Battle of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “It comes with time, Cal. You have to make up your mind that it’s them or you, or your friends. Some men seem to have a natural gift for fightin’, like some others have a gift with breaking horses.”

  “It never did bother you right at first when you killed a man?”

  He thought about it a moment. “I suppose I’d already made up my mind that it had to be done, that there wasn’t any other way. There’s some men who need killin’. They break the law and bring harm to other folks who can’t defend themselves. I never went out lookin’ for a man to kill. Seems like they always found me, one way or another, and I’ve been willing to oblige ’em when it was a fight they wanted.”

  “You’re the best at it I ever saw, Mr. Jensen, but to tell the truth I don’t think it’s my natural callin’. You taught me how to shoot, an’ how to look out for myself. I’m real grateful for that. When I looked down at that dyin’ Indian, somethin’ in my head said maybe it was wrong, even though he had a rifle an’ he was shootin’ at us. I can’t explain it proper…”

  “Some men ain’t cut out for killing, Cal. You know how to do it when it’s necessary, and that can be a good thing, so you can defend what’s yours if somebody tries to take it. I think you realized for the first time how final death is, after you took another man’s life. Understandable, to feel that way. It may keep you from becoming a killer yourself, unless you’ve got a good reason to kill.”

  “But you’ve killed plenty of men and it don’t seem to bother you none. Leastways, you don’t show it”

  Smoke turned back toward the fire. Cal would understand the incident today, given time. “I never killed a man who didn’t ask for the opportunity. The Apache you shot knew it could turn out either way… he’d lose his life, or you’d lose yours. He took a gamble, a calculated risk, and he lost. You did yourself proud, and you may have saved a friend’s life because of it… even mine if the Indian had gotten lucky.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” Cal said. “Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, what I did today.”

  Lincoln Township was a little place, two stores and a blacksmith’s shop and a few smaller businesses, a two-story courthouse near the Rio Hondo, surrounded by the Capitan Mountains. When Smoke and his cowboys rode into town on an April afternoon, the village was in an uproar, and it wasn’t long until Smoke learned from a blacksmith that two funerals were about to commence.

  “Billy Bonney an’ some of his friends gunned down Sheriff Brady an’ his deputy, George Hindeman. It was retaliation for the murder of John Tunstall, pure an’ simple. Billy the Kid, as they call him, led the attack. The governor is puttin’ out a warrant for his arrest, along with them others, We’s fixin’ to have two funerals today, the sheriffs and his deputy’s.”

  Smoke didn’t care to hear all the details. “Can you give us directions to John Chisum’s ranch?” he asked.

  “East of here. It’s called South Springs ranch an’ that’s where you’ll find him. It’s a day’s ride. Can’t miss it. It’s on the west bank of the Pecos River.”

  Smoke gave the town a final look. People were standing in groups talking among themselves as two funeral wagons waited at the end of the street near the courthouse and a tiny church. “Thanks,” was all Smoke said, wheeling his horse eastward to ride out of Lincoln. The shootings weren’t any of his affair.

  Pearlie had a twinkle in his eye when he looked at Srnoke, then he spoke to Cal “Like I said not too long ago, young ’un, where there’s trouble, you’ll usually find Smoke Jensen. Either it comes lookin’ fer him, or we ride smack into it. First thing a man learns when he rides for the Sugarloaf brand is to keep his guns cleaned an’ loaded. I knowed things was too quiet this past winter. Ain’t hardly spring yet an’ here we are, square in the middle of a range war.”

  John Chisum was a towering figure at six-foot-four in boots, with a square jaw and slitted eyes, with suspicion in them when Smoke and his riders arrived at South Springs ranch. There were men wearing guns near the barns and corrals, a seedy-looking lot for the most part, paid shootists if ever Smoke laid eyes on one. It seemed every one of them was watching Smoke and his men ride in to the ranch.

  Smoke swung down and walked up to Chisum, offering his hand. “Name’s Smoke Jensen, from Big Rock, Colorado Territory. I wrote you awhile back and you sent me prices on some Hereford bulls.”

