Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hush up, Caleb,” came a muzzy reply. Then, head clearing, Harvey asked, “Hear what?”

  “I heard a rattler. A big rattlesnake.”

  “Horse pucky. Ain’t no snakes around here,” Harvey grumbled, his patience with this tenderfoot near an end.

  “B’zzzzzziiiiiit!’‘

  “Awh . . . shit,” Harvey grunted out.

  Blankets rustled in the darkness. “I’m gettin’ outta here, Harvey. That thing sounds big enough to eat us whole.”

  “Where you gonna go in the dark, Caleb?”

  “I dunno. Somewhere, anywhere there ain’t any rattlers.”

  “Git in a tree. Snakes can’t climb, yu’know,” Harvey said calmly, trying not to let his own worry show.

  A moment later, a heavy snuffling came from downwind. Even Harvey froze at that. He counted heartbeats between it and the next time. Louder now, the snuffle had a low snarl mixed in. Another pause, then the crash of brush sounded near the edge of the campsite. The full-throated roar of an enraged bear split the silence that followed.

  “Oh, Jesus! It’s a bear!” Caleb wailed. A warm wetness spread from his groin.

  “Emory, Emory, do somethin’ for chrissakes!” a thoroughly shaken Harvey cried.

  Emory and Harvey opened fire at the same time. The grizzly roared again and charged.

  18

  Smoke Jensen shoved on the huge boulder and sent it thundering downhill through the underbrush. Immediately he dived behind a larger slab of granite. He made it with scant seconds to spare. Six-guns roared and a Winchester cracked in the camp below. The mammoth stone careened forward on a zigzag course and splashed turbulently into Piney Creek.

  A regular battlefield of gunshots boomed off the hillsides. Muzzle flashes reflected off the undersides of pine boughs. Lead cracked and whined through the air. Shouts of fright and confusion rose in a mad babble. Unable to contain his glee over the success of his toys, Smoke Jensen grinned like a kid in a vacant candy store.

  Then Emory Yates spoiled it all. “Stop it! Stop it! Quit shooting at nothing, you idiots. There ain’t no bear!” Slowly the discharge of weapons ceased. Emory immediately jumped on the men he led. “Don’t you ever use your heads? They could hear you all the way to Parkerville. Do you think those gunfighters we’re supposed to ambush can’t hear? They all deef?”

  He slammed his hat on the ground in disgust. “We ain’t gonna surprise nobody after that dumb-ass stunt. Shootin’ at shadows and funny noises.”

  Before he could say more, the hairs on the back of his neck rose as the awesome growl of the bear came again. “Jeeezus! First light, we’re gonna pull out of here. Can’t do an ambush here anymore. Four of you keep watch through the rest of the night.”

  “Hell, all of us are gonna watch. Ain’t nobody gonna sleep with that bear around,” Caleb stammered.

  Red-faced, Emory bellowed at Caleb, up close in the man’s face. “There ain’t no goddamned bear.”

  Chuckling softly to himself, Smoke Jensen eased from behind the chunk of granite and silently stole off into the night.

  * * *

  In the camp established by Cyrus Murchison, the main fire had died down to a low, rose-orange glow of pulsing coals. Murchison sat with his back propped against the bole of an aged ponderosa pine. He had a half-filled bottle of brandy in one hand and an unlighted cigar in the other. He did not want to let go of the liquor in order to light his stogie, though he dearly wanted the consolation of the rich smoke. An uneasy Titus Hobson approached.

  “Light me a strip of kindling and bring it, will you, Titus?” Murchison greeted his partner.

  Hobson did as bidden, ignited the cigar, then settled down beside Murchison and reached for the bottle. “That thunder sound we heard a little while ago? I have a feeling it wasn’t caused by the weather.”

  “Sorry to say, I agree. Either those people chasing us stumbled into the ambush and it’s all over. Or . . .”

  “Or they rode right over the men you left back there,” Hobson completed the unwelcome thought.

  Shortly after dark, the men left behind by Heck Grange to spy on the approaching avengers had ridden into camp to report a force of some twenty hot on the trail. That many could easily overwhelm the seven men at Piney Creek. That news had sent Cyrus Murchison to the bottle. Then, about two hours ago, the sounds of a brief, ferocious battle came to them, muffled by distance. Could it be that late?

