“I’ll ask Dolan about it. All he said was, maybe we oughta burn down his store. Tell those Mexicans to saddle up. You an’ me an’ Cooper will ride with ’em.”
Pickett eased his weight off a bull hide stool on the front porch of the cow camp bunkhouse. “Suits the hell outa me. We ain’t spilled no blood since winter started. Time we turned some of this snow red. It gets tiresome, seem’ everything white all the damn time.”
The mighty roar of a shotgun from the darkness ended with a shrill scream. Loose horses and cattle bedded down for the night took off in every direction. A lantern brightened behind a cabin window as men in long Johns carrying rifles raced out the door in the pale moonlight, shouting to each other.
Another withering blast of shotgun fire erupted from a spot behind a split rail fence, lifting a hatless cowboy off his feet in mid run, bending him at the waist with the force of speeding lead pellets entering his chest and belly.
A rifle cracked from the corner of a hay shed, dropping a Chisum ranch hand in his tracks, groaning, landing in fresh snow with his feet thrashing as though he meant to keep running while he lay on his back.
More guns roared from a loose circle around the cabin, and more men fell in the snow, yelling, crying out for help or lying still, dead before they went down.
Jessie leaned against the fence in the dark without firing a shot, watching Pickett, Cooper, and his Mexican gunmen in action, keeping a quick tally of the bodies. Eight men, then a ninth, collapsed in a hail of bullets. Terrified longhorns broke out of one corral, snapping rails like kindling wood, bolting toward freedom and an escape from the banging of guns. As the last of the Chisum riders fell, Jessie turned away from the fence to get his horse.
All gunfire stopped abruptly. Somewhere near the cabin a cowboy moaned. Pickett or Cooper would take care of his suffering in short order, along with any others who might still be alive.
“Let’s round up those beeves,” he shouted. “We’ll gather as many as we can an’ clear out. Somebody across the river is liable to have heard the noise.”
He mounted a nervous sorrel gelding and held its reins in check until all his men were in their saddles… all but Pickett, his absence explained when a shotgun bellowed near one of the cowsheds.
Nine Dolan riders spread out to collect over a hundred head of longhorn steers. Jessie knew it was time to get the running irons hot again, changing brands before Sheriff William Brady went through the motions of investigating what would look like a massacre tomorrow morning. A serious escalation of the Lincoln County War had just taken place a few days before Christmas, a warning to John Chisum that the government beef contract business could be a little risky here in the southern part of New Mexico Territory.
Fourteen
It was very close to the beginning of April when Sally took a look at the sky one morning, then across the snow-filled valley with a slight frown on her face. She turned to Smoke as he was using a whetstone on his Bowie knife blade.
“It’s time to go, my darling,” she said. “This has been one of the most wonderful times of my life, but we can’t hide up here forever. There’s work to be done at Sugarloaf. By now the snow is melting down there. You’ve got to hire some extra men to help bring catle up from New Mexico. Some of our neighbors who want Hereford bulls may ride along. I suppose I’m getting restless, but something tells me it’s time. You’ve seen your friends, and we’ve had all these months of peace and solitude. Our staples are running low. As much as I’d love to stay here with you for the rest of my life, we can’t. We have a ranch to run.”
For weeks he’d been experiencing the same strange sensation, that it was time to leave, almost like an itching feeling, only it occurred inside, somewhere in his chest or in the back of his brain. He hadn’t wanted to say anything to her. She seemed so happy here and happy with their closeness. “I agree.” he said, sheathing his heavy knife, “I’ve really been thinkin’ about the Herefords, and maybe finding a Morgan stud. We may still hit some bad weather if we start out early, but it’ll be slow movin’ those cattle so many miles. Some of that is still renegade Apache country, so we’ll have to watch our herd real close in a few spots.”
He stood up and cast a sweeping look at the snowy mountain peaks around them. “I’ll hate to leave here. I reckon there’ll always be a part of me wanting to stay in this high country from time to time.” He smiled at her. “Especially with you. But like you said, we’ve got a ranch to run and miles to travel to make our plans for the future work out. We can start packing gear today and leave at first light tomorrow. It’ll be slower, going down with all this snow on the ground. We should be back at Sugarloaf in four days.”
