Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

  “I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t. That’s a good girl in yonder. I like her. I ain’t got no use for people who’d hurt a girl like that. Riles me up considerable. I take it personal. Bad Dog feels the same way. So’s the rest of the fellers. When they come, Smoke, I ain’t offerin’ no quarter to none of them. I just want you to know that. I’m speakin’ for me, Pasco, and Bad Dog. Cain’t talk for none of the others.”

  “Try not to take scalps,” Smoke said drily.

  “I’ll think about it.” The old mountain man got up as silently as a stalking cat and moved into the darkness. He stopped and turned around. Smoke could see the faint smile on his lips. “You’re a fine one to tell me not to take scalps, Smoke.”

  “That was a long time ago, Wolf.”

  Wolf chuckled. “You ain’t old enough for it to be that long ago, boy. You got more of Preacher in you than you think. And I think this here fight’s gonna turn real interestin’. For a fact I do.”

  Fourteen

  Smoke saddled up, secured his bedroll, and rode out alone, taking a couple of sandwiches with him. He had told Sally, “I’ll be back.”

  She did not question him. He might be back by noon, or he might return the next day. He might be back in three or four days. Sally knew they were in a fight to the death now, for her husband never tried to shield her from the truth. Hired guns were riding in from all over a three-state and territory area. By stage, by train, by horse. They were coming to Red Light to accept the fighting wages of Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove. They were coming in to attempt to kill Smoke Jensen.

  And this teenage girl, Sally added, cutting her eyes to the young girl standing at the kitchen counter, kneading dough for bread. They have no right to do that, Sally mused, her thoughts turning savage. She has harmed no one. She has a right to live on the ranch her mother left her, and to live in peace. Damn those men who would harm a child …

  “When you finish with that, Jenny,” Sally said, “get your guns. We’re going to practice awhile.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Won’t Uncle Smoke be alarmed at the gunfire?”

  “No. I told him about it. Sally went to the front door and looked for Van Horn. The old gunfighter was by the corral, Wolf Parcell and Bad Dog with him. She walked down to him. He turned at her approach, taking off his hat.

  “Jenny and I will be down by the creek for a time, shooting. I want Jimmy to come with us. I want to see how he handles a gun.”

  Van Horn smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll come down, too. Smoke say where he was goin’?”

  “No. I didn’t ask him. He’ll be back when he finishes what he set out to do.”

  “I thought he was gettin’ a mite riled when I spoke with him.”

  “He’s given those who want this spread fair warning. In his own way. Now, I suspect, he’s taking the fight to them.”

  “But he’s all alone,” Jimmy Hammon said, walking up.

  “No, he ain’t, boy,” Wolf said. “He’s got the spirits with him. Preacher’s with him. And so is Griz and Nighthawk and all the rest of ’em. Five hundred years of fightin’ and ridin’ alone is with Smoke this day. Everything about survivin’ that could be taught a man was taught to Smoke by them that took him as a kid and saw to his needs. Mayhaps we — and I was a part of lookin’ after him — mayhaps we didn’t do him right. Our time was endin’ when Ol’ Preacher took the boy under his wing. We didn’t teach him no gentle ways. He’d done been taught that by his ma and pa. And they done a good job of it. Smoke’s got a good mind to what is right and what is wrong. What we done was teach him the gun and the knife and the fight. I allow as to how it was fate that brought the boy to the High Lonesome and to us.” He smiled down at young Jimmy. “I’d take you under my arm and tote you up to the High Lonesome, son, and I’d lam you the ways of the mountain men. But I’d be doin’ you a disservice if I did. Them fancy-pants Eastern ways is rapid movin’ out here. All talk and no action is the way it’ll be in a few years. ’Fore long, any man’ll be able to walk up to you and spit in your face. And if you gut him or shoot him, the law’ll put you in prison for it. You mark my words: this country is in for a turrible time of it.”

  Sally put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Jimmy will receive a formal education. Smoke and I will see to that.”

  “You mean I got to go to school?” Jimmy blurted.

  “Yes,” Sally said firmly. “You will go to school.”

