Ordeal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s right, Mr. Kelso I saw ’em with my own eyes. I was in for supplies, and a little Red Eye for the boys, when they come ridin’ into town. Smoke Jensen, big as life, an’ he had the boss as a prisoner. They went direct’ to the marshal’s office.”

  Boyne Kelso’s eyes narrowed. “You could not have made a mistake?”

  “No, sir. I told you jist what I saw. If I’d had more fellers to back me, I’d ’uv braced them right then.”

  “You keep saying ‘them,’ Killmer. Why is that?”

  “Jensen had some rough-looking drovers along with him. Though they carried themselves like gunfighters.”

  A sudden chill filled Kelso. “How many?”

  “Six, all together. An’ there was a family along. A woman and three young ’uns. A boy half-growed an’ two little girls.”

  Kelso sought to form a plan. With Jensen in town, and Reno captured, he had a good idea what would come next. “Where did the family go?”

  “I dunno. I reckon to the general mercantile. They had a wagon with them. Funny thing, it looked jist like the one the boys took with them when they went after them horses.”

  Boyne Kelso stifled a groan. That meant the gang had been wiped out, or at best scattered. Which could only mean Jensen’s horses had not been rustled.

  “Think, man. Where is that woman, and those kids?”

  “Well—ah—they coulda—coulda gone to the hotel.”

  Kelso thought quickly. “Go to the Trailside. You know Butch and Docking and Unger? Tell them I want them to come here. There’s work for them to do.”

  Slick Killmer gave him a fish eye. “What makes you think they’ll drop everything an’ come do your bidding?”

  “You idiot, I own the Trailside. They work for me.”

  Not the brightest of all outlaws to have taken the owlhoot trail, Slick scratched at his noggin. “You do? Why, you’re a deacon in the church. Ain’t you Christian folk again’ likker an’ wimmin?”

  Kelso brushed at the front of his coat. “There’s some in our flock that take such things seriously, yes. I don’t happen to be one of them. Now, do as I say. We have to find a way to get Reno out of that jail and finish Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke Jensen and the marshal went directly to the office of Boyne Kelso. On the way up the outside stairs on the bank building, Smoke gave terse instructions.

  “Cover me from the upper landing. I’ll go in after Kelso alone.”

  Grover Larsen added a bit of caution. “He may have help in there.”

  A fleeting grin flashed on Jensen’s face. “From what you tell me of that office, there can’t be more men in there than I can handle.”

  Frowning, the lawman nodded. “It is small.”

  At the top, Marshal Larsen took a position that let him see in through the glass pane in the door and cover the alley as well. Smoke put his hand on the knob, turned it and went through into the hall. He unlimbered his .45 Colt as he stepped over the threshold. No resistance met him.

  Five long strides brought him to the frosted glass panel in the door to Kelso’s office. Here he stood to the side, reached over and freed the latch. When the portal swung inward, three rapid shots answered the movement. One struck the glass and shattered it; the other two smacked into the wall across the corridor.

  Smoke Jensen bent low and entered in a rush, his Peacemaker leading the way. He saw the bulk of a man hunched behind the desk and the muzzle flash. A bullet cracked over his head. Then his Colt spoke.

  His first round hit the man scare in the chest. Driven backward by the powerful thrust, Art Unger crashed both elbows through the window panes before arresting his movement. He tried to cock his six-gun.

  Another .45 slug drove into his belly, a fist’s width above his navel. It doubled him over, and he pitched onto his face. The Colt Frontier in his hand slid across the floor. Smoke crossed to him. Large exit wounds made ugly blossoms on the man’s back. Smoke rolled him over.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in Kelso’s office?”

  “Art . . . Unger. The boss put me here to ... stop you.”

  “Don’t look like you did it.”

  Unger gasped, his death rattle already clear in his throat. “N-no. But, it’s too late for you anyway. Mr. Kelso an’ a couple of the boys has got that woman friend of yours, and her brats. He—he’s aimin’ to make a trade.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Them for him an’ Reno Jim goin’ free.”

  Smoke bit off his words harshly. “That’ll never happen.”

  Wincing at the pain, Unger screwed his face into an expression of defiance. “Th-then they’re dead meat. An’ so are you if you go after them.”

  Cold fury froze the face of Smoke Jensen. “Where are they? Where did Kelso take them?”

  “That—that’s for you to find out.” With that, Unger went rigid, shuddered violently and died.

  When Della Olsen answered the knock and found two men standing outside the door to her room, she did not know what to think. One of them touched the brim of his hat politely, then removed it.

  “Mizus Olsen?”

  “Yes, I am she.”

  “Smoke Jensen wants to see you and your young ’uns right away. We’re to bring you to him.”

  “Why, whatever? Don’t tell me he’s found us a place to stay already?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Only that he said to come at once. We’ll show you the way.”

  Della cast a glance over her shoulder. “Come on, children. We have to meet Smoke.”

  When they turned into a saloon, Della had immediate misgivings. By then it was too late. The two men fell back and blocked the doorway. Ahead of her at the bar stood a man she had not seen before. He wore the clothing of a prosperous businessman, and a satisfied smile that could almost be called a smirk. He nodded to her and waved a hand to encompass the room.

