“Umm. Sounds good. I’m hungry now.”
Smoke reached out and ruffled the boy’s tousled auburn hair. “You are always hungry.”
“Uh—Smoke? When we get to the reservation will we see some real wild Indians?”
Smiling, Smoke shook his head. “The Crow are not all that wild. Never have been. They took a friendly outlook to us whites. They’ve provided scouts for the army for years.” He laughed softly. “They can just about kill you with hospitality if you happen upon them during one of their social dances. They’ll stuff you with food, heap tobacco on you, drag you into the dance circle, give you the place of honor to sleep in the lodge.”
“Lots of whiskey, I bet,” Tommy opined.
Smoke frowned. “Given their choice, most Injuns shun liquor. They don’t have much tolerance for it.”
“What’s tolerance?”
“In this case it means bein’ able to hold their whiskey. And many Injuns can’t. To most it’s like any of the other white man’s diseases. In a way it’s a good thing. Someone has to stay sober out here.”
Tommy studied Smoke in silence while the boy slipped a bridle on the horse. “You don’t seem to miss strong drink much, Smoke.”
“Never developed a fondness for it. I drink a little whiskey, though not enough to make a saloon keeper a profit, and two or three beers is my limit.”
A serious expression altered Tommy’s face. “I don’t think I’ll ever drink.”
“None of us knows for sure what we’ll do later in life. But good for you if you stick to it. You know, the Germans call beer ‘liquid bread.’ They don’t think of it as liquor.”
Tommy furrowed his smooth brow. “Then maybe I’ll have some liquid bread when I grow up.
They laughed together, and Tommy swung up bareback on the horse. Smoke handed him his rifle. After the boy trotted away, Smoke realized exactly how good some roasted venison would taste.
Well fed on venison and with the humans and animals alike rested, Smoke Jensen sent his amateur drovers down the trail that descended the northeast slopes of the Bighorn Mountains. Spirits remained high. Confident in their improving ability to manage the horses, Smoke put Tommy on drag and rode on ahead to scout the terrain they had to cover.
He had gone some five miles from the herd when he came upon two rather large men who took their ease outside a stretched canvas lean-to. Both had rifles ready at hand and revolvers stuck into the waistband of their trousers. Smoke counted three on one of them. Smoke reined in and greeted them in a friendly manner.
“Howdy to you, too, mister,” the smaller, as compared to his barn-sized companion, replied. “Sorta off the beaten track, ain’tcha?”
“Could say the same for you two, I suppose.”
A scowl replaced the earlier smile of greeting. “This here’s our land, mister. We got papers filed an all, over to Sheridan way.”
Trying to keep it light, Smoke observed, “An ambitious undertaking. You waiting for the trees to grow to build a cabin?”
Rather than take it in good humor, the larger man glowered and roused himself, to reveal a Cheyenne backrest that had been hidden by his slab shoulders. “That ain’t none of your business,” he growled. “But it is ours, as to what you’re doin’ on our place.”
“Didn’t know anyone had homesteaded out this way. But as it happens, I’m driving a herd of remounts north to Fort Custer.”
“And you think to bring them through here?” the smaller one remarked.
Smoke found his patience a tad strained. “That’s what I had in mind.”
A head taller and a shade wider than Smoke Jensen, the smaller opportunist announced their avaricious intentions. “Well, then, there’ll be the matter of a little toll.”
“Yeah,” the huge one joined in. “Say . . . two bits a head.”
Smoke Jensen cut them a flat, deadly gaze. “I think not. This trail is a public throughway.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I don’t need a lawyer for this. The trail has been used freely since the Indians first got horses. We go through and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
With a low growl, the man-mountain started for Smoke. “Then we shut down the trail and shoot yer horses.”
He lunged at Smoke, who did not even wait to dismount. Instead, he pulled one boot free of the stirrup and kicked the huge lout flush in the face. Blood spurted from a mashed nose and split lip. His eyes crossed, but he did not go down. Instead, he looked to his partner.
