Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Bobby had opened up to him, more so than any time in the past. For the first time the boy had released the pent-up sorrow and horror over his mother’s death and freely grieved for her. She had not abandoned her son, as Bobby fantasized, rather she had been taken away by Rupe Connors. Rupe had been a brute and a sadist and had turned out to be a coward. He had abused the woman and the boy and in the end he had killed her with his fists and boots. And, for his cowardliness, as much as his savagery, Smoke Jensen had killed Rupe. Bobby understood those things more clearly now. Sally had been right, as usual, in saying that Bobby had transferred his large store of unexpressed love and hero worship to Smoke. The last mountain man only hoped that he had enough years left to see Bobby grow into a man. A sudden movement on the water brought Smoke abruptly upright.

  A big old brown broke the surface and went for the man-made dry fly at the end of Bobby’s line. The boy was a natural fisherman, more so than Smoke. He knew instinctively just when to set the hook, how hard to yank and how long to play the catch before landing it. He was in the process once again of doing so when his bare foot slipped on a mossy rock and with a shout, Bobby fell into the water.

  “Ow! Ouch, my ankle,” Bobby cried immediately. Then, “Get him, Smoke. Hurry or he’ll get away.”

  Trout, line, and pole had started away from the shore of the pond. Smoke bounded into the water and snagged the cane rod by the butt, yanked and retrieved enough to fight the fish. Over one shoulder he called to Bobby, “Get out of the water. Now. You’ll catch your death.”

  “’Kay, Smoke, if you say so. Oh! Ouch. That really hurts.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Smoke teased.

  Bobby glared at him. “I ain’t a baby. But I’m cold, an’ my foot really hurts.”

  Dripping, Bobby climbed from Honey Spring pond and stood on shore, which prompted Smoke to be bossy again. “Get out of those clothes and wrap up in a blanket. I’ll build a fire after I catch your blasted fish.”

  Twenty minutes later found them drying off beside a hat-sized fire. Bobby’s teeth still chattered and he had a blue ring around his lips. Water dripped from his longish blond hair and the sharp points of his shoulder blades could be seen through the blanket that covered him. All of that did not keep him from a fit of giggles when Smoke described what he had been forced to do in order to land the brown trout. The titters dried up and Bobby looked seriously at Smoke.

  “It’s sure too bad that these mountain waters aren’t like those around Model and Timpas. I mightily long to go for a swim.”

  Smoke sighed. “That’s something you’ll have to live without in this part of Colorado.”

  “Aw, darn.” Then the boy brightened. “Don’t you think, maybe by July, the water’ll be warm enough? It is in Big Rock.”

  Shaking his head, Smoke patted Bobby on one shoulder. “It might be for you, but to me it’s too dang cold. Now, get to work at warming up.”

  When the shivers ceased, Smoke examined Bobby’s ankle. What he saw troubled him. “I don’t think it’s broken, but that ankle is swollen too much to get it back in your boot. Get dressed while I think on what to do next.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Bobby had restored himself in his clothing, he turned an anxious face to Smoke. Smoke Jensen rubbed his jaw with long, thick fingers. “You’re not going to be able to keep on out here. Thing to do is turn back to the Sugarloaf.”

  Bobby frowned. “What about the fish you were going to smoke?”

  “I figure they’ll get smoked like we intended.”

  “How?”

  Smoke smiled and explained. “I figure since you know where the house is from here, and you’re big enough anyway, you can ride on in by yourself.”

  “Really?” Bobby squeaked. “You mean it?”

  “Yep. That’s the long and the short of it. I’ll help you load up and see you on your way, then come back and pull out a nice mess and get to it. Tell Sally I’ll ride in late the day after tomorrow, right before supper.”

  Bobby all but jumped with excitement. “I really get to ride in by myself? It’s—it’s…stupendous!”

  Fifteen minutes later saw the injured boy on his way. Bobby had a .38 Colt Lightning tucked in his waistband and his Stetson sat at a jaunty angle on his straw-colored hair. He waved confidently to Smoke, who chuckled and waggled his hat in the air. Smoke wanted very much to give the lad confidence in his ability to care for himself. After all, he was thirteen now. “He’ll do fine,” Smoke said gruffly to himself. “Just fine.”

