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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Judson Reese, deep in his cups, summed the experience up best. “They seem to come from everywhere at once, and entirely too close.”

  None of the dolts, who had been reduced to blurry vision and stagger-legged stumbles, volunteered to go out and find the wolves. When one of the cries changed from wolf to the cough and yowl of a mountain lion, several tough hombres paled noticeably and slunk away to upstairs rooms in the saloon for the night. Suddenly a shout of alarm came from one of the still-conscious sentries outside.

  “Fire! There’s a shed afire on the edge of the town.”

  Tongue thick with whiskey, Farlee Huntoon voiced the question many wanted an answer for. “Gol-dang, what caused that?”

  Nate Miller gave him a cold gaze. “Smoke Jensen. What else could it be?”

  Guffawing at the quandary of the lawless trash, Smoke Jensen and Zeke Duncan pulled back into the darkness to get some sleep before the big attack. Behind them, the abandoned, tumble-down shack continued to burn until first light.

  From her confinement in the hotel, Sally Jensen had heard the commotion outside. It cheered her more than anything had in a week. When the animal calls began, she rushed to the small barred window of the jail from the chair in which she had been sitting. She had been brought to the cell-block at sundown, when Smoke failed to appear. Now she knew why Smoke had not come in earlier.

  Smoke was out there now. Sally knew that as certainly as she knew her heart still beat. He hadn’t given up, and he would not make some useless sacrifice of himself to save her. The time would come soon. She had to be ready to act. Yet, in the back of her head, she worried for Smoke’s safety.

  Her worry increased when Victor Spectre burst into the marshal’s office and stormed into the cell-block. He ordered her cell unlocked and entered in a barely contained fury. Roughly he shot out an arm and grabbed her elbow in a steel grip.

  “This is all your fault,” he accused irrationally. “Smoke Jensen is on a rampage out there and it is all because you are here.”

  Sally glared at him stonily. “And who is it that had me brought here?”

  Coldly, Victor Spectre ignored her. “Your husband is being a nuisance and has to be taught a lesson. It is a pity that you have to be a part of that lesson. I had decided to give him more time,” Spectre lied smoothly. “Now, that is not possible. Tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock precisely, you will be taken out on the balcony of the hotel and shot to death.”

  Dawn’s light had not yet turned pink from gray when Smoke Jensen and his volunteers approached Dubois. At his suggestion, the Shoshonis and Arapahos kept well out of sight, spreading out on the north and south flanks of the town. From a distance, Smoke swept the streets with field glasses. He spotted a few sleepy hard cases on the streets. All drooped from lack of rest. All looked in a low state of readiness. Smoke made a quick decision to attack at once.

  “We won’t have a better time,” he told Monte Carson. “Surprise is still ours. We’ll swing through this group of houses and take the main business section in a wide sweep. If it will make you feel better, Monte, we’ll call out to them to surrender. At the least sign of resistance, we kill them where they stand.”

  “What about Sally?” Monte asked seriously.

  “I’ll find her. As a matter of fact, I have the notion Spectre will bring her to me.”

  Monte checked the face of his turnip watch. “Time to be doing it.”

  “I agree. Hank knows what to do?”

  Monte nodded. “He’ll attack from the far side when he hears the first shot.”

  That first discharge did not take long. Three hard cases came on the run from houses along a neat, tree-lined street. One of them, who had seen Smoke before, yelled to the others.

  “By God, that’s Smoke Jensen! Get him.”

  In the lead, Smoke took a hurried shot. His slug went a bit wide, to punch through the shoulder of one outlaw before the gunman could clear leather. Another appeared to trip over an invisible rope and sprawl in the gravel of the road, blood spewing from a gaping wound in his back. The third brigand, the one who had given the alarm, hastily reholstered his six-gun and threw his hands in the air. Those in the lead went on by him. Someone at the rear would gather him in. From the far side of town, Smoke could hear gunfire.

