Ordeal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smiling Dave did the same, leading his men up out of the ravine and directly against the middle swing rider. Two six-guns blazed, and another Sugarloaf hand went down. The loose remounts went straight-legged in shock, then bolted inward, against the pressure of mounted horsemen. The outlaws whistled softly and uttered soothing words in an attempt to prevent the explosive moment in which the animals bolted in all directions. Two hundred horses at forty dollars a head represented a good lot of money. On the far side, Smiling Dave watched as Yancy killed yet another of the drovers. So far, Dave considered, it had gone well.

  Luke Britton came face-to-face with one of the rustlers. He fired instinctively and felt a jolt of satisfaction when he saw the front of the out law’s vest jump and a black hole appear close to the heart. Moments earlier, Jerry Harkness had disappeared in a cloud of dust and powder smoke. Luke looked for his friend, avoiding death by a narrow margin when he jumped his mount forward unexpectedly. At once he swung on the bandit and fired his six-gun.

  “Gotcha, you varmint,” he shouted in satisfaction as the gunman fell from his saddle.

  To Luke’s right, another Sugarloaf rider cried out and fell across the neck of his touchy roan. This was quickly going from bad to worse, Luke decided as he ducked low and kneed his mount in the direction where he had last seen Jerry.

  Seconds later, the two friends found one another in a wild melee. A red stain washed along Jerry’s right side, from a bullet gouge along his ribs. Having exhausted their cartridges, three rustlers swung their six-guns by the barrels in an attempt to club Jerry from his horse.

  At once, Luke shot one of the bandits, and the other pair pulled off to reconsider. Jerry took the time to shuck the expended cartridges from his Colt and reload three rounds before the murderous trash sprang forward again. He and Luke fired as one and drilled the nearer robber through one lung and his liver. He would not live to ride clear of the fight.

  “There’s too many of them,” Jerry opined. “We’ve got to pull back.”

  Luke protested immediately. “But the horses. We’ll lose the herd.”

  Frowning, Jerry revealed his hasty plan and the reason for his decision. “We’re gonna lose them anyway. Alive, we can trail them. If we stand our ground, there won’t be a one of us left. Go tell the others.”

  Caleb Noonan had his horse shot out from under him. He went down with a wide roll away from the heavy creature as it fell. Quickly he scrambled back and used the dead beast as cover. From that vantage, Caleb took aim and blew a rustler out of the saddle. He fired again; then a hot line burned painfully along his left side. The offending slug smacked into the belly of his mount a split second later. Caleb rolled and snapped off another round.

  He heard a cry in the midst of the roiling billow that blanketed the majority of the riders and the horses. Noonan took time for a fleeting smile and looked for another target. Be damned if he’d let these yahoos take the herd.

  Pop walker had come up with a sprained ankle and had been relegated to the chuck wagon and the duties of a cook. He grumbled about it, but secretly prided himself in the grub he turned out. To the chagrin of the regular trail cook, many of the men complimented Pop on his culinary endeavors. When the ambush erupted in their faces, he had been behind Brad Plummer when the young drover had been shot through the breast. Pop Walker hauled on the reins and tried to turn the wagon, while he shouted a belated warning.

  Immediately, bullets began to crack into the side of the converted buckboard. Pop set the brake, dropped low under the driver’s bench and unlimbered his six-gun. The old Remington conversion fired well enough, but the barrel locking pin had been weakened by the hotter, cased ammunition loads. That caused the barrel to wobble on discharge, which played hob with his accuracy.

  He took careful aim and fired at the face of a shouting rustler. The bullet went low and smacked the outlaw’s horse between the eyes. The animal reared and threw its rider, then dropped in place. The gunman swung free of his saddle and threw a hasty shot in the direction of Pop Walker. Splinters burst in a shower at the top of the highest board, and Pop felt their sting, like so many bees, on his face. He raised up to fire again, and pain exploded in his right shoulder. Heat and numbness quickly followed. Awh, hell, he thought in a dizzy moment, how would he cook now?

  “We’ve got ’em on the run,” a jubilant Prine Gephart shouted through the dust.

  “What says?” came a defiant question.