  Van Horn looked at him. “Don’t say nothin’ ’ceptin’ yes, ma’am, boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Sally,” Jimmy said.

  Smoke sat his saddle on the north side of the fence, facing three of Jack Biggers’ hands, who sat their saddles on the south side. The three had known it would someday come to this. They had just hoped it would not be this soon.

  “We ain’t doin’ you no harm, Jensen,” one finally spoke. “And we’re on our own range.”

  “That’s right,” Smoke replied. “And it is a mighty pretty place to be buried.”

  “Huh?” another said.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” the third asked.

  “You ride for Jack Biggers. He’s paying you seventy-five dollars a month and found for your guns. Jack Biggers has sworn to take my niece’s ranch even if he has to kill her. That makes all of you an enemy of mine. So fill your hand or ride.”

  The three Triangle JB riders wanted to exchange glances, but they dared not take their eyes from Smoke Jensen. In a time when the average cowboy made about thirty-five dollars a month, that seventy-five Biggers had offered had looked awfully big. Now they weren’t so sure of that.

  “I’m giving you all a chance, boys,” Smoke spoke softly but firmly. “Take a moment and think about it.”

  “Jensen,” one said. “I’m gonna put both hands on this here apple and keep them there. Okay?”

  “Fine. Do it”

  The men carefully placed his gloved hands on the saddle horn and gripped it, one hand on top of the other, the reins under the hand holding the apple.

  “Me, too,” another said, and slowly followed suit.

  “I’m not,” the third hand said.

  “Think about it, Jess,” the first hand to show some sense told him.

  “I ain’t takin’ water from Jensen.”

  “I am,” the second man said. “ ’Cause it’s mighty scarce in Hell.”

  “Make your play, Jensen,” Jess said.

  “After you,” Smoke told him.

  Jess grabbed for iron and Smoke’s .44 boomed. Jess fell backward out of the saddle. Neither of his buddies had taken their hands off the saddle horn. Jess tried to get up, the front of his shirt stained with blood. His gun had fallen from the holster.

  “Ain’t no human person that fast,” Jess gasped, unable to get any further than to his knees.

  “You boys take care of the burying and then ride out of this country. Get you a good job punching cattle and leave the gunfighting to someone else,” Smoke told the remaining two.

  Jess fell over to lie in the tall grass.

  “Can we climb off these hurricane decks to see about him?” the first hand asked.

  “Of course, you can. Just don’t try anything stupid.”

  “Believe me, Mister Jensen, that didn’t even cross my mind.”

  Jess cried out, “I’d like to live to see you get plugged, Jensen!”

  “You’d be at the end of a long list,” Smoke told him. “You’d best start making your peace with God and tell these boys where to send your saddle.”

  “You go to hell!” Jess said.

  “Jess,” one of his buddies said. “Hush now.”

  “You go to hell, too!” Jess told him. “As a matter of fact, both of you can just go to hell!”

  Smoke watched as Highpockets Rycroft and Dick Miles rode up, both of them still looking sort of peaked from their last encounter with Smoke Jensen. Highpockets favored his left arm and Miles wore a pained expression
on his face. Obviously, his stomach was still tender.

  “What do you two want?” Smoke asked.

  “We’re on our side of the damn fence!” Highpockets protested. “We ain’t botherin’ you.”

  “I find you both offensive to look at,” Smoke replied. “I don’t want to see either of you again.”

  “Well, what are you gonna do if you do see us after this?” Dick asked.

  “Shoot you.”

  “Shoot us?” Highpockets hollered. “Now, wait just a minute!”

  “What about me?” Jess said.

  “You done been shot!” Dick said. “Shut up.”

  “Or I might decide to hang you,” Smoke added.

  “Now, just hold on here,” Highpockets protested. “We’re just cowboys. We push beeves. And that’s all. You got my word on that.”

  “Since when?” Dick blurted before he thought.

  “Since right now!” his buddy told him. “And shut your damn mouth, you fool!”

  Smoke lifted his .44 and cocked the hammer, pointing it at Dick.

