Ordeal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  With the skill of a conjurer, a .45 Colt Peacemaker appeared in Smoke Jensen’s hand before the others could close fingers around the butt-grips of their weapons. “With this, if necessary.”

  The first mouthy one cocked his head to one side. “Who the hell might you be?”

  “I’m the sheriff. T’name’s Jensen. Folks call me Smoke.”

  Four faces drained of blood. “Awh, hell, we done got the wrong town,” declared the second piece of trash.

  “That you do,” Smoke told him blandly.

  A third one spoke up “Damn, those people down in Colorado don’t talk about nothin’ but how good you are with a gun, Mr. Jensen—uh—Sheriff. We’ll leave, an’ we won’t make no trouble, honest.”

  “I believe that. Now have a nice ride out of town.”

  Smoke watched them depart, then turned to observe that the shot-out window of Harbinson’s Mercantile had been boarded up. While he idly inspected it, Eb Harbinson stepped out onto the boardwalk. He rubbed his hands industriously on his apron tail and produced a smile.

  “Sheriff Jensen, I want to tell you that I was sure wrong about you and your posting law. Yessir, wrong as can be. You know, my business has actually picked up. Those advertising flyers you suggested have been a godsend. You’re doing a good job. An excellent job, in fact. I want you to know that all the good people of town are behind you a hunnard percent.”

  Smoke gave him a quizzical expression. “If they are, how come none of them are rushing over to volunteer to be deputies, Mr. Harbinson? Tell me that.”

  Early in the afternoon, Smoke Jensen worked at his teeth with a whittled stick as he stepped out of the Sorry Place. The pig’s feet had been tasty and tender, with just the right amount of vinegar pickle to them. He ambled along the boardwalk and noted with satisfaction the lack of hard cases and drifter trash. He had nearly reached the front of the Trailside when three shots blasted out of the interior.

  Smoke reached the batwings in three long strides. Over the curved top of the louvered doors he saw a bulldog-faced hard case standing over the body of a local rancher, a smoking six-gun in one hand. Smoke stepped through the swinging doors, Peacemaker in hand.

  “Put it down and raise your hands,” he commanded.

  Unwilling to comply, the gunman shouted his defiance as he tried to turn and fire at the same time. “Like hell I—” he got out before Smoke Jensen shot him through the heart.

  Two other gunslicks, friends of the dead thug, took exception to Smoke’s treatment of their companion and went for their guns. A bullet from Smoke’s .45 crashed into the bar beside one of them; then the pair fired as one.

  Smoke Jensen had already moved, spoiling their best chance. His third round found meat low in the belly of one shootist,” which slammed the man back against the bar and turned him part way around. Dimly he saw the reflection of Smoke in the mirror behind the row of bottles on the back bar. He tried to hold himself up with his left arm while he struggled to raise his six-gun and get off a shot.

  Meanwhile, Smoke had moved again. He traded shots with the third gunman and dived low behind a faro table. A slug from the rogue’s Colt scattered chips on the layout. On his knees, Smoke shot back.

  A thin, high scream came from the bewhiskered gunman, who dropped his weapon and staggered three steps toward the door. All at once he began to tremble. His body went rigid, and he crashed into the sawdust. Beyond him, the wounded brigand at last had his revolver in position. Cursing Smoke, he fired.

  Though not before Smoke Jensen had ducked low and rolled across an open section of floor. The bullet went wild, shattered a coal oil lamp and lodged in the wall. Smoke had far better aim with his second Colt.

  Splinters flew from the rough pine planks of the bar when Smoke’s bullet exited the chest of the stubborn gunhand. He looked down in surprise and blinked once, slowly, before his eyes rolled up and he teetered over the brink into eternity. Smoke came to his boots and looked around for further resistance.

  He had none, he soon saw. Then he took in the gawkers, who peered into the saloon from the windows and over the double batwing doors, drawn by the sounds of the brief, deadly shoot-out. One of them he soon recognized as Mayor Norton, when that worthy entered, face beaming with relief and pleasure.

  “You’ve done it, Sheriff Jensen. That’s the last of them. There’s not a piece of riffraff left in town. I never believed anyone could do it so fast.”

  “I had some help, Mayor.”