  “Welcome to the Trailside, dear Mrs. Olsen.”

  “What? Where is Smoke Jensen?”

  “No doubt searching my office for me about now.”

  “You’re—you’re Boyne Kelso?”

  Kelso sighed. “Ah, it’s a true pity that our Mr. Jensen has chosen to confide so much in you. I was afraid that might be the case. Whatever, you are to be my ace in the hole. You and the three jokers.”

  Anger suddenly drove away fear, and Della stamped her foot. “I’ll thank you to explain yourself in a manner that makes sense.”

  Kelso smiled and nodded jovially. “I have a friend, a business associate, who is currently languishing in the jail. Mr. Jensen put him there. I intend not to suffer the same fate. In fact, I expect to be trading you and your offspring for his release and our continued freedom. Is that clear enough?”

  Della’s eyes narrowed. “Smoke Jensen will track you down no matter how far you go.”

  Kelso shrugged, indifferent to her threat “Not if he is residing on that hill above town.”

  Eyes wide in horror, Della spoke the obvious. “You can’t get away with that. The law would have you in an instant, rest assured.”

  A nasty sneer on his face again, Kelso advised Della. “The law in this town is an old man and a green deputy. With Smoke Jensen out of the way, they would do well to successfully swat a fly.” He gestured to his henchmen. “Tie them up and put them over at that table.”

  “The Trailside.” Smoke Jensen spoke the two words crisply as he came out onto the landing.

  “Right. I heard the shots. Who is it?”

  “Was. Someone named Art Unger.”

  Grover Larsen nodded. He had no doubt how that exchange had come out. Together they went down the steps to the walkway. Smoke used the descent to eject spent cartridges and slid in fresh ones.

  Tersely Smoke told Larsen what he had learned from Unger. “Kelso has Della Olsen and her children. He intends to trade them for Reno and his freedom.”

  He and Larsen turned onto Jensen Avenue and started for the Trailside. Smoke motioned across the street.

  �
��Over there, where you can cover the whole front.”

  Marshal Larsen was relearning things he had forgotten about being a lawman. He knew at once what Smoke had in mind. From across the way, he could cover the entire front of the saloon while Smoke went through the batwings. For a moment, Grover wondered why Smoke had not chosen for them to go in by two entrances at once, catch those inside in a cross fire. Then it came to him. First, the Olsens were inside, and second, Smoke had no idea exactly how many gunmen Kelso had in the barroom. He crossed the street.

  Already, gawkers had begun to gather, careful to give the front of the saloon a wide berth. When the marshal reached the right position, Smoke cut to the center of the street. He strode to a position directly in front of the open door to the Trailside. He faced the liquor emporium and crossed arms over his chest. Then he called out to those within.

  “Boyne Kelso! I know you’re in there, and I know what you have in mind. Why don’t you come out here and face me like a man.”

  “You can go to hell, Smoke Jensen.”

  “What? Are you going to hide behind a woman’s skirt, Kelso? Do you expect those children to protect you from what I’m going to do to you?”

  Silence held for a while, during which more townspeople clustered in the dual crescents of curiosity seekers that extended out into the street. Then an aggravated Kelso offered a challenge to Smoke Jensen. “How’d you like it if I killed ’em one at a time and threw them out to you?”

  Smoke gauged the likelihood of that. “Do you have any idea of what would happen to you after the last one got used up?” He paused a few seconds. “Have you ever seen what the Cheyenne do to someone who has deliberately harmed their women and children? Well, I’ll tell you.

  “They find themselves a bee tree and get some honey; then they find an ant hill, nice, big, red ants. Then they strip the ones who violated their families and stake them out over that ant hill. Next comes the honey. They smear it in every body opening. With a special lot around the eyes and the groin. Then they stand back and let the ants handle it for them. Sometimes they make jokes about the way the victims scream and writhe.”

  Smoke paused a long, dramatic five seconds, then threw back his head and bellowed, “THAT’S what I will do to you, you son of a bitch!”

  No one spoke for a full, tense minute. Then Kelso called out, his voice colored by uncertainty. “You’d never do that, Jensen. You’re too law-abiding.”

  “Don’t try me, Kelso, because I swear by the Almighty that I’ll make an exception in your case.”

  That did it for Boyne Kelso. His nerve broken, he pointed to Butch Jones and Ham Docking. “You two, take him. Do it now.”

  Ham Docking had second thoughts. “Mr. Kelso, I don’t think . . .”

  Driven by the power of his anxiety, Kelso snapped, “You aren’t paid to think. Now get over there and kill that bastard.”

  Both of his henchmen started for the swinging doors. Della drew a deep breath and shouted. “Look out, Smoke, there’s two of them coming at you.”

  “Shut up, woman,” Boyne Kelso bellowed at the same instant that Smoke Jensen drew with his usual blinding speed and put a bullet precisely three inches to either side of the doorjamb.

