Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Shyness overcome by an empty belly, the toddler had come forward. His sister, a girl of seven or so, helped him to a bowl of stew. All the while, he stared fixedly at Smoke Jensen. Smoke pointed to the youngsters with his chin.

  “That’s good to hear. You know, you two bake up some mighty fine-lookin’ youngins.”

  Muleshoe beamed. “The pride of Granger Valley.”

  Smoke looked around. “You’ve named the place, then?”

  “Yep. Had to. Folks is movin’ in faster than fleas. Why, I’ve got me a neighbor all crowded up to me, cheek by jowl. He’s not more’n ten miles over to the east. I had to file with the territorial government to hold what’s mine.”

  “Civilization spoils everything, doesn’t it,” Smoke observed.

  Muleshoe nodded. “Yep. There’s powerful truth in those words. Now, are you real pressed for time? Or do you figger to stay the night? The youngins would love to hear some tales about Preacher,” he coaxed.

  “I’m not in that great a hurry. If you’ll put up with me, I’d be pleased to spend the night.”

  Muleshoe gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s good. Bein’ as who you are and where, it might be best. From what I hear, you might be ridin’ into some real danger.”

  “How’s that?” Smoke asked.

  “A friend rode through the day before yesterday, told me about a whole passel of men ridin’ grim and hard in the saddle to the west of us. Says they come up outta Utah.”

  Smoke nodded his understanding. “That fits with what I’ve been hearing. You can be sure I’ve caught wind of them from time to time. But, tell me, have you seen anything of Three Finger Jack lately?”

  With evening coming on, Victor Spectre, Ralph Tinsdale, and Olin Buckner had settled in camp stools at the front of one of the three Sibley tents they had acquired along the way. A decanter of whiskey gave off long, amber shafts of brightness in the flicker of firelight, as it passed from hand to hand. For all the outward appearance of conviviality, tension fairly crackled from one man to the next. Buckner’s tone became quarrelsome as he vented his impatience.

  “This protracted journey across the wilderness is becoming burdensome, Victor. I have never been much of a horseman. My rump and thighs still ache after each day’s ride.”

  “You’ll toughen up soon enough,” Victor told him unsympathetically.

  “I agree with Olin,” Ralph Tinsdale injected. “If our purpose remains the same, to revenge ourselves on Smoke Jensen, then why don’t we simply head to the Sugarloaf and kill him in his own yard?”

  Victor Spectre shook his head in resignation. Small wonder these two had been taken by Jensen so easily. Then he made a final effort to explain. “For one thing, it would be too quick and too easy. I want Smoke Jensen to die slowly and hurt a great deal while doing it. Then there’s the fact that Colorado is quite civilized now. There are trains and the telegraph, thousands of residents, and competent lawmen.” He did not go quite so far as to admit he feared being trapped in the more populous country around the Sugarloaf. Not by the law, but rather by Smoke Jensen. Gus Jaeger approached, his face even more horselike than ever.

  “Mr. Spectre, the men are getting down-right antsy. They want for the walls of a saloon around them, some good whiskey, and some wimmin to tussle with. When are we going to get around city lights again?”

  Spectre sighed. “In due time. What’s wrong with the liquor we’ve provided for them? Isn’t it good enough?”

  “Nothin’ wrong, really. Only that they’d like someone to share it with.” Gus snickered. “What’s up ahead?”

  “An Indian reservation. A rather large one. Which reminds me. In light of what you’ve said, make it clear to the men that they are not, I repeat are not, under any circumstances, to attempt to bed any of the squaws. Indians are quite strange in their attitude toward women. If you are their friend and a guest, they will offer you a daughter or a wife to warm your bed, and think nothing of it. But if you lay eyes, let alone a hand, on any woman not offered to you, your scalp will decorate their shield. Make certain the men are aware of this. Tell them, also, that if any of them do pester the Indian women, I’ll personally kill them before the bucks have a chance to.”

  Jaeger frowned. “That’s mighty cold…sir.”

  “It’s meant to be. Now, go on and cool their ardor with a little whiskey.” After Gus Jaeger departed, Victor Spectre returned to the subject of Smoke Jensen.

