Smoke showed him an amused smile. “If I’m not mistaken, we’ll have rabbit, or maybe some prairie chickens, might even be deer meat on the menu.”
Pop looked surprised. “Y’ mean that li’l tad of a boy’s gonna fetch us our dinner?”
Smoke nodded. “Just so. I told you he is a crack shot. He never fires if he can’t hit what he’s shooting at. So, if I were you, Pop, I’d get to whipping up some of that corn bread. And see if you can’t round up some onions, wild or otherwise. Anything to flavor a stew.”
“Well, I’ll be gol-derned.” Pop Walker brightened. “I’ll do that right away.”
After they had eaten their fill, with Smoke Jensen urging everyone to stuff themselves and put aside what would keep, because it would be a cold camp that night, he changed the poultice and bandages on Jerry Harkness.
Smoke beamed down at his trustworthy ranch hand. “You may not feel like it, but you’re looking a lot better. The poultice is drawing, and the infection is not headed for your armpit anymore. Another day or so and you can ride.”
“That’s good news. Say, the kid did a right smart job of gettin’ that antelope. When do I get off this baby’s broth and sink my teeth into some real meat?”
“By tonight, I’d say. I set the ribs to smoking over the coals. They should be ready by the time we break camp.”
Jerry looked admiringly upon Smoke. “Do you ever not think of everything, Smoke?”
Smoke produced a wry smile. “Not since Preacher boxed my ears for leaving a perfectly good fireside trestle behind. He got right exercised by that.”
Thirty minutes later, the refugees of the ambush started off after the herd. Most rode in silence. Tommy, atop the swayback plow horse, trotted up to ride beside Smoke Jensen. Smoke noted the boy had his Winchester along.
“What do we do when we catch up to your horses, Smoke?”
Smoke did not even have to think. “You fall back and protect your mother and sisters. That Model Seventy-three has range enough to make certain none of them get close. It’ll be like shooting game. Make sure of your shot, never miss, and go for the head shots when you can.”
Tommy went suddenly pale. “But, I ... ain’t never shot at a man before.” His voice croaked from just beyond the threshold of puberty.
Smoke’s reply, although candid enough, spared Tommy the more gruesome aspects of the reality. “It’s not nice, ever. And you never get over it. But a man has to do what he has to do. I’m not worried, Tommy. You’ll be all right when the time comes.”
Much relieved, Tommy heaved a sigh. “If you say so, sir. I’ll try to do my best, Smoke.”
Jerry Harkness had been sitting upright the last several miles, leaning over the left sideboard of the Olsen wagon, his eyes on the multitude of hoof prints. He called out to Smoke now, his eyes alight with confidence.
“It’s them, all right. Unshod hooves an’ all.” An amusing thought suddenly occurred to him. “Say, those army farriers are gonna play merry hell with these critters when we finally get them there.”
Merriment twinkled in Smoke’s eyes, and he pulled a wry expression. “It’s all part of the plan. At least that’s my understanding from what Colonel Albright said in his letter. The shoeing of these horses is to be part of what the army calls On the Job Training. He’s been burdened with green farriers. They need breaking in as fast as these mounts.”
That brought a laugh from Jerry Harkness, which caused him to wince. Smoke trotted over to the wagon and climbed into the bed. He tied Cougar to the tailgate and went to his Cheyenne medicine supplies. Quickly he tended to the wound on Jerry’s side and repacked it with fresh poultice. When the task had been completed, he cut his eyes to those of his ranch hand.
“You’re doing better, faster than I thought. The red rays of infection have shrunk by half.” He pointed to the formerly alabaster skin over Jerry’s rib cage. “And you are taking on a more natural, pinkish coloring. For sure, by tomorrow you’ll be driving that wagon, instead of riding in it.”
“That’s good news. Now, what’s the bad news?”
Smoke sobered at once. “You won’t be up to fighting form for at least three more days.”
Jerry looked jolted. “Then you were right all along. I’m being a burden on all of you. I should have gone with Luke. A gimped-up man ain’t no good in a fight.”
Smoke sighed explosively. “If I had thought you were seriously wounded, outside of the infection, I would have made you go. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and heal so you can carry your load in a fight.” The last of that he said with a gruffness from the affection he held for this courageous young ranch hand.
