The elder Jensen was heavily armed: a Sharps .52-caliber rifle in a saddle boot, two Remington Army revolvers in holsters around his waist, two more pistols in saddle holsters, left and right of the horn. And he carried a gambler’s gun behind his belt buckle, a .44-caliber, two-shot derringer. His knife was a wicked-looking, razor-sharp Arkansas Toothpick in a leather sheath on his left side.
Young Kirby carried a Colt Navy, .36 caliber, with an extra cylinder that a man named Jesse James had given him when Kirby let Bloody Bill Anderson and his men water their horses at his farm in Missouri.
The Jensens were someplace west of Missouri and east of the Pacific Ocean when they met up with the dirtiest, smelliest man young Kirby had ever seen. The man was dressed entirely in buckskin, from the moccasins on his feet to his wide-brimmed leather hat. A white, tobacco-stained beard covered his face. His nose was red and his eyes twinkled with mischief. He reminded Kirby of a skinny, dirty version of Santa Claus. He sat on a funny-spotted pony, two pack animals with him. He said he was called Preacher. It wasn’t his real name, but he’d been called Preacher so long, he near about forgot his Christian name.
Shortly after parting ways, Preacher galloped up to the pair, his rifle in his hand. “Don’t get nervous,” he told them. “It ain’t me you got to fear. We fixin’ to get ambushed . . . shortly. This here country is famous for that.”
“Ambushed by who?” Emmett asked, not trusting the old man.
“Kiowa, I think. But they could be Pawnee. My eyes ain’t as sharp as they used to be. I seen one of ’em stick a head up out of a wash over yonder while I was jawin’ with you. He’s young, or he wouldn’t have done that. But that don’t mean the others with him is young.”
“How many?”
“Don’t know. In this country, one’s too many. Do know this: We better light a shuck out of here. If memory serves me correct, right over yonder, over that ridge, they’s little crick behind a stand of cottonwoods, old buffalo wallow in front of it.” He looked up, stood up in his stirrups, and cocked his shaggy head. “Here they come, boys . . . rake them cayuses!”
Before Kirby could ask what a cayuse was, or what good a rake was in an Indian attack, the old man had slapped his bay on the rump and they were galloping off. With the mountain man in the lead, the three of them rode for the crest of the ridge. The packhorses seemed to sense the urgency, for they followed with no pullback on the ropes. Cresting the ridge, the riders slid down the incline and galloped into the timber, down into the wallow, the whoops and cries of the Indians close behind them.
Preacher might well have been past his so-called good years, but the mountain man had leaped off his spotted pony, rifle in hand, and was in position and firing before Emmett or Kirby had dismounted. Preacher, like Emmett, carried a Sharps .52, firing a paper cartridge, deadly up to seven hundred yards or more.
Kirby looked up in time to see a brave fly off his pony, a crimson slash on his naked chest. The Indian hit the ground and did not move.
“Get me that Spencer out of the pack, boy,” Kirby’s father yelled.
“The what?” Kirby had no idea what a Spencer might be.
“The rifle. It’s in the pack. A tin box wrapped up with it. Bring both of ’em. Cut the ropes, boy.”
Slashing the ropes with his long-bladed knife, Kirby grabbed the long, canvas-wrapped rifle and the tin box. He ran to his father’s side. He stood and watched as his father got a buck in the sights of his Sharps, led him on his fast-running pony, then fired. The buck slammed off his pony, bounced off the ground, then leaped to his feet, one arm hanging bloody and broken. The Indian dodged for cover. He didn’t make it. Preacher shot him in the side and lifted him off his feet, dropping him dead.
Emmett laid the Sharps aside and hurriedly unwrapped the canvas, exposing an ugly weapon with a pot-bellied, slab-slided receiver. Emmett glanced up at Preacher, who was grinning at him.
“What the hell you grinnin’ about, man?”
“Just wanted to see what you had all wrapped up, partner. Figured I had you beat with what’s in my pack.”
“We’ll see,” Emmett muttered. He pulled out a thin tube from the tin box and inserted it in the butt plate, chambering a round. In the tin box were a dozen or more tubes, each containing seven rounds, .52 caliber. Emmett leveled the rifle, sighted it, and fired all seven rounds in a thunderous barrage of black smoke. The Indians whooped and yelled. Emmett’s firing had not dropped a single brave, but the Indians scattered for cover, disappearing, horses and all, behind a ridge.