  Early morning revealed that not only humans had responded to the siren call of early spring. While Smoke fished the shore of Honey Spring for big browns, a shaggy, ill-tempered grizzly awakened from his hibernation. Belly rumbles prompted him to crawl out of his cave and go in search of something to eat. Instinct aimed him toward Honey Spring.

  Alone now, and content with it, Smoke continued to fish into mid-morning. When he made a dozen casts and failed to get a single rise, let alone a strike, he decided to quit until evening feeding time. He had already smoked two dozen and would set his morning’s catch to a smudgy aspen and hickory fire right after his noon meal. With what he could catch this afternoon, he would have a fair supply to take home the next day. With his mind made up, he began to roll the line onto his pole. With his gear packed up, he turned to head for his camp.

  Right then, a very hungry bear, fresh out of hibernation, ambled down to the water for something to eat. Its small, myopic eyes did not at first take in the figure of a lone human. The grizzly snuffed the wind, grunted and tossed its head in bad humor. That sure put Smoke in a dilemma. A fishing pole was no defense whatever, and a handgun—even a hefty .45 Colt—would hardly be enough to take on a bear. A moment later, the bruin discovered Smoke.

  In its ill-tempered mood, the grizzly saw the man as a threat to its territory. With a thunderous roar the animal charged.

  Far from being a starry-eyed animal lover, Smoke Jensen had never seen any purpose in the wanton killing of animals. So, he took flight, his creel and pole left behind. It soon turned into a close race, with the speedy grizzly closing ground with each bound of its oddly articulated hind legs. Smoke won, though only by a hair.

  He scaled the first twelve feet of the slender pine without even a grunt of effort. Once beyond the reach of the bear, he dug in his heels and shinnied up five more feet, grabbed the lowest branch, and pulled himself higher. With a powerful swing of his strong body, Smoke swung himself up to where he could straddle the branch. Now the sweat broke out. Smoke found himself panting for air. Below him the grizzly roared and assaulted the tree.

  It made a good five feet, then began to slide back from sheer weight. Snuffling and tossing his head, the bear began to circle the pine. Above him, Smoke hung on and tried to think of something good happening.

  After a third pass around the trunk, the bruin followed his nose to the wicker creel of trout and ripped it open. Voraciously it consumed every one, then went to the shore of the pond and waded out a ways. Competently, its long, sharp claws began to flash under the surface and come back out with a fat trout that flew sparkling through the air to land on the grassy bank. A disgruntled Smoke Jensen sat where he was and watched the bear work for an hour.

  When it had its fill, perhaps it would amble away, Smoke reasoned. That would give him time to get down, get Thunder, and get the hell out of there.

  Nightfall found the grizzly still there. He growled, yawned, grunted in frustration, stomped the ground, and made frequent trips from tree to pond and pond to tree. Smoke hung on and sweated. He removed his belt and fastened it around the trunk and retreaded the buckle. At least he would not fall asleep and become bruin breakfast. The ursine grumbling went on until a thin sliver of moon appeared to float majestically through the plethora of stars in an inky sky. At last, he fell asleep. So did Smoke. His last thought echoed in his head. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

  A squat, bow-legged man, with grizzled, thinning hair, looked
up from his kitchen table at the sound of a hollow thump that came from the small dock he had constructed out into the Colorado River. Visitors. And wouldn’t you know it, right at breakfast time. Hiram Wells cut his eyes to the cloth-draped larder. He knew by heart what was within it.

  Plenty of slab bacon. Only two eggs. Chickens had been acting offish lately. Flour for biscuits. Cornmeal, too. It would serve, and he could come out of it with a few cents in hard money. That would come in handy. Hiram pushed back his chair and came to his feet as he heard boots thud on the planks of his dock. He reached the door in time to count three men approaching at a stiff gait. One of them, he noted, limped. Too long in a boat, Hiram judged.

  Yeah, but from where? And all night? The questions plagued him while the strangers approached. They came straight on, not even a howdy. The one in the lead nodded pleasantly.

  “Mornin’. We’d be happy to pay if you could fix us something for breakfast.”