“B’god, Jake, he hurt me.”
Jake, who apparently did not have the same confidence in his size, made an even more costly mistake. He went for one of the revolvers at his waist. In half an eye-blink, he found himself staring at the black hole in the muzzle of the .45 Colt in Smoke Jensen’s hand.
“I don’t want to kill you, but I will. Ease that iron to the ground.”
“And if I don’t?”
Smoke shrugged. “Your friend here can bury you.”
A glint of cunning entered Jake’s eyes, and he tried a new tack. “A real gunfighter never pulls his piece unless he’s gonna use it. I think you are all bluff.”
“He means it, Jake,” cautioned the bigger man.
Smoke remained motionless, one corner of his mouth lifted in a mirthless smile. Almost casually he twitched his right index finger. The shot sounded thunderous, and Jake’s Merwin and Hulbert went flying when the bullet struck his shoulder. Groaning, Jake dropped to his knees.
“Your friend was right. I did mean it. Now, shall we settle the question of a toll? If you fence off the trail, or take even one shot at any of my horses, I’ll kill you both. In fact, if I even see either of your faces while we’re passing through, I’ll kill you. Do we understand one another?”
Their shame-faced, silent nods answered Smoke. Cowed for the time being, they turned away while Smoke Jensen rode back in the direction from which he had come. Defeated for now, Smoke knew full well he would have to be watchful of them when the herd came through first thing in the morning.
Sixteen
Even the canvas lean-to had disappeared when Smoke Jensen and the Olsens brought the herd down out of the pass and through the land claimed by Jake and his huge friend. On a still slightly downhill grade, the wisdom of a half-day rest proved itself. By one o’clock that afternoon, Smoke estimated they had covered twenty-five miles. At that rate, they would reach the main trail north from Sheridan by evening. It couldn’t be too soon, Smoke acknowledged.
He saw only one drawback to this increase in speed. The dust kicked up by the horses formed a gigantic cloud that raised skyward on a breeze from the southwest. That blocked his forward view, but it kept a lot of it off the drag rider, a position Smoke chose for himself when the gait picked up to a quick trot. Like old hands, the Olsens kept the herd in a long, narrow gather that only occasionally spilled over the edges of the traceway.
Shortly before four that afternoon, his expectation of a forty-mile day assured, Smoke looked beyond the herd to see three men riding toward them. He stood in his stirrups and called out to Tommy Olsen.
“Come back and take the drag. I’m going to go find out who those men are.”
Tommy looked forward, then back at Smoke, face puzzled. He hadn’t seen any riders. But, if Smoke said they were there, they must be. When he reached Smoke’s side, he received a nod.
“Keep ’em moving.” Then Smoke rode off. Smoke reached the front of the herd with only thirty yards separating him from the mounted men. He had no problem with recognizing a smiling Ahab Trask in the lead. Trask snatched his hat from his head and gave an enthusiastic, friendly wave.
“What are you doin’ comin’ at us from this direction?” Trask asked when they came within hearing.
Grinning, Smoke jerked a thumb behind him. “A slight detour. I managed to steal back the herd.”
Trask appeared quizzically amused to see a woman and two small girls riding swing. “So I see. Who are your new hands?”
“A family named Olsen. Their ranch was raided by the same gang that rustled the horses. Della, that’s the woman’s name, told me that she and her son, Tommy, recognized the leader the first time they saw him.”
“Dang, if that don’t beat all.” Trask flashed a white smile in his sun-mahoganied face.
“Where are the rest, Trask?”
“Over on the Sheridan Trace. We saw your dust and came over from there. It’s only a couple of miles ahead. I—uh . . .” Trask paused, uncomfortable with what he had to say. “We could only get seven men, Smoke. They’re borrowed from a rancher south of Sheridan who thinks highly of you. He’d also heard about the troubles in Muddy Gap.”
Smoke looked at it philosophically. “That gives me ten more than I’ve had for the last three days. Send Bolt back for them, and we’ll get headed for Fort Custer before beddin’ down for the night.”