“Scared ’em,” Preacher opined. “They ain’t used to repeaters; all they know is single shots. Let me get something outta my pack. I’ll show you a thing or two.”
Preacher went to one of his pack animals, untied one of the side packs, and let it fall to the ground. He pulled out the most beautiful rifle Kirby had ever seen.
“Damn!” Emmett softly swore. “The blue-bellies had some of those toward the end of the war. But I never could get my hands on one.”
Preacher smiled and pulled another Henry repeating rifle from his pack. Unpredictable as mountain men were, he tossed the second Henry to Emmett, along with a sack of cartridges.
“Now we be friends,” Preacher said. He laughed, exposing tobacco-stained stubs of teeth.
“I’ll pay you for this,” Emmett said, running his hands over the sleek barrel.
“Ain’t necessary,” Preacher replied. “I won both of ’em in a contest outside Westport Landing. Kansas City to you. ’Sides, somebody’s got to look out for the two of you. Ya’ll liable to wander ’round out here and get hurt. ’Pears to me don’t neither of you know tit from tat ’bout stayin’ alive in injun country.”
“You may be right,” Emmett admitted. He loaded the Henry. “So thank you kindly.”
Preacher looked at Kirby. “Boy, you heeled—so you gonna get in this fight, or not?”
“Sir?”
“Heeled. Means you carryin’ a gun, so that makes you a man. Ain’t you got no rifle ’cept that muzzle loader?”
“No, sir.”
“Take your daddy’s Sharps, then. You seen him load it, you know how. Take that tin box of tubes too. You watch out for our backs. Them Pawnees—and they is Pawnees—likely to come ’crost that crick. You in wild country, boy... you may as well get bloodied.”
“Do it, Kirby,” his father said. “And watch yourself. Don’t hesitate a second to shoot. Those savages won’t show you any mercy, so you do the same to them.”
Kirby, a little pale around the mouth, took up the heavy Sharps and the box of tubes, reloaded the rifle, and made himself as comfortable as possible on the rear slope of the slight incline, overlooking the creek.
“Not there, boy.” Preacher corrected Kirby’s position. “Your back is open to the front line of fire. Get behind that tree ’twixt us and you. That way, you won’t catch no lead or arrow in the back.”
The boy did as he was told, feeling a bit foolish that he had not thought about his back. Hadn’t he read enough dime novels to know that? he chastised himself. Nervous sweat dripped from his forehead as he waited.
He had to go to the bathroom something awful.
A half hour passed, the only action the always-moving Kansas winds chasing tumbleweeds, the southward-moving waters of the creek, and an occasional slap of a fish.
“What are they waiting for?” Emmett asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.
“For us to get careless,” Preacher said. “Don’t you fret none . . . they still out there. I been livin’ in and ’round injuns the better part of fifty year. I know ’em better—or at least as good—as any livin’ white man. They’ll try to wait us out. They got nothing but time, boys.”
“No way we can talk to them?” Emmett asked, and immediately regretted saying it as Preacher laughed.
“Why, shore, Emmett,” the mountain man said. “You just stand up, put your hands in the air, and tell ’em you want to palaver some. They’ll probably let y
ou walk right up to ’em. Odds are, they’ll even let you speak your piece; they polite like that. A white man can ride into nearabouts any injun village. They’ll feed you, sign-talk to you, and give you a place to sleep. ’Course . . . gettin’ out is the problem.
“They ain’t like us, Emmett. They don’t come close to thinkin’ like us. What is fun to them is torture to us. They call it testin’ a man’s bravery. If’n a man dies good—that is, don’t holler a lot—they make it last as long as possible. Then they’ll sing songs about you, praise you for dyin’ good. Lots of white folks condemn ’em for that, but it’s just they way of life.
“They got all sorts of ways to test a man’s bravery and strength. They might—depending on the tribe—strip you, stake you out over a big anthill, then pour honey over you. Then they’ll squat back and watch, see how well you die.”