  “This little town up north, Dubois, is ideal for what we want to do. Not so large as to be difficult to take over, yet not so small that we cannot house this little army of ours within the city limits. And, from others I’ve met in prison, Smoke Jensen has a soft spot in his heart for the people of Dubois. All we need do is take it over and send word. Smoke Jensen will come to us. Further, if my other little project bears fruit, we’ll have a most attractive bait to dangle in front of him.”

  Two days later, Smoke reached the lodge of Chief Thomas Brokenhorn of the Shoshoni at midday. Small children ran naked and shrieking among the Shoshoni brush summer lodges. Cookfires sent up their columns of white, while savory odors emanated from the pots supported over them by tripods. Warriors gathered from their homes to form a silent column, along which Smoke rode to the central lodge. He could not shake the feeling that their formation exactly mimicked that of the punishment gaunt-let. He banished the unease when he saw the broad grin on the face of his old friend, Brokenhorn, who stood before his lodge with arms folded over a barrel chest.

  “You have come far, old friend,” Chief Brokenhorn declared by way of greeting.

  “So have you,” Smoke responded, meaning the older man’s elevation to Civil Chief. “You were only leader of the Otter Society when I last saw you.”

  “Thank you, Swift Firestick. Dismount and make my lodge your own. We will eat, smoke, and talk of old times.”

  “It would be a pleasure, friend Thomas. Although it is recent times I am most interested in.”

  Brokenhorn nodded curtly. “Yes. Some very bad men rode through here yesterday. You must be seeking them.” A kindliness lighted his eyes. “They are many. Come, take of the food of my woman, first, burn a pipeful, then we talk of these matters.”

  Monte Carson received a warm welcome from Morgan Crosby. Traveling light and fast, the lawman had made it that far in only four days. He filled his belly with some of Morgan’s good cooking and settled back with a pipe he had taken to smoking of late.

  Morgan broke one of their frequent long, silent spells. “I reckon you’d be interested in hearin’ anything about Smoke Jensen?”

  Monte took a long pull on the pipe. “I didn’t come all this way for exercise. He’s been here?”

  “Yep. Five—six days ago. Had some right unpleasant fellers on his trail, though.”

  “What did Smoke do about that?”

  “It’s what we did, you should be sayin’.”

  Monte let a thin stream of white trickle from his lips. “All right, what did you two do about it?”

  Morgan chuckled throatily before answering. “Mind now, I’d never seen Smoke Jensen in action before. He’s ‘bout as smooth as a well-oiled locomotive. Betwixt us, we convinced those fellers it were a bad idea to try takin’ Smoke in with no more than five of ’em on their side.”

  A grunt came from Monte. “All right, where’s the bodies buried?”

  An expression of childlike innocence lighted the face of Morgan Crosby. “There ain’t no bodies buried.” He paused, slapped his thigh and cackled. “After Smoke rode out, I drug ’em off to feed the coyotes and buzzards. One of them got away. Though he be carrin’ about six of my double-aught buck. Big feller he was, else he woulda been critter bait, too.” Then he went on to describe the fight.

  Monte Carson considered this. No doubt in his mind that Smoke Jensen could have handled all five by himself. Better than even odds when they split up like that. And Smoke not getting a scratch. Typical. Monte finished his bowl, knocked out the dottle, and ground the toba
cco embers under one boot sole. He stretched and came upright.

  “Which way did Smoke head?”

  “That-away,” Morgan told him, a finger pointed to the northwest. “Up Yellowstone way.”

  Monte nodded. “That fits with what he told me.”

  “Which is?”

  “Smoke’s bound for Jackson’s Hole.”

  “A feller could take on a small army if he knew his way around there,” Morgan opined. “An’ I reckon that’s what’s after him from what I’ve learned.”

  “Smoke knows the place well enough. Ol’ Preacher taught him every nook and cranny.” Monte turned to face Morgan, still seated on the porch. He extended his hand. “Much obliged for the vittles. Sure sets nice in the belly. There’s still a lot of daylight to be used so I reckon I’ll head on out. Plenty ground between here and the Hole.”

  “Come by any time, Sheriff Carson.”

