“Yes. It will be more than enough to purchase a large, steam-screw vessel.” Victor Spectre laughed lightly, his voice warm with self-pride. “The owner’s stateroom will be quite lavish, I promise you. You will travel in it, to oversee our enterprises in Mexico. It is a turbulent land, I grant you. And I sometimes succumb to a father’s weakness. I worry about you going there alone.”
“I won’t be alone, Father. I have engaged the services of ten good men. True, they are young and filled with the prospect of adventure. But they are fast, and good with their guns. But I’m faster and the best. Besides, you’re sending along five of your most trusted underlings.”
“The Mexican bandits can come at you with more than a hundred men, Trenton.”
“Not to worry, Father. Not with that Gatling gun.” Trenton paused and frowned a moment. “We should have had more money for this expansion. What are you going to do to recover our losses in Colorado?”
Righteous anger clouded the face of Victor Spectre. “Try again. Perhaps in New Mexico or Nebraska. Even Kansas. I hear the sod-busters there have banks fat and ripe for the plucking. What burns deep inside me is that our setbacks in Colorado are the doing of but a single man. I find that hard to believe, but all of the evidence and the accounts of the survivors agree.”
“Who is that, Father?”
“That goddamned Smoke Jensen. May his soul rot in the vilest pit of hell.”
Suddenly the smaller door, inset in the tall, wide portals of the barn, flew open and a man stood framed by the jamb. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt, with trousers and moccasins of the same material. Slung low on his right hip, the butt of a Colt Peacemaker protruded from its holster. High on his left, canted at an angle, the butt of a second revolver showed in another scabbard.
“I believe someone has just used my name in vain.”
Choked with rage, Victor Spectre could barely form words. “You—you’re Smoke Jensen?”
“Well, I’m not God.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to arrest the both of you. Your gang is being taken care of by the Army and the Pinkertons.”
Victor Spectre sputtered and his face turned scarlet. “Goddamn you to hell, Smoke Jensen.” So saying, Victor went for his gun. Likewise, so did his son.
Trenton Spectre proved that more lay behind his words than teenage braggadoccio. He was fast and he was good. He had the muzzle of his weapon clear of leather before Smoke Jensen even reached for his righthand Colt. The .44 in Trenton’s hand began an upward arc when Smoke drew with blinding, precise speed. Smoke had accurately judged that the boy would be quicker and surer than his father. The hammer fell on Smoke’s .45 Peacemaker an instant before Trenton lined up the barrel of his six-gun.
A bullet from Smoke’s revolver punched a hole two fingers’ width below Trenton’s rib cage. It staggered the stout, broad-shouldered boy and threw his shot off. The slug sent up a shower of fine bits of straw and dust from the dirt floor of the barn halfway between himself and Smoke Jensen. Smoke pivoted to confront Victor.
Slowed by age, and hampered by the long cut of his suit coat, Victor Spectre had barely freed his Smith American from its shoulder holster when Smoke Jensen fired at him. Enormous pain erupted in the right side of Victor’s chest and he dropped to his knees. The revolver fell from his grasp and thudded on the hard-packed ground. Smoke had no time to waste on him.
Youth totaled the balance in the unended contest between Smoke Jensen and Trenton Spectre. Trenton managed to maintain his grip on his .44 Colt and brought it up while Smoke fired at the boy’s father. Now he blinked rapidly in an effort to fight off his blurred vision and raised the long barrel of the Frontier Model Colt. Beyond the blade front sight, the figure of Smoke Jensen jumped in and out of focus. Frantically he tried with a sweat-slicked thumb to draw back the hammer. He saw a flash of yellow orange and felt a terrible impact in his heart.
Then Trenton Spectre felt nothing at all. Dead before he hit the floor of the barn, Trenton Spectre still held tightly onto his six-gun. A scream of paternal anguish tore out of Victor Spectre’s throat. He grabbed wildly at his .44 Smith and launched himself at Smoke Jensen.
“You bastard!” he howled.
Smoke fired hastily. His slug cut a deep trough along the head of Victor Spectre from temple to rear lobe along the left side. The wound released a halo of blood drops and knocked the criminal mastermind unconscious. Still charged for battle, Smoke Jensen had to force himself to hesitate and take stock. In an eyeblink he realized that the fight had ended.
