Trail of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  By a goddamned saddle-bum, of all people!

  No, Tilden corrected himself, not a saddle-bum. Matt might be many things, but he was no saddle-bum. He had to have access to money, for he had bought that whole damned valley free and clear. Bought most of it, filed on the rest of it.

  And that woman of his, Sally. Just thinking of her caused Tilden to breathe short. He knew from the first day he’d seen her that he had to have her. One way or the other — and she was never far from his thoughts.

  She was far and above any other woman in the area. She was a woman fit to be a king’s queen. And since Tilden thought of himself as a king, it was only natural he possess a woman with queen-like qualities.

  And possess her he would. It was just a matter of time. Whether she liked it, or not. Her feelings were not important.

  Three hours after leaving his cabin, Smoke rode up to the Colby spread. He halloed the house from the gate and Colby stepped out, giving him a friendly wave to come on in.

  Colby’s spread was a combination cattle ranch and farm, something purists in the cattle business frowned on. Colby and his family were just more of them “goddamned nesters” as far as the bigger spreads in the area were concerned. Colby had moved into the area a couple of years before Smoke and Sally, with his wife Belle, and their three kids, a girl and two boys. From Missouri, Colby was a hardworking man in his early forties. A veteran of the War Between the States, he was no stranger to guns, but was not a gunhand.

  “Matt,” he greeted the rider. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the twin Colts belted around Smoke’s waist and tied down. “First time I ever seen you wearin’ a pistol, much less two of them.”

  “Times change, Colby. You heard the gold news?”

  “Last week. People already movin’ in. You wanna come in and talk?”

  “Let’s do it out here. You ever seen a boom town, Colby?”

  “Can’t say as I have, Matt.” The man was having a difficult time keeping his eyes off the twin Colts. “Why do you ask?”

  “There’s gold running through this area. Not much of it — a lot of it is iron and copper pyrites — but there’s enough gold to bring out the worst in men.”

  “I ain’t no miner, Matt. What’s them pyrites you said?”

  “Fool’s gold. But that isn’t the point, Colby. When Tilden Franklin learns of the gold — if he doesn’t already know — he’ll move against us.”

  “You can’t know that for sure, Matt. ’Sides, this is our land. We filed on it right with the Government. He can’t just come in and run us off.”

  The younger man looked at Colby through hard, wise eyes. “You want to risk your family’s lives on that statement, Colby?”

  “Who are you, Matt?” Colby asked, evading the question.

  “A man who wants to be left alone. A man who has been over the mountain and across the river. And I won’t be pushed off my land.”

  “That don’t tell me what I asked, Matt. You really know how to use them guns?”

  “What do you think?”

  Colby’s wife and kids had joined them. The two boys were well into manhood. Fifteen and sixteen years old. The girl was thirteen, but mature for her age, built up right well. Sticking out in all the right places. Adam, Bob, Velvet.

  The three young people stared at the Colts. Even a fool could see that the pistols were used but well taken care of.

  “I don’t see no marks on the handles, Mister Matt,” Adam said. “That must mean you ain’t never killed no one.”

  “Adam!” his mother said.

  “Tinhorn trick, Adam,” Smoke said. “No one with any sand to them cuts their kills for everyone to see.”

  “I bet you wouldn’t say that to none of Mister Franklin’s men,” Velvet said.

  Smoke smiled at the girl. He lifted his eyes to Colby. “I’ve told you what I know, Colby. You know where to find me.” He swung into the saddle.

  “I didn’t mean no offense, Matt,” the farmer-rancher said.

  “None taken.” Smoke reined his horse around and headed west.

  Colby watched Smoke until horse and rider had disappeared from view. “Thing is,” he said, as much to himself as to his family, “Matt’s right. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  Bob said, “Them guns look ... well, right on Mister Matt, Dad. I wonder who he really is.”

  “I don’t know. But I got me a hunch we’re all gonna find out sooner than we want to,” he said sourly.

  “This is our land,” Belle said. “And no one has the right to take it from us.”

  Colby put his arm around her waist. “Is it worth dyin’ for, Ma?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly.

