“We have to get something to eat.”
“I’ll dig a hole for Pop, Smoke. Are you up to a walk to the creek? Maybe you can catch us some fish.”
Smoke nodded grimly. “Yeah. I follow that. We can’t afford to waste ammunition on rabbits.”
“You’ve got the right of it. I took stock while you were still out. You have your Colts and a Winchester. I’ve got my six-gun. Together we have about a hundred fifty rounds. You’ve got forty for the rifle, sixty-three for your revolvers. I have the rest.”
“Sounds better than I expected.” Smoke headed to where his saddlebags lay, their contents scattered on the ground. A small square of folded buckskin produced a coil of braided-twine fishing line and four hooks. Reclosing the container, he pocketed it and sought out a thin branch from a cottonwood nearby. He used it as a staff to aid his progress toward the stream. Behind him, he heard the steady chunk-chunk as Jerry Harkness drove a shovel into the turf. It could be worse, Smoke thought to himself. Though somehow he could not picture exactly how.
By the time Smoke had devoured three pan-sized bullhead catfish, his head had stopped swimming. It only throbbed slightly. He availed himself of some red willow bark and scraped a small pile of powder, which he washed down with water from the creek. Then he turned to the matter that had absorbed him since recovering.
“Jerry, I have to keep after the herd.”
“Don’t you mean we, Smoke?”
“No. You’ve been wounded twice so far. What I want you to do is set out down the trail and find help. Bring as many men as you can.”
Harkness had plenty of protest left. “You already sent someone east for help. I say we can do better if we stick together.”
“I don’t think so. The riders I sent are going to be waiting for us north of Sheridan. The herd won’t be moving too fast. And with the Olsens, it will slow the rustlers even more.
“What I can’t figure, Smoke, is why they took them in the first place?”
“As insurance. Whoever is running that gang figures we will not try to take back the herd with a woman and children along. That’s just their latest mistake.”
“What was their first one?”
Smoke’s hickory eyes narrowed. “Taking my horses in the first place.”
While Smoke prepared to set out on foot, they talked of how he would leave sign if the herd changed directions. He would take his saddle and saddlebags along. Jerry would gather up anything useful when he returned with a posse. When everything had been decided, Harkness still had an objection.
“What if that head wound is worse than we think? I should stay with you in case you pass out again.”
“That makes sense, but there are only the two of us. I have to keep after the rustlers. Now, get goin’. And, good luck.”
Reno Jim Yurian found himself plagued by second thoughts. Burdened by the slow-moving horses, and the wagon with the hostages, the gang’s progress had been slowed to a walk. Perhaps he should not have told Hub to grab the woman and her kids. Though they might make a good bargaining point. Another reflection gave him a sudden chill along his spine.
This Smoke Jensen had proven more stubborn than he had expected. Reno knew the name, of course. Jensen had himself quite the reputation. A gunfighter of the first order, who was supposed to have been raised by some mythical mountain man named Preacher, Jensen was reported to have killed his first man when barely fifteen. Or was it sixteen?
That detail didn’t matter to Jim Yurian. Smoke Jensen was supposed to be so fast with a gun that only five men had ever cleared leather ahead of his draw. That worried Reno Jim more than he was willing to admit. If Smiling Dave had failed to bash in the man’s skull, then as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, Jensen would be coming after them. Reno didn’t believe for a moment he would come alone.
Seeking distraction from such gloomy thoughts, Reno Jim turned his horse aside and waited while the lead gather of remounts walked past. The Olsen wagon came next, between the divided herd. As it rolled even, he touched the brim of his black hat with a gloved hand. A thin, teasing smile flickered.
“I trust you are comfortable, Miz Olsen?”
Della warred with herself over outrage at their capture and their apparent continued safety. She loathed this jaunty outlaw in his impeccable black suit and rakish tilt of hat. The pencil-line mustache on his upper lip seemed to mock her. Grudgingly she had to admit he was a superb horseman. He sat his mount well and flowed with its movements whether at a walk or a canter. The nickle-plated, pearl-handled revolvers he wore reminded her that although a dandy, he was a dangerous one. She did not want to answer him, but found that she must.
