He pulled his coat tighter around him and sipped the coffee, letting cigar smoke trail from his nostrils as he talked.
“We got to make us some plans, men,” he began. “We’re gonna be goin’ into areas where there’s more people, an’ that means more law. It’s time to take stock of who we got ridin’ with us to make the best use of ’em.”
Blue Owl upended the small flask of whiskey and took a deep drink. “You’re right, Boss. We got some good men with us, but some of ’em ain’t exactly cut out for what we got in mind.”
Berlin nodded. “That’s why we’re gonna do like the Army. We’re gonna divide up into squads, with good men leadin’, an’ mix up the weaker ones among ’em so’s each squad will be more effective. When we raid, we got to hit hard an’ fast an’ not give anybody a chance to get organized against us. In and out ’fore they know what hit ’em.”
As Cook and Blue Owl agreed, Berlin said, “So, I need you two to let me know what you think of each of our men. I don’t know all of ’em as well as you two do since I ain’t been inside with ’em as long as you have.”
“How many squads you want?” Cook asked, thinking.
“I figure five to begin with, with six men in each group. As time goes on an’ we lose men, which we’re bound to do sooner or later, we’ll mix ’em together, trying to keep at least six or so men in each group.”
“So, you’re figuring for each of us to lead a squad, so we’re gonna need two more leaders?” Blue Owl asked.
Berlin nodded.
“I think Jack McGraw an’ Billy Bartlett ought’a be leaders,” Cook said.
Blue Owl shook his head. “Naw, Billy’s too young. He’s pretty good, but I think we need somebody a mite older . . . like Wiley Gottlieb.”
“I agree,” Berlin said. “We’ll let the men know the plan in the morning, and we’ll let each squad leader pick one man at a time until everybody’s been picked.”
Cook looked skeptical. “That’s gonna piss the ones off who’re picked last,” he said.
“I know,” Berlin agreed. “That’s why we’re gonna do the picking in private, just the five squad leaders. Once the men are all chosen, the leaders will tell the men who’s gonna ride with who.”
Blue Owl smiled. “That’ll make planning the attacks easier too, not having to discuss it with all thirty men.”
“So, we’re in agreement then?” Berlin asked.
When they nodded, he said, “Good. Then let’s get inside where it’s warm an’ get some shut-eye. I have a feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day.”
17
By four o’clock in the afternoon, Smoke and his party were well up into the mountains in an area between Big Rock and Pueblo, Colorado. They hadn’t yet made it to the railroad tracks running between the towns, but Smoke figured they only had a couple of more miles until they crossed the tracks.
Jed McCulloch, riding along next to Sergeant Bob Guthrie, kept sneaking glances at Sally, who was riding just behind Smoke. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, and was wearing a leather coat made from deerskins with a fur lining. She had her .32 Smith and Wesson short-barreled pistol in a holster around her waist, tied down low on her leg in the manner of a gunfighter.
Jed, though he hailed from Texas, had never seen a woman who looked so at home wearing a pistol and riding a horse, as if she were born in the saddle, and yet who still managed to be remarkably attractive and feminine at the same time.
He leaned sideways in his saddle to speak in a low tone to Bob. “That Sally Jensen is some kind of woman.”
Guthrie nodded. “At first, I didn’t believe the stories Sheriff Carson told us about her, but now that I see her in the saddle, ridin’ along just as good as the men, I realize he wasn’t exaggeratin’ a bit when he said she wouldn’t have any trouble keepin’ up with us.”
“What do you think of Smoke?” Jed asked.
“I think he looks every bit as hard an’ tough as the stories I’ve heard about him make him out to be.”
Jed nodded. “My uncle Jake told me about some of his exploits when he was down Texas way visiting the King Ranch. I thought he was pulling my leg at first, but now that I met him in person, I’m not so sure.”
“Some of the more famous gunfighters out here in the West tend to make up stories to make ’em seem bigger than life,” Guthrie observed, “but this Jensen feller seems just the opposite. He don’t seem to want to brag about his past like most of the gunnies I’ve been around.”
