Law of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’d sure like to have seen that,” Walt said with a sigh. “That man has sure caused us some problems.” “Why?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. “He wants our land. Jud Vale wants everything he sees. Including her.” He cut his eyes to Doreen, a slim but very shapely woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

  Got to be more to it than that, Smoke thought. “What has Clint Perkins got to do with all this?”

  Walt looked at his coffee cup. His wife busied herself at the sink, washing dishes. Doreen met Smoke’s eyes. “He’s my husband. Sort of.”

  Odd reply, Smoke thought. “Father of the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clint is from this area, right?”

  “Not too far from here,” she replied. “It’s a long story, but I’ll make it short. When Clint was just a boy he saw his father and mother killed by greedy cattlemen who wanted their land and didn’t like farmers. The boy took to the high country and raised himself. He hates rich people to the point of being a fanatic about it. But he has a few good points. More than a few. I married him, but it just didn’t work. He refuses to stop his outlawing. I just couldn’t live like that.”

  “So you took the boy and left?”

  “Yes.”

  Smoke didn’t believe her. She was lying through her teeth, but damned if he knew why.

  “This is a big spread, Mr. Burden. Where are your hands?”

  “Don’t have none no more. Jud’s men run them off; killed a couple. They’re buried on that crest to the east.”

  Smoke had seen the graveyard. More than two crosses there. “And Jud’s men cut your fence?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell me about this Clint Perkins?”

  “What is there to say?” Walt said. “Nobody ’ceptin’ Doreen has seen his face in fifteen years.”

  “You two look alike,” Doreen said. “I can see where someone might think you were him.”

  What to do? Smoke thought. All three of these people were lying to him. But why? What were they hiding? Walt and Alice Burden were too old for Clint Perkins to be their son. So that was out. So where was the connection? There had to be one.

  “How’d you get here?” he asked Doreen.

  “Runnin’ from Jud Vale,” she answered simply. “Walt and Alice took me and Micky in and let us stay.”

  Why? Had they known Doreen that well? Had they been neighbors? What? Too many unanswered questions. It made Smoke uneasy. Very uneasy.

  “You have any idea how many head of cattle you have?” Smoke asked the old man.

  “Not no more. Jud and his gunhands been runnin’ ’em off for a year or more. The one herd they can’t get to without a lot of fuss is west of here, next to the Bear River.”

  “How are you getting your food?”

  The question seemed to make all three of them nervous. Walt finally said, “Friends slip food to us.”

  Smoke nodded, not satisfied with the reply but sensing he wasn’t going to get much more out of the trio. Micky was outside, playing. Smoke figured the boy to be about eight years old.

  “There is no point in my trying to restring the wire,” Smoke said. “Without hands to ride fence, Jud’s people would just cut it again come night.”

  “True.”

  “Do you have the money to pay hands, providing I could find some who’d work for you?”

  “Oh, sure. I got money up in Montpelier. That’s a Mormon town. Jud ain’t gonna mess with them folks.”

  Smoke knew that for an iron-clad fact. Mormons tendedto stick together, and folks who thought they wouldn’t fight because they were so religious soon learned how wrong they were—providing they lived through it.

  Wall was saying, “... You ain’t gonna find no one to work for me, anyways, Mr. Smoke. Jud’s got the folks around here buffaloed.”

  “You let me think on that for a few hours. You just might be wrong.” He smiled. “However, the hands I get might not be the type you’re used to seeing.”

  Smoke stowed his gear in the bunkhouse and fired up the old potbelly stove in the center of the room. Dagger was warm and content and chomping away on corn in a hay-filled stall in the big barn.

  Smoke had noticed that at one time—not too long ago—the Box T had been a money-making spread. So why the sudden downfall? Was it just because Jud Vale wanted the land? Smoke didn’t believe that for a minute. There was more to it than that; a lot more.