That night, the small party settled into what would be the first of many cold camps. The generous portion of leftover antelope ribs, served out by Pop Walker, along with the remaining corn bread, biscuits and a pot of cold beans, left everyone with full bellies. While they ate, Tommy hunkered right up close beside him, and Smoke became aware of something that for the moment perplexed him.
Throughout the afternoon, Tommy had ridden resolutely at Smoke’s side. In camp, the boy had stuck close to him; wherever he went, Tommy came along. No matter what chore he was given, Tommy went about it cheerfully and with an eagerness that belied the usual surly mood of teenaged children. While he conducted his labors, the lad constantly cut his eyes to Smoke to see if his efforts were being noticed. When his gaze locked with Smoke’s, Tommy flushed furiously and looked away, suddenly burdened with ten thumbs. So frequently separated from his own brood, it took Smoke some time to figure it out.
No doubt about it, he allowed in late evening when the boy trudged along beside Smoke for a final check of the horses on the picket line. Tommy had transferred his need for a father figure to Smoke. Damn! Smoke thought. That was going to get the boy’s feelings bad hurt before this was over. Somehow, that didn’t seem right. For his part, rather than do the popularly accepted thing of spurning the youngster’s devotion, Smoke responded by roughly teasing the boy. To Smoke’s surprise, it seemed to strengthen the bond the lad sought to forge between them.
“Hey, Tommy, are you sure that water wasn’t too cold this morning?”
A puzzled frown formed on Tommy’s forehead. The water had felt wonderful. “Why’s that, Smoke?”
“Your voice is a full octave higher than before.”
Blushing, Tommy made feeble protest. “Awh, it is not. It’s jist ... sometimes it breaks, goes back to bein’ a little kid again.”
Smoke reached out and ruffled the youngster’s tousled auburn hair. “Growing up is hell, ain’t it?”
“Yessir, it purely is,” Tommy agreed from the depths of his adolescent misery.
Early the next morning, Smoke’s party lost the trail of the herd on a wide stretch of hard shale outcroppings. The wagons pressed on while Smoke and Utah Jack fanned out to search. Shortly before noon, Utah Jack cut their sign. He swung back to the wagons and fired three shots to alert Smoke. When the last mountain man arrived, Grubbs gave him the good news.
“I found them. They’re headed for Powder River Pass up yonder in the Bighorns. The tracks look a whole lot fresher. They must be havin’ trouble with the remounts.”
Smoke considered that a moment. “That means they are straying away from our intended route. If that’s the case, they have a place close by to hold the horses until a buyer can be found. That makes our job easy.
Utah Jack challenged this at once. “How do you figger that? There ain’t but three of us fit to do any fightin’.”
“Jerry can hold his own in that wagon. And as I said before, Tommy’s a fine shot.” Smoke looked up to find the boy at his side, eagerly soaking up every word.
“Yeah, but are you gonna take a little boy of fourteen into a fight with more’n twenty hard cases?”
He hadn’t been any older when Preacher got him into a shoot-out with some angry Pawnee. Smoke almost spoke his thoughts aloud, though he refrained because he did not want to give Tommy any encouragement.
Instead, he flavored his response with a frown. “I’m not going to get Tommy into any fight if I can avoid it.”
“Awh, Smoke,” Tommy protested. “You jist said I was a good shot. The sooner we get your horses back, the sooner you can get us on to Buffalo.”
Momentarily stymied, Smoke pushed back the brim of his Stetson. “The kid’s got a point, you have to admit.’
Prine Gephart leaned over and tapped Garth Evans on one shoulder. With a grunt, Garth ended his mid-afternoon snooze and shoved his hat up off his face. “Huh? What is it.”
“Lookie over there. That’s them comin’. You can bet on it, believe me.”
Garth Evans rubbed sleep from his eyes and focused on the distant ridge. Two wagons labored down the facing slope. Three riders, one of them looking to be no more than a boy, formed a wedge in front of them. Dust boiled up from the wheels.
“Hummm. You might be right, Prine. If so, what do we do now?”