“Well, if we ever catch up to those bandits, I guess we’ll have a chance to see just how good with a gun he is.”
“If he’s half as good as people say, Ozark Jack Berlin won’t stand a chance.”
Up ahead, Smoke held up his hand and reined his horse around. He glanced up at the sky, where dark clouds were gathering and moving toward them over mountain peaks to the north.
“Looks like we got a storm brewing,” he said to the group. “We don’t have more’n a couple of hours of daylight left, so I guess we better get to building us a camp for the night.”
Everyone nodded their agreement. The temperature had been falling steadily for the past two hours, and they were tired and chilled to the bone from being in the saddle most of the day. They were all ready to take a break and have some hot food.
“Pearlie, you and Cal remember what I taught you that time we spent up in the high lonesome?” he asked.
Cal and Pearlie nodded. “Sure, Smoke,” Pearlie said.
Smoke pointed to a flat area just ahead. It was a small clearing among a stand of pine trees, with a collection of boulders on one side.
“Get your axes off the packhorse and see if you can cut us some branches off those trees to make a lean-to up against those rocks. That’ll keep the worst of the wind and snow off us when the storm hits.”
As the boys got down off their horses and began to unpack the tools they’d need, Smoke looked at Jed and Bob. “If you two will search around for some fallen wood for the fire, Sally can unload the provisions for supper and I’ll hobble the horses over in those rocks so they’ll be out of the weather.”
“Why not just cut some wood off’n those trees,” Jed asked, “rather than digging around in the snow for fallen wood?”
“The wood on the trees is too green to make a good fire, and it’ll also give off a lot more smoke,” Smoke answered. “We don’t know where the outlaws may be, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to send up a lot of smoke to tell ’em where we are.”
“Oh,” Jed said shortly, chagrined that he hadn’t thought of that.
By the time Cal and Pearlie had cut enough branches to form a lean-to that would keep the wind and snow off, Sally had a large fire going and was cooking supper while water boiled for coffee.
Smoke laid out some grain for the horses, then stood in front of the fire, holding his hands palm out to get them warm.
Sally glanced up from where she squatted next to a large iron skillet full of frying meat. As she stirred a kettle full of beans, she said, “Coffee should be about ready now, dear.”
The men gathered around the fire and filled their mugs with the steaming brew, glad to get something warm inside them as the air got colder and colder and snowflakes began to drift lazily down through the trees.
After they’d eaten, the men leaned back against their saddles, pulled blankets up to their necks, and either built cigarettes or lit cigars to enjoy with after-supper coffee. Sally lay down next to Smoke and pulled a blanket over the both of them as the men talked.
Jed looked around at the group and smiled. “You look like you got you a good crew here, Smoke,” he said, inclining his head toward Cal and Pearlie. Cal was lying with his blanket over his head, already snoring softly, while Pearlie had a plate with his third helping of food on it, still shoveling it in as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Smoke looked at the boys and nodded. “They’ll do to ride the river with, I suspect.”
Guthrie blew on his coffee to cool
it a mite, and asked, “How long they been with you?”
Smoke laughed shortly. “Seems like forever, doesn’t it, Sally?”
She smiled, only her face visible above the blanket. “Yes. I can hardly remember a time when we didn’t have them with us.”
“Cal there looks a mite young,” Jed observed. “He must’ve joined up with your outfit when he was just a tyke.”
“That’s a funny story,” Smoke said, looking at Sally and grinning.
“Well, we ain’t got nothin’ else to do. Let’s hear it,” Guthrie said.
“Cal showed up on the Sugarloaf one day, wearing nothin’ but rags, and tried to hold up Sally,” Smoke began, then stopped. “You were there, Sally, why don’t you tell it?”
“Cal was only fourteen years old that year,” Sally said, sitting up a little so she could talk better as she told the story....
* * *
It was during the spring branding, and Sally was on her way back from Big Rock to the Sugarloaf. The buckboard was piled high with supplies, because branding hundreds of calves made for hungry punchers.
As Sally slowed the team to make a bend in the trail, a rail-thin young man stepped from the bushes at the side of the road with a pistol in his hand.
“Hold it right there, miss.”
