Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke Jensen turned an icy gaze of utter contempt upon the groveling Englishman. “We’ll save you, all right, Sir Geoffrey . . . for the hangman. Jeff, go after the Tucker kids.”

  Once they had been restored to their mother, who wept copiously in relief over the safe resolution of their dangerous situation, Smoke Jensen turned his attention back to Benton-Howell.

  “Sir Geoffrey?” His lips curled with contempt. “Well, you’re sure not a gentleman, let alone a knightly one. You’re a coward, a murderer, and a thief. You’re so low and corrupt, you’d have to reach up to scratch a snake’s belly. I said we’d save you for a date with the hangman, but I didn’t promise what condition you’d be in for the trial.” Smoke undid his cartridge belt. “Put up your hands and defend yourself.”

  Benton-Howell began to splutter. “Bu—but, I’m—I’m your prisoner, sir. You cannot strike me.”

  In an eye blink, Smoke Jensen hit him with a right and left to either side of the jaw. Benton-Howell sagged and raised a futile left arm in an attempt to block the next solid punch, which whistled in as a sizzling right jab. He gulped and backpedaled. His shoulders slammed against the heavy side of the coach. Jimmy Tucker’s head popped out the door.

  “Yaaah-hooo! Kick him between the legs, Smoke.”

  “James Lee Tucker,” Martha admonished, scandalized by her son. “Such language. For shame.”

  Jimmy didn’t look the least repentant. “I mean it, too, Mom.”

  Left arm still up, Benton-Howell darted his right in under its concealing position. Suddenly Smoke Jensen was there. One hand clinched a lapel as Smoke spun Benton-Howell around. Smoke pulled down the frock coat to reveal a concealed shoulder holster that held a short-barreled. 44 Colt Lightning. Jeff stepped in and plucked the weapon from its holster. Smoke swung the frothing-mouthed Benton-Howell around and slammed his head into the armored side of the carriage. It made a solid thunk.

  Smoke brought his dazed opponent face to face, and went to work on the midsection. Feebly Benton-Howell tried to fend off the blows. Clearly this was not a fight, it was a beating, plain and simple. Every bit of the outrage and frustration of the last mountain man poured out on the source of it all. Benton-Howell doubled over, his air exhausted, and Smoke Jensen straightened him up with a hard left.

  The Englishman’s knees buckled and his head drooped. Still Smoke bore in. Blood ran from a cut on the cheek of Benton-Howell, from the corner of his mouth, and the corner of an eye swollen shut by severe battering. At last, Smoke Jensen took control of his anger and eased off. When the red haze left his eyes, he found Benton-Howell on his knees, thoroughly battered and defeated.

  Disgust plain on her face at having witnessed the savaging of Benton-Howell, Martha Tucker hugged her children to her and spoke with unaccustomed chill to Smoke Jensen. “It’s over then?”

  “Yes. All but the roundup of the trash and, of course, the trial. I’ve no doubt Benton-Howell will be convicted of ordering your husband’s murder. And he will hang.”

  “Yes . . . of course,” she responded stiffly. “At least that way it will be done according to law.”

  Her sudden, inexplicable disapproval stung Smoke Jensen. He started to make some sort of reply, thought better of it, and shrugged. He retrieved his hat from the ground, dusted it off, and indicated the way back toward the hotel with it. Without further comment, Martha Tucker followed, her children clustered at either side.

  They had progressed only a third of the way down the alley, when a shot crashed overloud in the confined space, and little Tommy Tucker slammed forward out of the protective circle of his mother’s arm. Martha took one stunned look at the spreading red stain on the boy’s back, and began to wail hysterically. Young Rose Tucker screamed and dissolved into tears. Jimmy hit the ground.

  Smoke Jensen reacted quickly also. He jumped to one side and looked beyond the frozen tableau of the Tuckers to where a wooden-faced Forrest Gore worked the lever of his Winchester in a frantic effort to chamber another round. Smoke’s hand dropped to the butt of his .44, and he freed it before the bolt closed on Gore’s rifle.

  Smoke’s arm rose with equal swiftness and steadied only a fraction of a second to allow the hammer to drop. Quickly he slip-thumbed three more rounds. All four struck Forrest Gore in the chest and belly. The Winchester flew to the sky, and Gore jerked and writhed with each impact. A cloud of cloth bits, flesh, and blood made a crimson haze that circled his body. Jeff York turned in time to plunk two more slugs into the child-killer. Then he spun, pistol still smoking, toward Benton-Howell.