  Cyrus pulled his fat, gold-cased watch from his vest pocket. Half past two o’clock. There would be no sleep this night. A sudden crash in the brush banished his gloom. Startled from his lethargy, Murchison jerked away from the tree trunk and listened intently.

  More crackling of small branches and shrubs came from above the camp. Dulled by years in large cities and aboard the locomotives of two railroads, the ears of Cyrus Murchison only dimly picked out a grunting, snuffling sound. Growls followed, growing louder. Then the full-throated bellow of an enraged grizzly split the night. Cyrus Murchison did not take time to consider that nothing larger than roly-poly brown bears still lived in the Sierra Nevada. He immediately tried to scale the trunk of the overhanging ponderosa. The slick surface of the bark gave him scant help. The smooth leather soles of his boots scrabbled for purchase, propelled by a repeat of the ferocious roar. He jammed the toes of his custom-made boots into cracks and climbed about ten feet. Sweating with effort, he clung there, paralyzed by the sting from broken fingernails. From below came the fearful bleating of Titus Hobson.

  “Shoot him! Kill that bear!”

  * * *

  His bear act had played rather well at the ambush, Smoke allowed, so he decided to try it again. In the larger camp, it created even more pandemonium. Groggy figures jumped from blanket rolls, ghostlike in their longjohns. Blindly they fired into the darkness in all directions. Some traded shots with others equally disorganized. The cooler heads among the gang of misfits lay low in an attempt not to attract a bullet. The bear bellowed a third time.

  Horses began to whinny and shy at the picket line. Several reared, their squeals of terror bright in the blackness. That brought forth another fusillade. Three horses, struck by bullets, went splay-legged and sagged down loose-limbed. From his panic-driven perch, Cyrus Murchison cried out in alarm, “Stop it! Stop! You’re killing the horses.”

  A fourth snarling whoop from the bear removed any chance of compliance. Bullets flew in a hailstorm of deadly lead. Heck Grange, smarter than any of his men, rushed to dump wood on the firepit. He kept low to avoid the whirlwind of slugs while he added more. The blaze caught slowly, then went up with a whoosh.

  Over its roar Heck shouted to the frenzied men. “This way. Get around the fire. Bears don’t like fire. And stop that damned shooting!”

  When the volume of fire reduced, Smoke Jensen crept out of his hiding place and stealthily approached the picketed horses. His Green River knife flickered in the pale starlight for a moment, then slashed upward and severed the rope to which the mounts had been tethered. He loosed half a dozen, then stepped back quickly to cup his hands around his mouth. A guttural snarl ripped up past his lips.

  When the panther cough reached the ears of the horses, they lost their minds. Those who had been freed dashed off pell-mell into the night. The rest reared and stomped and jerked at the picket line until they broke it and stormed off in a loose-knit herd. Reality suddenly took root in the brain of Cyrus Murchison. Enlightenment brought with it misery. He knew . . . he knew the cause behind it.

  “God . . . damn . . . you . . . Smoke Jensen,” he groaned into the rough bark of the pine he hugged.

  * * *

  Morning found eyelids heavy and tempers short. Few of the hard cases had managed more than an hour’s sleep. Cyrus Murchison chafed while riders went out to recover their horses. His mood did not improve when the men from the ambush straggled in reeking of defeat.

  “Why aren’t you lying in wait for them?” he bellowed, rising from the fire, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand.r />
  “We got attacked,” Emory Yates explained limply.

  “I gathered that. We heard the shooting. Did you stop any of them?”

  “It weren’t men,” Caleb butted in. “It was critters. A giant rattlesnake and a bear.”

  A cold fist closed around the heart of Cyrus Murchison. “I think you will find that your rattler and bear are named Smoke Jensen.”

  “Huh?” Caleb gulped.

  “You have been bamboozled, my parochial friend,” Cyrus grated. “So, for that matter, have we. Smoke Jensen got around you, found your camp, and engaged in a little leg-pulling. Disastrous play, if you ask me.”

  “What now, Mr. Murchison?” Caleb asked.

  “What? Well, once we get our horses back . . .” His face flushed crimson. “Once we get our horses back, we keep going. It is a good three days to the pass. Somewhere along the way we’ll lay another ambush.”

