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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Granger yanked the cloth band free and looked that way. Young Clell Eilert knelt in the dust, his Colt held limply in his left hand. “Git down, boy. Get clear of this now,” Stumpy commanded. He fired a round at the man who must have shot Eilert, and noted with satisfaction when the slug tore into the right side of the outlaw’s chest. Another hand lay dead in a welter of gore. Nate Miller waved a six-gun over his head and called to his men.

  “Mount up, boys. Git the hell out of here.”

  He roughly threw Sally onto the saddle of the dead hard case and led the way at a fast trot down the lane toward safety. Quickly his underlings broke off and followed suit. In less than two swirling minutes, the fight ended. Stumpy counted up the toll.

  “One of them dead, and one of ours,” he glumly reported to anyone interested in hearing. “At least two of them wounded, three of ours. What’s worse, though, is they got Miss Sally. There’s gonna be hell to pay for that.”

  “There’s gonna be hell to pay for that,” Ike Mitchell echoed Stumpy Granger when the hands returned, after being summoned by a shaken Sugarloaf worker.

  “Damn straight,” Stump muttered agreement.

  Ike surveyed the scene. “Get everyone who is able gathered up, Stumpy. We’ll pick a skeleton crew to maintain things here, the rest will ride after those bastards.”

  “Jist what I had in mind,” Stumpy offered.

  When everyone collected around Ike Mitchell, he outlined his plans. At once the hands who would accompany him went about making ready. It did not take long for Ike to see Bobby lead his mount to the corral rails and climb up to tie on his bedroll. Ike crossed to him.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby, you’re not going along.”

  “Yes…I…am,” Bobby insisted as he tightly jerked down on a pair of latigo strings. “It’s my fault anyway. I shoulda gone with Smoke. We could have stopped those guys long before now.”

  Taken aback by the boy’s vehemence, Ike could only shake his head. “That’s not realistic, Bobby. Smoke is miles from here, and these fellers came from who knows where. You cannot come with us. Smoke and Miss Sally would never forgive me.”

  Torment twisted Bobby’s features. His words came out heavy and torn with anguish. “I’ve gotta go. Don’t you see? She’s my mother!”

  Something ripped inside Ike Mitchell. Buried memories flared up of himself as a boy of twelve, standing over the grave of his mother, killed by Indians.” All right, Bobby. Bring that little carbine of yours, and your six-gun. We leave in ten minutes.”

  15

  Smoke Jensen bid farewell to Chief Brokenhorn early that morning. The Chief clasped Smoke’s forearm and nodded toward the northwest.

  “Go carefully, old friend. I will keep braves to watch the evil ones. I promise you that when you need them, warriors will come to help you.”

  “That could get you in a lot of trouble for leaving the reservation armed and without an army escort.”

  Thomas Brokenhorn gave him a fleeting, bitter smile and shrugged. “We are no strangers to the white man’s trouble. Ride in peace and send word when men are needed.”

  “Thank you, old friend. May your lodge always have ample food.”

  A twinkle filled the eyes of Brokenhorn. “You go now to those snakes in the grass?”

  “What a thing to call the Arapaho,” Smoke said in mock chastisement.

  “Old ways die hard. Old enemies even harder.”

  “Yes, I’m going to talk with Blackrobe. I’ll give him your best.”

  “What does this ‘best’ mean?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Better you didn’t know.” With that, Smoke Jensen swung into the saddle and rode off toward the Arapaho encampment.

  At the head of the column of vengeful ranch hands, Ike Mitchell soon noted that the trail of the kidnappers led roughly in the same direction Smoke Jensen said he would be taking. He said nothing of it at the time, content to be assured they quickly closed ground. Sally Jensen was a plucky lady. He felt confident she would do anything she could to slow down her abductors.

  Bobby Harris kept up well, Ike also observed. Not once did the boy complain of the fast pace or the ache that must be in full bloom in his thighs and crotch. They rode on through the afternoon. Twenty minutes out of each hour they walked their horses to keep them from becoming blown. If the outlaws failed to do the same, the chances of coming on them soon increased considerably. The western sky turned magenta and they had not yet made contact.