Applying the brake with her right foot, Sally slipped her hand under a pile of gingham cloth on the seat. She grasped the handle of her short-barreled Colt .44 and eared back the hammer, letting the sound of the horses’ hooves and the squealing of the brake pad on the wheels mask the sound. “What can I do for you, young man?” she asked, her voice firm and without fear. She knew she could draw and drill the young highwayman before he could raise his pistol to fire.
“Well, uh, you can throw some of those beans and a cut of that fatback over here, and maybe a portion of that Arbuckle’s coffee too.”
Sally’s eyebrows raised. “Don’t you want my money?”
The boy frowned and shook his head. “Why, no, ma’am. I ain’t no thief, I’m just hungry.”
“And if I don’t give you my food, are you going to shoot me with that big Navy Colt?”
He hesitated a moment, then grinned ruefully. “No, ma’am, I guess not.” He twirled the pistol around his finger and slipped it into his belt, turned, and began to walk down the road toward Big Rock.
Sally watched the youngster amble off, noting his tattered shirt, dirty pants with holes in the knees and torn pockets, and boots that looked as if they had been salvaged from a garbage dump. “Young man,” she called, “come back here, please.”
He turned, a smirk on his face, spreading his hands, “Look lady, you don’t have to worry. I don’t even have any bullets.” With a lightning-fast move he drew the gun from his pants, aimed away from Sally, and pulled the trigger. There was a click but no explosion as the hammer fell on an empty cylinder.
Sally smiled. “Oh, I’m not worried.” In a movement every bit as fast as his, she whipped her .44 out and fired, clipping a pine cone from a branch, causing it to fall and bounce off his head.
The boy’s knees buckled and he ducked, saying, “Jimminy Christmas!”
Mimicking him, Sally twirled her Colt and stuck it in the waistband of her britches. “What’s your name, boy?”
The boy blushed and looked down at his feet, “Calvin, ma’am, Calvin Woods.”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared into the boy’s eyes. “Calvin, no one has to go hungry in this country, not if they’re willing to work.”
He looked up at her through narrowed eyes, as if he found life a little different than she’d described it.
“If you’re willing to put in an honest day’s work,” she added, “I’ll see that you get an honest day’s pay, and all the food you can eat.”
Calvin stood a little straighter, shoulders back and head held high. “Ma’am, I’ve got to be straight with you. I ain’t no experienced cowhand. I come from a hardscrabble farm, and we only had us one milk cow and a couple of goats and chickens, and lots of dirt that weren’t worth nothin’ for growin’ things. My ma and pa and me never had nothin’, but we never begged and we never stooped to takin’ handouts.”
Sally thought, I like this boy. Proud, and not willing to take charity if he can help it. “Calvin, if you’re willing to work, and don’t mind getting your hands dirty and your muscles sore, I’ve got some hands that’ll have you punching beeves like you were born to it in no time at all.”
A smile lit up his face, making him seem even younger than his years. “Even if I don’t have no saddle, nor a horse to put it on?”
She laughed out loud. “Yes. We’ve got plenty of ponies and saddles.” She glanced down at his raggedy boots. “We can probably even round up some boots and spurs that’ll fit you.”
He walked over and jumped in the back of the buckboard. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but you just hired you the hardest-workin’ hand you’ve ever seen.”
Back at the Sugarloaf, she sent him in to Cookie and told him to eat his fill. When Smoke and the other punchers rode into the cabin yard at the end of the day, she introduced Calvin around. As Cal was shaking hands with the men, Smoke looked over at her and winked. He knew she could never resist a stray dog or cat, and her heart was as large as the Big Lonesome itself.
Smoke walked up to Cal and cleared his throat. “Son, I hear you drew down on my wife.”
Cal gulped. “Yessir, Mr. Jensen. I did.” He squared his shoulders and looked Smoke in the eye, not flinching, though he was obviously frightened of the tall man with the incredibly wide shoulders standing before him.
Smoke smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “Just wanted you to know you stared death in the eye, boy. Not many galoots are still walking upright who ever pulled a gun on Sally. She’s a better shot than any man I’ve ever seen except me, and sometimes I wonder about me.”
