“He run away, just like Billy say,” Pedro said. “He ride off like he be scared of this hombre.”
“Nonsense. Roy ain’t afraid of nobody.”
Billy shrugged. “Can’t explain what he did no other way, boss. He jumped on his horse an’ rode east as fast as that brown gelding could travel.”
“What happened to the others?” Jessie demanded.
“Maybeso all are dead,” Pedro answered. “This big hombre, he come up shooting with two pistolas, one in each hand. He no be afraid of our guns.”
Jessie’s attention was distracted by another rider coming in at Bosque Redondo, a man slumped over his saddle like he was in a great deal of pain.
“Who’s that?” Jessie asked.
Pedro looked over his shoulder. “It is Victor Bustamante, and there is blood on his shirt.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna convince me Roy Cooper took off when it was time for a killin’,” Jessie stated. “See what the hell that Mexican has to say…”
Victor Bustamante rode his grullo gelding up to the cabin with obvious pain twisting his face. He stopped his horse in front of the porch. Blood was leaking from a wound across his right side, covering his right pants leg.
“I have… this message for you… Serior Jessie,” he said in clipped, breathless words.
“What kind of goddamn message?” Jessie wanted to know, as he grew impatient with this latest bit of news.
“This hombre… he call himself Smoke Jensen. He say he gone kill you… He say he come looking for you if we don’t stop shoot at him.”
Jessie’s sun-etched face crinkled. “Who the hell is Smoke Jensen? I never heard of him.”
“He be one malo hombre, ”Victor replied, still holding his side, wincing. “He kill Raul and Jorge real quick. Then he kill Carlos and he shoot this hole in me.”
Jessie stiffened. “The son of a bitch said he was gonna kill me?” he asked in a voice that boomed all over the clearing where the cow camp was hidden. “You mean that arrogant son of a bitch had the nerve to say that?”
“Si, Senor Jessie. He say he want me tell you how he kill you if anybody shoot at him or his compadres again. This be what he say to tell you.”
Jessie glanced over at Pickett. “Who the hell is Smoke Jensen?”
“Never heard of the bastard,” Pickett replied. “I’ll go saddle a horse an’ we’ll see if he’s as tough as he says he is.”
“Where did this happen?” Jessie asked Billy.
“North of the Chisurn ranch by maybe ten miles.”
“An’ you claim Roy took off runnin’ when it happened?”
“Yessir. That’s sure the way it looked. Roy jumped on his horse and rode east as fast as that pony could travel. Last we saw of him, he was headed for the Pecos River.”
“That ain’t like Roy. Maybe he was gonna ride a circle around ’em.”
“It sure as hell didn’t look that way, boss. Soon as Raul an’ Jorge got killed, Roy took off. He never fired a shot at this Jensen feller.”
“Roy ain’t no coward.”
Billy shrugged. “Maybe he just knowed it when he was outgunned. That Jensen never wasted a bullet. He killed Raul so quick it was like they was standin’ two feet apart. Then he shot Carlos an’ Jorge, all of ’em from the back of a runnin’ horse. I took off right after that, when I seen there wasn’t no stoppin’ this Jensen. He ain’t no ordinary man.”
Jessie scowled. “You ain’t nothin’ but a yellow son of a bitch, Barlow. Get your gear an’ clear out of here. I’ll have your wages ready.”
Pickett lifted his shotgun and started down the porch steps two at a time. “I’ll saddle a horse an’ round up Ignacio, Billy, an’ Tom. Let’s see if this Jensen is as tough as he claims to be.”
Jessie gazed across the corrals. “Tell those boys from up in Arkansas to ride along with us. Chisum may have hired himself a fancy shooter, only we’ll see how good he is when the odds are against him. That one-eyed feller from Arkansas says he can hit a sparrow on the fly with a Sharps rifle. We’ll let him show us how good he is.”
Pickett ambled off toward the corrals, in no apparent hurry to get things started. Jessie looked at Billy. “Get your gear out of the bunkhouse, Barlow. You’re finished with this outfit, an’ if I ever lay eyes on you again, I’ll kill you myself.” He turned his attention to Victor. “Have somebody fix you a bandage for that scratch. Then get mounted on a fresh horse so you can show us where all this happened. Jensen could be dead by now, if Roy caught up with him. One thing you can bet on—Roy Cooper didn’t run from no kind of fight.”
