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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Twenty-three hard cases began that fateful charge. Three got knocked from their saddles before they had covered fifty feet. The gang reached full gallop halfway across the slowly contracting ring of Indians. Abruptly, Reno Jim and Utah Jack reined in and let the others rush past them. As a result, the surviving outlaws took the brunt of the Cheyenne response.

  Firing blindly at the Indians, the desperate hard cases crashed into the approaching ranks on a broad front. Rifles and revolvers fired an irregular volley that opened a narrow path through the Cheyenne ponies. Fighting at point-blank range now, the Yurian gang surged into the opening. More of the Indians moved to close the gap.

  Before they could, Reno Jim spoke sharply to Utah Jack. “Now!”

  They bolted forward and bulled their way through the rest of the gang, who struggled hand-to-hand now with the Cheyenne. Slowed to a walk, Reno Jim and Utah Jack shot two ponies out from under the last Indians blocking their escape. When the riders fell, the two white men spurred their mounts and broke into the open. They wasted no time. Turned to the south, Reno Jim Yurian leaned low over the neck of his horse and kept up a steady pricking with his big Mexican star rowels.

  Back inside the contracting ring of warriors, Iron Claw started to call out for pursuit. Smoke Jensen stopped him with a raised hand. “No. Those two are mine.”

  Iron Claw nodded his understanding. “Go with good medicine, Smoke Jensen.”

  “I reckon I’ll be needing some of that.”

  So saying, Smoke swung into Cougar’s saddle and started south, after the outlaw leader and the traitor. The exertion of keeping in the saddle at a full gallop made his head spin again, and black spots rose before his eyes. Smoke had hastily tied a bandanna around his scalp graze, which had stopped the bleeding. For that he was thankful. Now all he had to do was catch up to his quarry.

  Smoke ran Cougar about a mile, then slowed to a fast trot. It would be too easy to wind his mount and end up afoot. Considering the behavior of the fugitives, they might not take that factor into account, Smoke speculated. Ahead he could see the rising dust of their passage. With any luck, their horses would wear down soon and he could catch up. Only gradually did the realization of the effect of the attack register on him.

  Too many good men had died back there. Jerry Harkness, Harper Liddy, Ahab Trask, Granger Bolt, Caleb Noonan and all those who had offered their help. The two he chased had a hell of a lot to account for. And Smoke reckoned to be the one to make them pay.

  For a moment he felt an ache deep inside. It would grow, he knew, into an overwhelming sense of defeat…if he let it. No way he would do that, Smoke promised himself. He would track this pair to China and back if necessary. He looked forward to watching them hang.

  19

  Inexorably, Smoke Jensen traced the fleeing men across the high plains. Slowly he closed the gap. When he finally caught a first sight of them, Grubbs and Yurian walked their horses out of necessity. Even at that far distance, Smoke could see the flanks of the animals heave. White lather lay in rolls along their necks and around saddle blankets.

  Fools, Smoke thought. They had gotten their horses completely blown. All the better for him. He gave Cougar a light tap of his round knob, cavalry-style spurs and picked up the pace. In no time, he closed the space between them to less than a quarter mile.

  Then, abruptly and unexpectedly, the numbing pain returned to throb and gouge through Smoke’s head. He swayed drunkenly in the saddle, his vision blurred and the world spun around him. A sudden spasm of nausea twisted his gut.

  Groaning, Smoke bent over and vomited up a thin, green bile. His hand trembled as he reached for his canteen to rinse his mouth. Another shaft of blinding agony pierced his head. Smoke felt his balance gradually slip away. Darkness washed over him as he pitched out of the saddle.

  Up ahead, Reno Jim Yurian and Utah Jack Grubbs watched in silence while Smoke Jensen fell to the ground. Grubbs pointed to the prone figure.

  “I’ll go back and finish him off, boss.”

  “Yes. I suppose that’s the best way. I wouldn’t get any satisfaction out of killing a helpless man.”

  “Nor will I. How the hell did those Injuns get mixed up in this?”

  Reno Jim considered that a moment. “Probably had their eyes on the herd.”

  Utah Jack frowned. “From what I saw at the end, they didn’t harm a hair on Smoke Jensen. In fact, their chief rode right up to him, and they talked real friendly like.”

  A grunt burst from Reno Jim. “I saw that. The damned savages must be friends of his.”