  On his ride to Steve Matlock’s spread, Smoke cut the trail of dozens of riders and others on foot, all heading for Franklin’s town. He could tell from the hoofprints and footprints that horses and men were heavily loaded.

  Gold-hunters.

  Steve met him several miles from his modest cabin in the high-up country. “Matt,” the man said. “What’s going on around here?”

  “Trouble, I’m thinking. I just left Colby’s place. I couldn’t get through to him.”

  “He’s got to think on it a spell. But I don’t have to be convinced. I come from the store yesterday. Heard the rumors. Tilden wants our land, and most of all, he wants the Sugarloaf.”

  “Among other things,” Smoke said, a dry note to the statement.

  “I figured you knew he had his eyes on Sally. Risky to leave her alone, Matt. Or whatever your name is,” he added acknowledging the Colts in a roundabout manner.

  “Tilden won’t try to take Sally by force this early in the game, Steve. He’ll have me out of the way first. There’s some gold on your land, by the way.”

  “A little bit. Most of it’s fool’s gold. The big vein cuts north at Nolan’s place, then heads straight into the mountains. Take a lot of machinery to get it out, and there ain’t no way to get the equipment up there.”

  “People aren’t going to think about that, Steve. All they’ll be thinking of is gold. And they’ll stomp on anyone who gets in their way.”

  “I stocked up on ammo. Count on me, Matt.”

  “I knew I could.”

  Smoke rode on, slowly winding downward. On his way down to No-Name Town, he stopped and talked with Peyton and Nolan. Both of them ran small herds and farmed for extra money while their herds matured.

  “Yeah,” Peyton said. “I heard about the gold. Goddamnit, that’s all we need.”

  Nolan said, “Franklin has made his boast that if he can run you out, the rest of us will be easy.”

  Smoke’s smile was not pleasant, and both the men came close to backing up. “I don’t run,” Smoke said.

  “First time I ever seen you armed with a short gun,” Peyton said. “You look ... well, don’t take this the wrong way, Matt ... natural with them.”

  “Matt,” Nolan said. “I’ve known you for three years and some months. I’ve never seen you upset. But today, you’ve got a burr under your blanket.”

  “This vein of gold is narrow and shallow, boys,” Smoke said, even though both men were older than he. “Best thing could happen is if it was just left alone. But that’s not going to happen.” He told them about boom towns. “There’s going to be a war,” he added, “and those of us who only wanted to live in peace are going to be caught up in the middle of it. And there is something else. If we don’t band together, the only man who’ll come out on top will be Tilden Franklin.”

  “He sure wants to tan your hide and tack it to his barn door, Matt,” Peyton said.

  “I was raised by an old Mountain Man, boys. He used to say I was born with the bark on. I reckon he was right. The last twelve-fifteen years of my life, I’ve only had three peaceful years, and those were spent right in this area. And if I want to continue my peaceful way of life, it looks like I’m gonna have to fight for them. And fight I will, boys. Don’t make no bets against me doing that.”

&nb
sp; Nolan looked uncomfortable. “I know it ain’t none of my business, Matt, and you can tell me to go to hell if you want to. But I gotta ask. Who are you?”

  “My Christian name is Jensen. An old Mountain Man named Preacher hung a nickname on me years back. Smoke.”

  Smoke wheeled his horse and trotted off without looking back.

  Peyton grabbed his hat and flung it on the ground. “Holy Christ!” he yelled. “Smoke Jensen!”

  Both men ran for their horses, to get home, tell their families that the most famous gun in the entire West had been their neighbor all this time. And more importantly, that Smoke Jensen was on their side.

  3

  When Smoke reached the main road, running east to west before being forced to cut due south at a place called Feather Falls, he ran into a rolling, riding, walking stream of humanity. Sitting astride his horse, whom he had named Horse, Smoke cursed softly. The line must have been five hundred strong. And he knew, in two weeks, there would probably be ten times that number converging on No-Name.

  “Wonderful,” he muttered. Horse cocked his ears and looked back at Smoke. “Yeah, Horse. I don’t like it either.”