A month went by before Victor Spectre could be brought to trial. Smoke Jensen attended, much put out at having to leave the High Lonesome to attend court in St. Louis. The first thing he noticed when the bailiffs brought Victor Spectre to the defense table was the ugly wound he had given the man. It had healed into a mass of scar tissue, from which sprouted short, totally white hairs that contrasted with the black of the remainder like the pattern on the pelt of a skunk. Fitting, Smoke had thought at the time….
That had been nearly seven years ago. Now, Smoke Jensen had to allow that instead of preparing himself for a new, reformed life, Victor Spectre had spent his years in prison honing a sharper hatred and desire for revenge. Something, Smoke knew, would have to be done about it, and soon.
With dawn still a silver-gray promise on the horizon, Smoke Jensen broke camp the next morning. He had packed away everything and had only a skillet, coffee pot, trestle, and iron tripod to cool and stow in a parfleche before swinging into the saddle. He aimed Thunder’s nose into the northwest and advanced into the tall, barely undulating, green sea that covered the Great Divide Basin.
Without any wind to fight, particularly a sharp one out of the northwest, Smoke made good headway. He had his first destination firmly in mind: the Arapaho and Shoshoni encampments of the Wind River Reservation, near Riverton, on the Bighorn River. He had only the ramparts of the Green Mountains, now a low, dark line that protruded above the curvature of the earth, between himself and his old friends among the Arapaho and Shoshoni. Smoke had a notion, reinforced by his recollection of the determination and implacable evil of Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner, that he might have need to call upon his Indian friends sometime in the near future.
For the time being, though, he remained content to let the horses eat the miles and leave him to his thoughts. Not for an instant had he harbored any regrets for killing Trenton Spectre. The boy was just shy of eighteen, and corrupt enough to be ripe for harvest by the Grim Reaper. It troubled him far more that he had not finished off Victor Spectre. Although justice remained swift and sure in most cases, three men he had spared had cheated the hangman and now required retribution from himself. Too much money, all of it ill-gotten, had bought a special kind of justice for them. A small thing perhaps, though another chink in the armor of the rule of law. Stop it, Smoke admonished himself. Such hankie-twisting philosophizing was a mental crutch for the weak and the cowardly.
He didn’t lack for money or the things it would buy. Only a hypocrite would criticize and condemn the wealthy while he, himself, was rich. Provided, of course, his mind mocked him, it was money honestly earned. He quickly dismissed the conundrum a moment later when he saw the figures of three mounted men across his path.
“Howdy, a feller don’t see many people out this way,” the one in the middle remarked when Smoke Jensen had ridden up.
Smoke gave his reins a turn around the saddlehorn and tipped up the brim of his Stetson left-handed. “Now, that’s a fact. You gents headed for Colorado?”
A thick, walrus mustache twitched in a mirthless smile. “Actually, it’s Nebraska. Not to pry, mister, but where might you be directed?”
Smoke took notice of the way the trio eyed his ’Palouse stallion, expensive saddle, and the heavy-laden Debbie, his packhorse. “Thought I might set a spell in Riverton.”
The talkative one shook his head regretfully. “That’s a sort of unwelcoming place. Bein’ all t
hat close to an Injun reservation makes folks a mite edgy.”
“True, I’ve been there before, know a few of the folks.”
“Yep. That could make a difference. Any of ’em know you’re comin’?”
Smoke smelled the danger plain as if someone had set fire to an outhouse. He decided to play it out. “No. Didn’t write ahead or anything.”
The spokesman cut his eyes to his companions before he replied to Smoke. “That’s a might nice saddle, all silver-chased and such.”
“Thanks.” Any time now, Smoke cautioned himself.
Pale, gray eyes suddenly hardened to iron. “Much too nice for a saddle tramp like you.” A gloved hand reached for the plow-handled grip of a Frontier Colt. “We’ll jist relieve you of it.”
Smoke Jensen sighed regretfully in the split-second it took for his long, strong fingers to curl around the butt-grip of his Colt Peacemaker. He and the highwayman drew almost as one. This fellow is good, Smoke acknowledged as the sear notches on his hammer clicked past. His attacker had the muzzle of his .44 clear of leather at the moment when Smoke Jensen dropped the hammer on a primer.