Twenty-one
Smoke heard horses corning up the hill as he wiped blood off his Bowie knife on the dying man’s pants leg. Standing out in plain view, he knew Chisum and his cowboys could see him now, and they were riding up to see what had brought him here… He’d only said to wait for him until he took care of a little unfinished business, without telling them a man was lying in ambush for them on this hilltop, just out of rifle range. Again, he’d seen a flash of polished metal in the sun as they were riding out of the valley, and he knew what it meant. There wasn’t time to explain.
“What happened, Mr. Jensen?” Chisum asked just before his horse snorted, scenting blood as it trotted toward Smoke.
“We had another surprise waiting for us,” Smoke replied as he sheathed his Bowie, “another gent who thought we’d ride right past his hiding place so he could shoot us down.”
Now Chisum saw the body lying in a patch of tall, bloody grass near Smoke’s feet. “Damn,” he said, swinging off his red sorrel to get a better look.
One of Chisum’s cowboys said, “That’s Roy Cooper, another one of Dolan’s hired guns. A feller told me Cooper had a real bad disposition, that he was a sure enough professional killer.”
Smoke took a last look at Cooper. “He should have chosen another line of work. It’s just one man’s opinion, but it don’t seem he was all that good at it.”
Chisum was staring at Smoke with a bit of slack in his jaw. “You killed him with a knife. How come you didn’t use a gun?” he asked. “You must have slipped up behind him.”
Smoke walked over to the bay a Chisum cowboy brought up the hill, taking its reins. “He was real busy watchin’ what was in front of him. It’s a mistake a lot of men make before they wind up on Boot Hill.”
Chisum watched Smoke mount his horse, still not quite ready to believe what he’d seen or heard. “For a big man, you sure as hell get around mighty quiet. It’s hard to slip up on a man from behind like that. And all you had to do was shoot him. You’d have been within your rights, seeing as he was trying to kill us with a rifle.”
Smoke was far more interested in the beefy carcasses of Chisum’s crossbred Hereford steers right then, the incident with Cooper already pushed from his mind, even though the gunman was still alive, still breathing shallowly. Smoke gazed across the valley, thinking of cattle like these carrying a Sugarloaf brand. “I’ve got no choice but to agree with you, Mr. Chisum. Herefords represent the future of the cattle business out west. A longhorn’s tough, and they can get by on poor pastures, but they don’t carry the meat these crosses do. In a couple of years, I hope to have steers like those yonder ready for market.”
Chisum shook his head and mounted his horse. “You’re quite a puzzlement, Mr. Jensen. On the one hand you seem like a very knowledgeable cattleman, but when the shooting starts, you behave like a seasoned Indian fighter, or a trained soldier.”
Smoke turned his horse toward the valley floor. “Sometimes a man has got to be a little of both,” he said, “if he aims to hold on to what’s his.”
The night was clear and chilly, near forty degrees, as Smoke and Pearlie and Johnny and Bob Williams stood at the corral fence examining Chisum’s Hereford bulls in the light of the moon. Cal and Cletus and Duke were inside the house enjoying another piece of Maria’s chocolate pie.
Bob seemed a bit doubtful. “They look too short-legged to suit me,” he said, “b
ut they’ve damn sure got the meat on ’em. I reckon it’s the crosses that count. Until a railhead comes close to Big Rock, we’ve still got to drive our cattle to market a hell of a long way. A short-legged cow ain’t gonna cover much ground in a day. But I’m ready to try a couple of bulls. That pretty little wife of yours done a lot of convincin’ when we talked about Herefords last fall. Put me down for two of them young bulls.” He glanced over to Smoke. “I sure hope we make it all the way home with ’em, Smoke. After what them two cowboys of Chisum’s told us this evenin’ about all the shootin’ you did up north of here, I’m wonderin’ if us or these cattle will ever see Big Rock country.”
“There’s always a risk, Bob,” Smoke told him. “I never once got up in the mornin’ with any guarantee I’d see the end of the day.”
“I like our chances,” Pearlie said, chewing on a piece of straw. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy, but I still like our chances of gettin’ home with these here stumpy bulls. One thing they ain’t gonna do is outrun no horse.”