“So far we have not been treated too badly. Though I would like to give your underling, who slapped around my son, a lasting headache.”
To her surprise the outlaw leader laughed. “I can understand your feelings, madam. Although you must admit that your boy did kill one of my men, as did you, I do believe.”
He remained amused when Della started a hot retort. “I only wish—” Aghast at her temerity, she stopped.
“That it could have been more?” Reno Jim concluded for her, rightly gauging her intent. “Fortunately for you it was not. My men are fiercely loyal to one another. Had you been successful, they might have done . . . some violence to you all.”
Shrewdly, Della checked him. “You would not have allowed that, now would you?”
Reno Jim made a show of being resigned. “You have me, madam. Truly you are my hole card. But, be assured, I will play you however it appears to my best advantage.”
Della displayed her knowledge of card language. “You will forgive me if I say that I sincerely hope you lose the hand? Because, believe me, you are bucking four aces if you go against Smoke Jensen.”
There was that cursed name again! Coming from this woman of considerable fortitude almost had him believing it. Perhaps if her faith became shaken, it would deflect from his own cold premonition. Maybe he should relax his prohibition somewhat and let the boys enjoy a trailside reward.
After plates of sow-belly and beans, flavored with hot peppers and vinegar, and skillet bread, several of the outlaws broke out bottles of whiskey.
When the liquor had made several rounds, one of the trail scum, fired by the raw rotgut, piped up to his companions. “What say we cut high card for who gets to do them gals tonight? First ace for the littlest, first king for the older one, and the first queen for the woman.”
“What? Jist one each tonight?” complained Prine Gephart. “I’ll bet the ol’ woman an’ the older girl can each take on at least four of us ev’ry night.”
A snigger answered him. “Mighty likely they could, if we was all built like you, Prine.”
Gephart took immediate exception. “Hey, you bassard, that ain’t funny.” The chorus of laughter that raised said otherwise. That set Prine off on a single-minded course. “That does it, you smart-asses. For that, I’m gonna go over there and plow all three of them fields, all by myself.”
His challenge met immediate response. Yancy Osburn came to his boots, hand closed around the butt-grip of his Smith American. “Like hell you are. It’s gonna be fair share. Everyone gets a chance.”
Gephart put on a pouting expression. Only his eyes showed his combativeness. “You gonna pull that thing, Yance? Reno said we could ride those fillies an’ the mare to our heart’s content. I aim to do exactly that.”
“Draw for high card, dammit,” growled Colin Fike.
Not nearly far enough away, Della Olsen clearly heard their angry voices and knew only so well what it was they intended. Quickly she reached out and covered her younger daughter’s ears. She noted to her satisfaction that Tommy did the same for Sarah-Jane. Then the boy spoke with heated sincerity.
“If any of them so much as touches one of you, I swear, Maw, I’ll make the sons of bitches pay.”
Fear for her son’s life blotted out her shock at his language and spurred her to dissuade him. “No, son. Th
ey—they’d kill you this time.”
Tommy Olsen slitted his eyes. “Not before I got a lot of them.”
Still determined to press for his equal right to pester the woman and her girls, Colin Fike pushed his insistence. “Cut the cards, Prine, we got a right.”
Enraged by this defiance of his authority, Prine Gephart snarled at his subordinate. “As long as you’re a member of my crew, the only rights you have are those I give you. You’d best learn that well.” His anger crackled as he loosened the Merwin and Hulbert in its holster. To his eventual regret, Colin Fike pushed once more, and too hard, for his rights. “I’m not your slave, by damn. Haul out that iron.”
Brain fogged by whiskey, Gephart eagerly obliged him. Even drunk, Prine Gephart was faster than the befuddled Colin Fike. His Merwin and Hulbert .44 cleared leather in a blue-black streak, leveled, and the firing pin descended toward the waiting primer before a startled Colin even closed fingers around the butt-grip of his Smith American.