  A grim smile formed on the face of Utah Jack. “That’ll make doin’ for him easier.”

  “I’ll meet you in Sheridan.”

  Utah Jack nodded in reply and set off on foot, at a walk, back toward Smoke Jensen. Reno Jim continued on south, leading his winded mount by the reins. They had lost the horses, he thought bitterly. Worse, his men had been slaughtered by the damned Cheyenne. Only six men were left back in Bent Rock Canyon with the cattle. He spoke aloud his frustration.

  “How can I recover what I’ve lost? What kind of leader lets his men get trapped like I did?”

  Only the low moan of a soft southwest breeze answered him.

  A crunch of gravel under a boot heel brought awareness back to Smoke Jensen. He lay still, slowly opened his eyes and fought to focus. Above him, Cougar snorted a challenge. Another horse skittered its hooves and answered shrilly.

  “Woah there! Easy, easy,” a familiar voice soothed.

  Smoke took the opportunity to raise his head and verify his suspicion. Though his head throbbed monstrously, he focused on the boots and rawhide chap-covered legs of Utah Jack Grubbs. Smoke looked higher. Grubbs was turned away from him, some twenty feet away, arms up to calm his nervous mount.

  “Down boy. Down.”

  His attention completely off the man he came to kill, Utah Jack sawed at the reins. His sorrel gelding had been frightened by the ’Palouse stallion, and he had all he could do to regain control. As a result, he failed to see Smoke Jensen thrust himself to a sitting position.

  Another wave of dizziness swamped him, and he had to sit a moment until it passed. Then Smoke reached out and gripped the right stirrup. Slowly, he dragged himself upright. Another black pool of dizziness engulfed him. He drew a deep breath through an open mouth to prevent it being heard. His vision cleared almost at once. He glanced down and silently swore.

  Both of his Colts had fallen from the holsters and lay on the ground ten feet from him. He had run out of ammunition for his Winchester and left it behind. Then his left hand brushed the haft of the tomahawk he habitually carried on his saddle. Slowly he eased it out of the thong that retained it. In the next second Utah Jack settled his irritable horse. He turned again to face Smoke Jensen.

  “So, you old bastard, you’re on your feet.” He cut his eyes to Smoke’s revolvers. “Too bad you lost your irons. Without them, you’re nothin’,” Utah Jack scoffed, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer.

  He took a menacing step closer. “In fact, this is going to be so easy I think I’ll do it with my bare hands.”

  Feeling not the least himself, Smoke answered in a low growl. “When pigs fly and cows sing.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth, Jensen. If it wasn’t for the prospect of gettin’ that herd of yours, I woulda driven you into the ground like a fence post the first day on that stinkin’ ranch of yours.”

  Time. Smoke needed every bit of it he could buy to get back even a little of his strength. To do so, he decided to bait Grubbs. “How are you going to do that, you mouthy little pile of horse crap? You gonna beat me to death with your tongue?”

  “You’ll find out in about a second. First, I’m gonna have my say. You’re pathetic, Jensen. All that lovey-dovey stuff with that wife of yours. Askin’ her opinion of ever’ little thing. It made me sick. Any real man knows a woman ain’t got no brains. You have to yell at ’em all the time and beat her at least once a month to keep her in line. An
d another thing. You never lay a hand on that towheaded brat. Ain’t a kid that grows up right lest he gits whipped regular every day.”

  Smoke used all his willpower to hold his anger in check. He put a twisted smile on his face. “You’re such a prime example of that.”

  “Damn right I am. My paw beat my butt raw at least once a week, took a belt to me ever’ day. What really galls me is that you don’t know anything about handling livestock. Horses has got to be whip-broke to properly tame them. Any fool knows that.”

  Taunting again, Smoke laughed at Grubbs. “Yeah, any fool. Are you through running that open sewer of yours?”

  “Damn right,” Grubbs barked. He started for Smoke again. To his surprise, Smoke beckoned invitingly.

  “Come on, Grubbs, get right up close. I’m going to enjoy tearing you a new bung hole.”

  Utah Jack took two fast steps to close the distance, and he swung a slow, looping right. The moment he did, Smoke Jensen eased away from the support of Cougar and brought the tomahawk into sight. He swung it as Utah Jack’s fist hurtled toward his jaw.

