Mimicking him, Sally twirled her Colt and stuck it in the waistband of her britches. “What’s your name, boy?”
The boy blushed and looked down at his feet. “Calvin, ma’am, Calvin Woods.”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared into the young man’s eyes. “Calvin, no one has to go hungry in this country, not if they’re willing to work.”
He looked up at her through narrowed eyes, as if he found life a little different than she described it.
“If you’re willing to put in an honest day’s work, I’ll see that you get an honest day’s pay, and all the food you can eat.”
Calvin stood a little straighter, shoulders back and head held high. “Ma’am, I’ve got to be straight with you. I ain’t no experienced cowhand. I come from a hardscrabble farm and we only had us one milk cow and a couple of goats and chickens, and lots of dirt that weren’t worth nothing for growin’ things. My ma and pa and me never had nothin’, but we never begged and we never stooped to takin’ handouts.”
Sally thought, I like this boy. Proud, and not willing to take charity if he can help it. “Calvin, if you’re willing to work, and don’t mind getting your hands dirty and your muscles sore, I’ve got some hands that’ll have you punching beeves like you were born to it in no time at all.”
A smile lit up his face, making him seem even younger than his years. “Even if I don’t have no saddle, nor a horse to put it on?”
She laughed out loud. “Yes. We’ve got plenty of ponies and saddles.” She glanced down at his raggedy boots. “We can probably even round up some boots and spurs that’ll fit you.”
He walked over and jumped in the back of the buckboard. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but you just hired you the hardest-workin’ hand you’ve ever seen.”
Back at Sugarloaf, she sent him in to Cookie and told him to eat his fill. When Smoke and the other punchers rode into the cabin yard at the end of the day, she introduced Calvin around. As Cal was shaking hands with the men, Smoke looked over at her and winked. He knew she could never resist a stray dog or cat, and her heart was as large as the Big Lonesome itself.
Smoke walked up to Cal and cleared his throat. “Son, I hear you drew down on my wife.”
Cal gulped. “Yessir, Mr. Jensen. I did.” He squared his shoulders and looked Smoke in the eye, not flinching though he was obviously frightened of the tall man with the incredibly wide shoulders standing before him.
Smoke smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “Just wanted you to know you stared death in the eye, boy. Not many galoots are still walking upright who ever pulled a gun on Sally. She’s a better shot than any man I’ve ever seen except me, and sometimes I wonder about me.”
The boy laughed with relief as Smoke turned and called out, “Pearlie, get your lazy butt over here.”
A tall, lanky cowboy ambled over to Smoke and Cal, munching on a biscuit stuffed with roast beef. His face was lined with wrinkles and tanned a dark brown from hours under the sun, but his eyes were sky blue and twinkled with good-natured humor.
“Yessir, boss,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food.
Smoke put his hand on Pearlie’s shoulder. “Cal, this here chowhound is Pearlie. He eats more than any two hands, and he’s never been known to do a lick of work he could get out of, but he knows beeves and horses as well as any puncher I have. I want you to follow him around and let him teach you what you need to know.”
Cal nodded, “Yessir, Mr. Smoke.”
“Now, let me see that iron you have in your pants.”
Cal pulled out the ancient Colt Navy and handed it to Smoke. When Smoke opened the loading gate, the rusted cylinder fell to the ground, causing Pearlie and Smoke to laugh and Cal’s face to flame red. “This is the piece you pulled on Sally?”
The boy nodded, looking at the ground.
Pearlie shook his head. “Cal, you’re one lucky pup. Hell, if’n you’d tried to fire that thing, it’d of blown your hand clean off.”
Smoke inclined his head toward the bunkhouse. “Pearlie, take Cal over to the tack house and get him fixed up with what he needs, including a gun belt and a Colt that won’t fall apart the first time he pulls it. You might also help pick him out a shavetail to ride. I’ll expect him to start earning his keep tomorrow.”