  Smoke hated bullies. If it were just a simple matter of Jud Vale’s greed, the problem could be easily solved—with a gun. Smoke wanted the whole story, though, before it came to that, if it came to that. And he sincerely hoped it would not. He, however, had a hunch that it would. Usually all loud-mouthed, pushy, bullying types could be handled without being killed, for bullies are cowards at heart. Give them a good beating and you’ve got their attention. But Smoke felt that Jud wouldn’t go down that easily. If Jensen stayed around, he would have to drag iron against Jud Vale.

  He felt pretty sure he was going to stick around. Nothing like a good mystery to pique one’s interest.

  Over supper, Smoke asked, “Lots of small farmers in this area, huh? ”

  “Oh, yeah,” the old rancher said. “Most of them just barely hanging on. That’s another thing that got me in trouble. I never minded farmers like a lot of ranchers seem to. Never had any trouble with them. I used to helpa lot of them time to time. A little money, food, clothing, what have you. Used to hire some of the kids during the summer to work on the spread.”

  “Does Montpelier have a newspaper?”

  “Sure.”

  Smoke nodded. “I’m going to be gone for several days.” He noted the alarm that quickly sprang into the eyes of those around the table. “But I’ll be back,” he assured them. “And that’s a promise.”

  “Jud Vale is a no-good,” the farmer said bluntly. “Andl’ll say it to his face.”

  “Chester ...” his wife warned.

  “No, Mother,” the man in the patched overalls shook his head. “Time for backing down is over. Mr. Burden is a good man who’s hit on some hard times. We can’t just turn our backsides to him and forget all the times he’s helped us. ’Sides, we need hard cash desperate.”

  “Ralph is only twelve years old,” she reminded him.

  “And been doin’ a man’s work since he was nine. You seen how excited he is about Mr. Smoke’s offer. And you heard Mr. Smoke say he ain’t gonna put the plan into action unless the newspaper agrees to print the story and send it out to other papers.”

  “Well . ..” She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Chester.”

  “Aw, Mom!” the boy finally spoke. “I can handle a gun good as the next feller!”

  “No guns!” Smoke said it quickly and firmly. “If it comes to gunplay, I’ll handle that. Any boy who shows up with a gun doesn’t work.”

  “Yes, sir!” Ralph said. “You’re the boss, Mr. Smoke, for sure.”

  “You pass the word around to your friends and neighbors. And keep it inside the circle. We want this to be a total surprise to Jud Vale when we spring it.”

  The farmer grinned and stuck out his hand. Smoke shook it. “You got it, Mr. Smoke.”

  The editor of the newspaper chuckled and rocked back in his swivel chair. "I like it, Mr. Jensen. I really like it. Jud Vale doesn’t throw that big a loop around this town, but he’s made life pretty miserable for those in his area. I’ve been curious about just why he hates Walt Burden so. Of course I’ll print the story, and I’ll send it out to newspapers all over the state. We want to be sure those young boys are safe. And there is nothing like the power of the press to insure that. Hire your ... cowboys, Mr. Jensen, and put them to work. I’ll ride down and do a follow-up on the story in a few weeks, to keep interest alive."

  “Damnedest bunch of cowboys I ever seen in all my born days,” Walt said, looking at the new hands.

  “Looks like we better get to cooking, Doreen,” Alice said. “Some of those boys look like t
hey haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

  The youngest was ten and the oldest was fourteen. Of the boys, that is. In Montpelier, Smoke had rounded up three slightly older punchers. Dolittle, Harrison, and Cheyenne were in their sixties .. . they claimed. Smoke suspected they might be a tad older than that. He didn’t know much about Dolittle and Harrison, except that they could sit a saddle and knew cows, but Cheyenne was quite another story. Smoke remembered Preacher spinning yams about a mountain man he knew by the name of Cheyenne O’Malley from back in the ’40s. Cheyenne was one of those born with the bark on, he didn’t have to grow into it; mean from the git-go.

  Cheyenne was about seventy, Smoke reckoned, and looked so skinny he might have to drink a glass of beer to keep his britches up. But he still wore his Colt low and tied down and Smoke knew the old mountain man could and would use it.