  Reluctantly, Ike called a halt for the day. While the hands went about the setup of camp, Ike took Bobby aside. They chewed on cold biscuits while the man tried to make his most important point with the boy.

  “Bobby, I want you to promise me one thing. When the shooting starts, you hold back. I want you out of the mix-up as far as you can be. Oh, you’ll have a chance to get in your licks. I want you to pick a spot from which you can watch and see any of the outlaws try to escape. If they do, pot ’em.”

  The boy nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”

  “Good boy.” Ike resisted the impulse to pat Bobby on the head and nodded instead. He strode back to the cookfire and poured coffee.

  When the last of the red-eye gravy had been sopped up with the last biscuit, and the final bit of ham had been munched contentedly, Ike Mitchell called the hands together around the fire. He informed them of the likelihood that the outlaws were headed for the same place as Smoke Jensen. He also advised that they had a good chance of catching up the next day. When the wranglers of the Sugarloaf had digested that, he asked for suggestions about what to do when they caught the kidnappers in the open.

  Handy Barker had the wildest idea. “I say we rope ’em by the ankles and drag those bastards to death.” Oddly enough, several hands agreed.

  “We oughta get the law in on this, don’t you think, Mr. Mitchell?” Perk Toller, the youngest, newest hand offered.

  Fred Grimes, an oldtimer, had a sobering thought. “Remember one thing. Those fellers have Miss Sally with them. We will have to be mighty careful with any shooting we do. Best thing I think we can do is find ’em, then get around them and set up an ambush. Two of us could make a grab for Miss Sally while the rest of the outlaws are tryin’ to escape the ambush.”

  Ike thought that the most reasonable, if a bit timid. Yet, Bobby Harris summed up their general attitude with his quiet, simple statement. “I say we kill ’em all.”

  Deep, rhythmic throbbing came from the big, “singing” drum of the Arapaho village. Four men sat at it, each with his padded beater, pounding out the notes of a hunt song. Shoulders hunched forward, their heads thrown back to the star-milked sky, they chanted the words of the favored piece. A huge fire burned nearby, with the chiefs and elders seated before it with their honored guest.

  Smoke Jensen leaned back on a porcupine quill-decorated backrest and gnawed on a rib bone. The meat was sweet and rich. In the chill of the high plains night, smaller fires flickered in every lodge, making of themselves a vast display of huge, skin lanterns. When the gunfighter licked his fingers to signal he was through eating, Chief Blackrobe produced a pipe, lighted it with a coal from the fire, and made the six points. Then he passed the calumet to Smoke Jensen, who did the same as his host, took a long draw for himself and began to speak of his reason for being there.

  “A moon ago, three bad men escaped from Yuma Prison in far off Arizona. They have taken a vow to hunt and kill me. I do not fear them. They are only three. But, they have taken a gang to themselves, dangerous men, made all the more so because they are not the best at what they do. They number many times two hands.” Smoke paused to let that sink in.

  “It is said that these men have ridden into this country,” Smoke continued. “Though why they come here I do not know.”

  Silence followed for a while, during which Smoke passed the pipe on. At last Blackrobe spoke. “We have seen such men. As you say, they number many. They rode through here two suns ago. I did not like their looks, though in truth, they did
no harm. So I sent young warriors to watch over their progress. I would believe that they are the same men of which you speak. If so, you could use some help. I promise to take this up with the Council. If approved, men can be sent whenever you need them. Now, let us talk of other things and drink some of the coffee you have brought with you.”

  Bound hand and foot, Sally Jensen sat on a rock, apart from the scruffy band of thugs who had taken her captive. She was cold, hungry, and miserable, though determined not to let her captors know that. With only a faint orange glow on the horizon, one of the hard cases separated from the rest and came toward her. He carried a tin plate and a spoon.

  “I have some grub here. Brung you some water, too. I’ll untie your hands so you can eat, if you promise not to make a fuss.”

  Sally thought it wise to remain assertive. “I doubt I could keep down anything cooked by the likes of any of you.”