  “You reckon they’ll follow us?” Emory inquired, hoping to get a negative answer.

  “Of course they’ll follow. Louis Longmont and Smoke Jensen are determined to ruin me—ruin Titus and me,” he hastily amended. “Only we’ll have to outsmart them. So long as I have the support of you, my loyal employees, I am confident we will prevail.”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen paused long enough for the volunteers to examine the ambush site. It would help make them aware of what they faced, he reasoned. It had the desired effect. When they set out again, their usual chatter dried up by seeming mutual consent. Silence held the higher they went into the foothills. When they came to the place where Murchison had camped the previous night, the impromptu posse halted again.

  Everyone listened intently while Smoke interpreted the sign left behind. Then he described what he had done to cause them to create the disorganized scuffs and gouges in the dirt. That brought full, hearty laughs. Aware now that riches and power, and a lot of hired guns, did not make anyone invincible, they resumed their good-natured ragging when the column set off again.

  Three hours later, they came upon the scene of last night’s disaster in the main camp. Smoke’s modest recounting of what transpired delighted them and bolstered their fortitude. Smoke found the trail their enemy left to be wide and clear. He called that to the attention of Louis.

  “They’re not making any effort to hide their tracks. Makes a feller wonder.”

  Louis Longmont chuckled sardonically. “Not for long, though, eh? It seems they want us to know where they are going and follow along at all good speed.”

  “You’ve not lost your trailcraft, old friend,” Smoke praised. “I think I’ll take Quo Wu and scout ahead. You bring the others along, only at a nice, easy pace. Try to keep no more than a mile between us.”

  Louis nodded knowingly. “Très bon, mon ami. Very good indeed. This way, if they are brazen enough to lay another ambush, the cavalry will be close at hand to ride to the rescue.”

  Smoke shook his head ruefully. “I can’t figure what’s so funny about that, but it suits what I’ve got in mind. Take care, now, old friend.”

  “I always do,” Louis replied jauntily.

  * * *

  To his pleased satisfaction, Smoke Jensen had already found Quo Chung Wu to be nearly as skilled at silent movement as himself. It would come in handy on this little jaunt, he felt certain. On the hunch that Murchison would want to have as much space between the main body and any ambush he might set up, Smoke called a halt a quarter mile short of five miles.

  “We’ll go on foot from here on. Circle wide of the trail they left and keep off the skyline,” Smoke instructed.

  Quo Wu bowed his head and spoke without the least condescension. “The art of remaining unseen is ancient in our order. It is a shame that talent does not extend to our horses,” he added wryly.

  Smoke was ready for that one. “Among the Spirit Walkers of the Cheyenne, it is believed that they can extend their cloak of invisibility to their ponies. It might be they have something there, after all. I’ve had half a dozen of them pop up on me on open prairie sort of out of nowhere.”

  “You are possessed of this magic?” Quo Wu asked, impressed.

  A modest reply seemed called for. “Somewhat. At least, enough that if there is anyone out there waitin’ for us, they won’t know Thunder and me are anywhere close until it’s too late.”

  “How does it work?”

  Smoke smiled at Quo. “Accordin’ to the Cheyenne, all we have to do is think of ourselves and our horses as grass. Or in our case here, as trees.”

  Quo seemed taken aback. “That is all? We are taught to think of ourselves as birds, flying high above the gaze of our enemies.”

  “Seems a mite complicated, masterin’ all those motions a bird has to go through to stay in the air.”

  Realizing that Smoke was teasing him, Quo flushed a light pink under his pale brown cheeks. “I have . . . flown twice.”

  Smoke did not know what to make of that. He did have to suppress a laugh. “No foolin’?”

  Quo blurted his explanation through the embarrassment of having shown such unworthy pride. “Of course, my body never left the ground. Only my spirit soared.”

  Considering that, Smoke clapped a big hand on one muscular thigh. “That fits with what the Cheyenne say. So, you an’ your horse will be birds, an’ me an’ Thunder will be trees. Either way, if there’s anyone out there, we’ll be in among them, raisin’ hell, before they have an inkling.”