Gephart snapped testily. “What we was put here for. We’re supposed to be lookouts, right? What we had best do is that you light a shuck outta here and catch up to the gang. I’ll keep ahead of them and guide the boys in when they come. Now, best make tracks.”
Garth Evans started to swing into his saddle. Prine Gephart roused himself to sit upright. “No, dummy. Walk your horse at least a mile before you mount up. You want them hearing you?”
“Uh! Never thought of that.”
In minutes he had walked out of sight of the pile of carelessly strewn boulders. Prine Gephart went next, also walking his horse until well ahead of the slow-moving caravan. Then he took to the saddle and ambled along the wide path left by the horses. His confidence soared. He had counted heads. This little annoyance would be easy to get rid of.
Another cold camp. From a close examination of the hoof prints, Smoke determined that they had quickly closed the gap. The width of the trail indicated that the rustlers were indeed having trouble with the herd. Obviously not experienced wranglers, they let the horses spread out too far, making control difficult. Their nearness continued to gnaw on Smoke.
There would be no chance to retake the herd with so few able-bodied men. The best he could hope for would be to continue to keep watch and wait for reinforcements. After a supper of antelope ham and cold biscuits, Smoke felt it necessary to reassure Della. He took her aside.
“I don’t want you worrying about Tommy, or yourself and the girls. I have no intention of going after those horses without a lot more gun-hands than I have. We’ll trail along, keep out of sight and wait.”
“I’m so relieved.” Della waved a hand in a half-circle gesture that encompassed the terrain and their condition as well. “All of this. It’s . . . it’s so bizarre. Outlaws stealing horses, raiding our ranch and burning it. Now chasing after these evil men. It was not like that back east. Not at all. We were—always so safe.”
“Yes, but didn’t you notice how much freedom you had to give up to be that safe?”
Della considered that as though a novel idea. “I never thought of that. A policeman on every corner. He knew everyone by face and name.”
“He also knew everything everyone knew, said, or thought, right?”
Again a frown of concentration. “Yes. You’re right. Any miscreant was soon hauled off the streets and questioned until he confessed.”
Gently, Smoke probed farther. “Do you have any idea how those confessions were acquired?”
“N-no. Now that you mention it.”
“Usually with boots, fists, and night sticks. Not that lawmen out here have found that method unworkable. It’s effective; yet to me, it seems to take something fundamental out of the one beaten and the one doing the beating.”
With an uneasy trill of laughter, Della dismissed the grim images. “That did not apply to our life. Sven had a good position at a large steel mill in Pennsylvania. He was an accountant, before becoming a pioneer.”
“Your children were born there?”
“Tommy and Sarah-Jane. Gertrude came along after we moved west. First, it was Kansas. That’s where Sven learned how little he knew about farming. Especially dry farming like they have to do there.” She cheered slightly. “But he found he had a knack with livestock. Cattle in particular. We nearly lost the farm. Sven had a lucky streak when he found a buyer. We bought seed stock and started west. We ended up here in the territory.”
Smoke listened sympathetically to her narration for the better part of an hour. When Della got to a recounting of her husband’s death, she broke down and began to sob softly, hands clamped to her mouth. Solicitously, Smoke comforted her while she cried on his shoulder. The moon had set by the time she retired to the wagon, and smoke rolled up in his blankets to sleep.
Shortly before dawn, five members of the Yurian gang ghosted into camp and fired shots in the direction of the sleeping forms on the ground. A second later, Smoke Jensen replied in kind, and all hell broke loose.
Eleven
Sadly lacking in frontier skills, the Yurian gang had been heard crashing through the brush by Smoke Jensen several minutes before their attack. It had given Smoke time to prepare a nasty surprise. As the gang poured into camp, and fired at the dark forms rolled into blankets, they only served to pinpoint their locations. Answering shots came immediately, and from outside camp.
“Them ain’t people,” blurted Ainsley Burk.
Colin Fike added to their confusion. “They were layin’ for us outside camp.”
Thirty feet away from him, Jerry Harkness triggered a round from his six-gun. The man beside Colin Fike grunted and went down. Then a voice heavy with authority broke through the confusion.
Hub Volker barked his brief orders. “Forget them. Get that woman and the brats and let’s get out of here.”
