Ordeal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Standing beside his horse, Reno Jim Yurian stared with disbelief at the empty saddlebag. That left him with only the ammunition in his Smith Americans. A dozen rounds. He turned at the sound of a hoof striking a rock and drew with smooth speed. Before he could stop himself, the hammer fell, and he wasted one of those precious cartridges.

  His bullet struck nothing. From beyond the turn he heard a soft, mocking laugh. Reno Jim moved away from his mount and fired again when he had a clear view. That slug struck the rock ledge above Smoke Jensen’s head. Deformed by the impact, it moaned off harmlessly. A fraction of a second later, a .45 round cracked past Reno Jim’s head, so close he could feel the heat. He dived for the ground. Slowly, the realization came to him that he had two choices. He could stay here and trade shots until they both ran dry. Or he could head for the creek and attempt to escape pursuit. The latter course sounded best.

  Except that the only way to insure success would be to make certain Smoke Jensen lay dead in this gully. He would have to out-wait Jensen. Time slowed down. It appeared to Reno Jim that hours dragged past before he sensed movement. At once, he fired in that direction. The derisive laughter came again. That broke his nerve.

  “Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen. Show yourself and fight like a man.”

  Two shots crashed from beyond the curvature of the wall. One bullet kicked up shards of rock from the boulder Reno Jim crouched behind. The other burned a hot gouge across his right shoulder blade. A taunting voice followed.

  “Show yourself, Reno, and fight like a man.”

  All reason abandoned, Reno Jim emptied his right-hand revolver in an attempt to banish his broken spirit. Quickly he changed over to the one on his left. A return to silence ridiculed his outburst.

  For a long, sweaty hour, Smoke continued to toy with Reno Jim. He changed positions and used his ammunition sparingly. To keep the pressure on, he had to expend part of his dwindling supply. His strength increased steadily while he watched his enemy unravel. Suddenly Yurian appeared in the open, his face slack, eyes wild.

  “I’m coming after you, Jensen. I’m going to leave your brains on this sand.”

  In a rush, Reno Jim charged, firing as he came. Smoke returned shots. Reno Jim jinked from side to side. One of Smoke’s rounds clipped the heel from one of Reno Jim’s boots. He sprawled in the sand and scrambled to get behind a boulder. With his body out of danger, he thought furiously for a means to gain an advantage. Slowly it came to him. He weighed it. Yes, it would work.

  “Jensen? Can we talk?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Can we work this out? I can tell you where the cattle the gang rustled are located. I can tell you something else, too. Real important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have a partner. A very influential man, a regular pillar of the community.”

  Smoke Jensen kept his voice neutral. “What do you expect in return for this?”

  Reno Jim Yurian’s voice broke with the intensity of his emotion. “I—I want to live. I don’t want to be shot down in this miserable wilderness. And I don’t want to hang. I want to work a deal. Maybe a few years in prison in exchange for my information?”

  Smoke thought it over a second. “I’ll promise you this for now. You be straight with me and I’ll not kill you.”

  “Remember this, I want to come out of this alive.”

  “Tell me what you have and we’ll see.”

  “That’s all I get?”

  Smoke spoke drily. “For now. Give.”

  “All right—all right. The cattle are in Bent Rock Canyon, down near Muddy Creek. There are six men watching them.”

  “And this partner of yours?”

  Reno Jim choked back his anxiety. “I’ll really get to live?”

  “I gave my word. I’ll not kill you.”

  “All right—all right. You won’t believe this, but it’s true. He’s—he’s Boyne Kelso. The cattle broker in Muddy Gap. A deacon in his church, of all things.”

  Smoke blinked. He considered Kelso a windbag, overwilling to depreciate the criminal inclinations of his delinquent son, and prone to make too big a show of his rectitude. Yet a partner to Reno Jim Yurian?

  “Tell me that again.”

  “My partner is Boyne Kelso. He has been for the past six years.”

  Smoke mulled it over in silence. “All right. Throw out all your weapons. Do it now.”

  Two nickle-plated Smith and Wesson Americans thudded out on the sand. A .41 rim-fire derringer followed. Then a knife. Slowly, Reno Jim Yurian rose from his shelter.