  At the last second, Smoke jinked his head to the side as the keen edge of the blade sank into the arm of his opponent an inch above the elbow. It ground against the bone, dislodged a chip and then came free. Hot agony burned through Utah Jack, and he howled in anguish. Then numbness began to spread along his injured limb.

  Grubbs backed off a few paces and fumbled the bandanna from around his neck. Clumsily he used it to bind his wound. Smoke Jensen came on. His arm useless, Utah Jack could not draw his six-gun. Smoke closed with him; blood dripped from the edge of his tomahawk.

  “You’re fast for an old fart.”

  “Not so old by half, you traitorous dog.”

  Smoke felt new strength surge through his body. It lifted him. He reached Grubbs and pounded him in the chest with a hard right. Utah Jack backpedaled. Smoke came on. The menace of the tomahawk remained, cocked and ready. Smoke’s right lashed out again.

  Blood sprayed across the outlaw’s face as hard knuckles crushed his nose. His eyes crossed, and he momentarily lost sight in the left one. Mopping at it with his left hand, he tried to block the next blow. His effort failed, and his lower lip split in a searing flash of pain. Smoke pressed his attack.

  Utah Jack tried to dodge to his right and felt the fiery bite of the ’hawk against his ribs. Then the darting right fist of Smoke Jensen drove sharply into the solar plexus of Utah Jack. Air gushed from his bloody lips, and for a while Jack Grubbs saw black.

  Doubled over, Utah Jack’s vision cleared, and he grasped feebly at the hilt of a knife in the top of his boot. Groaning, he came upright as far as he could and drove the blade with lightning speed toward the exposed loin of Smoke Jensen. Cold steel skidded across Smoke’s cartridge belt and punched into his side.

  Gasping, he fell away from his attacker. He landed on the ground and rolled toward his six-guns. Utah Jack advanced on him. Smoke’s hand closed over the butt-grip of one .45 Colt, and he whipped it upward. Close to blacking out, he cocked the hammer and tickled the trigger.

  “Noooooo!” Utah Jack wailed as he realized what Smoke had accomplished.

  Smoke’s bullet smashed into the chest of Utah Jack Grubbs. It drove rib bone ahead of it into his heart. The powerful organ spasmed, then began to rapidly pump in an erratic rhythm. Eyes bulged, Utah Jack looked down to witness his demise.

  Grubbs fell dead as weakness washed over Smoke Jensen. He had to get the stab wound cared for. From the feel of it, the blade had missed his liver. How, he didn’t know, but his gratitude to his Maker was genuine. Carefully, Smoke dropped his tomahawk and tugged his shirt from behind his belt.

  New pain radiated through his torso as he pulled it higher. Another whirl of dizziness staggered him. He looked down, expecting to see the worst. He saw instead a small, two-inch incision. A thin ribbon of blood trickled over the bluish lips. Gently, he probed the pale flesh surrounding it. Little pain followed. Head still aching at each step, he returned to his horse.

  From a saddlebag, he took some of the remaining moss that had been collected a week ago for the drawing poultice Smoke had used on Jerry Harkness. He wet it from his canteen, packed it in the wound and retrieved a length of buckskin strip from the bag. That he wound around his body and tied tightly. Then he washed the bullet gouge on his head again and rebandaged it.

  Hobbling away from Cougar, he stripped the weapons from the corpse of Utah Jack. Smoke found the cartridge belt and revolver empty and five rounds in the Winchester. He gathered up his second Colt and replaced the expended cartridge in the right-hand one. He did not have the strength to throw the outlaw over his saddle, but he would not leave the horse out there to fend for itself. He led it back to where Cougar waited, mounted gingerly and put the ’Palouse in motion. With one rein around the pommel of Smoke’s saddle, the sorrel trotted along peacefully beside Cougar.

  Despite his recent head wound and the new cut in his side, Smoke began to feel stronger with each passing mile. He picked up the trail of Reno Jim Yurian readily and followed along at a fast trot. He had little doubt that Yurian intended to pass through Sheridan. Smoke wanted to catch him before then. Any hotel room or saloon front could become an excellent ambush spot. In a thoughtful mood, Smoke reached under the skirt of his saddle and extracted a softened piece of bison jerky.

  He had obtained the dried meat from Iron Claw before setting out after the fleeing outlaws. “It will be good for your head,” Iron Claw told him, pointing to the bandaged gouge with his chin.