  “All right, Cheyenne,” Smoke told him. “You’re the range boss on this job.” Cheyenne nodded. “You boys know what that means. Cheyenne tells you to make like a frog, you just jump as high as you can. You don’t have to ask if it was high enough. If it wasn’t, he’ll let you know. Dolittle and Harrison will be carrying orders from Cheyenne to you boys, and you boys will be spotted all around this spread.

  “Now then, the first thing we’re gonna do is round up some horses and top them off; settle them down for you.” Smoke glanced at the animals the boys had used to get over to the Box T. Mules and plow horses. “Then you boys can turn your own animals out to pasture and let them rest.” He looked at Walt. “All right, Boss, what’s the first order of the day?”

  The old rancher smiled. “The wife says the first thing we do is feed these boys.”

  All the boys cheered at that.

  Jud Vale balled the newspaper up and hurled it into the fireplace. “That no good—” He proceeded to cut loose with a stream of cuss words that almost turned the air blue.

  When he had calmed down enough to try to catch his breath, his foreman said, "Boss, this is bad. If one of them kids gets hurt by a bullet, the governor will send the law in on us, that is, if some vigilantes from around here don’t hang us to the nearest tree first.”

  “I know, Jason. I know. That damn Smoke Jensen! Jesus God, why didn’t I recognize him right off and let him alone?”

  “Didn’t none of us recognize him, Boss. But we should have, I reckon.” He wore a sheepish look. “Damn bunkhouse is full of them penny dreadfuls writ about him.”

  “I better not see any of them around!” “I’ll pass the word.”

  “Do that. Damn!” Jud yelled. “Pass the word, Jason: stay off of Box T range and don’t bother the boys. Don’t even go near them. Jensen can’t stay up here forever and them damn kids got to go back to school come fall. We can wait.”

  “Them high-priced gunhands is about next to worthless when it comes to workin’ cattle, Boss. Most of ’em is just salivating to get a chance to brace Smoke Jensen.”

  “I’ll give a thousand dollars to the man who kills Jensen. You pass that word along, Jason.”

  “That ought to get something stirred up, for sure!”

  While in Montpelier, Smoke had arranged for a wire to be sent to Sally, advising her where he was, and for a courier to bring any reply to the ranch.

  One was forthcoming quickly.

  Darling Smoke stop Doctors say baby must remain in a warm dry climate for at least two years stop Mother and Father arranged to stay with me stop Father bought a bank here in Prescott stop We are fine stop Miss you terribly stop Come when you are finished stop Love Sally stop.

  “Bad news?” Doreen broke into his thoughts. He had not heard her come up.

  The girl moved like a ghost.

  “Yes and no. Our baby has to stay down in Arizona for quite a long time. Lung problems.”

  “Then you’ll be leaving ...?” She let that trail off with a catch in her voice.

  “No. Sally knows I don’t go off and leave a job half-finished. I’ll see this through. If it hasn’t ended by midsummer, then I’ll finish it.”

  She didn’t have to ask how he would do that. She knew. “That is very kind of you, Smoke.”

  She moved closer. Doreen was a mighty comely lass. Smoke could smell the lilac water on her. Mayhaps, he thought, her middle name was Eve.

  He moved back just a tad. “That is, I’ll make up my mind about staying when and if you people ever get around to telling me the truth.”

  Her eyes turned frosty as an early morning chill. She spun around and stalked away, her rear end swaying like women’s rear ends have a tendency to do.

  Mighty shapely lassie. And Smoke didn’t trust her any further than he could pick up his horse and toss him.

  3

  On the first full day of work, Smoke didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  The boys were sure willing enough, but the trouble was that none of them knew diddly-squat about ranch work. They were farm boys, used to gathering eggs and slopping hogs and plowing and such as that.

  Little Chuckie fell off his mount, and landed in a fresh horse pile. The only other britches he had were hanging on the line to dry. He had to work the rest of that morning dressed, from the waist down, in his longhandles. With a safety pin holding up one side of the flap.

  Of the boys, Jamie was the oldest and the strongest. He was built like the trunk of a large tree. And he could ride and was a fair hand with a rope.

  Matthew was a frail young man who wore glasses and was in dire need of boots.