  “Step out in the open.”

  When he had, Smoke Jensen came from his own cover and walked up to the gang leader. A fleeting smile flickered on his face as he held his Colt casually. All of a sudden, he balled his left fist and slammed a powerful knockout blow to the jaw. He looked down at the senseless man and spoke aloud.

  “I didn’t say anything about not hitting you.”

  Tommy Olsen and Iron Claw followed the tracks left by Smoke Jensen. The war chief studied the horizon after three hours at a moderate trot. He nodded and pointed with his chin.

  “Up ahead. It is our friend, Smoke Jensen.”

  Tommy gaped at him. “Gosh, you can see that far?”

  Iron Claw nodded. “I used to be able to see farther.” He tapped his cheek, near his left eye. “The eyes get weaker with age.” He laughed.

  “We gotta hurry,” Tommy urged.

  Sage advice came from Iron Claw. “We will get there faster if we do not run the horses.”

  Tommy looked blank. “Oh. Yeah. Smoke said something like that, too.”

  “He learned well from White Wolf.”

  “Who?”

  “The man your people call Preacher.”

  Less than a hundred yards separated them now, and yet Smoke came on at the same pace. “He is leading two horses,” observed Iron Claw.

  “I can see that. One has a tied-up man on it; the other has one across the saddle.”

  “That one is dead, I think,” Iron Claw told Tommy.

  Smoke hailed them and finally increased his gait. When he rode up, he explained the burdens tied and slung over the saddles. “I’ve got Reno Jim Yurian. Jack Grubbs is dead. And I have unfinished business in Muddy Gap.”

  “What kinda business?” Tommy queried.

  Smoke canted his head. “I think we might get back your cattle, Tommy. Among other things. First, though, we have to get those horses to Fort Custer.”

  “Before that you have to have those wounds treated,” Iron Claw injected as he looked at the bloody cloth at Smoke’s side. “And we have a feast.”

  Tommy Olsen enjoyed the feast every bit as much as their Cheyenne hosts. Smoke Jensen appeared impatient throughout the affair. Upon the return of Smoke and the others, six of the warriors became hunters. They rode off from the herd, in search of bison, while Smoke supervised the burial of the dead. A surprise had awaited Smoke in the form of Luke and five volunteers, all deputized by the sheriff in Sheridan.

  “I thought you would be strapped down in a hospital bed,” Smoke told Luke.

  Luke shook his head in rejection of the idea. “Ain’t a doctor born who can put me down a minute longer than I want to be. ’Specially when my friends are in trouble.” He pulled a long, sad face. “Smoke, I’m right sorry not to have gotten here sooner. We coulda swung the balance.”

  “I’m not so sure, Luke. There were near to forty outlaws, before the Cheyenne got here and took a hand. By then it was too late for most of us. The Olsens and I survived only because of Iron Claw.”

  “Well, then, I’ll not belabor the point. But I still feel bad about it. What really hurts is losing Jerry. He was a friend.”

  Nodding agreement, Smoke added, “And a fine horse handler. We’ll all miss him.”

  Smoke Jensen turned away from the last grave when the Cheyenne hunting party returned with a fair-sized bison calf. There came a moment of tension when they made it clear they expected D
ella Olsen, as the only woman in camp, to dress out the animal and prepare it for cooking. Smoke stepped into the breech.

  He spoke in the musical language of the Cheyenne. “She is a white woman; she knows nothing of how to properly clean a carcass. It will take her forever. If you want to eat of it before it spoils, have two of your apprentice warriors skin and cut it up.”

  They thought that over awhile and decided it might be a good idea. Boys too young to join on the hunt often worked with their mothers at the preparation of the meat, which taught them the techniques needed. Spotted Feather selected two lads about thirteen years of age and assigned them to the task. They looked unhappy about it, but did a satisfactory job.

  Meanwhile, other warriors built a fairly large fire for such open country and added wood to it periodically to produce a deep bed of coals. When only a few tiny blue flames flickered over the glowing orange mass, the hump and ribs went onto grilling racks, taken from the gang’s improvised chuck wagon. In no time, fat from the hump began to drip and flare up on the embers. That released a delicious aroma that filled the camp. One warrior produced a small drum and began to compose a song of the battle.