  Butch Jones shrieked in agony and went to his knees, his belly pierced by splinters and hot lead. Ham Docking howled a curse and spun away. Shards of wood protruded from his left arm. The slug had missed. Boyne Kelso blinked. It had all happened so fast. Enraged, he drew a nickle-plated .38 Smith and Wesson from a shoulder rig and took a step toward the huddled Olsens.

  “I warned you, Jensen. I’m gonna start with the little girl.”

  “No, you won’t.” All at once, Smoke Jensen stood in the doorway, a .45 Colt in his rock-hard fist.

  Boyne Kelso spun toward the opening as a moaning, terrified Ham Docking darted past Smoke Jensen to escape certain death and ran out the door. A shouted command came from outside. “Halt!” It was followed by the boom of a shotgun. The moaning ceased.

  Smoke directed his attention to Kelso. “You have a gun. Use it.”

  Indecision caused Kelso’s arm to sway between the Olsens and Smoke. “Nooo. I’m not going to try to take you, Jensen.”

  Smoke casually fired a round between his legs. “Use it, you gutless piece of dung.”

  Driven by mindless terror, Kelso swung back toward the Olsens and raised the Smith. “I’ll kill them all, I swear it.”

  In a flash, Smoke Jensen shot Boyne Kelso through the side of the head. His brains sprayed on the rank of bottles on the back bar. For a moment, Kelso swayed on his boots, took half a tottering step, then fell face-first into the sawdust. Without a word, Smoke Jensen stepped over to the Olsens, freed them from their chairs, and escorted them to the door.

  Outside, he took note of the crowd for the first time. Among them he spotted Ginny Parkins. Gasping, she rushed to his side and vied with Della Olsen for the privilege of first hug and kiss. In the end, Smoke got soundly bussed by each of them. Then Ginny spoke up, riveting Smoke with her words.

  “I—I received your gift. And—I—I—ah—used it. I shot Brandon Kelso in the knee with it. He and his loutish companions tried to compromise me,” she explained with a blush. “It has profoundly changed me. I have a different view of the use of force. Violence, I now believe, is sometimes necessary to the preservation of order and for self-protection. I’ve grown up some, Smoke. For that, I am grateful to you. You saved my life again, it seems.”

  Della Olsen took center stage then. “Smoke, we’re going to stay in Muddy Gap. Somehow I think your coming to our rescue is all the recommendation we’ll need.”

  “Well then,” Smoke declared as he ruffled Tommy’s hair and gave Ginny a friendly squeeze, “it looks as though I’m leaving the town in good hands.”

  Traveling alone, except for the burden of sorrow over the loss of so many good men, some who had been close friends, Smoke Jensen reached the Sugarloaf in only five days. His dark mood lifted when he saw Sally’s raven hair bent over the kitchen sink. Before he could dismount, she sensed his presence and hurried out on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Oh, Smoke, it’s so good you’re back.”

  Smoke stepped from the saddle and produced a warm, genuine smile. “You’ve no idea how good it is for me. I’ve missed you Sally-girl.”

  “It’s good you’re home.” A bubble of laughter rose in Sally’s throat. “I see you planned your arrival to be time for noon dinner.”

  Smoke produced a fleeting smile. “I surely did. I’ve been dreaming of one of your pies since I left Muddy Gap.”

  Her initial joy passed as Sally noted the air of sadness about her man. Then she looked beyond him to where the returning hands should have been near the corral. “Did you ride on ahead? Where are the others?”

  Smoke’s delight at being home dissolved. “They—they’re gone, Sally. Killed by rustlers. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Seated at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, Smoke related to his beloved Sally the ordeal he and his friends had undergone since they had left the Sugarloaf. When he concluded, Sally brushed a tear from the corner of one eye and cleared her throat.

  “They’re at peace now. Oh, Smoke, I’m so sorry.” She went to him then and hugged him tightly, giving him the compassion and consolation he needed so badly, though he would never ask for it.

  By then, the working hands had ridden into the ranch yard. All but one headed for the hot meal awaiting them. Bobby Jensen, who had seen Smoke Jensen’s horse at the tie rail, broke from the rest and raced to the main house. He burst through the kitchen door and threw himself at Smoke.

  “You’re home! I jist knew you’d be here today,” the boy said.

  “Did you now?” Smoke tousled Bobby’s white blond hair.

  “Are you gonna take me along the next time?” Bobby asked through his pleasure at seeing Smoke again.

  Suddenly Smoke’s thoughts rebounded to Tommy Olsen. He reflected o
n how the boy, only a year older than Bobby, had become a man in the crucible of their shared hardship. He wanted so much that such suffering would never visit Bobby. But then, the lad was growing up. He held Bobby out at arm’s length.

  “Bobby, it is sometimes wise to be careful what one wishes for. You might just get it. As to going with me . . . not the next time. I think when you turn fourteen will be soon enough. We’ll go find us an adventure then.” And a tame one at that, Smoke promised himself.

  Sally Jensen joined her husband and adopted son and embraced both her men. Smoke was home and wise as always, and all was well in her world.

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  Copyright© 1996 William W Johnstone

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3636-3