  “They ain’t standin’ their ground anymore. We’ve got the horses free an’ clear.”

  Reno Jim Yurian answered him. “Not so free. We’ve lost five good men so far. Tighten up those horses, don’t let ’em run.”

  Suddenly, the fiercely fought ambush turned to equally desperate herd management. More dust rose to blind the Yurian gang and the Sugarloaf hands alike. An occasional shot blasted into the stillness of milling horses. An annoyed whinny usually answered it. Gradually the confusion diminished. A stiff breeze blew up from the southwest and carried away the brown cloud that had shrouded everything.

  A moment after Pop Walker had shouted his warning, bullets flew all around Ahab Trask. Being saddled with the handle of the hated King of Judah gave him reason enough to use only his surname, he decided long ago. He ducked low and skinned his Smith American from its holster. From the volume of gunfire, Trask knew that this was no highway shakedown for tribute to use the trail.

  These men had to be after the herd. The realization gave Trask renewed determination. He sought a target and at last sighted in on a pale face seen through a gap in the logs piled across the trail. He fired, and the face disappeared in a haze of red liquid. Once more he searched for an outlaw.

  He did not have to look far. Brigands swarmed from around the side of the hill on his right, while more poured up over the lip of a draw on the left. Working drag, along with Utah Jack, Trask had the advantage of distance. He fired again, and one of the outlaws left his saddle. Then Trask looked at Utah Jack.

  “We’ve gotta get these horses out of here.”

  Utah Jack spoke with authority. “No, Trask, we’ve got to hold them. If they stampede, we’ll never find ’em all, an’ the rustlers will have their pickin’s.”

  Right then, a slug fired from the six-gun of Smiling Dave Winters cut a deep gouge along Trask’s thigh and diverted upward to smash itself against the thick leather of his cartridge belt. It drove partway through the buckle and embedded there. Stunned and winded, Trask saw blackness swim up to engulf him.

  Dapper as always, although his fancy clothes bore a patina of gray-brown dust, Reno Jim Yurian stood in his stirrups and surveyed the scene of carnage.

  Not a sign of the wranglers with the herd. An old man lay slumped against the dashboard of a chuck wagon. He bled from his shoulder. Quickly Reno Jim counted the fallen opponents. Eight of them. There had been a dozen. Somehow, four had gotten away. No matter, he decided. He waved an arm at the milling horses.

  “You boys get them lined out and headed for the canyon.” Reno Jim eased back into the saddle.

  “What about them that got away?” asked Yancy Osburn.

  “Not our problem. No doubt they were wounded. Bound to die before they can get to any help. Same for that one in the wagon.”

  Yancy Osburn sent men to clear the obstruction across the trail. They worked quickly and efficiently. Pop Walker lay still and watched them through slitted, pain-misted eyes. If what their leaders—a man Pop saw as dressed in fancy gambler’s clothes—had said was true, he would be a gonner soon. Damn, that rankled. He did not want to die out here all alone. Slowly, the herd came under control and moved on up the trail. Before the severity of his wound knocked him out, Pop heard one of the outlaws mention him.

  “I still say we ought to finish that old-timer.”

  “No,” the fancy-dressed leader responded. “Leave him for the coyotes.”

  Ten

  Two days went by with the stolen herd getting farther away by the time Smoke Jensen and the Olsens ar
rived at the scene of the rustling. He hove into view a few minutes before eleven o’clock in the morning. Jerry Harkness saw him first. Although his ribs ached and burned from the infection that had invaded his wound, he raised his arm and waved eagerly to make certain Smoke knew someone had survived. Smoke turned to young Tommy when he saw signs of life.

  “Bring the wagon along quick as you can. Those are my men down there.”

  Smoke cantered along the curve to within ten feet of the chuck wagon. There he reined in and dismounted, ground hitching Cougar. He made a quick count of heads while he strode toward Jerry. Five men. Only five left who were not seriously injured. At least they had managed to keep their horses. For a moment, Smoke tasted the bitter flavor of defeat.

  “They ain’t in any hurry, Smoke,” Ahab Trask hastened up to inform Smoke. “An’ they ain’t hidin’ their trail. We can catch them easy.”