Trask looked along the herd’s back trail. “Any chance of those rustlers comin’ after you?”
Smoke shook his head. “Only if they found enough of their horses.”
Once settled down in camp, with introductions made around, Smoke found he liked the cut of these hands. They had worked the herd expertly, relieving Della and the girls of the necessity of keeping fractious animals in line. Smoke particularly liked the line foreman, Harper Liddy. Harp usually supervised the fence-mending crews for his boss, Solomon Blaire, who owned the sprawling Leaning Tree ranch.
Smoke had heard of it. Blaire was experimenting with the new English breed of Herefords. Squat and compact, the wooly-headed red-and-white cattle produced more usable meat than bone and hide, and seemed to flourish on the high plains. Smoke had looked into raising them before changing to horses. All considered, he had no regret. If the Herefords, especially the males, were not docked—their horns removed—they tended to do considerable damage to one another, even if altered into steers. When the new men settled around the fire for coffee, Harp Liddy talked about the breed.
“Some say their blood strain runs back to Iberian cattle, brought to England by the Romans. That’s what makes them so aggressive.”
Smoke found that doubtful. “After nearly two thousand years, they would have surely had that characteristic bred out of them. And, I’ve seen Iberian stock in Mexico. Most were black, with only a few a light, orangish brown in color. Not at all like Herefords.”
Smoke looked up to see Trask pour coffee and come over to join him. Accustomed to working long hours and days without seeing another human being, Trask, like most ranch hands, did not say a lot. Only now did he bring up the subject of the missing hands.
“There was five of you when I left to find help, Smoke. What happened?”
“We came upon the Olsens first. Then the rustlers found our camp. They killed all but Jerry Harkness and myself. Jerry was wounded and I sent him off to get help. They should be joining us soon. Oh, and Utah Jack, who turned out to be with the gang.”
“That low-down snake. Did he ... kill any of the boys?”
Smoke thought back to it. “I can’t say for sure. I nearly got my brains knocked out.”
“Smoke coulda got ’em all, but he was tryin’ to protect my maw,” Tommy Olsen came to the fire to say.
“Truth is there were too many for me.” Smoke yawned and stretched. “We’ll head out at first light. I’m gonna turn in.”
After Smoke left the fire, the new hands drifted to their bed rolls or to herd watch duty. In less than a quarter hour, silence held throughout the camp.
Listening carefully to the words of the young warrior, Iron Claw’s eyes glowed. The number of horses headed their way seemed impossible. And so few men driving them. The Cheyenne war chief clapped a hand on the bare shoulder of his scout and spoke thoughtfully.
“You have done well, Sees-the-Sky. This means there will be more soldiers on the high plains. There are too many already, pushing out onto our hunting grounds.”
“We should not let them keep these horses,” Sees-the-Sky suggested. “We could run them off, steal all we can.”
“I have already thought of that. We could possibly get away with half of them. Think how that would swell our pony herd. And they would not be ridden against us that way.”
He looked beyond the young warrior to where his large raiding party waited in patient silence. Iron Claw raised his voice so all could hear. “We will follow along out of their sight and see what good medicine the Great Spirit gives us.”
Iron Claw swung atop his paint horse and raised a hand to signal his dog soldiers. Formed into a line three abreast, they silently rode parallel to the herd beyond a concealing ridge. Sees-the-Sky returned to keep the white men and their horses under watch.
Hubble Volker knew it would be the smart thing to do. When three more horses ambled back in their general direction, he had them gathered in and sent two men on through Powder River Pass to Buffalo. They were to use a bank draft Hub had forged with Reno Jim’s signature to obtain horses for the rest of the gang and bring them back. He ordered the remaining men to walk through each day, bringing along their saddles and tack.
On the third day after the herd had been stolen, he saw his gamble pay off. Over a long swell in the prairie, the three he had sent on came fogging back with fifteen horses for the men afoot. Some good-natured cursing rose among the outlaws. They had visions of recovering their lost fortunes. Some of them complained, though, when Hub announced his decision not to pursue the herd.