  “Dog soldiers came. See us! See us! Dog soldiers came. The dark ones came. See them! See them! The dark ones came. My friends of dog soldiers die in big fight. See it! See it!” The song continued as Della Olsen came to Smoke Jensen.

  “Smoke, what did you tell them to get them to stop insisting I deal with that small beast?”

  Smoke’s eyes twinkled when he answered, neatly circumventing the exact truth. “I suggested that white people did not know the medicine of the bison and it might spoil the meat if you were to touch it in an uncooked condition.”

  “And they believed that?” Smoke nodded, and she went on. “That’s outrageous, though close to the truth. I could have easily pierced the entrails and contaminated the meat. Sven always did the butchering for our family.”

  Smoke looked relieved. “Then nothing was harmed.”

  Della opened a new topic. “Tommy tells me you are going to Muddy Gap. When do you plan to leave?”

  “After the herd is delivered.”

  Della looked anxious. “Would you . . . I know it is a lot to ask, but . . . would you allow us to accompany you?”

  Smoke’s expression did not hold encouragement. “I will be traveling fast. I’ll be taking Luke and the men he brought with me. They have something else to tend to. I don’t see any way you can keep up.”

  Disappointment clouded Della’s eyes. “We know no one north of here, nor in Sheridan for that matter. Could you at least let us come with you as far as Buffalo? I have a shirttail relative there.”

  For a moment, Smoke considered this. “We’ll see how fast the herd moves.”

  After she departed, Iron Claw came next. “You are going to need help moving all these ponies, old friend. Some of my younger warriors, and of course the boys, are excellent herdsmen. They will go with you.”

  Smoke visualized what that would be like: a herd of remounts, driven to an army post on a Crow reservation, by seven white men, and probably four times that number of Cheyennes. It beggared description. At last he clapped Iron Claw on the shoulder.

  “Sally will never believe this, Iron Claw.”

  Only an isolated summer thunderstorm delayed the forty-mile journey to Fort Custer. And then by only half a day. The Olsens kept up and did not complain. Colonel Abernathy, newly appointed to command at the post, accepted the herd after only cursory inspection. His face registered cordiality, though his eyes betrayed his apprehension at the presence of so many technically hostile Cheyenne at the fort.

  “You’ve made good time, although we did expect you some three days ago. Your explanation of the reason is quite satisfactory, and please accept my condolences over the loss of your men.” He brightened, returning to the subject at hand. “The remounts are in excellent shape. Here is a draft on the government, Department of the Army, for the agreed amount, Mr. Jensen. You may present it for payment at any major bank that has accounts with the government.”

  “In Denver?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, certainly. The First Mining and Milling handles our payroll as a matter of fact.”

  “Fine then. I wish you good luck, Colonel. Those men who came out here with you look mighty green.”

  “They are. Never fear, my sergeant major will whip them in line in no time. Now, may I offer you the hospitality of the post for the night?”

  “No, thank you. We have urgent matters south of here. Every hour is important.”

  Abernathy looked relieved. That meant the Cheyenne would be leaving soon. “I can appreciate that. The man you have as a prisoner. He looks dangerous.”

  Smoke answered levelly. “Believe me, he is. He and his gang nearly took your remounts from us.”

  That set Colonel Abernathy back a bit. “My word.”

  Smoke’s cool, golden gaze fixed the colonel. “Yes. And now, if I have anything to say about it, he has a date with the hangman.”

  Along about ten miles outside of Buffalo, Smoke Jensen learned that the shirttail relative of Della Olsen was a stern, uncompromising brother-in-law. “He has never really accepted me. Bjorn believed that Sven married below his station. What did it matter that we loved one another? He was the older brother and expected Sven to do as bid.”

  Smoke looked her straight in the eyes. “Then the chances of a warm welcome are . . . ?”

  “None. But I have nowhere else to go. And the children are his brother’s.”

  “I’ve known my share of proud, stubborn men. My bet would be that it won’t count for much with this Bjorn.”