  “Please, Monte.”

  Crosby beamed. “Make it Morgan, then. Be proud to have you stop by and stay a while. An’ bring your friend with you.”

  “I’ll try. Believe me, I will. Good day to you, Morgan.”

  “An’ to you, Monte.”

  Five minutes later, Monte Carson rode out of sight of the snug, though bullet-scarred cabin.

  A large, whole ribcage of elk had been properly demolished, along with stewed squash, mixed with nuts, wild onions, and berries. With signs and rudimentary Shoshoni, Smoke Jensen related the story of the Great Elk Hunt he had gone on when only a slight bit older than his attentive audience. Some twenty children from the village had gathered around Chief Brokenhorn’s fire to gawk at the tall, lean white man and hear his exciting stories.

  “It was a hard ride for me,” Smoke recounted. “I was still little enough my legs stuck out from the sides of my pony. Some of you must ride the same way, right?” Giggles and whispered accusations rippled through the cluster of Indian youngsters. Smoke waited them out and went on. “Preacher and I joined with a whole lot of other trappers for this hunt. It would be the biggest ever. Five hands of men, in my language, twenty-five, came from all parts of the mountains. Preacher, of course, was the best hunter of them all. He was first to find the herd, first to kill a bull elk. I got to dress it out.” More giggles and knowing nods.

  “That arrangement didn’t last long. By the third day, Preacher let me pick an elk out of the herd and take it as my own. ‘First,’ he told me, ‘say a little prayer to the bull’s High Self, askin’ permission to take its life. Say that you have hunger and will be even more hungry in the long winter to come. Ask that the animal’s spirit be born as the biggest elk of all.’ That made my chest swell and I thought I was really something. Preacher told me he learned to pray like that from the Shoshoni.”

  “That’s right,” Tom Brokenhorn injected. “He did. In the time of my grandfather. And I remember that hunt. I was no bigger than Chusha over there.” He indicated a boy of seven or so, squatted as close as he could get to Smoke Jensen. “Many of us joined in on that hunt and we all ate well the whole of winter.”

  Smoke went on to describe the surrounds each day and the shooting of elk with rifles and bow and arrow. He concluded, “Preacher told me later that three hundred bull elk and fifty young elk were taken in that hunt. We made meat for a week after.”

  “Tell us something more,” Chusha pleaded.

  Smoke stretched and forced a yawn. “Four stories is enough for one night. Your fathers will be wondering where you have gone. And your mothers will worry. Go on. I’ll have another story in the morning before I leave.”

  After the last, reluctant boy had walked off among the lodges, Smoke realized he actually was sleepy. He roused himself and headed for the lodge that had been prepared for him. Tomorrow he would head to the Arapaho camp.

  Seven hard-faced men rode onto the Sugarloaf early the next morning. They made no effort to conceal their approach from the headquarters buildings. Earlier, one of them had watched a large contingent of hands ride off to the horse pastures. By his count, only half a dozen remained to work around the barns and blacksmithy. Well and good, Nate Miller thought. When the Sugarloaf hands had gotten well out of sight and sound of the main ranch buildings, he ordered his crew forward.

  Riding slouched in the saddle, Nate led the outlaws up the steep two mile lane from the gate to the ranch yard. He and his men made only slight nods and grunted responses when hailed by the first man to discover them. Looking neither left nor right, they rode on. Stumpy Granger looked up from the anvil, which still rang from the blows he had given a particularly stubborn horseshoe. He made them right away as gunfighters.

  With most of the hands gone for the day, that did not bode well for those left behind, Stumpy considered. He wiped a black-smudged hand across his brow to eliminate the sheet of sweat that covered it, and watched silently, eyes slitted, as the hard cases walked their horses up to the tie-rail outside the kitchen door. There they dismounted. Still no one challenged them. Although they had been in several scrapes with Smoke Jensen, the ranch hands were hardly seasoned gunmen. They held back as the strangers started for the door.

  They soon found they had backed off too long when two of the human debris pushed into the kitchen. At last, the six wranglers began to gather around the outlaws.

  “What’s yer business on the Sugarloaf?” one of the bolder hands asked.