Bucking in Smoke’s hand, the big .45 sent a hot slug flying into the chest of the would-be thief. An expression of disbelief and wonder washed one of intense pain off the face of the robber. His own weapon discharged downward and grazed the right front shoulder of his mount. The horse shrieked, reared, and threw its rider. Amazed that he still held his six-gun, the bandit hit with a spine-wrenching jar.
Fighting back pain, he raised his Colt and tried to ear back the hammer. Smoke Jensen had changed his point of aim in the short time the horse panicked. He deliberately put a round in the right shoulder of the man to his right front. Then brought his attention back to the first gunhawk. The Colt in the hand of Smoke Jensen spat a long spear of flame as it expelled another bullet.
This one popped a neat, black-rimmed hole in the forehead of Smoke’s assailant, exploding messily out the back of his head, which showered the third highwayman with gore. Convinced by this display of speed and accuracy, he let the English Webley drop back into his holster and raised his hands with alacrity. His horse did a nervous little dance and that caused his eyes to widen and fear to paint his face.
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’. I give up.”
“I gathered as much. Control your mount, then reach across with your left hand, and pull that iron from its pocket.”
With that accomplished, the youthful thief looked at Smoke Jensen. “What are we gonna do now, mister?”
“We’re going to play a little Indian game of trust. You are going to load your dead friends on their horses and then take them to the nearest town and turn yourself in to the sheriff for tryin’ to rob and kill me. If there’s any money on your heads, tell the sheriff to hold it for me.”
“Wh—who are you? Who should I say?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
“Oh, sweet Christ. I never knew.”
“Well, now you do.”
A new idea came to the rattled gunman. “What if I don’t do like you say an’ turn them an’ myself in?”
“Then I’ll hunt you down and kill you,” Smoke spoke simply.
Instantly ghostly pale, the youth worked his lips a moment before any sound would come. “I believe you. By God, I believe you would. I swear it’ll go jist like you say, Mr. Jensen.”
Smoke gave him a bleak smile. “Somehow, I believe you’re telling the truth.”
Monte Carson laid the three telegraph message forms on his desk, his eyes fixed beyond the open door to the sheriff’s office in Big Rock, Colorado. The first report came from the warden at Yuma Prison, detailing the depredations committed by the escapees in Arizona. Brutal bastards, Monte allowed. The other two came from Utah. Swollen to a gang now, the murders and robberies grew larger in scope. The third had included the information that the gang had last been seen headed for Wyoming.
That gave him pause to think. Frowning, he rose with an anguished creak from his chair and poured coffee. Seated again, he ground his teeth in a chewing motion and once more stared far off into the dark sea of pines on the distant slopes. At last he came to his conclusion. He smacked his lips and slapped an open palm on his desk. The loud report caused the jailer, Monte’s friend of years, to jump.
“Abner,” Monte announced in his best snake oil salesman voice, “I think this is a good time for that little vacation I’ve been promising myself. Get in a little fishin’, spoil myself with fancy food in Denver, visit friends.”
Abner cocked a shaggy, gray eyebrow. “Like Smoke Jensen, for instance?”
Monte pulled a contrite expression. “Am I that transparent?”
A grin revealed long, yellowed teeth, and Abner nodded. “With them telegraphs on yer desk, an’ Smoke headed into the same country, don’t take a locomotive designer to know what’s in your head.”
“Right you are,” Monte admitted. “Smoke’s bound for the Yellowstone country. And he’s the most valuable friend I’ve got.”
Abner studied his boss. “You figger to go all alone?”
Monte pushed back and came to his boots. “I reckoned Hank Evans might make good company. If I push it, I might catch up before this mob of killers finds Smoke.”
Spectre, his partners, and their gang—thirty-eight strong now—entered Wyoming by way of Flaming Gorge. Everywhere they could look, beauty surrounded them. The delicate, pastel greens of aspen and cottonwood set the air to shimmering as their foliage quaked in the steady breeze. Earth tones ranged from black loam, to yellow, white, ochre, burnt umber, and red-orange, in strata of rock and soil that undulated along the raw faces of the eroded canyon walls. A cheery, blue stream burbled along over water-smoothed pebbles. Wildflowers nodded and bobbed in a riot of yellow buttercups, blue violets, bright red ladies slipper, and fields of white petaled daises. Birds twittered and trilled their mating calls from every point of the compass.