Kirby felt sick to his stomach.
“Or they might bury you up to your neck in the ground, slit your eyelids so you can’t close ’em, and let the sun blind you. Then, after your eyes is burnt blind, they’ll dig you up and turn you loose naked out in the wild . . . trail you for days, seein’ how well you die.”
Kirby positioned himself better behind the tree and quietly went to the bathroom. If a bean is a bean, the boy thought, what’s a pea? A relief.
Preacher just wouldn’t shut up about it. “Out in the deserts, now, them injuns get downright mean with they fun. They’ll cut your eyes, cut off your privates, then slit the tendons in your ankles so’s you can’t do nothin’ but flop around on the sand. They get a big laugh out of that. Or they might hang you upside down over a little fire. The ’Paches like to see hair burn. They a little strange ’bout that.
“Or, if they like you, they might put you through what they call the run of the arrow. I lived through that . . . once. But I was some younger. Damned if’n I want to do it again at my age. Want me to tell you ’bout that little game?”
“No!” Emmett said quickly. “I get your point.”
“Figured you would. Point is, don’t let ’em ever take you alive. Kirby, now, they’d probably keep for work or trade. But that’s chancy, he being nearabout a man growed.” The mountain man tensed a bit, then said, “Look alive, boy, and stay that way. Here they come.” He winked at Kirby.
“How do you know that, Preacher?” Kirby asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Wind just shifted. Smelled ’em. They close, been easin’ up through the grass. Get ready.”
Kirby wondered how the old man could smell anything over the fumes from his own body.
Emmett, a veteran of four years of continuous war, could not believe an enemy could slip up on him in open daylight. At the sound of Preacher jacking back the hammer of his Henry .44, Emmett shifted his eyes from his perimeter for just a second. When he again looked back at his field of fire, a big, painted-up buck was almost on top of him. Then the open meadow was filled with screaming, charging Indians.
Emmett brought the buck down with a .44 slug through the chest, flinging the Indian backward, the yelling abruptly cut off in his throat.
The air had changed from the peacefulness of summer quiet to a screaming, gun smoke-filled hell. Preacher looked at Kirby, who was looking at him, his mouth hanging open in shock, fear, and confusion. “Don’t look at me, boy!” he yelled. “Keep them eyes in front of you.”
Kirby jerked his gaze to the small creek and the stand of timber that lay behind it. His eyes were beginning to smart from the pounding of the Henry .44 and the screaming and yelling. The Spencer that Kirby held at the ready was a heavy weapon, and his arms were beginning to ache from the strain.
His head suddenly came up, eyes alert. He had seen movement on the far side of the creek. Right there! Yes, someone or something was over there.
I don’t want to shoot anyone, the boy thought. Why can’t we be friends with these people? And that thought was still throbbing in his brain when a young Indian suddenly sprang from the willows by the creek and lunged into the water, a rifle in his hand.
For what seemed like an eternity, Kirby watched the young brave, a boy about his own age, leap and thrash through the water. Kirby jacked back the hammer of the Spencer, sighted in the brave, and pulled the trigger. The. 52-caliber pounded his shoulder, bruising it, for there wasn’t much spare meat on Kirby. When the smoke blew away, the young Indian was facedown in the water, his blood staining the stream.
Kirby stared at what he’d done, then fought back waves of sickness that threatened to spill from his stomach.
The boy heard a wild screaming and spun around. His father was locked in hand-to-hand combat with two knife-wielding braves. Too close for the rifle, Kirby clawed his Colt Navy from leather, vowing he would cut that stupid flap from his holster after this was over. He shot one brave through the head just as his father buried his Arkansas Toothpick to the hilt in the chest of the other.
And as abruptly as they came, the Indians were gone, dragging as many of their dead and wounded with them as they could. Two braves lay dead in front of Preacher; two braves lay dead in the shallow ravine with the three men; the boy Kirby had shot lay in the creek, arms outstretched, the waters a deep crimson. The body slowly floated downstream.
Preacher looked at the dead buck in the creek, then at the brave in the wallow with them, the one Kirby had shot. He lifted his eyes to the boy.
“Got your baptism this day, boy. Did right well, you did.”