  Hank Evans and the remainder of the Sugarloaf hands would be streaming through to the business district. Another block and those on this side would join them. Then they would see. Smoke could only trust that it went the way he had planned it. Ahead he could see the balcony of the hotel. Three small figures stood on it. The one in the middle was that of a woman. Ice abruptly filled Smoke’s stomach.

  Another half block and the features became identifiable. Much as he wished otherwise, the woman was Sally. Smoke recognized Victor Spectre to one side. He held the muzzle of a Smith and Wesson American to her temple. At once, Smoke gave the signal to halt.

  “Take it easy, Spectre. I came to see my wife was safe.”

  Spectre snickered. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “You said that if I did not come in within two days, you would kill her the third.”

  Feigning astonishment, Spectre spoke mockingly. “Why, I believe you are right. But, now you are here. If you are prepared to gave yourself up, we can discuss the release of your wife.”

  “If I believed that, you could also sell me the Washington Monument. Release her now and we can talk about my surrender.”

  “No, Smoke,” Sally blurted.

  “She is right. The answer is no. Whether you cannot count, or you are arrogant, I made up my mind. I decided that she dies at eight o’clock this morning. Now that you are here, the situation has changed again. That gives you…” Spectre fished his watch from a vest pocket while his henchman held Sally. “An hour and forty minutes. You have that time to pull back your men and give up to me, or she dies as scheduled.”

  Smoke Jensen led the way out of Dubois. To Monte’s urgent questions, Smoke said only to wait and see. Smoke met first with the Shoshoni and Arapaho leaders. Running Snake listened to Smoke with interest, made a couple of suggestions and then asked how Smoke expected to make it work.

  “It all depends on getting Zeke and Ezra into position to cover the hotel. From there on, we’ll have to play it by their lead. All you need worry about is to be ready when I get Sally away from Spectre.”

  At ten minutes prior to the appointed time, Smoke Jensen walked Thunder down the wide main street of Dubois. An eerie silence held over the town. Residents looked away as Smoke rode by, ashamed in their helplessness. That would change, he reflected, if all went the way he intended.

  Smoke had instructed Ike to have the men take all surplus arms and ammunition and provide them to the populace as the hands fought their way through the residences of Dubois. The citizens had fought to recover their homes once before, he had little doubt they had changed in only a few years. This time they had the added impetus of having the outlaws quartered among them. No one would like that sort of thing, Smoke reasoned.

  And they would be given an opportunity to even the score. When he reached a block’s distance, Smoke saw Sally once again on the balcony. This time two hard cases held her arms, well away from her body or the reach of a well-aimed foot. Smoke saw that two of those responsible for this situation had chosen to gather on the covered porch of the saloon, before the double bat-wing doors. No doubt they had come to gloat and claim his head, he surmised. As promised, Smoke appeared to be unarmed, his holsters empty. Victor Spectre stepped forward as Smoke Jensen reached the corner of the intersection.

  “There has been another change of plans, I regret to say,” Spectre declared, a nasty smile on his face. “We thought it to be too delicious an irony to overlook. This bright morning, you are going to get to witness your wife being shot to death. Then, you shall be killed with the same weapon. Only slowly, with each of us placing bullets at likely places. Your ankles, wrists, knees, elbows, hips, shoulder joints, your abdomen, the right side of you
r chest, then the left, and last, your head. By then, several days will have passed, during which we shall enjoy ourselves enormously. You recall my associate, I am sure. Ralph Tinsdale. Unfortunately, you shot Olin Buckner. He is looking on from his sickbed in the hotel above. We are three men whom you have terribly wronged. And, for that wronging, you must now pay.”

  Smoke Jensen tensed as he edged even closer. Through tight, thinned lips he made his response to Spectre. “Get on with it, you windbag son of a bitch.”

  According to his plan, Smoke had drawn near enough to the balcony for Sally to easily jump to the rump of Thunder. Smoke cut his eyes to those of his wife in a meaningful glance a moment before two meaty smacks sounded in the strained silence of the intersection. Instantly, Sally jerked free of her suddenly lessened restraint and darted toward the rail as the reports of two distant Sharps buffalo rifles rippled through the heated air. The two outlaws fell dead on the balcony floor. In a blur, then, she vaulted the railing and dropped to the skirt of the saddle on Thunder’s back.