“It’ll be good to see Pearlie and Cal and Johnny,” she said after a bit. “I didn’t realize I’d miss them so much. I guess they’re like a part of the family, almost. When I saw you with Huggie and Del, or Grizzly this winter it made me happy to hear you talk about what it was like to be one of them. You seemed to really be enjoying yourself.”
“I was,” he answered truthfully. “It was good to see them again, to talk about old times. I was sorry to hear Happy Jack got killed by that grizzly last spring, but a mother with cubs can be one of the most dangerous animals on earth. Griz Cole knows bears better’n anybody, and he said Happy Jack never did give ’em enough room. Carelessness caught up with him, I reckon. And none of ’em knew for sure what ever happened to Preacher.”
She placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Still, this was the most peaceful winter we ever spent together, and I’m so grateful for that, I’ll always remember it, and how gentle you can be. The only time you used a gun was to hunt fresh meat, and I’m grateful for that too.”
“Maybe I’ve changed,” he told her. “Let’s get started with that packing. Won’t be as much to carry going down, so our pack animals will have an easier time of it.”
She smiled and kissed him lightly. “I love you, Mr. Jensen.”
“I love you too, Mrs. Jensen. Maybe I didn’t realize just how much until we spent this peaceful winter together. It made me realize just how important you are to me.”
She tilted her head, still smiling. “Maybe you have changed your ways, darling. Those are some mighty sweet words coming out of your mouth this morning. Maybe the old Smoke Jensen is gone for good, so I won’t have to worry so much…”
Pearlie and Cal and Johnny shook hands with Smoke and Cal gave Sally a hug, still being part boy despite a fast growing up riding alongside Smoke in a few tight spots.
“Everything’s plumb satisfactory,” Pearlie said. “Only had this one aggravation all winter long.”
Smoke’s expression clouded. “And what was that?”
“That feller Ned Buntline showed up, wearin’ this derby hat like he belonged in Saint Louis or somewheres. Asked to talk to you. I told him you was gone fer the winter.”
Cal’s face brightened. “He told me all about how he writes those dime novels. And you ain’t gonna believe this! He wants to write one about you!”
Pearlie wagged his head before Smoke could disagree. “I went an’ told him he’d be wastin’ his time, that you wasn’t gonna tell him a damn thing. He acted real disappointed. Then he told us this crazy story, ’bout some feller up near Willow Creek Pass who wore this albino buffalo robe. Buntline said he never saw his face or got his name, but he told us that feller saved his life when his mule run off. Built a fire so he wouldn’t freeze to death, and tied his mule up fer him. Buntline said he was an ornery cuss. Wouldn’t answer a single question ’bout who he was or how come him to be way up there. Downright unusual, fer a man to own an albino buffalo skin. Ain’t seen but two my whole life, an’ they was way off, wild as deer.”
Smoke turned northwest, looking at the distant peaks outlined against a clear sky. Had Ned Buntline accidentally run into Preacher up there somewhere? He was reminded of the story Del had told him about the unusual footprint at Willow Creek Pass, not real proof of anything. Bundine’s story mig
ht only be the product of a fertile imagination of the type he used to write his books.
He spoke to Pearlie. “Ride to the neighboring ranches, the Walker spread and Bob Williams’s place. Ask them if they want to ride with us down to New Mexico Territory at the end of next week to pick up those Hereford bulls.”
“We leavin’ that soon?” Pearlie asked. “It’s still a touch on the chilly side.”
“It’s a long trip, and comin’ back with those gentle bulls will be slow,” Smoke answered. “We’ll leave next Friday, and anybody who wants to ride along with us is welcome company.”
