Assault of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  He had never felt more helpless in his life. She was suffering so and there was nothing, not one thing, he could do for her. Bending over, he kissed her on the forehead, noticing how hot it felt.

  Sally opened her eyes. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Smoke smiled at her. “Seems to me like you asked that question before.”

  “Did it do me any good to ask it?”

  Smoke kissed her again, on the lips. Seeing that a chair had been pulled up alongside her bed, he sat down, then reached out and took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t think I would be up to a brisk horseback ride,” she said.

  “Really? Damn, and I had just such a thing planned, too. I thought we might go up to your secret overlook and have a picnic.”

  Sally smiled. “You don’t know about my secret overlook.”

  Smoke snapped his fingers. “That’s right, I don’t. How could I know? It’s a secret.”

  “I’m sorry that you had to come back, Smoke. I know finding those men is important to you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Nothing is as important to me as you are. And whether I find those men now, or later, I will find them.”

  They were quiet for a moment, with Smoke sitting beside her, holding her hand as she lay in bed, taking shallow breaths.

  “Smoke?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I’m glad you came home. I stayed awake for you, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But I think I’m going to sleep now.”

  Smoke lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Sally managed a smile. “I told you, I’m not some grand dame in the queen’s court.”

  “Any court in the world would be glad to have you as the grandest of their grand dames,” Smoke said.

  “Why, Smoke, sometimes you really can be downright romantic,” Sally replied.

  He sat there until her breathing became more regular, then quietly left the bedroom and walked up to the parlor. It was getting dark, and three lanterns burned brightly to push away the darkness. Dr. Colton was still there, and Pearlie and Cal had also come into the house.

  “I put Seven away,” Cal said.

  “Yes, I saw you through the window. Thanks, Cal.”

  “I wish I could do more. I wish I could ... ,” Cal choked up and quit talking.

  “I know you do.”

  “It’s my fault, Smoke. It’s all my fault.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Cal. Sally’s having a hard enough time fighting this, she doesn’t need your guilt to contend with as well. Especially when you don’t have anything to feel guilty about.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling him as well,” Pearlie said. “There wasn’t nothin’ he coulda done, even if he had been there. ’Cept maybe get ’em both kilt.”

  Cal hung his head and Smoke reached up to squeeze his shoulder. Then he looked over at Dr. Colton. “All right, Doc, give it to me straight. What are her chances?”

  “I don’t like to roll dice with people’s lives,” Dr. Colton said. “Like I told you before, let’s keep a positive attitude.”

  “Yeah, well, I had a positive attitude when I left. I thought the worst was over. Then I got the telegram from Pearlie. How did it happen? How did she go from mending, to—well—to this?”

  “According to man named Louis Pasteur, infections like this are caused by bacteria.”

  “What is bacteria?” Cal asked.

  “They are little organisms, so small that the only way you can see them is by looking through a microscope,” Dr. Colton said. “We don’t know exactly where they come from, but sometimes, not all the time, mind you, but sometimes they can get into a body, either through a sore, or the mouth, or the nose, and when they do, it upsets the natural order of things.”

  “And you think that’s what Miss Sally has? She has the bacteria?” Cal asked.

  Dr. Colton drew a breath as if to explain it further, but thought better of it. “Yeah. For the time being you can say that she has the bacteria.”

  “How do we get rid of it for her?” Smoke asked.

  “That is the big question, isn’t it? Fortunately, the human body seems quite capable of fighting off the bacteria on its on, at least most of the time. And aloe, as well as honey and lard also do a pretty job.”

  “Good enough?”

  “We can only hope and pray that it is good enough,” Dr. Colton said. “It’s good that you are here, Smoke. Tonight is critical. If the fever breaks tonight, then she will have beaten it. And having you here with her, helps. I am convinced of that.”

  The doctor went over to the hat rack and retrieved his bowler. “I’m going to go back into town. I will come back out first thing tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Smoke walked out to the front porch with him, then watched as he climbed into his surrey and drove off.

  When Smoke came back into the house, Cal greeted him with a cup of coffee. “I figure it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I think you are right.” Smoke took the coffee and sat in the leather chair near the window, looking out at the stars, the moon, and the castellated escarpment that guarded the north end of his property. The window was open and he could smell his cattle and horses, and hear the sounds of the night creatures—the howl of a distant coyote, the whicker of a horse, the thrum of frogs, and the hum of insects. Sugarloaf was as fine a ranch as there was in all of Colorado, and it had made Smoke a rich man, though he wasn’t a person who thought often of that.

  Big Heart Creek, which provided water for his stock and kept his land green, played out before him, glistening like molten silver in the moonlight. From his perspective, it was as if the creek was running, not south toward the West Elk Mountains, but into the yester years of his life. Smoke Jensen had come a long way from Kirby Jensen, the sixteen-year-old boy who, during the Civil War had worked the southwestern Missouri farm like a man, doing all he could to keep himself alive during that terrible time. It was necessary that he do all the work because his older brother, Luke, had gone to war with his father. Luke got himself killed, his mother had died, and his sister ran off with a peddler, later to become a soiled dove.