  “Stop them!” Victor Spectre shouted, though not before Sally Jensen yanked her .38 Colt Lightning free from the rear waistband of her husband and fired on him.

  Victor Spectre and Ralph Tinsdale sprawled in an undignified manner on the worn boards of the porch. By then, Smoke had freed the .45 Colt, which had also been concealed at the small of his back. He fired in a blur of speed. His first slug cut the hat from the head of an astounded Victor Spectre. Every thug present went for his gun. Hot lead began to crack and snap close to the two Jensens. Sally held onto Smoke with one hand and gamely discharged two rounds that quickly wrote an end to the checkered career of Fin Brock. Then the Arapaho and Shoshoni warriors whooped and hollered to create a diversion that allowed Smoke Jensen to take advantage of an opening in the gathered ranks of criminal slime and bolt through.

  Arrows moaned their distinctive melody to strike flesh in the chests, stomachs, and throats of many a hardened rogue. They went down screaming as Thunder gained momentum and drew a wider gap between the human garbage and the priceless cargo the ’Paloose stallion bore. More gunshots crackled as the Sugarloaf hands invaded the residences of Dubois and shot down the toughs who had elected not to watch the destruction of the wife of Smoke Jensen. For all their villainous ways, they had retained their respect for women. It did them little good, as the vengeance-hungry ranch hands poured round after round into their hastily assembled ranks. Some broke and ran, escape a higher priority than any reward they might receive.

  In all this confusion, Smoke and Sally quickly rode to safety. The entire confrontation had taken less than three minutes, Smoke discovered when they cantered across the small bridge at the west end of Dubois. Not bad at all. Behind him the volunteer fighters pulled back to make ready for the final assault. Not a one of the three responsible for this encounter would escape alive, Smoke Jensen had decreed.

  22

  Victor Spectre raved in fury at this debacle. He refused to look at it as a setback, let alone a defeat. When Ralph Tinsdale offered some platitude about their still holding the town, and that Smoke Jensen would be compelled to come to them, if he intended to do anything about it, Victor Spectre rounded on him, face carmine with rage.

  “That is exactly the point. Smoke Jensen will absolutely come after us now. His wife is safe, he has those damned Indian allies and nothing to lose.”

  Tinsdale tried to calm the outraged Victor Spectre. “Quite the contrary, I would think. Taken from Smoke Jensen’s viewpoint, why do anything more? He has his wife, safe and sound, why not simply pack up and go home?”

  A malevolent glow burned in Spectre’s eyes. “Because Smoke Jensen does not play live and let live. He will come. He has a large enough force and we have taken losses. He knows that. When he came after me, he had no way of knowing Trenton and I would be alone in that barn. Yet, Jensen came without a single other man.”

  Peevishly, Tinsdale snapped his opinion. “We should have killed that woman when we had the chance.”

  “No, Ralph,” Victor Spectre answered, more calmed now. “Then we would have had a furious man on our hands to deal with. One who would not have stopped at burning down the entire town, if necessary, to get to us. What we should have done was to have Smoke Jensen back-shot and not stand around to gloat. The fact remains, Jensen will be coming. I want you to have the men ready for an attack at any time. And see that Olin is made as comfortable as possible. If he is up to it, give him a rifle he can use from his sickbed. We need every gun we can muster.”

  “Mom! Oh, Mom!” Bobby ran to Sally Jensen with outstretched arms, his light, blond hair flopping on a round head, hat spilled off in his excited discovery of his adoptive mother among those who returned from town. Mother and son hugged delightedly and shed copious tears. Then Sally broke the embrace and stood the boy before her.

  “You disobeyed Smoke and myself alike. I’m disappointed, Bobby. No, that isn’t true. I’m truly delighted to see you. For a while there, I didn’t—didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

  Smoke walked over and cleared his throat gruffly. “We’re going to have to stop meeting like this, my dear. People will begin to talk.”