“Yessir, Smoke.” Pearlie put his arm around Cal’s shoulders and led him off toward the bunkhouse. “Now, the first thing you gotta learn, Cal, is how to get on Cookie’s good side. A puncher rides on his belly, and it ’pears to me that you need some fattin’ up ’fore you can begin to punch cows.”4
* * *
Pearlie had come to work for Smoke in as roundabout a way as Cal had. He was hiring his gun out to Tilden Franklin in Fontana when Franklin went crazy and tried to take over Sugarloaf, Smoke and Sally’s spread. After Franklin’s men raped and killed a young girl in the fracas, Pearlie sided with Smoke, and the aging gunfighters he had called in to help put an end to Franklin’s reign of terror.5
* * *
Pearlie was now honorary foreman of Smoke’s ranch, though he was only a shade over twenty years old himself.
Joey pitched his cigar out into the night air, watching sparks fly as it tumbled to the ground. “Awfully lucky, I’d say.”
Later that night, as Smoke and Sally undressed for bed, she turned to him. “Smoke, I know you feel honor bound to offer to help Joey out against this Murdock gang. . . .”
He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her head against his chest. “Darling, it’s something I have to do. That man doesn’t stand a chance if he goes it alone.”
She tilted her head back and kissed him lightly on his chin. “I know, sweetheart, and I’m not going to ask you not to go.” She pushed him back and held him at arm’s length, staring into his eyes. “I just want you to promise me that you’ll be careful if he asks you to help. If you go and get yourself killed, I’ll be really angry with you!”
He stuck out an index finger and made an X over his chest. “Cross my heart, I’ll be careful. I just hope he comes to his senses before it’s too late.” Then he smiled and leaned over to blow out the lantern. “Now I think it’s about time I thanked you for that wonderful supper you cooked.”
She laughed low in her throat as she pulled her nightdress over her head. “Why, sir, whatever do you mean?”
Chapter 6
Joey had Red and his packhorse loaded and ready for travel before dawn the next day. Sally fixed a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and biscuits with mounds of grape jelly for their farewell meal. Cal and Pearlie were invited and pestered Joey for tales of his exploits chasing Redlegs, until Smoke finally said, “Boys, let the man eat and enjoy his food. He’s got a long way to travel and, if he’s like most cowboys, his camp meals aren’t going to be near this good.”
Joey nodded as he stuffed more eggs and bacon into his mouth. “That’s right. My Betty is a fine woman, but I swear she could learn something about cookin’ biscuits from Mrs. Jensen.”
Sally handed him a sack. “I fixed you a batch of bear sign. I never met a man yet who didn’t appreciate pastries.”
Pearlie raised his eyebrows. “I hope you have some left over for the hands, Miss Sally. My stomach’s been sorely missing your bear sign lately.”
“Oh, there might be one or two still in the oven.”
Cal snorted. “One or two? Heck, Pearlie’s not happy ’less he’s got seven or eight to himself.”
Joey stood and wiped jelly from his lips with a napkin. “Smoke, boys, Mrs. Jensen, I ’preciate yore hospitality, but I got to git goin’.” He patted his stomach. “That is if I ain’t gained so much weight with all this good cookin’ that Red won’t be able to carry me.”
He mounted up, waved once more, and walked Red off down the trail toward Big Rock without looking back.
Smoke stood with his arm around Sally, watching him ride off. “That man was born with the bark on, as Preacher would say.”
* * *
> Joey was at the last turn of the trail, where Smoke’s property ended and the road turned toward Big Rock, when Red perked up his ears and shook his head, snorting.
Joey eased back on the reins, having learned to trust the big roan’s instincts. “Somethin’ up there, big fellow?” he whispered to the stallion. He peered through an early morning ground fog, but all he could see was a narrow path as it bent around a stand of pines about twenty yards ahead. He cocked his head, listening. There was something wrong; the bird sounds that had accompanied him all the way from Smoke’s cabin were silent.
He eased his Greener short-barreled scattergun out of his saddle boot, released hammer thongs on his Colts, and stepped quietly from his saddle. He untied his dally rope to the packhorse and slapped it on its rump, sending it trotting down the path.
Watching where he stepped to avoid making any noise, he slipped off the trail into dense undergrowth of pines and scrub trees to his right and tiptoed through timber toward the bend ahead.
As he approached the spot, he smelled smoke. Someone was smoking a cigarette up ahead, someone who shouldn’t be there. He eased up to an Indian hawthorn bush and peeked through the branches.