  Chisum’s expression changed to friendliness. “Of course, Mr. Jensen. I remember now. You were interested in a dozen to fifteen young bulls, as I recall. I quoted you a price of two hundred dollars each and the offer still stands.” He turned to a pockmarked gunman leaning against a porch post. “It’s okay, Buck. Tell the boys they can relax an’ go back to work. These men are invited guests.” He looked back at Smoke. “Tell your men to turn their horses into an empty corral an’ then come to the house. I’ll offer you coffee or whiskey or both, an’ a bite to eat as soon as Maria can get the stove going.”

  “We’re grateful. It’s been a long ride,” Smoke said as he gave his horse’s reins to Pearlie.

  Chisum frowned a bit. “Did you run into any difficulties on the way down?”

  “A handful of renegade Apaches gave us a try a few days ago, but we handled it.”

  As Smoke was climbing the porch steps, Chisum gave the hills a sweeping glance. “In case you haven’t heard, we’re having our share of problems in Lincoln County, only it isn’t Indians who are causing it. Cattle rustling has gotten so bad I’ve had to hire guards to watch my herds. There’ve been a number of killings, and I’ve lost almost a dozen men. A rancher friend of mine was murdered in cold blood, and just yesterday our sheriff and one of his deputies were gunned down. The army post over at Fort Stanton won’t do anything to stop all this killing, and I fear it will only get worse. The territorial governor, Lew Wallace, may be our only hope of ending what amounts to all-out war.”

  “We’ve heard a little bit about it,” Smoke said, following Chisum into a big log house decorated inside with mounted cattle horns and colorful Indian blankets nailed to the walls. Leather chairs sat around a massive fireplace and Chisum pointed to one as he went to a cabinet for a bottle of whiskey and glasses.

  “You were lucky you didn’t ride into a cross fire,” Chisum said, pouring Smoke a shot of whiskey, “and I’ll warn you to be careful heading back with any cattle you buy from me. We’ve got rustlers and gunmen riding all over the county stealing cows and killin’ folks.” He glanced down at Smoke’s pair of pistols. ”I can see you and your men are well armed, but you’d better know how to use the iron you’re packing.”

  “We can handle ourselves, I think,” Smoke replied before he tasted his drink, finding it to be good sour mash, not the cheap watered stuff.

  “Glad to hear it,” Chisum said, settling into a chair. “If you’re lucky, you won’t run into any troublemakers.”

  “Never was real lucky in that regard,” Smoke told him, “but if trouble comes our way, I know what to do with it.”

  Chisum chuckled, reading Smoke’s face closely now. “I’m a pretty good judge of men, Mr. Jensen, and I don’t figure that’s any exaggeration. Some gents send out a warning to other men by the way they carry themselves. While we don’t know each other, I’m pretty sure I’d hate to tangle with you if you got on a mad.”

  Smoke grinned. He took an immediate liking to Chisum. “I’m looking forward to seeing those bulls. And if the price is right, I’d like to buy about two hundred young longhorn cows to cross ’em on.”

  Chisum nodded. “I’ll give you your pick of my longhorn heifers for twenty-five bucks apiece.”

  “That’s a fair price if they’re in good flesh. We’ve got to drive ’em a long way, so they’ll need to be in good trail condition.”

  “You’ll be well satisfied,” Chisum assured him, downing his drink in a single gulp. “A Hereford is a good cross on a longhorn. More meat, and the calves are almost disease free. The Hereford breed is the thing of the future in the cattle market, as f
ar as I’m concerned.”

  “My wife’s been reading up on ’em and she says the same thing,” Smoke said. “We’re just hoping they take well to colder country.”

  “They do, and they can handle the heat in summer. If they have faults, it’s that they’re short-legged creatures, so they don’t trail as well as a longhorn, and a purebred Hereford is subject to pinkeye in hot weather sometimes.”

  These were some of the same things Sally had told him about Herefords. Smoke was glad to find that Chisum was being honest about his bulls. He decided Chisum would make a good neighbor and friend, if they lived closer. Chisum would be a good man to ride the trails with… he had character. “Soon as the boys get a drink in ’em, I’d like to see those bulls,” he said.

  Chisum stood up and poured another round. “I’ll tell Maria to get the stove hot and fix something for everybody to eat. We can go down to the barns and look at those bulls anytime you’re ready.”