  It seemed like there was never enough food then, and he was always hungry. But even as a sixteen-year-old boy he was tough. The work had hardened his muscles and sharpened his mind. When his father came back from the war, there was nothing to keep either one of them in Missouri, so Kirby and his father came west. Not too long after that, he lost his father, but gained a lifelong friend, an old mountain man called Preacher. He also picked up a new name. Kirby Jensen became Smoke Jensen.

  He didn’t know if he was dreaming or remembering his past, it just seemed to flow effortlessly through his mind so that he was no longer aware of time or place—until he smelled bacon frying.

  Opening his eyes he saw that Pearlie and Cal were still in the parlor, and both were asleep. Curious, he walked toward the back of the house and saw a splash of light spilling into the hall from the kitchen. Putting his hand on the handle of his pistol, he moved quickly, but quietly to the kitchen door and looked in.

  Sally was standing over the stove frying bacon!

  “Sally!”

  She jumped. “Goodness gracious, Smoke, you scared me to death. You ought to know better than to come up on a person like that.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? It’s been twenty-four hours since I had anything to eat, and I’m starving to death.”

  “But you should be in bed.”

  “Oh, poo. Come here. Put your hand on my forehead. You can see that I don’t have a fever.”

  “I—” Smoke started, but that is as far as he got.

  “I’m making biscuits too. They ought to be out in a moment. I know it will be an early breakfast for you, but I would like for you to join me.”

  It wasn’t until then that Smoke realized that he’d had no supper, so it was
quite a while since he had eaten as well.

  “I hope you made enough for me ’n Cal,” Pearlie said, appearing in the door of the kitchen then.

  “I did. I knew you two wouldn’t turn away from a meal, no matter what time it might be ser ved,” Sally said. “But, I’m sorry to say, no bear claws.”

  “That’s all right. Fresh biscuits is near ’bout as good.”

  “Pearlie, I’m going to remind you of that, next time you start pestering Sally for my bear claws,” Smoke remarked.

  “Your bear claws?” Sally smiled. “You think I make those just for you?”

  “Come here.” Smoke put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. “I’m so happy right now, I don’t care if you ever make them again.”

  “Oh, Lord, Smoke, don’t say that!” Pearlie said.

  Smoke laughed out loud.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Risco

  By the time Dinkins, Harley, and the two Slater brothers reached the town of Risco, they had put out all five hundred reward posters on Smoke Jensen. By making the reward as high as five thousand dollars, Dinkins knew that not only every bounty hunter in the country, but even those who had never considered such a thing, would be after Smoke to get the reward money. No one would question the authenticity of the poster until it was too late—until they showed up with the body of Smoke Jensen to collect the reward. Then, like as not, they would be charged with murder.

  Dinkins laughed at that last thought. He did not like bounty hunters, posse members, or anyone who represented authority. The idea of some bounty hunter or vigilante facing a murder charge, tickled him.

  Shortly after their arrival, Dinkins and the others took rooms in the brothel. Located across the alley behind the saloon, it was a row of six small houses, all connected so that each little crib shared a wall with the crib next to it. Dinkins woke up the morning after their arrival with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The soiled dove he had chosen the night before was still asleep beside him. She had the bedcover askew, exposing one enormous, blue-veined breast. One leg dangled over the edge of the bed. She was snoring loudly and a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Dinkins crawled over her to get out of bed to get to his clothes, and he was just as glad. Just how drunk was he, to have chosen someone like this, last night?

  “Wes,” he called. “Big brother, are you still here?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. No need to be wakin’ the dead,” Harley called from the room next door, his voice heard easily through the thin walls.

  There was an outhouse twenty feet behind the brothel, but Dinkins would have had to go out the single, front door, then walk all the way around to the back. Not willing to do that, he decided to go against the wall.

  Just as he stepped up to the wall, Harley came in through the door. He joined Dinkins in peeing on the wall. “What do you want?”

  Dinkins shook himself, then put it away. “Let’s have breakfast and talk about our next job.”

  “Our next job? Damn, Bill, we just pulled off a job. Don’t you think we ought to hole up for a while and enjoy the money?”

  “Tell me, when you are playing cards, and you get a winning streak going, do you quit?”

  “No.”

  “We hit the bank in Crystal, and got away with a lot of money. I say don’t stop now.”

  “All right, you’ve been right so far. I’ll listen to what you have to say. But the best idea now is breakfast. I could eat a horse.” Pushing through the door, Harley started to step down off the porch.

  “Don’t you think you ought to get dressed first?” Dinkins asked.

  “Oh,” Harley replied, turning around to go back into the crib where he had left his clothes. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Fifteen minutes later the two men were having a breakfast of ham and eggs in a café that identified itself only by a big sign that said EATS. Neither Frank nor Travis Slater had awakened yet.

  “What you got in mind? Another bank?”

  “No, not a bank, a stage coach,” Dinkins said.

  “Banks are better,” Harley said. “You know they’ve got money, and they ain’t movin’.”

  “Yeah, but they are also in the middle of town. And we lost a man in each of the last two banks we robbed. Putnam in Gothic, and Parnell in Crystal.”