  “That does it! No waiting for the hangman, damn you. It’s your scheming that brought it to this. Now you pay.”

  “No, Jeff!” Smoke Jensen barked harshly. “Let him sit and sweat and wait for that rope to be put around his neck. That way he’ll die a thousand times over.”

  Jeff York’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right, Smoke. Sorry, I lost it for a moment.”

  Martha Tucker drew out of her grief long enough to look up with a face drawn with anguish, and addressed Smoke Jensen with some of her former warmth. “Thank you, Smoke Jensen. Thank you for saving a fine lawman’s career and self-esteem. And thank you for avenging my husband and my—my son.”

  All at once, Smoke Jensen felt as though he had been the one to take a beating. “I did what I had to do, Martha. Now, we have a lot yet to accomplish.”

  * * *

  Martha Tucker had been restored to her ranch. A week had gone by since the Arizona Rangers had cleared the streets of Socorro of saddle tramps and low-class gunfighters. They had ridden away after little Tommy Tucker’s funeral. Each one had expressed their deep sympathy for the courageous woman who had lost a husband and son within a month’s time. Even Cuchillo Negro and his Apache warriors left small, feather-decorated gifts on the raw earth of the grave. Then they, too, rode off to the west.

  That left Smoke Jensen alone at the ranch. He recalled the tension and black grief at the burial of the small boy, and a sensation of relief flooded him as he watched Martha Tucker step from the kitchen, smiling and brushing at the swatch of flour on her forehead in a familiar gesture. She smiled up at him as she approached where he stood with his saddled roan.

  “I’ve put a pie on. I—I sort of hoped that you would stay on, if not with your hands, at least yourself, for a while.”

  “I really can’t, Martha. I’m long overdue in returning to my ranch.”

  “With it in the capable hands of men like Walt and Ty, I see no reason why a few days more would matter.”

  Smoke sighed. “Truth is, I miss ’em. The High Lonesome, the Sugarloaf, and . . . my wife. It’s time I got back to them. Goodbye, and bless you, Martha Tucker. You’re a strong woman. Strong even if you were a man.”

  “Why, I—I take that as the supreme compliment,” she said, clearly flustered. Then Martha rose on tiptoe and kissed Smoke lightly on one cheek. “Goodbye, Smoke Jensen. You’ll be missed . . . awfully.”

  Jimmy Tucker rushed forward and hugged Smoke Jensen around the waist. He was too deeply moved for words, but his silent tears spoke it all. That made it even more difficult for Smoke Jensen to take his leave, but he did.

  Prying the lad’s arms from around him and giving a final tip of his hat to Martha, Smoke swung into the saddle and rode off. He didn’t look back until he reached the top of the ridge to the northeast. The backward glance did not last long, for his thoughts had already spanned the miles ahead to his secure nook in the Shining Mountains, the cozy log and stone home on the Sugarloaf, and his beloved Sally.

  POWER OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  1

  Winter had poised to blow its way across the High Lonesome. Most of the aspens had lost their leaves. Those that remained glowed in a riot of yellow and red. The maples and scrub oak resisted stubbornly, greenness proclaiming their independence dotted in among the less hearty trees. Smoke Jensen took a draw on the flavorful cigar and sent his gray gaze out across the vista of his beloved Sugarloaf Ranch while
the white ribbons rose from around the stogie.

  It wouldn’t be long, he mused, before a thick blanket of snow covered everything in sight. Which reminded him of the letter he held in his hand. It had come from San Francisco that morning, brought by a ranch hand who had gone to Big Rock for the weekly mail run. Smoke cut his eyes to the brief message, only a single line.

  “Come at once. Meet me at Francie’s.” It was signed simply with a bold L.

  Because of where they were to meet and of whom he suspected as the sender, Smoke refrained from mentioning the cryptic message to his wife Sally. That he would go went without question. Despite the harsh winter looming over them, he would not suggest that his lovely wife accompany him to the more hospitable clime. He sighed gustily and ran long, strong fingers through his hair, pleased to reflect that only thin threads of gray showed at his temples. As to breaking the news of his departure, he had better get to that right away.