  “You’re too modest. You’re the one who put the backbone back in Grover Larsen. Fred Chase was only doing his job. The credit is all yours.”

  Smoke Jensen cut his eyes to the three cooling corpses. “There’s a lot of it I would rather not have had to do.”

  Corpses did not enhance a politician’s popularity, so Mayor Norton hastened to close the discussion of the killings. “Of course, of course. I understand.”

  That, of all the things that had been said since he had come to town, rubbed Smoke the rawest. “No, Mayor Norton, I don’t think you could possibly know how I feel.” Smoke reached for his badge and pulled it from his vest front. “I’m through here. My job is finished. I have a herd to catch up to.”

  Twenty minutes later, Smoke Jensen had all of his possessions loaded into saddlebags and placed in the pouches of a packsaddle rig. After a few pointers to Fred Chase, he left the sheriff’s job in his capable hands, mounted Cougar and rode out of town with a rented packhorse on lead. To his surprise, nearly the whole population turned out to see him off. But not all of the residents of Muddy Gap gathered to wish their recent sheriff a fond farewell.

  Seated behind his desk, Boyne Kelso turned a hard glower to the second-floor window, from which he could see the tall, lean figure of Smoke Jensen riding out of town. He wet full lips and tossed down a shot of bourbon. In the chair opposite him, his son, Brandon, sipped at a beer.

  “You’ll get yours, you bastard,” Boyne Kelso growled as Smoke went out of sight.

  “What do you mean, Paw? He ain’t gonna be around here no more.”

  “Never mind, son. Where he’s going, he is about to step into a hornet’s nest.”

  Which brought Boyne’s thoughts to the immediate. He had to get a message to Reno Jim Yurian to inform him that the owner of the herd of horses they intended to rustle was the notorious gunfighter, Smoke Jensen. His next thought brought Boyne a great deal of comfort. He had every confidence that Reno would know exactly what to do.

  Nine

  Smoke Jensen rode hard for two days. Unencumbered by a slow chuck wagon and the remounts, he covered considerable northward distance. When he topped a long swell in the high plains early the morning of the third day, he saw in the distance what appeared to be a wagon with a woman and three children on board. Smoke held back and looked around carefully for any sign of the woman’s husband, or any other man accompanying them. When he saw none, he urged Cougar on at a faster gait.

  Riding undetected to within twenty yards, Smoke reined in and hailed them, standing in his stirrups. He noted the cringe and frightened reaction. Something was decidedly wrong here. He called out again. “Hello, you folks in the wagon. I mean you no harm. May I ride up?”

  A quick conference between the woman and a gangling boy, who might be sixteen, resulted in a hesitant invitation. Smoke rode in, careful to keep his hands clear of his guns. Two small girls looked at him with wide-eyed, solemn faces. The boy wore a frown, although more of puzzlement than anger. In his hands he competently held a .32-20 Marlin rifle.

  “Howdy, folks. M’name’s Jensen. I own that horse herd whose sign you’ve been markin’ along the trail. I’m on my way to catch up to them.”

  “What got you behind in the first place?” demanded the auburn-haired, freckle-faced boy.

  Under any other circumstances, Smoke would have found such impudence an affront. Considering that they were obviously alone, and frightened of something, he let it go.

  “I got mousetrapped into cleaning out the
scoundrels and saddle trash from the town of Muddy Gap.”

  “You are a lawman?” the woman asked suspiciously.

  “I am. Deputy U.S. marshal. Though I’m not on government business at present,” Smoke added.

  “I see,” Della responded, though she did not in the least. “Your horses are ahead of us, then?”

  “Yes. Will you pardon me if I ask a blunt, personal question? Are you on your way to meet your husband?”

  Della paled. “My husband—my husband is dead. He was murdered by outlaws who stole our cattle and burned our ranch.”

  Right on top of her words the boy spoke. “Why weren’t you there to stop it, Marshal?”

  Smoke curbed a flare of impatience. “As I said, I am not here on official business. I am sorry to hear that, Mrs.—?”

  “Olsen. Della Olsen, Marshal Jensen. This is my son, Tommy, and my daughters, Sarah-Jane and Gertrude.”