“Saved my life, son,” Emmett said, dumping the bodies of the Indians out of the wallow. “Can’t call you boy no more, I reckon. You be a man now.”
A thin finger of smoke lifted from the barrel of the Navy .36 Kirby held in his hand. Preacher smiled and spit tobacco juice.
He looked at Kirby’s ash-blond hair. “Yep,” he said. “Smoke’ll suit you just fine. So Smoke hit’ll be.”
“Sir?” Kirby finally found his voice.
“Smoke. That’s what I’ll call you now on. Smoke”7
* * *
Smoke forced his mind back to the present as Joey continued talking. “I been workin’ with these cowboys fer two days now, an’ I’m not too hopeful they’ll be of much use to us when the goin’ gits rough.” He took a drink of coffee and flicked ash off his cigarette with his finger. “Don’t git me wrong, they’s all game as banty roosters, and they ain’t afeared o’ nothin’, but I’m afraid these boys are gonna git theyselves kilt. They’s good punchers an’ kin all sit a hoss and wrangle beeves like they was born to it, but cain’t but one or two hit a target with a shotgun from more’n twenty feet away. Another two or three are all right with a long gun as long as they got time ta git set an’ take aim.” He smirked. “ ’Course, that’s when they ain’t got hot lead buzzin’ over they heads. In a pitched battle . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and stared down into his cup.
Smoke frowned. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea I had. I sure don’t want the blood of these boys on my hands.”
Cal came bursting in the door, pistol in his hand. “Smoke, Joey, we got riders comin’!”
Smoke and Joey grabbed iron and ran out the door.
Chapter 15
In the distance, four riders rode at a leisurely pace toward the ranch house. As they approached, Joey, with both hands full of iron, said, “Murdock must not think too much of us ta send jest four hombres ta call.”
Smoke frowned. “That doesn’t seem likely.” He reached inside the door and grabbed his binoculars and raised them to his eyes. After staring at the riders for a moment, he chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He handed the glasses to Joey. “Like the preacher always says, the good Lord will provide.” He holstered his Colt and stepped out into the yard to greet their visitors.
When the men rode up, Pearlie slapped Cal on the shoulder. “Ol’ Murdock better watch his ass now. We got reinforcements!”
Louis Longmont and his cook, André, were accompanied by Sheriff Monte Carson and the old mountain man, Puma Buck. André was leading a packhorse with
two huge boxes strapped to its side.
The men dismounted and shook hands all around. Louis said, “Puma here came to town for supplies and I told him what you were doing. He said he had too many years invested in teaching you how to be a mountain man to let you come up here and be killed by flatlanders.”
Puma leaned to the side and spit brown tobacco juice into the dirt. “That’s right, boy,” he said to Smoke, his faded blue eyes sparkling. “I promised Preacher I’d watch yer topknot, an’ I intend to keep my word.”
Louis added, “When he said he planned to come up here and assist you in your endeavor, I decided it was time I took a vacation.” He patted the Colt tied down low on his thigh. “Besides, I’ve been neglecting my firearm practice, and a man in my profession cannot afford to get rusty.”
Smoke smiled. “And André?”
The French cook gave a short bow. “Monsieur, food poisoning and malnutrition will kill as surely as a bullet. I am here to make sure that you are fed properly.” He pointed at the boxes on the packhorse. “I purchased ample supplies in town so we may eat as God intended man to.” Without another word he went into the house to inspect the kitchen facilities. He emerged a moment later, a look of disgust on his face as he emptied a pot of thick black coffee into the dirt. “Merde, it is worse than I suspected. You gentlemen will soon have coffee fit to drink.” He motioned for Cal and Pearlie to bring in his supplies and turned back into the kitchen, mumbling to himself in French.
Smoke looked at Monte Carson. “What about you, Monte? Who’s minding the town?”
Monte shrugged. “I figured it was time for Jim to take on some additional responsibility.” He grinned. “When Ben Tolson wired me about your plans and about how you were outnumbered three to one and how Murdock was sending all over the country for hard men to come try your hand, I thought it was time I paid my old ridin’ partner a visit. It may have been a few years, but I ain’t forgotten how you helped me out when I needed it.”
“How’d you all get here so soon?”
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 16