  With a gentle touch of his spurs, Smoke and Horse moved out, riding at an easy trot for town.

  Before he reached the crest of the hill overlooking the town, the sounds of hammering reached his ears. Reining up on the crest, Smoke sat and watched the men below, racing about, driving stakes all over the place, marking out building locations. Lines of wagons were in a row, the wagons loaded with lumber. Canvas tents were already in place, and the whiskey peddlers were dipping their homemade concoction out of barrels. Smoke knew there would be everything in that whiskey from horse-droppings to snake-heads.

  He rode slowly down the hill and tied up at the railing in front of the general store. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, looking at the organized madness taking place all around him.

  Smoke recognized several men from out of the shouting, shoving, cursing crush.

  There was Utah Slim, the gunhand from down Escalante way. The gambler Louis Longmont was busy setting up his big tent. Over there, by the big saloon tent, was Big Mamma O’Neil. Smoke knew her girls would not be far away. Big Mamma had a stable of whores and sold bad booze and ran crooked games. Smoke had seen other faces that he recognized but could not immediately put names to. They would come to him.

  He turned and walked into the large general store. The owner, Beeker, was behind the counter, grinning like a cream-fed cat. No doubt he was doing a lot of business and no doubt he had jacked up his prices.

  Beeker’s smile changed to a frown when he noticed the low-slung Colts on Smoke. “Something, Matt?”

  “Ten boxes of .44’s, Beeker. That’ll do for a start. I’ll just look around a bit.”

  “I don’t know if I can spare that many, Matt,” Beeker said, his voice whiny.

  “You can spare them.” Smoke walked around the store, picking up several other items, including several pairs of britches that looked like they’d fit Sally. In all likelihood, she was going to have to do some hard riding before all this was said and done, and while it wasn’t ladylike to wear men’s britches and ride astride, it was something she was going to have to do.

  He moved swiftly past the glass-enclosed showcase filled with women’s underthings and completed his swing back to the main counter, laying his purchases on the counter. “That’ll do it, Beeker.”

  The store owner added it up and Smoke paid the bill.

  “Mighty fancy guns you wearin’, Matt. Never seen you wear a short gun before. Something the matter?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Don’t let none of Tilden’s boys see you with them things on. They might take ‘em off you ’less you know how to use them.”

  Beeker did not like Smoke, and the feeling was shared. Beeker kowtowed to Tilden; Smoke did not. Beeker thought Tilden was a mighty fine man; Smoke thought Tilden to be a very obnoxious SOB.

  Smoke lifted his eyes and stared at Beeker. Beeker took a step backward, those emotionless, cold brown eyes chilling him, touching the coward’s heart that beat in his chest.

  Smoke picked up his purchases and walked out into the spring sunlight. He stowed the gear in his saddlebags and walked across the street to the better of the two saloons. In a week there would be fifty saloons, all working twenty-four hours a day.

  As he walked across the wide dirt street, his spurs jingling and his heels kicking up little dust pockets, Smoke was conscious of eyes on him. Unfriendly eyes. He stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed through the swinging doors. Stepping to one side, giving his eyes time to adjust to the murky interior of the saloon, Smoke sized up the crowd.

  The place was filled with ranchers and punchers. Some of those present were friends and friendly with Smoke. Others were sworn to the side of Tilden Franklin. Smoke walked to the end of the bar.

  Smoke was dressed in black pants, red and white checkered shirt, and a low crowned hat. Behind his left-hand Colt, he carried a long-bladed Bowie knife. He laid a coin on the bar and ordered a beer.

  The place had grown very quiet.

  Normally not a drinking man, Smoke did occasionally enjoy a drink of whiskey or a beer. On this day, he simply wanted to check out the mood of the people.

  He nodded at a couple of ranchers. They returned the silent greeting. Smoke sipped his beer.

  Across the room, seated around a poker table, were half a dozen of Tilden’s men. They had ceased their game and now sat staring at Smoke. None of those present had ever seen the young man go armed before — other than carrying a rifle in his saddle boot.

