Look for These Exciting Series from
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Preacher: The First Mountain Man
Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man
Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
The Family Jensen
MacCallister
Flintlock
The Brothers O’Brien
The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty
Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal
Hell’s Half Acre
Texas John Slaughter
Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal
Eagles
The Frontiersman
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
The JENSEN BRAND
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Look for These Exciting Series from
Title Page
Copyright Page
THE JENSEN FAMILY - FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4063-6
First electronic edition: July 2017
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4064-3
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4064-5
THE JENSEN FAMILY
FIRST FAMILY OF THE AMERICAN FRONTIER
Smoke Jensen—The Mountain Man
The youngest of three children and orphaned as a young boy, Smoke Jensen is considered one of the fastest draws in the West. His quest to tame the lawless West has become the stuff of legend. Smoke owns the Sugarloaf Ranch in Colorado. Married to Sally Jensen, father to Denise (“Denny”) and Louis.
Preacher—The First Mountain Man
Though not a blood relative, grizzled frontiersman Preacher became a father figure to the young Smoke Jensen, teaching him how to survive in the brutal, often deadly Rocky Mountains. Fought the battles that forged his destiny. Armed with a long gun, Preacher is as fierce as the land itself.
Matt Jensen—The Last Mountain Man
Orphaned but taken in by Smoke Jensen, Matt Jensen has become like a younger brother to Smoke and even took the Jensen name. And like Smoke, Matt has carved out his destiny on the American frontier. He lives by the gun and surrenders to no man.
Luke Jensen—Bounty Hunter
Mountain Man Smoke Jensen’s long-lost brother Luke Jensen is scarred by war and a dead shot—the right qualities to be a bounty hunter. And he’s cunning, and fierce enough, to bring down the deadliest outlaws of his day.
Ace Jensen and Chance Jensen—Those Jensen Boys!
Smoke Jensen’s long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance, are a pair of young-gun twins as reckless and wild as the frontier itself …Their father is Luke Jensen, thought killed in the Civil War. Their uncle Smoke Jensen is one of the fiercest gunfighters the West has ever known. It’s no surprise that the inseparable Ace and Chance Jensen have a knack for taking risks—even if they have to blast their way out of them.
CHAPTER 1
The Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado, 1901
A thin sliver of moon hung over the mountains bordering the valley, casting such a feeble amount of light that it did little to relieve the pitch blackness cloaking much of the landscape.
A rustlers’ moon, Smoke Jensen thought.
“Are they there?” Calvin Woods whispered next to Smoke. “I can’t see a blasted thing!”
“They’re there,” Smoke told his foreman. He raised the Winchester he held in both hands but didn’t bring it to his shoulder just yet. A shot would spook the men who had been stealing his cattle, and he didn’t want them to take off for the tall and uncut before he had a chance to nab them. “Hold your fire . . .”
Hidden in the trees along with Smoke and Cal were half a dozen more Sugarloaf hands, all of them young and eager for action, like frisky colts ready to stretch their legs. One reason cowboys signed on to ride for the Sugarloaf was the prospect of working for Smoke Jensen, quite possibly the most famous gunfighter the West had ever known. They figured just being around Smoke upped the chances for excitement.
That was true. Even though Smoke had put his powder-burning days behind him more than two decades earlier and settled down to be a peace-loving rancher, things hadn’t quite worked out that way. Trouble still seemed to find him on a fairly regular basis, despite his intentions.
That was the way it was with Jensens. None of them had ever been plagued with an abundance of peace and quiet.
In recent weeks, for example, Sugarloaf cattle had begun disappearing on a regular basis. Only a few at first, then more and more as the thieves grew bolder. Smoke was in his fifties, and it only made sense to believe that he might have slowed down some. Some might have figured he wasn’t the same sort of pure hell on wheels he had been when he was younger.
Those rustlers were about to find out how wrong they were to assume that.
“There to the right,” Smoke whispered as he looked out across the broad pasture where a couple hundred cattle were settled down for the night. “Coming out of that stand of trees.”
“I see ’em,” Cal replied, equally quiet. He had started out as a young cowboy, too, twenty years earlier. Back then, the reformed outlaw known as Pearlie was the Sugarloaf’s ramrod, and he and Cal had become fast friends. Pearlie was also a mentor to Cal, who’d learned everything there was to know about running a ranch. When it came time for Pearlie to retire,
it was only natural for Cal to move into the foreman’s job.