  A low chuckle sounded in the shadows. “You’d be surprised. Ol’ Hank’s a fair to middlin’ cook. If you aim to live through this, you’ll need to eat to keep up yer strength.”

  She recognized the truth to that. “I suppose you are right. I promise not to try to escape while my hands are free.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. Because I’m gonna sit right here and watch you.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Sally asked once her hands had been freed and she held the plate.

  He saw no reason not to respond. “North. To a little town name of Dubois. The boss says that yer husband will come there to get you free.”

  Sally frowned and iron edged her words. “If he does, you can be sure you will all regret the day it happens.”

  Again that irritating, superior chuckle. “I doubt that. Lady, there’s thirty-eight of us. More’n enough to face down Smoke Jensen.”

  “Are you sure? What do you really know about my husband?”

  Considering that a moment, the outlaw spoke softly. “I ain’t never seen him, ma’am. But, I hear he’s one ring-tail heller when he’s riled.”

  Sally smiled to herself, pleased with this response. “That’s true enough. He and three others took on more than fifty men one time. Smoke was shot twice, but he killed or wounded twenty of them by himself.”

  “Lord God, ma’am, if you’ll excuse my cussin’. He’s a bit more than most of these fellers are expectin’. Some of us is purty good, but not that good.”

  “Another time, he took on thirteen men in the middle of a street by himself. Five of them died, the other eight received one or more wounds. Smoke took a crease across the top of his left shoulder,” she added sweetly.

  “That’s powerful good shootin’, ma’am.”

  Sally used all her feminine wiles to sell her message. “I thought you ought to know. Perhaps it would be wise for you to make the others aware of these things?”

  Thoughtful silence followed. “Ummm. Yes, I do think you’re right.”

  A rustle of brush and crunch of a stone underfoot announced the arrival of another of the outlaws. A hulking brute, he smelled of tobacco smoke, stale whiskey, and unwashed body. A broken-toothed grin shined yellowish in the reflected firelight. Fists on hips, he took a long, slow look at Sally Jensen. Abruptly, he reached out and chucked her under the chin, his thick thumb and forefinger squeezing painfully.

  “Well, now, I reckon it’s time for us to get a little relief, don’t you, Sam?” With his other hand he massaged his crotch suggestively.

  Sally’s confidant, Sam, bristled immediately. “You heard what Nate said, an’ Mr. Spectre, too. She ain’t to be touched.” He sounded as though he meant it.

  Menace bristled in the lout’s words. “You callin’ me out, Sam?”

  “I reckon, if needs be.”

  Nate Miller appeared out of nowhere. He gave the surly thug a hard shove. “Get back where you belong. You, too, Sam. Once Miz Jensen is fed, anyway.” He tipped his hat to Sally. “Sorry, ma’am, if Ogilvey upset you. He knows better. Or he at least should. I’ll have Sam here rig you a safe place to sleep.”

  Icily, Sally answered him. “Thank you, you are so kind.”

  Silently, she hatched plan after plan on how to escape. And rejected them all. The time would come, she kept telling himself. It surely would.

  Ike Mitchell sat his horse, his face a mask of dejection. The trail they had followed so far had completely disappeared. He pointed to the multiple tracks that led into a swiftly flowing stream. Early that morning they had ridden hard and fast to the north to get around the outlaws. An ideal spot had been picked for an ambush, and the Sugarloaf hands had settled in to wait.

  When the kidnappers had not appeared by noon, Ike had to conclude that they had taken a new trail. He set three men southeast along the way by which he had expected the outlaws to approach. They found the camp, and a trail that led off due west. Hastily, one returned to inform Ike. He immediately started off in pursuit of the new route. Fogging along the new path, they eventually came to this fast-flowing mountain stream. The horses they sought had entered it right enough.

  Only they did not come out on the other side. Fifty-fifty chance for up or down stream. Ike considered it a while, then consulted the others. “You boys have tracked enough horses in your time. What do you say? Did they go up or down?”

  Stumpy had his ideas. “I say up. It’s in keeping with they goin’ to Wyoming.”