The boy laughed with relief as Smoke turned and called out, “Pearlie, get your lazy butt over here.”
A tall, lanky cowboy ambled over to Smoke and Cal, munching on a biscuit stuffed with roast beef. His face was lined with wrinkles and tanned a dark brown from hours under the sun, but his eyes were sky-blue and twinkled with good-natured humor.
“Yessir, Boss,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food.
Smoke put his hand on Pearlie’s shoulder. “Cal, this here is Pearlie. He eats more’n any two hands, and he’s never been known to do a lick of work he could get out of, but he knows beeves and horses as well as any puncher I have. I want you to follow him around and let him teach you what you need to know.”
Cal nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke.”
“Now let me see that iron you have in your pants.”
Cal pulled the ancient Navy Colt and handed it to Smoke. When Smoke opened the loading gate, the rusted cylinder fell to the ground, causing Pearlie and Smoke to laugh and Cal’s face to flame red. “This is the piece you pulled on Sally?”
The boy nodded, looking at the ground.
Pearlie shook his head. “Cal, you’re one lucky pup. Hell, if’n you’d tried to fire that thing, it’d of blown your hand clean off.”
Smoke inclined his head toward the bunkhouse. “Pearlie, take Cal over to the tack house and get him fixed up with what he needs, including a gunbelt and a Colt that won’t fall apart the first time he pulls it. You might also help pick him out a shavetail to ride. I’ll expect him to start earning his keep tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir, Smoke.” Pearlie put his arm around Cal’s shoulders and led him off toward the bunkhouse. “Now, the first thing you gotta learn, Cal, is how to get on Cookie’s good side. A puncher rides on his belly, and it ’pears to me that you need some fattin’ up ’fore you can begin to punch cows.”
* * *
Both Jed and Bob chuckled at the tale. “That’s a hell of a way to hire on hands,” Jed said. “My Uncle Jake would’ve just shot the boy and let him lay where he fell.”
“Sally’s not like that,” Smoke said, p
utting his arm around her and hugging her closer to him. “She can almost always see the good in others, even when most of us men can’t.”
Pearlie glanced up as he finished the last of his food. “That don’t stop her from blowin’ hell outta anybody that tries to do harm to Smoke or one of her hands, though,” Pearlie said.
“I can see she’s wearing a pistol, though I admit I didn’t think she’d had much cause to use it,” Jed said, eyeing Sally with a speculative look in his eye.
“Oh, she’s saddled up and gone to war with me and for me on more than one occasion,” Smoke said. “Don’t ever underestimate the fury of a woman who’s protecting one of her own.”
Jed nodded solemnly. “I won’t, I promise.”
“How about you, Pearlie?” Guthrie asked, flicking his cigarette butt into the dying fire.
Pearlie looked up from building his own cigarette. “I was on my way to makin’ my reputation as a gunslick,” he said. “I’d hired out my gun to a galoot named Tilden Franklin, who was intent on takin’ over the territory, includin’ Smoke’s ranch.”
“Oh, so you also came to work for Smoke after taking up guns against him?”
“Yeah, only when the man I hired out to began to rape and kill innocent farm folks, I found I didn’t have no stomach for the gunslick work, so I changed sides . . . an’ I been with Smoke ever since.”
Guthrie turned to look at Monte Carson, who was lying a little off to one side, quietly smoking his pipe and drinking his coffee.
“Sheriff Carson,” Guthrie began, “I been meanin’ to ask you where you hail from. I know I seen your face sometime in the past, but I just can’t remember where.”
Monte nodded slowly. “I thought that ’bout you too, Bob, an’ it came to me a while back. I was in the Army ’bout a hundred years ago when I was knee-high to a toad. If my memory serves me correctly, you were a corporal when I was a private.”
Guthrie snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. You was a lot thinner then, no bigger around than a stick, and had a lot more hair.”
Monte laughed, patting his ample stomach. “Well, a lot of years with a woman who is almost as good a cook as Sally has added a few pounds.”
Warpath of the Mountain Man Page 10