There were two Mexicans, and what appeared to be two Mescalero Apaches squatted behind trees, all with guns drawn, all watching the trail. Joey waited until his packhorse came into sight, and the men pointed their pistols at the animal, then he stepped from cover, earring back the hammers on his Greener.
At the harsh metallic click of the hammers being cocked, the men glanced back over their shoulders. “Mornin’, gents. Lookin’ fer me?” Joey growled.
As the men whirled, bringing up their guns, Joey let loose with both barrels of the express gun. The shotgun exploded and kicked back, shooting fire and heavy loads of buckshot into the two Apaches, almost blowing them in half, sending their bodies jerking and twisting to sprawl dead on the ground.
In the same motion, Joey dropped the Greener and slapped leather, drawing his Colts in a movement so fast, the Mexican bandits barely had time to cock and aim their pistols before he was spraying lead at them.
The first one took bullets in the chest and face, dying where he stood. The second got off one shot, which hit Joey in the side of his rib cage, tearing a chunk of meat out of his back as the bullet exited. The force of the bullet spun him around, saving his life as the ambusher’s next slug went high and wide, pocking bark off a pine tree, where Joey had been standing.
Just before he hit the ground, Joey snap-fired another round, hitting the gunman in the forehead, exploding his head in a red mist and dropping him like a stone.
Joey lay there on a soft carpet of pine needles, fire burning in his chest, clutching his left arm tight against his body, trying to stop the bleeding. The small clearing was choked with gun smoke, and the heavy smell of cordite made Joey cough, groaning at the pain it caused him. He lay back against the pine tree, thinking of the time he had nursed Collin Burrows after his chest wound, wondering if he was going to end up the same way....
* * *
Joey helped Collin from his horse, his arms around the boy’s shoulders. He was so weak from loss of blood, he couldn’t stand without help. Joey lowered him to the ground under thick branches of an oak tree, hoping it would keep some of the driving rain off him. He covered Collin with a saddle blanket and went to search for the roots, mosses, and bark his grandmother had used to make poultices to heal injuries when he was a boy.
He built a small fire and mashed the moss and leaves together in a tin cup, pouring in water. When the liquid boiled, he would add pieces of the bark to make a tea that might get Collin through the night. From the way the blood was dripping from his mouth, and the bright red bubbly nature of it, he was lung shot, hit hard and dying.
Joey watched the rain, cursing the war and all the men in it. He had seen too many young men, boys really, die for a cause they knew little about. As he sat in the rain, he whittled on the bark, stripping off small splinters to boil into tea.
After a moment, Collin groaned and began to talk to himself, delirious with fever and pain and infection. “Dad, where are ye? Mom’s lookin’ fer sis, an’ ya gotta help me find her....” His voice trailed off as he drifted into a fitful sleep. Joey smoothed the hair back out of his eyes, laying his hand for a moment against his cheek, as if it might soothe his pain a bit.
After dark fell, a group of Redlegs rode close by, and Joey lay over Collin, covering his mouth with his hand to keep him from crying out and giving away their position. When they had gone, Joey removed his hand, and noticed there was no breathing. He sighed, climbed stiffly to his feet, and walked to his horse to get his shovel. He would bury Collin in the mud of Missouri, dirt he had fought honorably to defend for reasons he probably never understood.
* * *
Joey felt lightheaded, but shook the feeling off, knowing he would die there if he passed out. Pushing thoughts of Collin from his mind and ignoring his discomfort, he crawled on hands and knees twenty yards to the middle of the trail and whistled for Red. The big horse trotted up moments later, bending its head to sniff and lick at Joey, nervously stamping its feet as it smelled blood and gun smoke in the air.
Joey pulled himself to his feet using his horse’s reins and clung to the saddle. He opened his saddlebag and took out an extra shirt he carried there, stuffing it as hard as he could against his wound. Too weak to climb into the saddle, he lay across it and pulled Red’s head back toward the Jensens’ ranch house. “Come on, big fellah, git me back there,” he groaned. Red began to walk back up the trail, turning his head to see why his master didn’t get in the saddle as usual.
Joey had traveled less than a hundred yards before Smoke and Cal and Pearlie came galloping down the path to meet him, guns drawn, expressions grim.