“I’ll ride to the Williams place,” Johnny offered, as Cal was helping unload the packhorses. “One thing, Mr. Jensen,” he added, glancing over to Sally as she went in the house with an armload of winter clothes. “While I was in Big Rock the other day, Mr. Longmont said he read somethin’ in the Denver newspaper, that there was big trouble down in New Mexico. Folks are callin’ it the Lincoln County War, an’ you said Lincoln County was where we had to go to meet Mr. John Chisum an’ pick up them bulls. Mr. Longmont said there was dead bodies all over the place, an’ it might not be a safe place to be.”
While this wasn’t particularly good news, Smoke said, “It isn’t our war, Johnny. We’ll stay out of it If we can.”
Pearlie chuckled. “I never did know you to avoid no kind of war. If there’s any killin’ goin’ on wherever we’s headed, I’m dead sure we’ll get in on our share of it.”
Smoke didn’t want any danger discussed in front of Sally. “Don’t say any more about it, Johnny, not when Sally’s in hearing distance.”
“Yessir. I mean, no sir, I won’t.”
“It’s because she worries too much,” he explained, unsaddling the bay Palouse colt.
Pearlie muttered, as he stripped the saddle off Sally’s mare, “Maybe it’s because she’s got good reason to worry. This outfit ain’t exactly famous fer ridin’ the other way when lead’s flyin’.”
Fifteen
They made up quite a group riding south along the base of the Rockies, following a cattle trail that would take them to Durango before they crossed over the New Mexico line, Cal and Pearlie and Johnny, then Cletus Walker and Bob Williams, along with a seasoned cowboy from the Williams ranch by the name of Duke Smith. Smoke left Tinker Warren to help out at the ranch and watch over Sally while they were away. He trusted Tinker, and the old man could shoot straight if he had to, which was just as important as his cowboying skills when Smoke considered he was there to protect the most important thing in his life… Sally.
“Snow’s already melted in this low country,” Pearlie said, “an’ here it is only the middle of April.”
Cletus Walker offered his opinion on the subject. “Ain’t near as pretty this far south, an’ it sure as hell ain’t as good grazin’ land.” Cletus was a stocky man in his fifties, a good neighbor and friend although he and Smoke rarely saw each other, his spread being over ten rugged miles east of Sugarloaf.
“It’s warmer,” Bob Williams remarked, a lanky bachelor who ran cattle in lowlands south of Smoke and Sally, “but I’ll agree with Cletus that this is junk land compared to what we’ve got. There ain’t hardly enough grass most places in this valley to keep a jack-rabbit alive.”
Duke Smith, not much older than Cal, said, “It’s damn sure different all right. I never rode this trail afore, but I been up the Goodnight twice. Believe me, if you figure this part of Colorado ain’t got much grass, wait’ll you see the Goodnight down in the south part of New Mexico. You can count the blades of grass an’ not run out of fingers in some of them stretches along the Pecos.”
Cal had been unusually quiet for several days after they left the ranch. He rode silently beside Smoke as though his mind was on something else. “Down along the Pecos is where they’s havin’ that big fight, accordin’ to Mr. Longmont. Lincoln County is where he said most of it was, an’ that’s right where we’re headed. They’s callin’ it the Lincoln County War, if you’ll remember.”
“It isn’t our fight,” Smoke told him. “We’re buyin’ cattle and that’s all. No sense getting yourself all worked up over it, Cal. I promised Sally we’d ride a hundred miles in the wrong direction to stay out of trouble.”
“It’d be the first time,” Pearlie observed dryly. “Seems we make a habit outa ridin’ a hundred miles to look fer a Fight on occasion.”
Cal swallowed, seeming edgier than Smoke had ever seen him. “Just so nobody starts shootin’ at us before they know we ain’t on either side.”