  “That’s the chance you take when you are in this kind of business,” Harley reminded him.

  “Look at this,” Dinkins said. “I tore it out of the newspaper yesterday.” He took the article from his shirt pocket, then handed it to Harley.

  “What is it?”

  “Just read it. This is our next job.”

  Harley unfolded the article and began to read.

  Money Transfer

  The sum of five thousand dollars is to be transferred from Escalante to Suttle on Friday next, said funds to be used to run the city business. The loan was negotiated by the Bank of Suttle, and will be repaid, it is said, by a series of bonds to be passed by the Suttle City Council.

  “You think the money will go by stage coach?” Harley asked.

  “That’s the only way it can go. And, since there ain’t but three stages per week between Escalante and Suttle, it ain’t goin’ to be hard to figure out which one it’s on.”

  Harley smiled. “It’s nice of them to tell us about the money, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, I don’t imagine the stagecoach people are all that pleased with the article.”

  Escalante, Colorado

  Stan McVey, the driver of the Escalante to Suttle stagecoach, had been making that particular run for the last four years, and he knew every creek, hill, turn in the road, rock and tree along the sixty-two mile route. He stood out in front of the depot for a few moments, watching as the team of six horses was attached to the coach.

  “Mr. McVey, I put Ole Dan on the off side like you told me,” one of the hostlers said.

  “Thanks, Jake. He tends to pull to the left all the time and if he is on the off side, well, the near horse will keep him going straight. Do you know if Lonnie took a look at the reach?” As McVey asked the question, he knelt down and looked at the bar that connected the rear axle with the front part of the coach. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed hold of the reach and tried to shake it. It felt secure.

  “Yes, sir, he said he tightened up the bolts.”

  “Good enough,” McVey said.

  “I’ll loop the ribbons around your whip,” Jake said.

  Looking over toward Burt Conway, he saw his shotgun messenger receiving a canvas bag from Mr. Dempster, the owner of the Escalante Bank. McVey had read in the paper about the transfer of money, which meant that anyone who might have an idea about robbing the coach also read it. He knew that the stagecoach supervisor, Mr. Sinclair, had complained about it, but he was told by G. E. Hastings, editor of the newspaper, that he enjoyed “freedom of the press,” and there was nothing Sinclair could do to prevent him from publishing such information.

  Satisfied that all was well with the coach, McVey walked into the depot to address the six passengers—three men and three women. It was an unusual mix of passengers, for none of the men were married to any of the women.

  The station manager brought McVey a cup of coffee and he took a couple swallows as he looked at his passengers. The two older women, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, were talking. Mr. Evans, a salesman, had made the trip many times. He was making notes of some sort. Mr. Calhoun, a rancher from near Suttle, and Dr. Potter, a local physician, were engaged in conversation. Miss Dawson, who was about seventeen, was with her mother, who had come to see her off.

  McVey finished his coffee, then glanced up at the big clock that stood by the back wall. It was ten minutes before departure, time for him to give the passengers his normal pre-run briefing. “Folks, can I have your attention? Can I have your attention, please?”

  All the conversation stopped as the passengers looked toward him.

  “My name is Stan McVey. I’m your
driver for this trip, so if you would, I’d like for you to gather ’round for a moment or two so’s I can talk to you about this here trip you’ll be takin’ today. It’s eight and a half hours from here to Suttle, if ever’thing goes like it’s s’posed to go. Gents, I’d prefer that you don’t drink no liquor durin’ the run, but there ain’t no law agin’ it, so there ain’t no way I can stop you. But, if you are goin’ to drink, then I ask that you share the bottle with them that might want it, on account of sometimes arguments get started over that.

  “Since we got ladies present, I’m also goin’ to ask that you don’t smoke no cigars or pipes inside the coach without the ladies tellin’ you it’s all right. That’s ’cause the smell sometimes irritates the ladies. You can chew if you like, but when you spit, make sure you spit with the wind, and not agin’ it, ’cause iffen you spit agin’ it, why it will come right back into the coach. I don’t care if it gets on you, but it’s the others in the coach I’d be worryin’ about.

  “I’m goin’ to ask you not to be cussin’ none either, ’cause oft time the women gets offended by that.

  “Now, are any of you gents wearin’ guns?”

  Only Calhoun indicated that he was.

  “Then I’ll be askin’ you not to be shootin’ your gun out the window at rabbits, or deer or anythin’ like that, ’cause the gunshots tend to scare the horses and they might commence to runnin’. Oh, and if for some reason the horses do take off a’ runnin’, then for sure don’t be jumpin’ out of the coach. It might be a little frightenin’ to you, but trust me, you’re a heap safer off stayin’ inside.

  “And finally, I want to say this, and you’d best listen to me, ’cause I am real serious about it. If any of you men does or says anything that upsets or offends any of the ladies, I’ll put you off the coach and you’ll be walkin’ back to the depot. And believe me, you ain’t goin’ to like that. Now, if there ain’t no one got ’ny questions to ask, we’ll be loadin’ up in”—McVey glanced at the clock—“about three minutes. That means you just barely got time to get there.”