  * * *

  Orville Dooling, known as “Doolie” to his fellow railroad police, thought he caught a hint of movement from the corner of one eye. He turned his head and peered in that direction. Nothing. He switched his gaze back down the wide, well-marked trail that had been left from the camp beyond Piney Creek. Once more a flicker of motion impinged on his awareness. Orville shook his head as though to rid it of such notions. An instant later he froze at the soft sound of a whispering voice.

  “Say goodnight.”

  A shower of stars, quickly extinguished by a wave of darkness, filled Doolie Dooling’s head. The accompanying pain lasted only a second. Smoke Jensen stepped over the supine gunman and removed his weapons. No sense in leaving them for the rest of this rabble. That accounted for the right flank guard, Smoke noted, as he moved back behind the arc of the ambush to pick another target.

  Two hard cases lounged close to each other, backs supported by a thick bush. Smoke glided soundlessly up to them and reached his arms wide. With a swift, powerful sweep, he grasped them over their ears and banged their heads together. The rest of those involved in the ambush remained oblivious to his actions, particularly the one being throttled by Quo Chung Wu at that very moment. Faintly, Smoke’s superb hearing picked out the drum of hooves on the spongy terrain beyond the rise where the ambush had been laid.

  A second later, the lead element of the posse rode into view and a shot banged flatly from one of the hidden gunhands. Four more thugs opened up, one from so close to Smoke Jensen, he felt the heat of the muzzle blast. Smoke drew and fired.

  His shot dissolved his seeming invisibility. It appeared that all five of the remaining hard cases saw him at once. Smoke flexed his legs and dived to one side, while hot lead smacked into trees and screamed off rocks where he had stood a moment before. From the opposite end of the arc of gunhawks, a shotgun boomed and two of Murchison’s henchmen screamed in torment.

  Immediately, the hidden shooters turned toward this new threat. That gave Smoke a chance to account for another thug. A street brawler born and bred, he reared up from his concealed position to take a shot at Quo Chung Wu. Smoke cocked his Peacemaker and called to him.

  “Over here!”

  The slow-witted lout began to swing his .44 Smith, eyes widening at the presence of someone right in among them. His surprise did not get to register on his face. A bullet from Smoke Jensen’s .45 Colt reached him first. The red knob of his nose turned into a black hole, its edges splashed with scarlet. He went over backward, draped across the fallen pine trunk he
had used for shelter.

  Disorganized by the sudden appearance of two men in their midst, the railroad police and dockwallopers completely forgot about the eighteen armed vigilantes riding down on them. That proved a fatal error. Feeding on long-accumulated anger over their mistreatment, the farmers and merchants of the Central Valley swarmed in among their would-be assassins and wrought terrible vengeance.

  In less than five minutes the battle ended. Only the unconscious among the hard cases remained alive. Those were trussed up like hogs for the slaughter and left behind, to be retrieved later. “When you come back through here, don’t forget these men,” Smoke advised.

  * * *

  Nightfall found Cyrus Murchison and his henchmen in a cold, miserable camp. Considering the events of the previous night, Heck Grange had insisted on no fires. The assortment of longshoremen, railroad police, and freelance would-be gunfighters grumbled noisily while they ate cold sardines and other preserved food from tins crudely hacked open by their knives. They had not been close enough to hear the detail of the brief, furious fight at the ambush site. It had sounded like nothing more than a loosened boulder rolling downhill.

  Considering the debacle of the previous night, Cyrus Murchison put another meaning on it. Now, guided only by starlight, he made his way across the encampment to find Titus Hobson and share his revelation. He found Heck Grange seated beside Titus and poured each of them a generous dollop of brandy. He opened his mouth to speak when the chilling howl of a gray wolf broke the silence of the night.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen had spent four tedious hours creeping up on the area in which he had estimated Murchison would make camp. He found them within three hundred yards of his picked spot. They could have done better to have reasoned like Smoke. Yet the chosen place appeared secure enough.

  On the top of a small, domed knoll, the tired, uncertain hard cases sprawled in uneasy slumber. Unlike the previous night, someone had shown sense enough not to light fires, and to put out roving sentries, with pickets posted closer in. It would make his task harder, yet Smoke Jensen flowed through them as though truly invisible. He came up behind one less-than-observant hard case with laughable ease.