In the same instant, Yancy Osburn bellowed forcefully, “Nooooo!”
A gunshot blasted the night’s silence. Prine Gephart’s bullet struck true, burst the heart of Colin Fike and erupted through his back with a fist-sized hole. Instantly, the established herd leader let out a squeal of alarm, and whinnies of fright answered. Another bugle from the lead stallion, and the herd dissolved into a mindless, panicked mass of walleyed, terrorized animals. They jolted to the right, then back to the left, then in a second dashed away, tails high, in all directions.
“You idiots!” Hubble Volker bellowed over the noise of the stampede. “You goddamned idiots. Get to your horses, get after those critters. Move or I’ll kill you myself.”
And so it ended before it even started. Della stared in disbelief and relief as the outlaws raced for the picket line to throw saddles on their mounts and flog them after the splintered herd, all thought of rape driven from their minds.
Twelve
Crouched down on the parched ground, Smoke Jensen searched for a small, smooth pebble. With a fiercely hot summer sun burning down over the previous afternoon and through most of his second day in pursuit of the stolen herd, Smoke had exhausted the content of his single canteen. In the past he had gone without food many a time, and he knew that hunger was endurable. Now, plagued by thirst, Smoke stretched his perseverance to the limit by entertaining images of what he would like to do to the rustlers who had shot up every visible water container at his former campsite. He had to find an alternative or give up his quest. On his third try, he came up with a suitable, light brown stone.
Smoke used the last few drops of water from the canteen to wash the little rock, which he then popped in his mouth and worked under his tongue. At once, saliva began to flow. With his temporary measure in place, he began once more to trudge along the swath of disturbed turf that marked the passage of the stolen horses. So long as he found water by nightfall, he would be all right. Failing that, Smoke realized he could not survive.
Back in Muddy Gap, Ginny Parkins found herself restless and ill at ease as she tried to get a gaggle of ten-year-olds to understand the mysteries of long division. When a fit of giggling broke out among the fifth grade girls, she dismissed school early for the day. Her charges stormed the exit with squeals of jubilation. That still left Ginny with an empty feeling.
And, darn it, she knew the reason why. She had treated Sheriff Smoke Jensen most shabbily. No other word for it. He had only been doing his job. For a moment she wondered if he still enforced the law in Muddy Gap. The town had been so peaceful the past five days. Fortunately the riffraff had not returned after the final, brutal expulsion of the most unrepentant. No, Ginny chided herself, not brutal, rather necessary. Goaded by her conscience, Ginny Parkins left the former security of the schoolhouse on what she considered a delicate mission.
Her bustle swishing behind her, Ginny Parkins reached the downtown sector of Muddy Gap slightly out of breath. With a start, she realized she had been walking at twice her normal pace. Face set in a prim expression, she looked both ways before entering the office at the jail. To her surprise, she found Grover Larsen sitting behind his desk, and Deputy Chase in the sheriff’s chair. She looked around a moment in consternation.
“Is Sheriff Jensen making his rounds?” she enquired.
Grover Larsen answered her. “He’s not sheriff anymore, ma’am. He’s moved on with his horse herd.”
Ginny did not believe what she had heard. “What?”
Fred Chase offered assurance. “It’s true, Miss Ginny. I’ve been appointed interim sheriff until the next election. Smoke left four days ago.”
“I—I don’t understand. I c-can’t believe . . .” That he would leave without telling you? After the way you treated him? her mind mocked her.
Grover Larsen undertook to enlighten her. “Smoke Jensen is a rancher. He raises blooded stock for the rich folks, and a large herd suitable as remounts for the army.”
“But, I thought he was some sort of gunfighter. A living legend.”
Larsen smiled softly. “He’s both, Miss Ginny. Let me tell you a little about Smoke Jensen. No one out here, but him, knows where he was born. His family was movin’ west, out to Oregon Territory, when he got separated from the wagon train. He was a little tad, no more’n eleven or so. He managed to survive a few days on his wits.