  Smoke touched his hat in acknowledgment and made an instant decision. It was not safe for such vulnerable people to be out here alone. “Pleased to meet you. I’d appreciate it if you would tell me where you are headed.”

  Della considered a moment. “To Buffalo. It’s not far actually. We should be there in two or three days.”

  “More like six, I’d say,” Smoke countered. “I don’t wish to be pushy, Mrs. Olsen, but do you mind if I accompany you? At least until we catch up to my horses?”

  Relief blossomed on Della Olsen’s face. “We would be grateful, Marshal Jensen. And, please, call me Della.”

  “Thank you, Della. Folks generally call me Smoke.”

  Tommy’s eyes grew wide and bright. “Oh-my-gosh! The gunfighter and lawman? I read about you in a dime novel.”

  Smoke seemed uncomfortable. “All greatly exaggerated, believe me. Truth is, I’ve been both, son. Right now I’m raising blooded horses and selling what I can of them.” To Della, he went on to say, “This really is rough country for you to be traveling alone. I hope that revealing my identity does not change your opinion too much.”

  Della took a deep breath and settled her disquiet. “Not at all, Smoke Jensen. As a matter of fact, right now I can’t think of anyone more welcome to accompany us.”

  Tommy fairly bubbled. “Good for you, Maw.”

  Rapid as his travel had been for the previous two days, Smoke now found his pace diminished to the painfully slow crawl of the aged plowhorse that drew the Olsen wagon. At the nooning, which Smoke would have ordinarily taken afoot, walking Cougar while he munched a strip of jerky and one of a dozen biscuits he had purchased at the Iron Kettle, Smoke made a suggestion.

  “Della, what say we swap my packhorse for your critter for the time being. We could make a good twenty, twenty-five miles a day that way.”

  Still defensive around this living legend, Della chose to take offense. “If we’re holding you up, Mr. Jensen, you can ride on alone.”

  “Now, that’s just what I didn’t want to happen. Don’t take me wrong. I’m sure you are eager to get to Buffalo and settle in. I’m only trying to help.”

  Suddenly contrite, Della reached out impulsively and laid a hand on Smoke’s forearm. “I’m sorry. All that has happened has ... unnerved me. Yes, that is a good and practical idea. Generous, too. Thank you.” She raised her voice. “Tommy, see to unhitching Barney and exchanging him for Smoke’s packhorse.”

  With that accomplished, their pace picked up considerably during the afternoon. When Smoke indicated the place they would camp for the night, Tommy came to him. The lad had an eager expression that foretold his expectations.

  “Mr. Jensen, my paw told me I’m a fair shot. What say I go out and find us some rabbits for supper?”

  Smoke grinned broadly. “Fine with me. You have a shotgun along?”

  “No, sir. Only my thirty-two-twenty rifle.” Then Tommy added proudly, “I only make head shots.”

  “Then go ahead.” Smoke reserved his praise for when the results came in.

  Which, half an hour later, surprised and pleased him. He had heard only four shots, and Tommy came back with as many plump rabbits. Deftly, the boy skinned and dressed them, laid aside the livers for the frying pan, and laced the carcasses on green willow twigs, which he inclined over a bed of coals. After the meal, Smoke took Tommy aside.

  “Out here, Tommy, it’s important a man is able to fend for himself. I see you can provide for the table. Now, I want to give you something to help in protecting your family. I took these off a hard case who won’t be needing them any longer,” he explained as he opened one envelope of his pack rig and took out a .44 Colt Lightning, double-action revolver and a .44 Winchester.

  “I can see no better use for them than that you have them,” Smoke went on.

  Tommy’s eyes grew large and round. “I ain’t got money to pay for them, Mr. Jensen.”

  “They’re a gift, Tommy. Only one thing; always use them properly.

  “Yes, sir. I promise. Is there cartridges for them?”

  “What you see in the belt and another twenty rounds. It’s not much, but a good shot like you can surely make them count.”

  Tommy’s chest swelled, and he gulped as he accepted the weapons. “I’ll . . . never do wrong with them, Mr. Jensen.”

  “I’ll take your word for that, Tommy. By the way, how old are you?”

  “F-fourteen.”