  “Whoa!” Dick bellered, throwing both hands into the air. “I ain’t touched no gun, Smoke.”

  “You implied you hired out your gun against me,” Smoke told him. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I didn’t do no such a damn thing!” Dick yelled. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “I’m dyin’ and don’t nobody seem to care,” Jess moaned.

  “Well, do so quietly,” Highpockets told him. “I got troubles of my own here.”

  “Shuck out of your gunbelts,” Smoke told them.

  “Huh?” Dick asked.

  Highpockets looked at him. “Dick,” he said, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall. “I always knowed you was slow, but you ain’t gettin’ me killed ‘cause of it.”

  “Oh!” Dick said, and let his guns fall. “Uh, Mister Jensen — are you gonna kill us?”

  “Nope. At least, not this time around. But I really think you boys should stop wearing guns. Now, that’s not an order. But it is a suggestion. However,” Smoke slowly let the hammer down on his .44 and all in front of it relaxed, “I might also suggest this.” He looked at two standing over Jess. “What are your names?”

  “Howie and Biff. I’m Howie. This is Biff.”

  “That … is reasonable,” Smoke said. “All right, what I’m about to suggest goes for you two, as well.”

  “What about me?” Jess whispered.

  “Shut up, Jess,” Howie told him. “You’re supposed to be dyin’.”

  “I want words spoke over me!” Jess said.

  “Do I have to kick you in the head to shut you up?” Howie whispered. “Hush! You were sayin’, Mister Jensen?”

  “It might seem strange for you men to suddenly stop wearing guns. So if you decide to stay around here, you may wear your guns. But everytime you see me, you throw your hands in the air. If you don’t, I’ll just have to assume that you’re unfriendly. And I’ll shoot you.”

  “Throw … our hands in the air ever’time we see you?” Dick questioned.

  “That’s right. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that!” Howie said. “Can you do that, Biff?”

  “I can do that!” Biff said quickly. “Yes, sir.”

  Highpockets raised his hands. Swiftly. “Like this, Mister Jensen?”

  “Just like that.”

  Dick threw his hands into the air. Biff and Howie did the same. They all looked kind of silly.

  “We’re just cowboys, Mister Jensen,” Biff said. “That’s all. We ain’t gunfighters.”

  “Fine. When this is all over, if — if — you men behave and do like I tell you, you can all go to work for Miss Jenny. She is going to be the new owner of the Triangle JB.”

  “She is?” Highpockets asked.

  “She is. Lower your hands. You’d like working for my niece. She keeps a tubful of doughnuts around all the time. And she bakes pies one day and cakes the next. She’s a fine cook.”

  “I’m hungry now,” Biff said.

  “I’m dyin’!” Jess hollered. “Don’t nobody care about me?”

  “You want to take him into town?” Smoke asked.

  “He wouldn’t make it,” Dick said. “He’s about done for now.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Jess cried.

  “You’d actually hire us to work for your niece after we rode for Biggers?” Highpockets asked.

  “Sure. Just as long as you boys stick to punching cows and not punching or shooting at me,” Smoke said with a grin.

  “We’re out of it,” Howie said. “From now on. And that’s a promise, Mister Smoke.”

  “Fine. See you boys.” Smoke rode away.

  “That’s a nice feller there,” Howie said. “I sure had him pegged wrong.”

  “He seemed right sure about Miss Jenny goin’ to own the Triangle JB,” Dick said.

  “I damn sure believed him,” Howie replied. “I am a changed man, boys. Believe it.”

  “What are we gonna do about Jess?” Highpockets asked.

  Biff looked down at the would-be gunhand and shook his head. “Get a shovel.”

  Smoke rode toward the eastern slopes of the mountains that ringed the valley. He felt the men he had left alive by the fence would keep their word. He was a pretty fair hand at judging people, and those men had the appearance of being nothing more than good, working cowboys who’d had the misfortune to sign on with the wrong outfit.