  Smoke Jensen lifted himself out of the cane-bottom chair he had tilted back against the outer wall of his home on the Sugarloaf. Once a tight, square cabin of fir logs, it now sprawled with the additions brought on by a large family. He crossed to the door and entered. At once his nostrils twitched and swelled to the delicious scent of a pie baking. Drawn by that tempting aroma, he gained the kitchen with a broad grin on his face, his unpleasant mission forgotten for the moment. He negotiated the floor on cat feet and caught Sally with both big hands around her still-trim waist. She gave only the slightest of starts at the contact, then looked over her shoulder, long curls dancing.

  “It’s the last of the blackberries. I thought you’d like it.”

  “I know I will,” young Bobby Jensen chirped from the big, round oak table in the center of the expanded room.

  Smoke turned to the boy, surprise written on his face. “I thought you were out with the hands.”

  “I woulda been, but . . .” Bobby elevated a bare foot, a strip of white rag tied around his big toe. “I got this big ol’ splinter when I went to wash up this morning.”

  “You’ll live,” Smoke told him with a grin.

  Smoke and Sally had adopted Bobby Harris several years ago, after Smoke had been forced to kill the boy’s abusive father. The elder Harris had been a brute, a drunk who’d tormented both people and animals. He had gone after Smoke Jensen with a pitchfork while Smoke’s back had been turned. Bobby’s shout of alarm had saved Smoke’s life.

  On an important mission to help old friends in Mexico, Smoke had sent the orphaned lad to the Sugarloaf and put him in Sally’s charge. What had forged that decision had been Bobby’s revelation that Harris, Sr., had killed the lad’s mother some months previous. For all his reputation as a deadly gunfighter—the best ever, many maintained—his past did not harden Smoke from compassion for the boy. Sally would take care of Bobby, since there was no way he could go where Smoke was headed. Bobby’s sunny smile recalled Smoke to the kitchen. By God, the lad would soon be thirteen.

  “Oh, I know that. It just stings, and my toe swelled up too much to put in a boot.”

  Sally recognized the distracted expression Smoke wore and came right to the point. “There’s something in that letter I don’t know about,” she challenged.

  “I was coming to tell you. Maybe you ought to check on that pie and then get a cup of coffee and come sit at the table.”

  Sally frowned. “Bad news.” Then she added, “As always.” She complied, however, and when seated, Smoke revealed the summons to San Francisco. When he concluded, Sally fought back her disappointment and provided, “You’re going, of course.”

  “I have to, Sally. You know as well as I who probably sent that.”

  Sally’s scowl deepened. “I’ve no doubt. And that always spells danger.”

  “Danger for who?” Bobby piped up.

  Smoke and Sally shot him a look. “For whom,” she corrected automatically, then answered his question. “Smoke, of course,” she advised him. “But mostly for anyone who gets in his way.”

  That made Bobby’s day. His face lit up with expectation. “You’re goin’ gunnin’ for someone, huh, Smoke?”

  Smoke Jensen sighed wearily and shook his head. “Not if I can help it. I really don’t know what to expect. But I’ll be leaving early in the morning. Sally, make sure there’s plenty of firewood and supplies laid in, who knows when I’ll be back?” He shrugged. “Then all I can think of is that you all bundle up tight for the winter.”

  * * *

  Shortly after sunrise, Smoke Jensen fastened the last strap on his saddlebags and swung atop his ’Palouse stallion, Thunder. He had kissed Sally goodbye minutes earlier and had left her at the kitchen table, her eyes bright with suppressed tears. Now, as he turned his mount south, toward the main gate of the ranch and the town of Big Rock beyond, Sally came from the back door, a shawl over her shoulders to stave off the morning chill.

  She hurried to his side, calling his name. Smoke turned and bent low as Sally reached him and stood on tiptoe, arms out to embrace the man she loved with all her heart. Deeply moved by her affection, Smoke kissed her ardently. When their embrace ended, he spoke gruffly.

  “Always did have to have the last word, woman.”

  “Goodbye, Smoke, dearest. Be careful.”

  “You, too. And keep your friend close at hand.”

  “I will.” Sally turned away so as not to have to witness the actual moment of Smoke’s departure. When Thunder’s hoofbeats faded down the lane to the ranch, she turned to wave at Smoke’s back.