  Hiram pondered a moment. They stood and carried themselves like men of quality. Businessmen or the like. Yet they wore the thread-bare pull-over shirts and butternut linsey-woolsey trousers, with the broad black stripes that marked them as escaped convicts from the prison down-river at Yuma. A sudden chill struck him. Had he let them get too close already? Hiram decided to hedge.

  “I’m a tad light on supplies, gentlemen. But I reckon I can whip up some bacon and some scrambled eggs. Biscuits or cornbread. I’ve some honey.”

  “Fine, fine,” the apparent leader said rapidly. “Anything will do. We’re rather hungry.”

  He had that cultured way of speaking, Hiram noted. Could be he was mistaken about the clothes. They might be some back-Easty fashionable hunting togs. “Come on in, then,” he invited.

  Hiram went to the stove and turned his back to them. That way he failed to note the quick exchange between the trio. His cartridge belt and six-gun hung on a peg in the wall. Above it hung a shotgun and a use-shiny Winchester. Hiram heard a soft footfall and then the strident click of sear notches as a hammer ratcheted back.

  Hiram did not hear the bark of his Model ’60 Remington conversion revolver. The bullet beat the sound to his head by a split second. Hiram Wells slammed sideways into the wall and fell dead to the floor. Quickly, Ralph Tinsdale undertook the duties of the cook. He provided a warm meal in minimal time. Victor Spectre had to cut Olin Buckner out of his boot, then all three sat down to consume the food hurriedly. They included that which the late Hiram had prepared for himself.

  With their bellies full, they took the flour, cornmeal, sugar and salt, a tub of lard, and the remaining portion of the bacon slab. Done up in a flour sack, the provender accompanied them as they went to the small barn in search of horses. An hour after sinking their escape boat, Victor Spectre and his partners rode off without a trace.

  Morning found Smoke Jensen still literally up a tree. He awakened to loud growling—from the bear and from his stomach. He had not eaten since the previous noon. Smoke opened gummy eyes and rubbed them, then looked down to find the grizzly reared back on his haunches, staring up. He had a hungry expression. A night in a tree without even a blanket had induced a lot of stiffness. Smoke hoped that it would not make him a quick snack for the bear. Abruptly, the bruin came to all fours and resumed his circular post around the pine tree.

  With each pace on the left side, the grizzly emitted fearsome growls. Each with the right, disturbing rumbles. Smoke looked on and considered his chances of killing the creature with six loads. At least he might incapacitate the animal and not have to track it down later. He had about resigned himself to having to shoot the creature when it stopped pacing abruptly and reared on its massive hind legs.

  Its small, pig-eyes stared myopically while it turned its head from side to side, as it listened to slight sounds as yet unheard by Smoke. Gradually, Smoke made out faint hoofbeats and snatches of conversation. The bear’s ears twitched, the black muzzle pointed in the direction of the sound. Dropping to all fours, the animal bolted for hiding in a lumbering gait as two riders cantered into view. Within three minutes, Smoke recognized them, grateful for the help, yet wishful that it had been anyone else but these two.

  A laughing Monte Carson reined in under the tree. His face wreathed in mirth, Hank Evans sat beside him. “Hoo-haw! Look what we have here!” Monte chortled. Mid-morning sunlight winked off his sheriff’s badge.

  “What do you suppose got him up there?” Hank asked through a titter of laughter.

  “Couldn’t be that bear, could it?” Monte queried rhetorically. “That big ol’ grizzly bear?” He held his sides and howled with merriment.

  “You mean that little-bitty fur ball that got scared off by our horses?” Hank kept up the badinage.

  “That’s it. That’s the one,” Monte guffawed.

  “This is it!” Smoke corrected, while he brandished a big, knobby fist. “This is the one that will smack you right between the runnin’ lights when I get down out of this damned tree.”

  “Oh, why, come right ahead,” Monte taunted.

  Smoke glowered at them. “Do you think you two could stop cacklin’ like a barnyard full of hens long enough to give me a hand getting down?”

  Hank snaked a rope up to Smoke, who draped it over the limb. Then the last mountain man released himself from his emergency sling, restrung his belt and swung one leg over the branch. Balanced sideways, he inserted a boot toe in the loop of the lariat and turned around to hang from his hands.