  He put the ranch out of his mind. Van Horn and the others would protect it — and Sally and Jenny — with their lives. Smoke had no doubts about that. For now, he had to concentrate on staying alive. He felt that those men by the fence were probably all the real working cowboys Jack Biggers had left on the payroll. All his other hands would be thugs, toughs, hired guns, or men who felt they were good with a gun. And there was a great deal of difference between the two.

  Jess had found that out the hard way.

  The terrain began to slope upward now, as the valley ended and Buck started the climb upward. The timber was thick here, and Smoke stayed in it. This was his type of country. It was here that he felt most at home and here that, if he had a choice, the fight would begin and end. Smoke was not called the last mountain man without good reason. He was hell on wheels in any type of fight, under any type of circumstances, in any terrain, but in the mountains, he was most effective. He understood the wilderness, the high country, and used it all to his advantage.

  He swung down from the saddle, ground-reined Buck, and squatted for a time, building a cigarette and thinking, his eyes never stopping their searching for any sign of trouble.

  He decided he’d given the Triangle JB people enough grief for the time being, climbed back in the saddle, and headed north, for Fosburn’s spread. He’d see what kind of trouble he could get into up there.

  Jess had been a hothead and not much of a cowboy. Jack Biggers summed up Jess’s worth and then dismissed him. But it rankled him that Smoke had gunned down another of his men with the ease of stepping on a bug.

  And Highpockets and Dick, Biff and Howie, were all behaving strangely since their return to the ranch. But Jack didn’t want to chastise them too much; those four were the only real cowboys he had left, and somebody had to do some work around the place. Not that there was that much to do, especially this time of the year. The mountains provided a natural corral for the herds, and the Triangle JB’s part of the valley was lush enough to sustain a herd three times the size.

  But Jack wanted it all. He even wanted Fat’s northern range, and he intended to get it. What he didn’t know was that Fat wanted Jack’s part of the valley and Major Cosgrove wanted all of it. Each of the partners had their own little schemes all worked out. Or so they thought.

  Jack got a fresh mug of coffee and walked out to sit on the front porch. He spotted Highpockets and Dick, Biff and Howie, and watched them for a moment. He frowned at them. What the hell were they doing?

  The four men would walk a few step
s, then stop and throw their hands into the air.

  “Waco!” he called for his new foreman. His old foreman was one of those who had died in the street in front of the general store when the half dozen or so JB hands had come after Smoke.

  “Boss?” Waco said, appearing by the side of the porch.

  “What in the hell are those men doing over there by the bunkhouse?”

  Waco looked, blinked, took off his hat and scratched his head, and took another look. The four men sure were acting strange. Looked like some sort of a dance to him. He’d never seen cowboys act like that before.

  “Well, Boss … I can’t say as I rightly know. Some of them saloons in town just got in a whole new batch of girls from St. Louis. Maybe that there’s some sort of new eastern dance step those boys are tryin’ out.”

  “Well, have them stop it immediately. They look plumb foolish to me. Looks like a bunch of schoolgirls doin’ the do-si-do. Silliest thing I ever seen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Waco waited until Jack had gone back into the house, then, after taking a slow, careful look all around him to be sure he was not observed, he took three steps, stopped, and threw up his hands. He was not aware that Whisperin’ Langley and Val Davis were watching him from a bunkhouse window. “I kinda like it,” Waco muttered.

  “What the hell is that man doin’ over yonder?” Whisperin’ said.

  “I don’t know,” Val replied. “But them four over there is doin’ it, too.”

  “Didn’t Biff and Howie go into town last night?”

  “Yeah. To the saloon where them new gals from St. Louis is workin’. I heard ’em talkin’ about it.”

  “It’s a dance. That’s what it is. Them gals done brought a new dance out here with ‘em. Let’s watch so’s we can do it, too.”

  “I ain’t much on dancin’.”

  “That looks easy to me.”

  Two of the West’s most feared and formidable gunslingers looked around the bunkhouse. They were alone. Whisperin’ took three steps forward, stopped, and threw up his hands.

  “Try it, Val. It’s easy.”

  Val, spurs jingling, took three steps forward, stopped, and threw up his hands. “Yeah. It is, ain’t it?”