  The outside din was softened somewhat, but still managed to push through the walls of the saloon.

  “Big doings around the area,” Smoke said to no one in particular.

  One of Tilden’s men laughed.

  Smoke looked at the man; he knew him only as Red. Red fancied himself a gunhand. Smoke knew the man had killed a drunken Mexican some years back, and had ridden the hoot-owl trail on more than one occasion. But Smoke doubted the man was as fast with a gun as he imagined.

  “Private joke?” Smoke asked.

  “Yeah,” Red said. “And the joke is standin’ at the bar, drinkin’ a beer.”

  Smoke smiled and looked at a rancher. “Must be talking about you, Jackson.”

  Jackson flushed and shook his head. A Tilden man all the way, Jackson did all he could to stay out of the way of Tilden’s ire.

  “Oh?” Smoke said, lifting his beer mug with his left hand. “Well, then. Maybe Red’s talking about you, Beaconfield.”

  Another Tilden man who shook in his boots at the mere mention of Tilden’s name.

  Beaconfield shook his head.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Two-Gun!” Red shouted at Smoke.

  Left and right of Smoke, the bar area quickly cleared of men.

  “You’d better be real sure, Red,” Smoke said softly, his words carrying through the silent saloon. “And very good.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean, nester?” Red almost yelled the question.

  “It means, Red, that I didn’t come in here hunting trouble. But if it comes my way, I’ll handle it.”

  “You got a big mouth, nester.”

  “Back off, Matt!” a friendly rancher said hoarsely. “He’ll kill you!”

  Smoke’s only reply was a small smile. It did not touch his eyes.

  Smoke had slipped the hammer thong off his right-hand Colt before stepping into the saloon. He placed his beer mug on the bar and slowly turned to face Red.

  Red stood up.

  Smoke slipped the hammer thong off his left-hand gun. So confident were Red’s friends that they did not move from the table.

  “I’m saying it now,” Smoke said. “And those of you still left alive when the smoke clears can take it back to Tilden. The Sugarloaf belongs to me. I’ll kill any Circle TF rider I find on my land. Your boss has made his boast that he’ll run me o
ff my land. He’s said he’ll take my wife. Those words alone give me justification to kill him. But he won’t face me alone. He’ll send his riders to do the job. So if any of you have a mind to open the dance, let’s strike up the band, boys.”

  Red jerked out his pistol. Smoke let him clear leather before he drew his right-hand Colt. He drew, cocked, and fired in one blindingly fast motion. The .44 slug hit Red Square between his eyes and blew out the back of his head, the force of the .44 slug slamming the TF rider backward to land in a sprawl of dead, cooling meat some distance away from the table.

  The other TF riders sat very still at the table, being very careful not to move their hands.

  Smoke holstered his .44 in a move almost as fast as his draw. “Anybody else want to dance?”

  No one did.

  “Then I’ll finish my beer, and I’d appreciate it if I could do so in peace.”

  No one had moved in the saloon. The bartender was so scared he looked like he wanted to wet his long handles.

  “Pass me that bowl of eggs down here, will you, Beaconfield?” Smoke asked.

  The rancher scooted the bowl of hard-boiled eggs down the bar. Smoke looked at the bartender. “Crack it and peel it for me.”

  The bartender dropped one egg and made a mess out of the second before he got the third one right.

  “A little salt and pepper on it, please,” Smoke requested.

  Gas escaped from Red’s cooling body.

  Smoke ate his egg and finished his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and deliberately turned his back to the table of TF riders. “Any backshooters in the bunch?” he asked.

  “First man reaches for a gun, I drop them,” a rancher friendly to Smoke said.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Smoke said.

  He walked to the batwing doors, his spurs jingling. A TF rider named Singer spoke, his voice stopping Smoke. “You could have backed off, Matt.”

  “Not much backup in me, Singer.” Smoke turned around to once more face the crowded saloon.

  “I reckon not,” Singer acknowledged. “But you got to know what this means.”

  “All it means is I killed a loud-mouthed tinhorn. Your boss wants to make something else out of it, that’s his concern.”