appeared.

  “My, you’ve certainly done a good job,” she declared as she wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve some smoked ham, eggs, home fries and biscuits ready. Red-eye gravy, too, if you’ve a mind.”

  Yancy’s mouth watered. The food sounded marvelous, she looked even better. His pounding heart told him the battle would be a stout one. Yancy forced a smile.

  “I’m obliged. I can do more after I eat, if you want.”

  “Oh, that’ll be fine,” the vision of loveliness allowed. “Then you can get on your way to Big Rock.” Her final statement held a no-nonsense firmness.

  Yancy washed up, replaced his shirt over a shallow chest, and entered the kitchen. His driving hunger prevented any conversation until he’d sopped up the last of the red-eye with a half-biscuit. Sighing, he leaned back in the chair.

  “That was bodacious grub, ma’am.”

  Surprisingly, she smiled at him. “My name’s Sally.”

  It had the usual effect on Yancy Riggs, and he cast aside all effort at caution. “Well, then, Sally,” he began, grinning. “Maybe you have something else to offer a lonely man?”

  “I don’t know what that might be.” She knew only too well.

  “Er—I mean, a woman here, alone like this,” Yancy prodded. “Must get somewhat vexin’ at times, eh?”