  For a moment, Smoke regretted his impulsive gesture, then considered the boy’s size and sturdiness. He’d do. He remained satisfied with his decision until Della came to sit beside him later, after the children had gone to sleep.

  “That was a generous thing you did for Tommy, Smoke. Though I must admit it worries me some. A boy his age with such powerful weapons.”

  Here it comes, Smoke thought to himself. But Della’s next words surprised him. “Though if he is to be the man of the house, he must take upon himself manly things. It’s decided, then. Tommy will keep the rifle and the revolver. And, thank you. I feel safer just knowing that someone as considerate as you is around.”

  Smoke poured them both coffee. “Your loss is so recent, I don’t suppose you feel like talking about it,” Smoke prompted.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. But I must face it. It was a gang, a big one. They came riding in like a band of wild Indians. Their leader was a fancy dresser, like a gambler, with a red silk lining in his black coat. My Sven was killed early on. It took a while to get poor Elmer.”

  “Your older son?”

  “No. Elmer Godwin. He worked for us. Although we treated him like one of the family, goodness knows. An orphan boy.”

  “Do you know what caused the attack?”

  “Not really. They were after the cattle, I suppose. They drove them off when they left. The children and I were in the root cellar. Tommy had his little rifle, but I don’t think it would have done much against those monsters. They burned our house and the barn.”

  “Then you are wiped out?”

  “Yes, Smoke. All we have are the clothes on our backs, a few sheets and blankets, that old wagon and a broken-down horse.”

  “And a mighty tough spirit, Della. When we reach Buffalo with the herd, I’ll do whatever I can to help you get settled.”

  “You’re a kind man, Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke flushed slightly. “No. Only practical. There are a lot who would take advantage of a woman in your distress. They might find it more difficult cheating me.”

  Della studied him awhile in silence. “You are a most unusual man, Smoke.”

  They talked on until the moon rose. Then Smoke put out the fire with the coffee dregs and rolled up in his soogan, his head on his saddle.

  Jerry Harkness had been uneasy since the previous afternoon. He did not doubt his ability to ramrod the drive. Yet, the responsibility of doing it had begun to weigh on him. At midmorning, with the sun warm on his right cheek, his discomfiture intensified to a full-blown premonition.

  He did not like the looks of the treacherous ravine on the left, nor the steep hil
l to the right that forced the trail into a blind curve. Anything could be lying in wait ahead. Jerry pulled a long face and dropped back to alert the men. That left a young wrangler named Brad in the lead position. Jerry quietly informed the other hands. As usual, the eternal optimist, Utah Jack, made light of it.

  “You goin’ old maidish on us, Jerry? Hell, there ain’t nobody out here but us.”

  “And a couple of thousand Cheyenne,” Jerry reminded him. “Jist keep your eyes sharp. Don’t overlook anything.”

  By then, the head of the herd had walked out of sight around the bend. Utah Jack, who rode drag, whistled to the stragglers to hurry them on. Jerry Harkness had just started forward when the first shots sounded.

  Yancy Osburn bossed the left flank of the Yurian gang ambush. He spied the approach of the horses and felt a surge of elation. Here they came, by God. If only the fellers in the center held off long enough, the whole herd could be contained right there. The lone rider in the header position looked up right then and saw the barricade built the previous day. His startled expression faintly reached Yancy where he waited.

  “What the devil is this?” Brad turned in the saddle to call back to the swing riders. “Hold up the herd. There’s some kind of roadblock.”

  At once, the two swing riders nearest the head of the string of horses began to squeeze in, to stop forward motion. From his vantage point, Yancy Osburn saw two white puffs of powder smoke bloom behind the obstructing abatis.

  A second later, the drover, whose name he did not know, threw his hands in the air and sagged crookedly in the saddle. His mount trotted nervously a few paces, then turned and looked about in confusion. Three more shots cracked from the palisade, and another wrangler went down. The remounts began to whinny and mill about.

  That served as a signal for Yancy Osburn, on the left, and Smiling Dave Winters, who commanded the right flank. They jumped their horses into motion, followed by the ten men each commanded. Yancy in the lead, his flankers swarmed around the breastlike swell of the hill, intent on closing on the herd and preventing a stampede.