  Smoke was making a list of what the boys needed; and he was going to see to it that they got it. One way or the other.

  Ed meant well and tried hard, but it was plain that he would never be a cowboy. Smoke put him to running errands and taking messages back and forth.

  Leroy would do. He never complained, even after being tossed a half-dozen times. He just got back up, dusted himself off, and climbed right back in the saddle and stayed there until he showed the bronc who was running this show.

  Eli was the son of a carpenter and, like Ed, was no horseman. Smoke put him to work fixing up the place, and there was a lot of fixing up to do. A ranch starts to run down mighty quick, and this spread had been neglected for a long time.

  Jimmy and Clark and Buster would do fine, Smoke concluded.

  Cecil was fourteen, like Jamie, and solid and mature for his age. A fair horseman.

  Alan was a grown-up thirteen, from a hardscrabble farm family. A good solid kid.

  Roily, Pat and Oscar were all twelve and showed promise.

  All in all, Smoke thought, a pretty good bunch of kids. But, he had to keep this in mind: they were kids. He could not chew on them like he would adults. He didn’t want them screwing up their faces and bawling like lost calves.

  “All right, Cheyenne!” Smoke called, with Dagger under him. “Take the men to work!“

  Smoke rode over to a three-building town located on Mud Lake, leading a pack animal. He would buy the boys as much clothing as possible here. May be all of it if he were lucky. And he could pick up any talk about how Jud Vale was taking this new twist.

  As soon as he walked in, he could tell by the barkeep’s reaction that the name Smoke Jensen was known. Somebody had been talking about him, and fairly recently.

  The barroom was separated from the general store by a partition, so the men could talk and cuss without bothering any ladies who might be shopping in the store. The only door connecting the store and saloon was closed.

  Smoke ordered a beer and leaned against the bar, observing the very nervous barkeep draw the suds. Three men were silting at a table in the back of the room. It was gloomy in the small saloon, and the men were shrouded in shadows, but Smoke could see well enough to recognize the men as pan of one of the groups who had chased him all over half of the southeastern part of Idaho days back.

  And one of them was Sam Teller, a gunfighter from over Oregon way. Sam wasn’t known for his easy disposition and loving nature.

  A local man, a farmer by the
look of him, opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He stopped cold when he saw the tall man at the bar. His eyes cut to the three gunslicks sitting at the table. He swallowed hard, then walked on to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “All of a sudden it smells like a hog pen in here.” one of the gunhawks commented.

  The farmer’s face hardened but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  “What’ll it be, neighbor?” the barkeep asked.

  “Beer.” The farmer took a position at the end of the bar, near the curve of the planks, so if matters deteriorated into gunplay, he could hit the floor and be out of the line of fire.

  Smoke was a cattleman, so he could understand, at least to some degree, why ranchers disliked farmers. But Smoke Jensen was living proof that rancher and farmer could live side by side and be friends. And he knew that not all of the blame for the hard feelings could be laid at the doorstep of the ranchers. Some farmers flatly refused to work with the ranchers, fencing off the best water; homesteading in lineshacks that the ranchers had built and maintained; and sometimes rustling cattle, not always for food to feed hungry families. Sometimes just to aggravate the rancher.

  The bartender had moved to the end of the bar, just as far away from Smoke Jensen as he could get.

  Smoke sipped his beer and waited for the gunplay that he knew was just around the corner, lurking in those invisible shadows that drifted around and clung to those who lived by the gun.

  “There ain’t much to that pig slop, Burt,” Sam Teller said. “Hell, he ain’t even packin’ no gun.”

  Burt. Smoke searched his memory. Could be Burt Rolly. Smoke had heard of him. A gun fighter of very limited ability, so he’d been told. Usually a back-shooter.

  “You’re a long ways from home, Jensen,” Sam said. “I figured you was still in Colorado, hidin’ under your wife’s dresstail.”

  “You figured wrong on a lot of counts, Sam,” Smoke told him. “But then, the way I hear it, you never were very bright.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said you were stupid, Sam. Dumb. Ignorant. Slow. Mentally deficient. Am I making myself clear now?”