  “So, then what?” Della had reached the limit of her hope.

  Smoke hesitated only a moment. “How does Muddy Gap sound to you? There are people there beholden to me. I can put in a good word better there than in Buffalo.”

  Joyful optimism lighted Della’s face. “Oh, Smoke. I—I don’t know what to say. We—I’ve been such a burden. I would never be able to thank you enough.”

  “You already have. Your cooking has kept my hands’ spirits high; Tommy has become a good friend. It will be my pleasure to extract some gratitude out of the good folks of Muddy Gap.”

  Della smiled radiantly. “Well. Now I can hardly wait to get there.”

  Smoke cut his eyes to the bound figure of Reno Jim Yurian. “Nor can I. I want to get this lizard behind bars and scoop up his partner in crime. Then we’ll go recover your cattle. The sale of them will give you a nice little stake, I’m sure.”

  On the main street of Muddy Gap, which much to Smoke’s surprise had been renamed Jensen Avenue, as proclaimed by newly painted and displayed signs, the small band of travelers split up. At Smoke’s suggestion, the hands went to the Sorry Place saloon. The free lunch would provide them with food they had not tasted in a while. Della Olsen and her children went to the hotel to take rooms for the interim. Smoke, accompanied by the bound Reno Jim, headed to the jail.

  There, he dismounted and dragged Reno Jim Yurian from the back of the outlaw’s horse. Smoke frog-marched him up the steps and into the sheriffs office. Marshal Grover Larsen looked up with surprise and pleasure on his face.

  Smoke spoke directly to the point. “Marshal, this is the man who murdered a rancher named Olsen and rustled his cattle, he also took a number of other beefs. And, he’s the one who stole my herd for a while. There are six men, all that are left of his gang, out at Bent Rock Canyon. My men and I are going after them when I’ve rounded up his partner.”

  Larsen blinked at the finery worn by the prisoner. “Why, that’s Reno Jim Yurian. He’s a former gambler who has turned to ranching. Quite prosperous, too. He does a lot of business with Deacon Kelso.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” Smoke said drily. Then he shoved Yurian into a chair. “Now, he has a story to tell you, Marshal.”

  When Reno Jim Yurian concluded his tale of robbery, rustling and murder—prompted by the efforts of Smoke Jensen�
�Marshal Larsen sat staring at the man as though witnessing for the first time the presence on earth of one of the imps of Satan. A sweating Jim Yurian cut his eyes from Grover Larsen to Smoke Jensen.

  He lowered his gaze when he asked plaintively, “I’ve done what you’ve asked, and said what you wanted me to say. Now am I free to go?”

  Marshal Grover Larsen screwed his full lips into an expression of pure disgust. “Nope. For starters, what you did to this town is enough to get you an appointment with the gallows. Then there’s Sven Olsen. Oh, I knew him all right. A fine man. Horse thievin’ and cattle rustling are hanging offenses, so’s murder of express agents and shotgun guards. No, Reno, it looks like you’ll swing, for certain sure.”

  Reno Jim Yurian turned to Smoke Jensen to plead his case. “But, you promised.”

  Smoke looked at him, mischief alight in his eyes. “Yes, I did,” he allowed. “That only applies to what you did to me and my men. I don’t speak for Muddy Gap, or for the territorial attorney.”

  Reno Jim tried to come to his boots, hampered by his bonds. “You can’t get away with this! It isn’t fair! I’ll beat this easy. I’ve got money, power, influence.”

  Smoke Jensen shook his head in refutation. “Right now it looks like all you have is a trapdoor in your future. Now, Marshal, let’s go get his partner.”

  “And who’s that? He didn’t say.”

  Smoke produced a grim smile. “It’s Boyne Kelso.”

  “I’ll be damned. I’m with you, Smoke,” Marshal Larsen added, as he reached for his shotgun.

  Twenty-one

  A highly agitated Slick Killmer, one of the six men Reno Jim Yurian had left to tend the cattle in Bent Rock Canyon, stood with hat in hand before the desk of Boyne Kelso. Oily beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead. He cut his eyes rapidly from corner to corner of the room and started violently when a noise came from out in the hall.