Sadly, all of nature’s splendor went unnoticed by the grim-faced riders, who kept their heads straight ahead, eyes on the trail. Dorcus Carpenter and Farlee Huntoon vociferously ran it down, maintaining that their own mountains of West Virginia were much prettier, worth more as farm land, and produced the best white lightning in the whole United States. Gus Jaeger growled to them to shut up.
Only the scout, half a mile ahead on point, observed and appreciated this peaceful environment. For a moment, it profoundly touched his inner self. Sighing, his eyes misted slightly, he even gave thought to putting spurs to his mount and riding the hell away from this nest of vipers he had joined. Then the reality of the huge amount of money they had been offered reined in his conscience and he went about his job as expected. At half-past eleven he picked their nooning site and began to gather firewood.
After putting away a tin plate of warmed-over sow belly and beans, Victor Spectre selected seven hard-faced, humorless outlaws and called them together out of hearing of the rest of the gang.
“I have a special job for you men,” Spectre informed them. “While we ride on into Wyoming, I want you to take supplies enough for eight days and head southeast into Colorado. There, you will grab a certain woman and bring her back to the little town of Dubois. Think you can do that without any problems?”
Nate Miller drew himself up, thumbs hooked behind the buckle of his cartridge belt. “Sure, Mr. Spectre. Nothin’ to it. Where is it we’re going?”
“Your target is the Sugarloaf. That’s the ranch owned by Smoke Jensen.”
14
Soft breezes, heavily perfumed, sighed across the rippling grass on the northern slope of the Green Mountains. Smoke Jensen had located a low pass, hardly more than a gentle incline to a sway-back saddle and, beyond the notch, a rolling scarp, carpeted in rich green buffalo grass that had already grown belly-high on Thunder. In the distance, beyond the last rampart, Smoke noted a thin, gray column of woodsmoke. If Smoke recalled correctly, that would be the digs of Muleshoe Granger, an oldtimer who clung to the ways of the trapp
ers, regardless of little or no market for pelts. Granger had a Shoshoni wife and—had it been four?—kids the last time Smoke had been through. Smiling, Smoke altered course to put him in line with the cookfire’s stream.
Halting some fifty yards from the log-fronted building dug into the hillside, Smoke raised an empty right hand and hailed the bent, bow-legged figure who had paused to study his approach. “Hello, the cabin. Is that you, Muleshoe? I’m Smoke Jensen. May I ride on in?”
Delayed by distance, Granger’s words reached Smoke a bit muffled. “Why, shore. C’mon in.” When Smoke reached the dooryard, Granger continued. “We’s fixin’ to take a bite to eat. Step down and join us.”
Smiling, Smoke did just that. “I’d be obliged.”
Muleshoe’s family had grown to seven, Smoke noted. Those under twelve were buck naked, sun-browned like berries. The youngest was a mere toddler, who clung shyly to the skirt of his mother’s elk-skin dress, and peeped around her ample hips at the stranger. While they ate, Muleshoe Granger gave Smoke Jensen a fish-eye from time to time, then smacked his lips, licked the gravy from an elk stew off his fingers and gave a curt nod.
“Seems as how I should know you. As I recall, we met long whiles back. Ain’t you ol’ Preacher’s young sidekick?”
“That I am. And I’ve been through these parts several times on my own.”
Muleshoe blinked. “That a fact? Well, they say the first thing goes is the memory.”
Smoke gave a low chuckle, and a nod toward the younger children. “It must be true. At least it’s not something else.”
“What you gettin’ at, Smoke?”
“Last time I visited your digs was about ten years ago. You had only four children then, as I recall.”
Muleshoe laughed out loud and slapped a hard-muscled thigh. “Nope, it was three. But, by jing, you’ve got the right of it there. Plenty lead in the old pencil. Moon Raven’s carryin’ another in the oven right now.”
Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) Page 16