  “If it was any of your business, you’d have been told,” growled a rat-faced individual, his right hand on the smooth butt of his .45 Colt.

  Stumpy took up the challenge. “Mayhap you didn’t hear too well. This here is the Sugarloaf. Smoke Jensen’s ranch. Bein’ as how we belong here and you don’t, that makes it our business. What are you here for? An’ who sent you?”

  “Oldtimer, you really don’t want to know.”

  A forge hammer in his left hand, Stumpy menaced the five men he faced. He was about to speak again when a loud crash came from inside the house. Wood splintered and a man yelped.

  Sally Jensen looked up as the kitchen door swung open. Surprise washed over her face when she faced two unfamiliar men. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  A lean, lanky one, who she would later learn was named Nate Miller, asked, “Are you Sally Jensen?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Miller guffawed. “We’ve come to take you on a little visit.”

  “I think not. I have no plans to go anywhere,” Sally retorted defiantly. “Especially with the likes of you. Get out of my kitchen.”

  “When we go, we’re takin’ you with us.”

  Her purse lay in the middle of the table. Sally made a quick grab for it and produced her .38 Colt Lightning. She had already begun her squeeze through on the double-action rig when she spoke again. “Get…out…of…my…kitchen.”

  “Look out! She’s got a gun,” the man with Miller yelped.

  Sally came out of her chair with enough force to knock it over. One leg splintered when it struck the floor. Already, Miller had moved to the side. The other thug started to dive through the open doorway. Sally fired then. The slug cracked past close enough to the outlaw that he felt the hot wind. Sally started to squeeze off another round when Nate Miller dived at her from her blind side.

  Fingers like iron slats closed around her wrist. “Gimme that, bitch,” Miller spat.

  She fought like a Fury. Sally’s nails clawed Nate’s cheek. He yowled, and clapped a hand over the quartet of flowing red lines. He managed to get the web of his other hand between the hammer and the rear of the receiver of Sally’s Colt Lightning. The sharp little firing pin bit deeply into his skin. Sally stomped on his arch and then brought a knee up toward his groin. Only because he moved his right thigh did she fail to do him severe damage. Ignoring the deep gouges on his cheek, he used his bloody hand to shake her violently.

  “Let go of that gun,” he growled as he slammed her head into the point of his shoulder. Sally bit him on the arm. Miller grunted out his pain and punched her on the side of her head
. Sally saw a wild burst of stars behind her eyes and her knees sagged. It relaxed her grip on the revolver and it clattered loudly to the floor.

  Miller howled with pain as he shook his hand free of the firing pin and the weapon dropped away. Quickly he spun Sally around and took hold of both her shoulders. He shook her like one would an errant child.

  “Listen to me,” Miller spat furiously, flecks of foam flying with his whiskey breath. “You’re coming with us. Either over my shoulder or on your own two feet, you’re coming. I don’t much care which it is. Bart, give me a hand.”

  Bart turned away from the door with alacrity and crossed the room to where Nate held the dark-haired woman. Each man took an arm and frog-marched her to the door. Nate Miller turned sideways and led the way out, dragging Sally behind him. When she appeared as a captive, the hands at last reacted. As one, they went for their guns.

  When he saw Miss Sally in the clutches of the two hard cases, Stumpy Granger let fly with the hammer. Driven by the power of a blacksmith’s muscular arm, the heavy object slammed into the forehead of the rat-faced thug. He went down like a slaughterhouse steer. Stumpy cackled with glee.

  Already reaching for his six-gun, Stumpy chortled, “Right betwixt the runnin’ lights.”

  A swift exchange of lead followed. One bullet cracked by close enough to cut the knot on the headband Stumpy wore. Momentarily the sodden cloth fell over his eyes. It caused his shot to go wild, to slam into the wall of the house. One of the saddle trash shrieked in pain, gut-shot by two ranch hands at the same time. Blood bubbled up his throat and formed a pink froth on his lips. He shuddered mightily and fell face first into the dirt, dead from a perforated stomach and blasted liver before he hit the ground.

  “Stumpy, I’m hit,” a young voice called from the blacksmith’s right.