  Eighteen

  Billy Barlow came galloping up to the log cabin at Bosque Redondo on a lathered, winded horse. He jumped to the ground, seemingly out of breath himself even though his horse had done all the traveling.

  “Could be trouble, Jessie,” he said to Jessie Evans. Billy had been assigned to watch the Chisum ranch for cattle buyers, and to see if Chisum was hiring any more gunmen.

  “How’s that?” Jessie asked.

  “Seven riders leadin’ spare horses just showed up at Chisum’s. I had my field glasses on ’em when they come along the road from Lincoln. They was all car-ryin’ guns, plenty of ’em, an’ I’m pretty sure I know who one of ’em is.”

  “Who is he?” Jessie asked, not really interested since he didn’t trust Barlow’s judgment in these matters.

  “A feller from up in Colorado Territory by the name of Smoke Jensen.”

  “The name don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

  “Maybe it oughta. I spent a little time up there workin’ on a ranch. Smoke Jensen is one bad hombre with a six-gun. Up in them parts damn near everybody knows him. He’s a killer, Jessie, an honest to goodness killer. He’s got about the meanest reputation a man can have, an’ there was six more rode in with him.” Jessie leaned forward on the bench where he sat watching men change cattle brands in the corrals. He didn’t figure Barlow was good enough with a gun to know much about gunmen. Since William Bonney and some of his friends had ambushed Sheriff Brady and Deputy Hindeman, he’d been thinking of a way to strike back. It was a cowardly way to kill two men, hiding behind a fence until they came into range, gunning them down without warning. Bonney and his young friends were calling themselves Regulators now and someone said they were wearing badges authorized by an old justice of the peace, Judge Wilson. Their badges didn’t mean a damn thing, and Bonney and his green companions were nothing to worry about, but if Chisum was importing more professional gunmen like Curly Tully and Buck Andrews, this was another matter. “I’ll send Roy Cooper an’ six of them Mexican pistoleros back with you. You show Roy who this Jensen feller is. If Jensen an’ his pardners leave the Chisum ranch for any reason, Roy’ll know what to do. Saddle a fresh horse an’ tell Roy I want to see him. Before this Smoke Jensen causes us any trouble, we’ll kill him. It’s as simple as that.”

  Barlow seemed uncertain. “I wasn’t jokin’, boss, when I said this feller is dangerous. Maybe you oughta send some more men with Roy.”

  “I’m runnin’ this outfit,” Jessie declared angrily. “You tell Roy I want him, an’ tell them Mexicans to saddle horses up as quick as they can. Show Roy who this Jensen feller is… point him out through them field glasses when you get a chance. That makes eight of us an’ seven of them, and as far as I’m concerned, Roy is better’n any three men with a gun. Maybe Jensen’s just passin’ through. No need to get yourself so worked up over one man’s reputation.”

  Barlow backed away in the face of Jessie’s anger, leading his horse toward the corrals. Jessie leaned back against the cabin wall, pulling a cork from the neck of a tequila bottle.

  Bill Pickett appeared to have been dozing at the other end of the porch with his hat over his face. But as Jessie took a swallow of tequila, Pickett sat up straight, watching Barlow as he went looking for Cooper.

  “Barlow may be right,” Pickett said. “Maybe you oughta send more men. I’ll go. Hell, I ain’t shot nobody in so long I plumb forgot what it’s like to see a man die. All we’re doin’ is sittin’ around this stinkin’ cow camp waitin’ for somethin’ to happen.”

  “I don’t put much stock in what Barlow said about this Jensen bein’ a real shooter. Maybe Jensen just stopped by the ranch to say howdy. Either way, if he leaves Chisum’s, Roy’ll make sure he don’t go no place else. Barlow ain’t all that good with a gun himself, so ain’t no reason why he’d know if a man was one of the best. You stay here. We’ll go lookin’ for that Billy Bonney an’ his friends in a day or two. If we kill ’bout a half dozen of them so-called Regulators, it’ll help square things for what they did to Sheriff Brady an’ Hindeman. We can’t let a thing like that go unpunished, or afore you know it every son of a bitch in Lincoln County will be wearin’ a badge.”