  “I doubt I’ll need six strips.”

  Iron Claw insisted. “Eat them all. Then we get some hump meat. It will make you strong.”

  Smoke accepted this. He often recalled the story of the Kiowa war chief, Two Moons, who as a young man was reported to have taken thirty-six rifle and revolver wounds in one fierce battle with the cavalry from Fort Sill. At least two of them had struck him in the groin. The Kiowa subsisted almost entirely on bison. Not only did Two Moons heal up, but he sired seven children, and died at the age of eighty-three. That was enough to convince Smoke Jensen. There would be bison at the Crow Agency. He would get his hump meat.

  Smoke bit at his lower lip to snap his focus back on what he had started out to do. His keen eyes fixed on the spot where Yurian had remounted. The depth of the hoof prints increased, and the space between them elongated. This time the rider kept to a trot. Despite the throbbing in his head, Smoke gigged Cougar into a canter. A mile farther, the tracks veered from the trail. Smoke looked back. He could not see the place where he had fought with Utah Jack. Reining Cougar to the left, he followed Reno Jim’s sign.

  Muted and made flat by distance, Reno Jim Yurian had heard the single shot. He knew it had to have been fired by Smoke Jensen. Utah Jack Grubbs would have pumped at least three slugs, as insurance, into so famous a gunfighter as Smoke Jensen. Accordingly, he left the trail to Sheridan and broke a new path cross-country. He knew that Jensen would be coming after him.

  Deliberately he did not make any effort to cover his tracks. He had a definite plan. Reno Jim fixed his eyes on a distant line of trees that denoted a streambed. There he would find what he wanted.

  When Reno Jim located it, he smiled a mean, thin-lipped smile. Perfect for what he had in mind. A deep, wide, twisting ravine ran perpendicular to the creek. Cut into the prairie by ages of runoff, it had grown to a depth he gauged to be fifteen or more feet. Quickly he backtracked to where he could negotiate the sloping side. Then he dismounted and led his horse down into the gully. He found the winding course to be ideal. It offered several places for a man to hide in wait.

  Reno Jim picked his ambush site carefully. A limestone outcropping created a wide, gentle bend, and beyond it, a granite shelf forced a sharp turn in the dry waterway. The outlaw leader took his mount well beyond this and screwed a ground anchor into the sidewall. He tied the reins to this, pulled free his Winchester and returned to the angled curve. Then he settled in to wait.
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br />   Trees ahead, Smoke Jensen noted as he dogged the tracks left by Reno Jim Yurian. It would be the creek where they had camped two nights before. The place where the Cheyenne had tried to take the herd would likely be a couple of miles south. The irony was not missed by Smoke. Abruptly he made note of an overlay of tracks, one set returning across those that led to the distant creek.

  A small alarm began to tingle in the back of his mind. If Reno Jim wanted to backtrack himself, he surely knew enough not to do it on his fresh trail. Not unless he wanted it noticed, Smoke’s experience told him. Now, why would that be? He looked around, farther from the sign he followed. There, the return tracks cut away at a right angle from the trail he followed.

  Then Smoke saw the broken ground at the lip of the ravine, where Reno Jim had descended. So that’s it, Smoke thought grimly. He wants to lead me into an ambush. Might as well oblige the wily jackal. Smoke dismounted and tied Utah Jack’s horse to a hawthorn bush. With that accomplished, he returned to Cougar and headed the animal down into the fissure.

  Immediately, Smoke took in the nature of his new surroundings. Fine sand and small pebbles formed the bed of the cleft, its course a series of turns and bends. It had been carved out over what must have been centuries as water ran toward the creek. He judged himself to be close to eighteen feet below the level of the prairie. Reno Jim had left clear impressions of his boots as well as the hooves of his mount. Had the man wanted to hide his whereabouts, he would have come back and wiped out those telltale signs.

  For all the harm done him today, Smoke could still smell an ambush in the making without effort. He chose to remain mounted, walking Cougar along slowly. He kept alert, his eyes moving constantly to detect any change in surroundings, or the glint of sunlight off a gun barrel. Man and horse rounded one twist in the defile and progressed along a relatively long straightaway. Another bend, wider than the previous one, waited beyond. For all his caution, it was not Smoke, but Cougar, who gave the first alarm.