At once the outlaws concentrated their attention on the wagon on the far side of the camp. Jerry Harkness dropped another thug, then gave covering fire to Smoke Jensen, who darted at an oblique angle toward the Olsen wagon. Three outlaws fired at his movement. Their slugs cut the air behind Smoke. Hub Volker and Smiling Dave Winters reached the wagon first. Hairy Joe tripped over a saddle, robbed of his night vision by muzzle bloom, and stumbled up next.
He reached the vehicle in time to take a round full in his face from the Winchester in the hands of Tommy Olsen. Reflex and impact flipped Hairy Joe backward, to land with his head in the softly glowing coals of the fire pit. The long, greasy strands of his black hair ignited instantly and formed a ghastly halo. Already dead, the now Hairless Joe did not feel a thing.
Smiling Dave lashed out and yanked the rifle from the grasp of the boy, who stared in disbelief at the destruction he had wrought. Sarah-Jane and Gertrude began to scream as the men climbed into the wagon box. Della fought with clawed fingers; her sturdy nails raked deep furrows along the cheeks of Garth Evans, who recoiled in astonishment. At once, Della snatched up the Colt Lightning Smoke had given her son and squeezed the trigger.
A .44 slug burned a hot, painful trail through the left shoulder of an incredulous Garth Evans, who howled and fell out of the wagon. Della looked around desperately to locate help. She saw Smoke’s path blocked by two hard cases. Both had revolvers in their hands and raised them toward the last mountain man as she cried a warning.
Smoke’s six-gun came up before either outlaw could fire a shot. The nearer one jolted backward and bent double as a .45 caliber bullet shattered the tip of his sternum. Without delay, Smoke triggered another cartridge. A thin, wavering cry came from the second thug as, gut-shot, he went to his knees. He dropped his weapon and began to try to stuff a bulge of intestine back inside his belly.
Behind him, Smoke Jensen heard a brief cry of pain as Jerry Harkness took another wound, this time a through-and-through hole where his neck met his shoulder. Smoke took a step forward only to see an obscure blur directly before his eyes. In the split second before the rifle butt crashed into his forehead, Smoke saw the grinning face of Smiling Dave Winters looming over him. Lights exploded in hi
s head, and darkness swept over Smoke Jensen.
Something cold touched the throbbing core of the pain in Smoke Jensen’s head. Light flickered against his closed eyelids. His dazed senses registered wetness next. Cautiously he tried opening one eye.
Tall grass and a muzzy blue sky swam above Smoke. With a soft groan, he opened the other eye. The spinning slowed, then ceased. A startled grunt came, and Smoke vaguely realized that he had made it. Suddenly a blurry face appeared to fill the entire span of Smoke’s vision.
“Man, am I glad you’re back. I was afraid we’d lose you, Smoke.” Jerry Harkness, his shoulder crudely bandaged, hovered over Smoke Jensen for a moment, then raised back to where he came into focus.
Smoke opened his mouth to a taste like an overused outhouse. His words came out in a croak. “Jerry ... is—are the—the Olsens all right?”
Jerry’s grim expression forewarned Smoke. “They’re gone, Smoke. Those bastids took them, their wagon, everything. We’re afoot, no chuck wagon nor a horse in sight.”
Smarting at his failure to protect the vulnerable family, and shamed by his weakness, Smoke extended a shaky hand for Jerry’s help in rising. “What about Pop Walker and Utah Jack?”
Sadness touched Jerry’s features. “Pop’s over there. They killed him, Smoke. I don’t know about Utah. I can’t find him anywhere. They may have taken him and killed him somewhere else.”
Tentatively, Smoke touched his face. He found blood still crusted in his eyebrows and along his jaw line. “I’ve got to clean up. Then we’ll bury Pop Walker and figure out what we do next. Is there any doubt that they were from the gang who rustled the horses?”
“None. But, Smoke, what can we do?”
“We can take stock and decide that later, Jerry.”
With the help of his top hand, Smoke Jensen washed the blood away in a dented metal basin. Then he touched the bandage Jerry had put on his split forehead. A wave of nausea rose in Smoke’s throat. He fought it back.
Ordeal of the Mountain Man Page 11