  Silent, Smoke took in the injuries of his hands. He doubted that these men would be catching up to anyone soon. He spoke beyond the haggard group to Luke Britton. “Luke, I want you to take the most seriously wounded and strike out to the east for the nearest town. If you come upon a big ranch, that might serve. Get the injured taken care of and gather someone to help get that herd back. The trail leads along the south fork of the Powder River, through the Bighorn Mountains, and into Buffalo. Join us there.”

  Luke looked around in surprise. “Who is ‘us,’ Smoke?”

  Smoke nodded toward Tommy Olsen as the wagon rolled up. “Me, Utah Jack and him. That’s Tommy Olsen, he’s a good shot and level-headed. He’ll have to do.”

  I’m going with you, Smoke,” announced Jerry Harkness.

  “No, you are not.”

  “Yes, I am.” Jerry sat up abruptly and winced at the agony that shot through his chest. “I was only restin’. See? I can sit a saddle.”

  Smoke raised a gloved hand and pointed at Jerry. “You’re not in that condition.”

  “It don’t hurt that much, Smoke. It’s getting better, really it is.”

  “Let me have a look.”

  Jerry knew better than to refuse, or even try to. He shrugged, pinched his features again and gave in with a sigh. Smoke climbed into the wagon and pulled Jerry’s shirt away. The gouge cut by the bullet was scabbed, with oozing yellow pus escaping, bright red flesh all around. Long, scarlet lines, like the tentacles of an octopus, radiated out in two directions.

  “I’m going to have to clean this, drain it and put a poultice on, Jerry. It’s going to hurt like hell. But the only condition under which you are going along is that we get that infection whipped.”

  Eyes bright with a mixture of hope and sickness, Jerry looked intently at Smoke. “Go ahead. Whatever you do won’t be any worse than what I’ve gone through so far.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. Luke, go to the nearest trees. Find some with moss. Then gather the yellow and gray parts. A whole lot of it. Also find some yarrow, if there is any, and bring the whole blossom. A double handful if you can get that much. Tommy, you go over to the creek and cut me an armload of red willow branches. Bring them back and we’ll peel them.”

  Tommy looked at Smoke quizzically. “What’s that for?”

  “Red willow makes a good pain killer. We’ll boil the scrapings from the bark and make a tea. I’ll pour a lot down Jerry before I soak off that scab. He’ll need it. Now, there’s where you come in, Della. Find me some clean cloth, all you can spare, and tear it into strips. Those we’ll boil to clean and bandage the wound.”

  In ten minutes, Smoke had a fire going. He examined all the wounded and treated the lightest injuries with liniment, bandaging them tightly when the boiled strips of a bed sheet had dried sufficiently. After half an hour, Tommy returned with a huge armload of willow branches. Smoke set him and his sisters to stripping the leaves, while he peeled and scraped the bark. He used a coffeepot from the chuck wagon, over mock protests from Pop Walker, who wasn’t injured as badly as he thought, to begin to steep willow bark tea. When the boy finished cleaning the twigs, Smoke showed him how to peel and scrape the bark.

  While they worked, Utah Jack Grubbs watched intently. At last he spoke. “That’s Injun medicine you’re cookin’ up, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is, Utah. I learned it from Preacher when I was not much older than Tommy here.”

  “From a preacher, eh?”

  “No, Utah. From the mountain man named Preacher. His given name was Arthur, but I don’t think I ever heard his family name spoken.”

  Tommy looked up shyly from under long, auburn lashes. “He’s the one you were tellin’ me about the other night, sir—er—Smoke?”

  “The same. He was quite a man. A real living legend.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Utah Jack pushed back into the conversation. “Wasn’t he a bloody-handed murderer? They say he back shot more men than he faced down. Ambushed and kilt a whole passel of fellers.”

  “I don’t know where you got such fool notions,” Smoke replied lightly, attempting to disarm this scurrilous accusation. “I know better, because I was there most of the time. Preacher was no more a back shooter or a bushwhacker than I am. I learned my gun manners from him.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to run down an old friend.”