  * * *

  Mountain man instincts, imbued in him by his mentor, Preacher—-who some were starting to call, rightly or not, the First Mountain Man—-alerted Smoke Jensen to the presence of others even before Thunder twitched his big, black ears and swiveled them forward to listen down the trail. The stallion’s spotted gray rump hide rippled in anticipation. Always cautious, even in this settled country, Smoke drifted off the trail, thankful that snow had not yet fallen. He dismounted and put a big, hard hand over Thunder’s muzzle to prevent an unwanted greeting to others of the stallion’s kind. Five minutes later, two young men rode into view.

  They had the look about them of ranch hands and an air of that wandering fraternity loosely described as drifters. Smoke Jensen noted that their clothing was a cut above average. They wore their hats at a jaunty angle and rode easy in the saddle. Their conversation, when it reached his ears, convinced Smoke of the accuracy of his surmise.

  “It’s gettin’ close to winter, Buck.”

  “Sure is, Jason. I sure hope there’s a spread out here somewhere that’ll take us on for the winter. Be dang cold tryin’ to get by on our own.”

  “No foolin’, Buck. But you know, I hear there’s old cabins hereabouts, shanties put up by the fur traders. We could settle down in one of them.”

  “What are we gonna use to buy supplies?” Buck challenged.

  Jason considered it in silence as they approached the spot where Smoke Jensen had concealed himself off the trail. “I reckon that’s why we should find us a place to earn some cash money.”

  “Don’t no moss grow on you, Jase.”

  That decided Smoke. He led Thunder by the headstall onto the trail. Startled, the riders reined abruptly, then raised their hands, eyes wide. “You ain’t gonna rob us, is you, Mister?”

  Smoke chuckled. “No—nothing like that. I overheard you talking about looking for work. As it happens, I could use a couple of hands right now.” Smoke took stock of their location. Less than three miles from Big Rock. Couldn’t take them back. “I can’t take you there and introduce you around. I’ll write you a note. Take it to Cole Travis, my winter foreman, and to my wife, Sally.”

  “Why, that’s mighty generous of you, Mister . . . ?”

  “The name’s Jensen.”

  “Right, Mr. Jensen,” Buck said. “We’re obliged. I’m Buck Jarvis, an’ this is Jason Rucker. We’ll work hard for you, that I promise.”

  “I know you will, boys.” Smoke’s steel
y gray eyes told them why he did. “The Sugarloaf is ten miles up this trail, in a large highland valley. You’ll make it about in time for dinner. Walk your horses slow. Takes time to accustom them to the altitude.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen. You’ll not regret this.”

  “Fine, boys. Let me do that note.” Smoke delved in a shirt pocket for a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil.

  After Smoke had parted from Buck and Jason, the young drifters pondered over the name. “Jensen, huh?” Buck intoned. “I wonder if he’s any relation to you know who?”

  “Naw, he couldn’t be. That Smoke Jensen’s a gunfighter and a cold-blooded killer. Ain’t no way a man that nice would be related,” Jason assured his partner.

  * * *

  In Big Rock, Smoke Jensen had a three hour wait for the D&RG daily train north to the Union Pacific junction. He left Thunder to be loaded on a stock car and walked down Main Street to the sheriff’s office. Although Smoke was a skilled woodsman, the horse was an integral part of the life of a mountain man as in later years it became for the Texas cowboys. Old Preacher always grumbled when put to walking.

  When Smoke had met Preacher, his life changed forever.

  Mountain men invented rugged individualism. They personified self-reliance. And the man known to all as Preacher outdid them all. Preacher had named him Smoke the first day they’d met.

  And “Smoke” he became from that day. Now, walking along the muddy, rutted central avenue in Big Rock, Smoke Jensen savored all that. Yet he missed Thunder’s slab flanks between his legs more than he would admit, even to himself. Gratitude flooded him as he reached the open doorway to the sheriff’s office.

  “Don’t you ever do any work?” Smoke bellowed at the man behind the desk inside, whose newspaper concealed his face, and whose ubiquitous black hat topped a thick mane of silver hair.

  The boots came down from the desk with a thud and the copy of the Denver Post fluttered to the desk top. “Dang it now, Smoke Jensen. What the devil you mean, sneakin’ up on a body like that?”