Johnny North offered his opinion. “It’s outrunnin’ lead we have to worry about, with all these hired guns on the prowl.”
Smoke heard a noise near the bunkhouse. Four of Chisum’s men were unloading dead bodies wrapped in canvas tarps from the back of a wagon, arranging four corpses in a neat row near the front porch. “We’ll make it,” Smoke said tonelessly. “Let’s get some shut-eye. Tomorrow I’ll pick out two hundred head of young cows for me and Sally’s new herd. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Pearlie turned away from the fence, yawning. “It’s been a spell since we had a roof over our heads. I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight in one of them rawhide cots.”
“I’m ready to turn in,” Johnny agreed. “Cal’s gonna have a bellyache if he ain’t careful. I never saw a boy his size eat so much in one sittin’.”
Pearlie nodded as the four men ambled toward the bunkhouse. “I done told that boy he’s got worms. Can’t nobody eat that much without a bellyful of worms helpin’ him.”
Smoke gave the outlying black hills a passing inspection as they headed for bed. He wondered if the gunman named Jessie Evans had gotten word of what had happened to his crew of killers today. While he didn’t know anything about Evans, he was certain a shootist with a reputation on the line wouldn’t take any advice from a stranger… not until someone convinced him otherwise.
Twenty-two
Boyd, Jack, and Lee Johnson were tobacco-chewing brothers from northwestern Arkansas, on the run from the law and Hanging Judge Isaac Parker’s unyielding rope justice in his judicial district. Judge Parker had been known to hang three men at the same time, a fate the Johnson brothers had hoped to escape by coming to New Mexico Territory. Boyd, eldest of the three, had but one eye, having lost the other to an Arkansas Toothpick knife similar in size to a Bowie. Along with the Johnsons came two cousins with similar reputations. Dewey Hyde was wanted for murder, in both Arkansas and Mississippi. Marvin Hyde had warrants out for him in Missouri charging him with murdering a Methodist minister for what was in the collection plates on a Sunday morning. As a gang, they were considered a blight on the citizens of Arkansas by Judge Parker, who ordered a squad of United States deputy marshals to chase them halfway across Indian Territory. But individually, none was more dangerous than one-eyed Boyd Johnson, a burly man with a thick red beard and deadly aim with a rifle. When Boyd and his followers answered Jessie’s call for experienced men who knew how to use a gun, it was a natural place for the Johnson brothers and the Hydes to show up.
As the hour approached midnight, Jessie led fourteen mounted men into the hills west of John Chisum’s South Springs ranch, all heavily armed. Jessie was still puzzled by the disappearance of Roy Cooper… It just wasn’t Cooper’s nature to turn tail and run. Roy, was utterly fearless in any kind of fight, whether it be with guns or knives or fists. Cooper wouldn’t have left the scene of a shoot-out without good reason, a plan of some sort to exact his brand of vengeance against this owlhoot named Smoke Jensen for taking the lives of Carlos, Jorge, and Raul. What Victor described, with Jensen charging recklessly into their guns, had to be nothing more than blind luck. Or stupidity. No man with all his faculties charged single-handedly into the teeth of seven riflemen behind cover. Those were the actions of a madman.
When they could see the ranch down below, Jessie held up his hand for a halt. A light was burning behind the windows of Chisum’s main house. The bunkhouse was dark.
“We’ll throw a circle around ’em,” Jessie explained, making a motion with his hand. “Catch ’em in a cross fire. Get as close as you can to that bunk-house, ’cause that’s where his paid guns are more likely to be. Pour lead into them windows an’ kill every son of a bitch who comes out them doors… There’s one at the back leadin’ to the outhouse. I’ll take four men an’ make a circle ’round the main house. Soon as the shootin’ starts, Chisum will come runnin’ out. One of us will get him an’ that’ll be the end of this cattle war for good.”
“What’ll Dolan say?” Tom asked. “He told us all we was supposed to do was rustle a few cattle an’ kill a few cowboys if they put up a fight. He never said nothin’ ’bout killin’ Chisum outright.”
“I’ll tell him it was an accident, that Chisum got in the line of fire. Main thing is to be sure we get this feller Smoke Jensen. It’s payback time for him. Victor said he was a real big feller, like Chisum, only he was wearing buckskins. Just be damn sure you kill him, whoever the hell he is. All that tough talk about him comin’ gunnin’ for me is gonna cost him. I’ll cut off his goddamn head an’ stick it on a fencepost at Bosque. Be a reminder to any son of a bitch who threatens me.”