Without pausing to ask questions, Smoke leaned sideways in his saddle and swung his big arm around Joey’s waist and lifted him effortlessly onto his lap. “Cal, shag your mount into Big Rock and get Doc Spalding back here pronto! Pearlie, you scout around here and make sure there isn’t anyone left alive, and bring Joey’s horses back to Sugarloaf when you’re done.”
He jerked Horse’s head around and took off back up the trail as fast as his Palouse could ride.
* * *
Dr. Cotton Spalding took a final stitch in a gaping hole in Joey’s back and tied the silk in a surgeon’s knot, bringing the edges of the wound neatly together. As he cut the strands, he looked over at Sally. “You did a good job stopping his bleeding, Sally. You probably saved this young man’s life.”
Sally gave a lopsided grin, glancing at Smoke. “I’ve had plenty of practice on my husband, doctor.”
Joey sleeved sweat off his forehead and tried to look over his shoulder at his back. “How soon ’fore I can ride, doc?”
Cotton shook his head. “If the wound doesn’t suppurate, and you get plenty of rest and nutritious food, about two weeks, I’d say. I’ll take the stitches out in ten days, another couple of days to get the kinks and stiffness out, and you’ll be good as new. Luckily, the bullet missed your lung and stayed in the meat of the latissimus dorsi muscle on your side. You’ll be plenty sore, but from the looks of all these other scars on your body, you’re used to being shot.”
Joey nodded, a rueful grin on his pale face. “Yes, I’ve taken a little lead in my days.”
Cotton snorted. “More than a little, I’d say.” He washed blood off his hands in a basin next to the bed and stood up.
“Sally, make sure he eats lots of beef and stew and soup with meat in it. That’ll help him replace the blood he’s lost. Change his dressings twice a day, and call me if he starts to chill or have a fever.”
“Thank you, Cotton,” Smoke said.
“Yeah, thanks, doc,” Joey added. “I owe you one.”
The doctor looked down at Joey, “Pay me back by staying out of the path of any bullets in the near future.”
“You kin bet on it,” Joey replied.
Afte
r the doctor left, Smoke pulled up a chair and sat next to Joey’s bed. “You know who those men were who ambushed you, Joey?”
He nodded. “Most likely part of the band of raiders that stole my cattle and shot up my ranch.”
Smoke looked puzzled. “Any idea how they knew you were after them, or where you would be?”
Joey shrugged. “Only thing I can figger is that Mex I questioned in Bracketville. I cold-cocked him right before Carbone and Martine stopped me in front of the saloon. He must’ve come to and heard them tellin’ me ta stop by Big Rock an’ look you up. I guess he sent Murdock a telegraph and Murdock sent those men to keep me from comin’ after him and messin’ up his plans.”
Smoke nodded. “That makes sense. Maybe when we get to Pueblo, we can ask Murdock about it.”
Joey’s eyes narrowed. “Whatta ya mean, we, Smoke? I thought we settled all that.”
Smoke shook his head. “That was before someone tried to kill a guest on my spread. Remember when you said if word got around that they could shoot up your ranch, you might as well pack it in?”
Joey nodded.
“Same thing goes here in Colorado. I am not without my enemies, and I cannot afford to let anyone think they can ride in here and try to kill someone on my place and get away with it.” He spread his arms. “So I’m going to Pueblo to speak with Mr. Jacob Murdock, with or without you. You have a choice, to ride with me, or both of us can go our separate ways.”
Joey smiled. “Well, when you put it that way, I can see that your honor demands you answer this assault.” He arched an eyebrow. “You sure you wasn’t born in Missouri, Smoke?”
* * *
Pueblo was like a town under siege. People walked around, heads down, avoiding Sam Murdock and his deputies whenever possible. It was as if criminals were running the city. He and his men walked the streets and boardwalks arrogantly, and the slightest sign of disrespect or questioning of their authority was liable to be met with a blow from the butt of a rifle, or worse.
Several businessmen who questioned the results of the recent sheriff’s election had their businesses broken into and their stocks ruined. One of the town councilmen was found with his throat cut after publicly calling for a wire to be sent to the governor’s office asking for help. That effectively ended any active resistance to Sam Murdock’s reign of terror in Pueblo.
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 7