He still looked a little like a kid, though, despite the mustache he had cultivated in an attempt to make himself seem older. However, no one on the crew failed to hop when he gave an order.
On the other side of the pasture, several riders moved out of the trees and rode slowly toward the cattle. It was too dark to make out any details about them or even to be sure of how many there were. But they didn’t belong and there was only one reason for them to be there.
Calling out softly, slapping coiled lassos against their thighs, they started moving a jag of about a hundred head along the valley, toward the north end.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” Cal said. “Let’s blast ’em outta their saddles.”
“I’d rather round up a few of them if we can,” Smoke said. “I’d like to know if they started this wide-looping on their own or if they’re working for somebody.”
“You got suspicions?”
“No . . . but if there’s a head to this snake, I’d just as soon know about it so I can cut it off.” Smoke leaned his head to indicate they should pull back, although it was doubtful Cal saw the gesture in the thick shadows. “Let’s drift on back to the horses.”
“If we go chargin’ out there, we’ll scatter those cows all over kingdom come,” Cal warned.
Smoke chuckled. “They can be rounded up again.”
Silently, the men moved through the trees until they reached the spot where they had left their horses and swung up into the saddles. Over the years of his adventurous life, Smoke had learned to trust his gut. He’d had a hunch the rustlers might strike again that night, so he, Cal, and some of the hands had gone out to a likely spot for more villainy where they could stand watch and maybe catch the cattle thieves in the act.
“Are you gonna give those varmints a chance to surrender, Smoke?” Cal sounded like he hoped the answer would be no.
“Yes . . . but not much of one. They’d better throw down their guns and get their hands in the air in a hurry. Other wise . . .” Smoke didn’t have to elaborate.
All the cowboys would be checking their guns before they rode out into the pasture.
He gave instructions. “We’ll swing around and come up behind them. I’ll hail them. If they start the ball, you fellas do what you have to. Like I said, it would be nice to take some of them alive, but I’d much rather all of you boys come through this with whole hides. Now let’s go.”
With Smoke and Cal in the lead, the men rode slowly through the trees until they reached the edge of the growth. The dark mass of the cattle was to the left, moving away as the rustlers pushed the reluctant animals along. Smoke and his companions moved out into the open and started after them, still not hurrying but moving fast enough to catch up to the plodding cattle.
The sounds made by the cattle and the hooves of the rustlers’ horses were enough to muffle the advance of Smoke and his men. At least Smoke hoped that was the case. The rustlers hadn’t panicked yet, at least.
The group from the Sugarloaf closed in.
Smoke had his Winchester in his right hand and the reins in his left. He looped the reins around the saddle horn, knowing he could control the rangy gray gelding with his knees. With both hands gripping the rifle, he shouted, “You’re caught! Throw down your guns!”
Instead of surrendering, the rustlers yanked their horses around. Spurts of gun flame bloomed in the darkness like crimson flowers as they opened fire.
In one smooth motion, Smoke brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed at one of the spurts of orange, and squeezed the trigger. The Winchester cracked. He barely felt the weapon’s recoil. Working the lever to throw another round in the chamber, he shifted his aim, and swiftly fired a second shot then kneed his horse into motion and charged toward the rustlers.
Around him, Cal and the other Sugarloaf hands galloped forward, yelling and shooting.
The thieves scattered in all directions, abandoning the cows they were trying to steal.
Although it was difficult to see much, Smoke and his allies continued aiming at the muzzle flashes of their enemies. Of course, the rustlers were doing the same thing. The air was filled with flying lead.
Smoke always hoped his men would come through such encounters unscathed, but knew better than to expect it.
He made out one of the fleeing rustlers and closed in on the man, who twisted in the saddle and flung a shot back at him. Smoke felt as much as heard the slug rip through the air not far from his ear. That was good shooting from the back of a running horse. He leaned forward to make himself a smaller target and urged his mount to greater speed.
As he drew close to his quarry, the rustler turned to try another shot, but Smoke lashed out with the barrel of the Winchester. It thudded against the rustler’s head and swept him out of the saddle. Both horses galloped on for a few strides before Smoke was able to swing his mount around. Elsewhere in the big pasture, gunfire still crackled.