Boyd Johnson urged his horse alongside Jessie’s, a Sharps rifle resting against his leg. “I’ll git him fer you, boss. All I gotta do is git him in my sights jest once.”
Jessie gave Boyd a sideways glance. “We’re about to find out if you’re as good as you claim to be. Kill Jensen, an’ I’ll talk to Dolan ’bout givin’ you a little bonus money.” He looked over his shoulder. “Take Victor with you so he can point him out in the dark. Just make damn sure you kill the son of a bitch, no matter what it takes.” Now Jessie spoke softly to the rest of his men. “Spread out. Billy, you an’ Tom an’ Bill Pickett come with me. Everybody else covers that bunkhouse. I’ll fire the first shot into one of them lighted windows at the big house. As soon as you hear it, start pourin’ lead into the place.”
Silent riders spread out in twos and threes, beginning a circle around the Chisum ranch headquarters. Jessie led his handpicked men down a grassy embankment, toward a stand of oak where they could tie their horses.
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” Pickett said. “Wish it was daylight so we could see ’em bleed better.”
Tom Hill spoke up again. “I sure hope Jimmy don’t get mad over this. He said he was glad we killed Tunstall, so he didn’t write no more complainin’ letters. Hope he feels the same way if we kill John Chisum.”
Jessie had some private doubts. Dolan wanted a controlled war that wouldn’t draw too much attention in the newspapers up in Santa Fe or over in Silver City, But when Victor brought back that message from Jensen, it got Jessie’s back up. “Ain’t no son of a bitch gonna threaten me like Jensen did,” he said. “I’ll tell Jimmy that Chisum was hirin’ too damn many gun-slicks, an’ we had to do somethin’ about it.”
Bill Pickett offered his opinion. “You worry too much, Tom. Dolan ain’t payin’ us to sit an’ whittle on a stick.”
They came to the trees and dismounted, taking rifles and a few extra boxes of cartridges along. Pickett carried a Winchester and his shotgun, one in each hand, as they began a slow walk through the darkness toward Chisum’s house, hunkered down to keep from being outlined against a night sky full of stars, in case Chisum had posted any guards.
“No dogs,” Pickett said as they neared the house. “Means I can get close enough to use ol’ Ten-Gauge Betsy.”
Jessie felt his pulse begin to
race. Like Pickett, he was looking forward to a killing spree. His men had been idle too long, and until today, when this Jensen started killing a few of his pistoleros, things had been too damn quiet to suit everybody at Bosque Redondo. It was hard to keep men who killed for a living content unless they were doing what they were being paid to do.
Twenty-three
Smoke lay asleep beside an open bunkhouse window when something he couldn’t identify disturbed his slumber. Several men across the room were snoring and for a moment he wondered what it was that had awakened him. Cletus Walker and Bob Williams were at the main house talking with Chisum over drinks, talking about the cattle market and some of Chisum’s troubles with the Santa Fe Ring and L.G. Murphy and Jimmy Dolan. Smoke had retired early, preferring sleep to conversation after so many days on the trail. But now something had interrupted his sleep, something beyond the window above his bunk.
He sat up slowly, peering out at a moonlit ranch yard and the hills beyond. A vague uneasy sensation warned him something was amiss, yet he was unable to see or hear anything out of the ordinary.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he put on his boots and took his gunbelts from a bedpost, and as an added precaution, he picked up his Winchester, after strapping both cartridge belts around his waist.
He crept to the back door and opened it softly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was startled when he heard a soft whisper behind him.
“What is it?” Pearlie asked, sitting up.
The pockmarked gunfighter named Buck Andrews said, “I heard somethin’ too, like horses.” He swung his legs off the bunk beside Pearlie’s to nudge a gunman named Curly Tully, who was in a deep sleep, snoring in the next bunk. “Wake up, Curly. I’d take an’ oath I heard somethin’ outside. Git up and fetch yer guns.”
Tully raised his head off the pillow and shook it. “Maybe you was only drearnin’,” he said sleepily.
Battle of the Mountain Man Page 12