“Some say he traded what few possessions he had with Injuns for food. They wanted to keep him, adopt him into the tribe, but Smoke had it in his head he could catch up and find his folks. That didn’t happen. The old mountain man, Preacher, found young Smoke first. He took him in and raised him up. There’s some argue it was a bad upbringin’, that Smoke learned to fight and to kill. Supposed to have killed his first man at the age of twelve.
“Well now,” Larsen continued, warming to his subject, “that ain’t true. Preacher was through here a number of years back, when Muddy Gap was nothing more than a wide place in the road. I was a youngster then, myself, not more’n seventeen. I heard Preacher talkin’ about Smoke Jensen. Said he got his name and the start of his reputation at the same time, when he was sixteen. That came from the man who should know. And in these mountains, Preacher’s known to have never told a lie.” Larsen flushed and waved a hand in dismissal. “There I go, ramblin’ like an old fool.
Ginny protested at once. “No, please go on. I’m fascinated. I ... never got to know Sheri—Smoke well.”
“Well, Smoke grew up, like folks are likely to do. He learned Injun things, and their talk, too. Likewise, Preacher taught him to read and write and do his sums. Taught him to trap, skin and cure beaver hides, though the trade was fast dwindlin’. Smoke learned about horses from Preacher, also a lot about other animals, an’ how to respect them and give ’em all space to live and move about. They say he’s whipped the daylights outta more than one man who has mistreated animals. Seems quirky in a man who became a gunfighter an’ eventual’ a lawman. Don’t you think?”
“I see nothing odd about a person who is fond of animals. After all, they need our care and protection,” Ginny went on, taken up in her zeal. “They can’t speak or write, so they can’t stand up for rights like humans can.”
Young Fred Chase put in his outlook. “I can’t agree with you more, Miss Ginny. The way I see it, animals don’t have any rights because they can’t nego—negotiate what they will do in order to get them. So a man who mistreats a horse or dog is the lowest form of inhuman trash.” He looked defiantly at Grover Larsen. “An’ that’s a fact.”
Larsen offered coffee, poured and they talked on for another half an hour about Smoke Jensen. Before Ginny departed, Marshal Larsen raised a staying hand. “Oh, before you go, Miss Ginny, there’s something I have to give you. Smoke Jensen left this for you against the time when you might need it.”
He reached into his top drawer and came out with a small .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. Ginny gaped, gulped, stammered and gingerly accepted the gift. “Thank you for giving me Smoke’s present, although I�
��m certain I shall never have use of it.”
Ginny left feeling somewhat better at having secured a promise that Marshal Larsen would send a telegram to the town nearest Smoke Jensen’s ranch with her apology. Yet part of her felt worse, over becoming owner of a firearm. She would write Smoke, too, she pledged as she crossed the street to the general store. She would have to thank him for the gun, but also assure him that she would never use it. Idly she wondered if she would ever see Smoke Jensen again.
Sweat stained the armpits of the shirt worn by Smoke Jensen. The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. It sapped him of the precious little moisture his body retained. For the past hour he had been watching the hazy, insubstantial outline of trees in the distance. Certain he had not circled and come back to the Powder River, Smoke fixed on the long file of greenery that indicated a watercourse.
Even the pebble failed to do its magic. The length of his stride had shortened, and his head throbbed. Slowly, the pale green leaves of cottonwoods began to swim into sharp focus. A creek all right. Smoke forced himself forward. Another fifty paces. His footsteps faltered.
Thirty paces now. Alarmingly, the sweat dried on his skin to a clammy coldness. His body had stopped producing moisture. Twenty paces now. The individual trunks of the trees could be seen. He could smell the water.
Stumbling like a drunken man, Smoke closed the last distance to the grassy bank that hung over a narrow streambed; below, the water peacefully glided past. Its surface reflected a cool, inviting green. With the last of his strength, Smoke eased over the bank and lowered himself to a sandy shelf. There he removed his boots and cartridge belt, then jumped into the water.
Ordeal of the Mountain Man Page 12