  Sally feigned anger. “Is that all you have to say to me? Not hello? Or glad to see you?”

  “No, it’s not all,” Smoke said through a grin. “If you’d had the muzzle of that Lightning any closer to my head when you popped off three rounds at the Lammer brothers, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Then he grabbed her and gave her a mighty hug that lifted Sally’s feet off the ground. “It’s so good to have you here. For a while there, I actually worried that it wouldn’t work.”

  “What? The famous Smoke Jensen worried about a little thing like that?” Sally teased. For a moment her eyes swam with more tears. “Oooh, Smoke Jensen, I love you so. I never lost hope that you would come for me.”

  Smoke was serious this time. “Coming for you is one thing. Getting you out unscratched is quite another. I’ve heard about it from Ike and the hands, but tell me, how did it really happen? How did you let it?”

  Sally made a pained expression. “Darn it, they caught me at the sink, away from my purse and gun. If they would have come twenty minutes earlier, while I was shelling peas, there isn’t one of them would have left there alive. As it is, a couple of them didn’t. And there’s one I owe a lot of gratitude to. His name’s Sam something-or-other. If you can spare him, do so.” She described Sam Hutchins and told Smoke how he served as her protector when the others wanted to have their way with her. Smoke agreed that he deserved to live if possible. Then he excused himself and joined the other leaders for a short conference on how they would finish the remainder of the outlaw army.

  “I don’t need to tell you that we have to hit them hard. And all at once. First the sentries on the edges of town. Then we close off the only streets that lead out and move in on the center of the business district.” He went on to give various assignments of specific buildings to the Indians and ranch hands. Zeke and Ezra he again positioned where they could bring long-range covering fire on the hotel. With that accomplished, and satisfied that the outcome would be in their favor, Smoke called for a good, hot meal before they went back to Dubois.

  Running Snake looked across the expanse of tall grass to the village of the white men. He had grown up longing to do what he would in a minute be doing. As a small child, he had sat at the feet of the elders listening to their exciting tales of sweeping raids through villages: Arapaho villages, Absaroka villages, Sioux villages, and even white villages. They sang songs of the far off Tishmunga, Assinaboine, Modoc, and Hurons, who burned to the ground many settlements, villages, and even towns of the whites. The descriptions of flames leaping high thrilled him. Even with the admonition from Smoke Jensen to leave the people and their wood lodges alone and fight only the outlaws did not detract from Running Snake’s expectations.

  This day, he vowed, would be sung about for many seasons to come. He waited on
ly the signal to attack. The men had painted for war, their ponies wore feathers and ribbons braided in their tails and manes. Hand prints, circles, and lightning streaks in warpaint protected the animals from the bullets of the enemy. When the signal at last came, they would all know greatness.

  And then it came!

  Five shots blasted across from them. Running Snake raised his lance above his head and threw back his head. Mouth open wide, he uttered a chilling war cry and heeled his pony in the ribs. With a snort and grunt, the close-coupled mount sprang forward. Behind him twenty-eight warriors shrilled their own challenges and urged their horses to a gallop. Ahead, gaping residents of Dubois pulled back into their houses and ducked low, or flattened out on the floors.

  To their utter amazement, the charging Indians rode on past without firing a shot. At least not until a handful of outlaws offered resistance. Then, bows twanged and arrows moaned. Old trade rifles barked. Ancient percussion revolvers, their brass fittings worn thin, snapped in anger and put balls from .36 to .44 calibers into the chests and faces of the enemy. Three of Spectre’s vermin died in the first hail of lead. Another took an arrow in the thigh and dropped to one knee. Before he could raise his .45 Colt to fire again, Running Snake drove the long, leaf-bladed head of his lance through the vulnerable chest. The flint point burst out the dying thug’s back, a foot of the shaft with it. The force of the powerful arm of Running Snake and the galloping pony rammed the tip into the ground and pinned the writhing ruffian, an insect specimen on a display card.