  That did it for Ike. “I agree. Three of you trail south, downstream, for about four miles. If you don’t cut any sign, turn around and join up with us as soon as you can.” He eyed the gathered hands. “All of you keep a sharp eye. They can’t stay in that water for long. We’ll ride both sides of the banks. Make better time that way.”

  Monte Carson sweated bullets. Hot sun beat down on the waving sea of grass in the Great Divide Basin. He felt gratitude that Hank Evans had come along. Never complaining, that big smile plastered on his freckled face even in this heat, Hank rode at Monte’s side. Bare-headed, Hank’s carroty hair could be a flaming torch. They had covered considerable ground in the past two days since leaving the cabin of Morgan Crosby. Only today’s ride and they would be in the Green Mountains. If all went well, they would negotiate them by the end of the next day.

  Monte chafed at any delay in catching up to Smoke. Even if he only got word of the gunfighter’s passage he would feel better. Thirty-five to forty men in the Spectre gang. The words haunted him. Monte honestly doubted that the three of them could go against such numbers and come out of it alive. At least not all of them. Would it be Hank who got it? Or would he cash in his chips at long last?

  Never once did Monte consider that Smoke Jensen might be sent off to meet his Maker. Smoke was the stuff legends are made of. He was as close to being immortal as any man could hope to be. Self-consciously, Monte forced himself off this path of introspection. Last thing he needed before going into a shoot-out was to worry about the outcome. Years as a fast gun, and more as a lawman, had taught him that. He turned to look at his chief deputy as Hank shouted over the rumble of hooves.

  “What say I go off and find us something for supper?”

  Monte shook his head. “Wait until we’re in the mountains.”

  Hank patted his belly. “I hear there’s some pigs that gone wild up there in the Greens. Mighty tasty.”

  Monte laughed. “Exactly what I was thinking. Roast one of them whole and bring along what we don’t eat for tomorrow.”

  “A young porker would be real fine,” Hank agreed.

  Half an hour later, they came upon a pair of scruffy road agents who had stopped off to rob a hapless family of four who had a broken wagon wheel. Monte spotted them first, the man and woman frightened witless, hands in the air, while the human trash rifled their clothing for valuables. Two sobbing children were cowering behind the jacked up wheel. Monte had his six-gun out of leather before thinking about it.

  So engrossed were the thieves that they failed to notice the approach of the lawmen. Monte got within twenty yards of the pinched-faced one before
the bit of crud raised a sallow, startled face to stare at the threat of a .45 Colt. Unable to shoot because of the proximity of the victims, Monte anticipated that the outlaw would not be so inhibited.

  He jinked to the right a moment before the craven robber fired. The bullet cracked past and the shooter jumped to one side to get a clearer shot at his intended target. Monte seized on the change of position to get off a round. His slug flew straight and true.

  It struck the miscreant in the center of his chest, punched through a lung and severed the aorta. The thug literally bled to death before he realized he was dying. His legs went out from under him and he flopped on the ground. His partner exchanged shots with Hank and dived for the protection of the damaged wagon. Hank sent more lead after him. The slug cut chips from the wagon’s sideboard. Meanwhile, Monte Carson edged his horse to the off side of the buckboard and stood in place to meet the brigand when he rounded the harnessed team.

  “What th’ hell?” the snaggle-toothed outlaw blurted.

  “Throw it down,” Monte commanded.

  “Hell no!” the bandit shouted defiantly.

  Monte’s horse shied in the instant when he fired. His bullet went wide and low, to gouge deeply into the road agent’s hip. With a yelp of pain, the hoodlum dropped to his good knee. His Colt bucked and snorted fire. The slug cut a hot line along Monte’s ribcage. Then his own Peacemaker barked and the highwayman flipped over backward. Monte and Hank reined in, checked the dead men and turned back to the startled pilgrims.

  “Praise the Lord!” the blonde woman declared, hands clasped and upraised.

  “You saved us, mister. We’re much obliged.”

  Monte had his dander aroused. “No thanks to the both of you. Folks should know better not to be out here unarmed, or without an escort.”

  Icily, the woman answered him in self-righteousness. “We do not believe in guns, mister. They’re the work of the devil.”