There were times when Cal reminded Smoke of himself as a boy growing up, when he was known by his given name, Kirby Jensen, in a bleak part of southeastern Missouri at the edge of the Ozark Mountain range. He remembered too how his Pa, Ernmett, went off to war and how lonely he felt, trying to scratch a living out of thin soil to help support his Ma. It was after the war when he and his Pa rode west, running into the filthiest-looking old man he’d ever seen, dressed in greasy buckskins, calling himself Preacher and never anything else. It was another step toward manhood for Kirby Jensen, and a chance meeting where he earned the nickname Smoke early on, a meeting and a friendship that had changed Smoke Jensen’s life forever. And now Cal was becoming a man, one step at a time as it must always be, learning lessons that would keep him alive, as well as making him a man who could be a trusted friend and perhaps, later on, a deadly adversary. Cal had the basics, the things it took inside—courage and true loyalty to those who stood by him. His uneasiness now over the trouble in Lincoln County was just his way of preparing himself to stand and fight beside Smoke and the others if the need arose.
Smoke recalled his frontier education with Preacher, his own early fears, until Preacher taught him how to stay alive… and how to kill when necessary. With those skills came confidence, along with experience. While Preacher had been a hard taskmaster at times, he explained that it was necessary, that life-and-death struggles are unforgiving, usually allowing no mistakes. It had been hard to live up to Preacher’s expectations, without understanding it was a rite of passage into manhood in a land filled with sudden violence and harsh conditions. More than any other single thing, Preacher had taught him to rely on himself.
Smoke wondered if these memories were coming back because of the footprint Del had found at Willow Creek Pass, and the story Ned Buntline had told of encountering a solitary mountain man up there who handed Buntline his life. That would be just like Preacher, to help a tenderfoot in trouble and then abandon him as quickly as he’d arrived. Or was Smoke merely trying to comfort himself with the thought that Preacher was still alive up in the high lonesome, living out his final years?
Leading a string of spare horses, Duke pointed to a distant line of trees wandering back and forth to the south, stretching across the far horizon. “That looks like a river way off yonder,” he said.
“It’s the San Juan,” Cletus told him, before Smoke could say it. “Means we’re gettin’ mighty close to the New Mexico Territory line. Durango oughta be off to the west a few miles.”
Smoke setded back against the cantle of his saddle, hearing the bay Palouse colt’s hooves squish through melting snow and mud with some satisfaction. The young horse was proving itself to be like its sire, Horse, a solid trail pony with endurance and an easy gait, with enough stamina to outlast most other breeds in this part of the country. Crossing their mares on a good Morgan stud, he and Sally could raise tough cow horses with early speed at shorter distances.
“We’ll also be ridin’ into Apache country,” Bob warned as they neared the river. “Time we loaded our rifles an’ the rest of our guns.”
It was wasted advice for Smoke Jensen. He couldn’t remember a time when his guns weren’t fully loaded, or being reloaded for another round of gunplay. An empty gun was about as useless as a three-legged horse.
He noticed neither Cal nor Pearlie were checking their weapons, and Johnny North did not so much as look down at his pistol or rifle. Sugarloaf riders learned
to be prepared for most anything at any time. Otherwise, they didn’t stay on the payroll.
Smoke smiled when he thought about Sally. If she happened to be wearing a dress, underneath it, strapped to her leg, she kept a short-barreled Colt .44. And if she rode the ranch in a pair of denims, she wore a gunbelt just like the rest of the cowboys, with a Winchester booted to her saddle. For a gentle-natured schoolteacher, she could damn sure shoot straight with a handgun or a rifle.
Above the river, on a twisting road that would take them to Santa Fe, then farther south, they were climbing into the San Pedro Mountains toward El Vado Pass two days later when Smoke sensed danger, a feeling he would be hard-pressed to describe, a tingling down his back resembling a chill. Although for now he saw nothing to arouse his concerns, the sensation was there just the same.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe it’s nothing, but my nose smells trouble up ahead.”
“That’s enough fer me,” Pearlie remarked, pulling out his Winchester, resting it across the pommel of his saddle. “I never have knowed how you could smell it comin’, but I’ll take an oath you’ve done it more times than I care to remember. Jerk that smoke stick, boy,” he said to Cal, “an’ git yerself ready to use it. Johnny, if you like the sweet smell of this air, you’d best git ready to fight fer your next breath of it.”
Battle of the Mountain Man Page 8