“What do you mean we’re not goin’ after them?”
Hubble Volker kept a calm demeanor. “We are. Only we won’t catch them by following the way they went. We know where they are going. The shortest route to get there is through the pass to Buffalo and north from there. You said, yourself, Fred, that there is no sign those horses went through ahead of you. So they used the other pass. We’ll catch them, don’t worry.”
They hastened to saddle the new horses and gratefully mounted. Hub took his place at the lead, then started them off. He reckoned that Reno Jim would appreciate his efforts.
Trudy Olsen lay in the bed of the buckboard brought along for supplies by the Leaning Tree hands. She had already thrown up three times this morning, and had been unable to control her bowels. She also complained of terrible thirst. Della suspected she had somehow contracted dysentery. The trek had been hard on all of them.
More so on Gertrude. Della worried most about Trudy, the youngest of her children. A thin girl, small for her age, Trudy had inherited her father’s blond hair and large, square hands. Her precarious health had come from somewhere else. Colicky as a baby, she frequently took fevers and seemed to constantly have the sniffles, although that had markedly dried up since leaving the ranch. Della had no idea why. She rode with her daughter now, a damp compress to the child’s brow.
“Momma, I feel sick again,” Gertrude said weakly.
Della helped her to sit up and held her while she hung over the side and vomited. Could it be the water? Della wondered. Tommy rode forward from his position on swing.
“What’s wrong with Trudy, Maw?”
Shaking her head in exasperation, Della answered her son. “I don’t know, Tommy.”
“Maybe I should get Smoke.”
“He’s a lot of things, son, but he’s not a doctor.”
Tommy looked shocked. “Is it that bad? Does she need a doctor?”
Della answered honestly. “I don’t know. I think maybe so, Tommy.” She thought for a moment, then spoke, a note of stress in her voice. “Yes. Bring Smoke back here. I need to talk to him.”
When Smoke arrived, Della described the condition of her younger daughter. She concluded with an urgent appeal. “Please, can you route the herd past somewhere with a doctor?”
“I regret it, but I cannot.”
“But why?”
Smoke seemed reluctant to answer. “There is nowhere along this trail until we get to the Crow Agency. No settlement that I know of.”
“Then can’t we turn back to Sherida
n? It can’t be more than a day’s ride.”
Smoke sighed. “For someone on horseback, yes. But with the herd and this wagon . . .”
“Oh, please. Isn’t there something you can do?”
Smoke did not answer. For most of the day he had been seeing signs of Indians close by. He had no desire to further alarm Della, so he did not mention that. For her part, Della would not let it go so easily.
“Can’t I send Tommy back to Sheridan for the doctor.”
Shaking his head Smoke replied, “I’m sorry, I can’t even allow that.”
Della put quick, hot words to the thought that formed in her head. “You are absolutely heartless.”
Still, Smoke would not speak of the potential danger. Tight-lipped, he responded curtly. “Not the way I see it.”
Less than a day behind the herd now, Reno Jim Yurian and his sixteen men came down out of Granite Pass at a fast canter. Some five miles out on the prairie, they came upon the lean-to that sheltered Jake and his partner. The pair greeted Reno Jim familiarly.
Reno Jim responded in style. “Jake, Lutie, I haven’t seen you boys in a while.”
Jake made a face. “We got outta the outlawin’ business. Gettin’ to be too many lawdogs out this way.”
Reno Jim cocked an eyebrow. “You goin’ soft?”
Jake denied it. “Naw. Nothin’ like that. Jist figgered it was time to settle down. Why, we even filed a homestead on this place. Got us a whole quarter section.”
Lutie added his opinion of that. “At least what of it the Injuns don’t camp on from time to time.”
Giving their surroundings a quick examination, Reno Jim made a proposition. “Would you fellers object to makin’ some real cash money?”
Ordeal of the Mountain Man Page 16