He swung down from the saddle and let the reins drop, knowing the horse was trained not to go anywhere. Keeping his rifle pointed at the dim figure on the ground, Smoke approached him. The fallen rustler didn’t move.
Smoke ordered, “Put your hands in the air!” but there was no response. Wary of a trick, he lowered the rifle and drew the Colt on his right hip. The revolver was better for close work. Almost supernaturally fast with it, he was confident he could put a bullet in the varmint before he had a chance to try anything.
“On your feet if you can, and keep your hands where I can see ’em!”
The rustler remained motionless. He appeared to be lying facedown. Smoke hooked a boot toe under his shoulder and rolled him onto his back.
The loose-limbed way the man flopped over spoke volumes. The fall from the running horse had either busted the rustler’s head open or broken his neck, more likely the latter. Either way, he sure looked dead.
Or he was mighty good at playing possum.
Smoke backed off and holstered the Colt. He’d return later and check on the rustler. At the moment, his men needed his help elsewhere.
He mounted up quickly and rode toward the sound of the guns, which had become intermittent. The shots died out completely as Smoke approached several dark shapes that turned into men on horseback as he got closer.
He had his rifle ready, but he recognized the voice that called, “Smoke? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Cal, it’s me. Are you all right?”
“Fine as frog hair. How about you?”
“A few of those bullets came close enough for me to hear, but that’s all. How about the other fellas?”
“Don’t know. Randy and Josh are with me and they’re all right, but I can’t say about the rest.”
“And the rustlers?”
“We downed a couple. Don’t know about the rest of them, either.”
Smoke said, “The fight seems to be over. Let’s see if we can round up the rest of our bunch.”
“Then we can round up those cows,” Cal said. “They scattered hell-west and crosswise, just like I figured they would.”
“But they’re still on Sugarloaf range,” Smoke pointed out. “Those rustlers didn’t succeed in driving them off.”
“They sure didn’t!”
Smoke drew his Colt and fired three shots into the air, the signal for his riders to regroup. Over the next few minutes they came in. One man had a bullet burn on his arm, but the others were unhurt . . . until the last two horses plodded up. One man rode in front, leading the other horse.
Smoke could make out a shape draped over the second horse’s saddle, and the sight made his jaw tighten in anger. “Who’s that?” he snapped.
“I’m Jimmy Holt, Mr. Jensen.” With a catch in his voice, the young cowboy said, “That’s Sid MacDowell behind me. He . . . he cashed in his chips. One of those damn rustlers drilled him right through the brisket. I ain’t sure Sid had time to know what happened.”
“Might be better that way,” Smo
ke muttered. “What about the rustlers? Did any of them get away?”
“I think one of them did,” another cowboy reported. “I’m pretty sure he was hit, but he managed to stay on his horse. Do you want us to see if we can trail him, Mr. Jensen?”
“The best tracker in the world couldn’t follow a trail on a night like this, and I’ve known a few who could lay claim to that title.” Smoke shook his head. “No, we might see if we can find any tracks in the morning, but right now, some of you boys start gathering those cows and the rest of you come with me and Cal. I want to see if any of the rustlers are still alive.”
For the next half hour, Smoke, Cal, and a couple other men rode around the pasture, hunting for the bodies of the rustlers. Smoke hoped to find at least one of them only wounded and still able to talk, but as thief after thief turned up dead, that hope began to fade.
Finally they rode over to the man Smoke had knocked out of his saddle. Smoke knelt beside him, struck a lucifer, and saw by its flaring light that the rustler’s wide, staring eyes were sightless. The unnatural twist of his head told that his neck was broken. Smoke had tried to take him alive, but fate had had other ideas.
Smoke straightened and told Cal, “You can bring a wagon out here in the morning and collect the bodies . . . if the wolves haven’t dragged them off by then. Haul ’em into Big Rock to the undertaker. I’ll pay to have them put in the ground if they don’t have enough money on them to cover the cost.”
Cal nodded. “Should I get Sheriff Carson to take a look at them?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Chances are some of them are wanted. You fellas might have some reward money coming to you.”
Cal rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I’d want to take blood money. On the other hand, the world’s probably better off without these varmints, and that’s worth something, I guess.”
The Jensen Brand Page 1