  Smoke gave the equivocating horseman a frown. “There’s not many men, living or dead, who could run down Preacher.” Abruptly he came to his boots, poured a cup of yellow-red broth from the coffeepot and walked to where Jerry Harkness lay in the wagon.

  “Here, Jerry, drink some of this.”

  “Do I gotta? That stuff tastes bitter.”

  Smoke shrugged. “Better bitter than not drink it and put up with what I’m going to do to you.”

  Jerry Harkness made a face and reached for the tin cup. He swallowed rapidly to get the liquid out of his mouth as quickly as possible. When he finished, he made to put it aside. Smoke reached out and took the container from him, filling it again.

  “More?”

  Smoke suppressed a grin. “More.”

  After the third cup, Jerry had about reached the gag limit. He licked his lips and made another sour face. By then, the medicinals Smoke required had been gathered and brought to the rough camp. Smoke rummaged in the chuck wagon again and came up with a wire basket popcorn popper. This he filled with the fungus and put it to dry over a low bed of coals.

  With that in progress, he located a smooth, flat rock and piled the yarrow blossoms on it. He looked around and could not find what he wanted. He gestured to Tommy Olsen, who came to see what Smoke Jensen needed.

  Pointing to the distant, tree-lined water course, Smoke made his request. “Tommy, go back to the creek and find me a fist-sized, water-smoothed rock. Wash it clean and bring it to me.”

  “Sure, Smoke,” Tommy chirped. A mischievous, sly light came to the boy’s eyes. “If I’m gonna get a good one, I bet I’ll have to get in the water.”

  Having raised two sons and in the process of raising a third, Bobby, Smoke was wise in the ways of boys. “If you do, don’t take more than ten minutes, and dry off good before putting your clothes back on.”

  Face alight with expectation, Tommy sped off after thanking Smoke for nothing more than acquiescing to the obvious. Smoke chuckled softly behind him. After all, he was not so old as to have forgotten his own boyhood.

  Tommy returned with the rock twenty minutes later, his auburn hair a darker color, still dripping drops of water. His fair complexion, under the freckles, flushed a pink glow from the chill water of the creek. Proudly he handed Smoke a perfect stone.

  Smoke thanked him and set immediately to crushing the yarrow flowers. He added more of the red willow scrapings and a bit of water to form a paste. This he covered with a strip of cloth from those drying on a thin line strung from the back of the Olsen wagon. During the process, he frequently checked the drying fungus.

  When it reached the desired consistency, he added half to the poultice he had prepared and put the rest to soak in an especially strong
liquor of willow bark. He looked up to see Luke Britton standing over him.

  “I’ll start off now with the wounded, if it’s all right with you, Smoke.”

  “Do that. They’re patched up as good as I can do. Take the best of your horses. We have two wagons. Pop Walker can drive one, Utah Jack the other. Tommy and I have horses. We’ll get on the trail by mid-afternoon, and stick to the sign left by the herd. Join back up as soon as you can. And ... good luck.”

  “It’s you who’s gonna need the luck, Smoke.”

  Smoke agreed readily. “Don’t I know it.”

  Taking up his medicines, Smoke walked to where Jerry awaited his fate. With Della’s help, he administered more of the potent tea and then took hot water and cloth strips and, using his sheath knife, began to scrape away the crust of dried blood that had scabbed over the wound channel. Jerry bit his lip and suppressed a cry of pain.

  Smoke Jensen worked deftly and quickly, to peel open the long gouge along the ribs. While he progressed, at his direction, Della Olsen mopped up the yellowish matter that had collected under the surface. In a brief two minutes, which seemed like hours to Jerry, the whole raw wound had been exposed. With hands surprisingly gentle for their size and muscularity, Smoke bathed the savaged muscle tissue. Then he packed the groove with the poultice he had concocted.

  Wonder registered on the face of Jerry Harkness. “It feels so cool. Like you’d rubbed ice on me, Smoke.”

  In the distance everyone heard two quick shots from the light .32-30 rifle carried by Tommy Olsen. “We’ll change that in a couple of hours and then try to get some broth down you.”

  Pop Walker grumped his opinion. “What are you gonna make it outta? Most of our grub got flogged by those rustlers. We’ve been makin’ do with corn bread and beans.”