  “Well, damn,” Pickett muttered, leaning back against the wall with his hat over his face. “I was tryin’ to remember if I’d ever killed anybody named Jensen before, which I ain’t. Not that I recall anyways. There ain’t always time to ask a feller’s name before you blow him to pieces.”

  “Be patient, Bill,” Jessie said. “You can kill that Bonney kid instead.”

  Down at the corrals, men were running back and forth leading horses to the saddle shed. Roy Cooper came ambling up to the cabin with his rifle balanced in his palm.

  “Barlow said we’s supposed to head fer Chisum’s an’ blow hell outa some owlhoot named Smoke Jensen,” he said.

  “Barlow claims he’s a shooter,” Jessie said, “from up in Colorado Territory. Him an’ six more just rode, in at Chisum’s place. Take those five Mexicans ridin’ with Pedro an’ see if you can kill this Jensen an’ his pardners, if they leave the ranch. If they stay, keep an eye on ’em. Find out what Chisum’s up to. If he’s hirin’ more guns, we need to know.”

  Cooper frowned. “This ain’t no way to fight a war, Jessie. Hell, we’ve got damn near thirty men as it is. How come we don’t ride over to Chisum’s an’ kill him an’ every last one of them sons of bitches?”

  “Orders from Dolan. We kill ’em off a few at a time an’ it don’t make so much ruckus. Just take care of Jensen an’ his men till we get word from Dolan that things have changed. I figure them kids killin’ Brady and Hindeman will touch off the boys up in Santa Fe. They’ve got the purse strings, so we do what they say. After all, Roy, you ain’t no different from me. We’re only in this for the money…”

  “This Jensen’s as good as dead,” Roy promised, wheeling away from the porch.

  Jessie felt better about things now.

  Nineteen

  Smoke rested his elbows on a corral pole admiring a group of curious, stocky young bulls with sorrel bodies and white heads, a pair of short, curved horns, and more meat than he had ever seen on a cow.

  “They’re more than I expected,” he told John Chisum, wishing Sally could see these impressive specimens of beef cattle for herself right now. “They carry more muscle across the hindquarter all the way up their backs to their chests. If the crosses are even half this good, it’ll mean a.bigger profit for every calf we sell.”

  “I’ll show you some of the crosses when we ride out in the pastures,” Chisum said. “You won’t be disappointed. You’re looking at the future of the cattle business.”

  “I’d like to see those crosses,” Smoke said, pulling away from the fence. His men were lounging on Chisum’s front porch after a delicious meal of beefsteak, tortillas, beans, and rice. “My boys and neighbors look damn near foundered after all that food. You and me can ride out to look at the crossbreds while my bunch recovers from Maria’s good cooking.”

  Chisum grinned.
“Let’s saddle a couple of horses,” he said as they turned for the barns. “I’ve got a bunch of crossbred steers close to the house in a pasture north of here. It’s less than a half hour ride.“

  “Sounds good to me,” Smoke replied, thinking of pastures at Sugarloaf filled with white-faced cattle in a few years. “Just so you’ll know, I’ll take fifteen of those bulls. A few are for my neighbors, who aim to start the same breeding program. If you got no objections, we’ll pick the bulls and roughly two hundred longhorn heifers tomorrow morning. I brought cash, so you’ll be paid on the spot.”

  “Then we’ve got a deal,” Chisum said, offering Smoke his hand as a way of sealing their bargain.

  The crossbreds all had white faces. Some were brindle in body color, while others were spotted like many longhorns, or a solid black or brown. The steers they saw were long yearlings, born last year, and they carried more beef than Smoke had imagined. Riding across a narrow, tree-studded valley turning green with spring grass, they rode among the gende cattle without disturbing them. At the far end of the valley, a pair of Chisum cowboys kept watch over the herd. Smoke noted they were carrying rifles and pistols as if they expected trouble.

  “Your cowhands go heavily armed,” he said. “Too bad you’re havin’ all these problems with rustling. Seems to me like the law would step in.”

  Chisum’s jaw went tight. “The law ‘round here is mostly a bunch of crooks wearing badges, taking bribes from powerful men up in the territorial capitol at Santa Fe. They look the other way when I got robbed, for the most part. Now and then they go through the motions, investigating any rustling. That leaves it up to me to protect my own interests if I want to stay in business.”