  “Lower away,” he gave the sign.

  In less than a minute, Smoke had returned to solid ground. His mood had not improved the least while Monte Carson and Hank Evans plied him with questions about how he had been caught off guard by the grizzly. Hank laid a fire and filled a coffeepot with fresh water. He set that to boil and broke out Smoke’s skillet.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry, right?” he asked Smoke dryly.

  “Don’t even mention it.”

  “Bacon, eggs, an’ fried tatters?” Hank prompted.

  “A pound of bacon, a dozen eggs, and two pounds of potatoes with onions, if you please,” Smoke answered calmly. “And that’s just for starters.” Then his temper caught him out again. “And I don’t like bein’ done for!”

  His voice echoed across the water in the silence that followed. As though on a signal all three men broke up in side-splitting laughter. Finally, Smoke choked out a sensible reply. “I’ll tell you about it after the first cup of coffee.”

  Monte stepped forward, extending a silver flask in one hand. “I’ve got a little rye to spike it with.”

  “Good,” Smoke grumped. “Damn good. Then you’ll hear it all.”

  3

  After Smoke had recounted his incident with the bear, with frequent interruptions of sniggers and out-and-out hee-haw braying laughter, he got around to asking Monte what had brought the lawman out from Big Rock. Monte took a pull on his coffee, rubbed his chin in a contemplative manner, and turned his sky-blue eyes on Smoke.

  “Well, it might not mean anything at all. It’s something I picked up from the telegraph. Only, the names were familiar, and I did want an excuse to sample some of Sally’s great pie, so I rode out to tell you about it.”

  “Well, then, stop chasin’ around Murphy’s barn and do it,” Smoke responded in mock irritation.

  “All right, I will. Three men have escaped from Yuma Prison.”

  It left Smoke unimpressed and unconcerned. “There’s more than that has gotten out of there.”

  Monte ignored Smoke’s teasing interruption. “These three went together. Beings as how you put all of them behind bars, I got to thinkin’ that maybe you should know.”

  “Who are they?’

  Monte named them. Smoke listened and shook his head. “I remember those three right well. I had no idea they had gotten together in prison. How’d a thing like that happen?”

  Right at home with this sort of situation, Monte called off the list. “Attempted escape can get a man transferred. So can a killing
inside prison that a certain convict cannot be proven to have done. Or just being a constant pain in the ass. There’s plenty of causes. And, considering the Territorial Prison at Yuma is the hellhole of the entire system, no doubt the worst all wind up there eventually.”

  Smoke nodded affirmatively. “You’ve described Buckner, Spectre, and Tinsdale perfectly, Monte. They are all killers, they would no doubt contrive to escape, and beyond any doubt, they are all huge pains in the ass.”

  “There’s more. They badly injured one guard, and killed another and a turnkey on the way out.”

  “Yep. I had no idea they’d been put together, like I said, but with these killings, it makes it clear that they’re up to no good. Now, let’s put out this fire and go look at a piece of that pie.”

  After the noon-hour rush, business had slackened off at the Grand Canyon Saloon, in the Arizona town of the same name. Five cronies sat around a green baise-topped table playing a desultory game of poker. The hands took forever to be played and the largest bet was half a dollar. At another table, one sequestered in a shadow-darkened corner, Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner sat conducting business. They had been in the settlement on the rim of the Grand Canyon for less than a day. They had as yet to pay any notice to the spectacular view. Bored with the lack of activity, Buckner nodded toward the card players.

  “Last of the big-time spenders.”

  Victor Spectre studied him over the rim of a whiskey glass. “I’d not sneer, were I you. Up until we killed that old man on the Colorado, the most you’ve had in your pocket for the last fifteen years is lint, Olin. You would have sold your soul for fifty cents cash money.”

  Buckner flushed deep red. That had hit too close to home. He had sold his soul, or at least it seemed like that, when he was younger and his need for tobacco had become overwhelming. He had stolen it. The first theft of his life. He lost his chance to make a testy reply when a tall, lean, hard-looking man approached their table. The stranger appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and did not remove his hat or act in the least servile, Olin Buckner noted. At a distance of three feet, the man stopped and cleared his throat.