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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Smoke shot him before the cylinder of the tilt-top revolver cleared leather. The bullet punched through Lance’s belly and burst out his right side. Reflex fired the Smith and the would-be gunfighter shot himself in the leg. Smoke swung the barrel of his Colt to cover Lonnie. The kid had his Merwin and Hulbert .44 clear of leather, but not aimed. Smoke’s second round ripped through the youth’s liver and angled upward to shatter a portion of rib before exiting from his back. Desperation fought long enough for him to trigger a round.

  At such close range it was nearly impossible to miss a man-sized target, but Lonnie did. Hot lead cracked past the right side of Smoke’s chest and splattered on a granite boulder behind him. Smoke fired again and pin-wheeled Lonnie in the breastbone. Shards of bone slashed the young lout’s aorta on the way through to break a vertebra between his shoulder blades. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Bleeding profusely from stomach and thigh, Lance forced himself to draw his left hand gun for another try. Smoke reached out and batted the weapon from the wounded thug’s hand.

  “Give it up, Lance,” he told the adolescent. “You’re dying as it is.”

  Lance’s defiance came through gritted teeth. “Go to hell, Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke ignored it. “Out of curiosity, why did you draw on me?”

  Lance swung his good left leg over the saddle, put both hands on the horn, and slid off his mount, his face white with agony. His right leg gave and he slumped to the ground. The horse jittered and danced a few steps away. Through the entire brief and bloody action, the only movement Thunder had made was to twitch ears at each gunshot. Smoke dismounted and ground-reined the ’Palouse stallion, then knelt beside the dying saddle trash.

  “You might as well tell me and go off to the Almighty with a clear conscience.”

  “You taken to preachin’ sermons lately?”

  “No, but the man who raised me was called Preacher. He taught me to shoot, too.”

  “Did a—a damn fine job of it.”

  “Save your breath to answer me. Why did you pull iron on me?”

  Lance turned those icy green eyes on Smoke. “The word is out that a whole lot of money will be paid for your head.”

  Smoke had a fair idea he knew who had made the offer, though he had to ask. “Who’s supposed to pay?”

  “A man named Vic…tor…Spectre,” Lance choked out before he died.

  High up along the Colorado River, in the corner of Utah, the gang led by Victor Spectre and his partners found the Ute Indians. Their number had grown to twenty-eight. They hungered for whiskey and women in this strict Mormon land. From a distance they eyed the low, brush lodges of the Utes and the square outline of a trading post. The trader would be the Indian agent, Spectre had told them.

  “I suggest that three or four of us ride up there first. We can size up the place and distract the agent. The rest of you be ready to come on full tilt when I give the signal,” Spectre told them.

  Gus Jaeger and several others nodded sagely. Gus prompted, “Do you want me to come along?”

  Victor Spectre cut his eyes to the lean outlaw. “No. You stay here, lead the men.”

  “Good enough.”

  Spectre picked two of the gang, then he and Tinsdale rode off toward the distant building. The remainder of the gang waited behind a low ground swell.

  When they reached the front of the building, which faced east, they saw two burros tied off out at the hitch-rail. The four outlaws dismounted and entered, to find only three white men occupying the trading post. Two of them had the look of prospectors, the third wore a white shirt, with sleeve garters, dark trousers and a string tie. The agent/trader, Spectre judged. Three Indian women stood at a dry goods counter, haggling with the proprietor over a bolt of cloth. No problem there, the gang boss thought. Spectre stepped up to address the Indian agent.

  “I say, sir, might you have some whiskey we could purchase?”

  “Nope. Ain’t allowed where there’s Injuns.”

  Spectre cocked his head and gave the fellow a “man of the world” look. “Oh, come now. My companions and I are fairly parched after being a week in Utah. Surely you must have a little—ah—private stock set aside?” A hand in one pocket, he let the jingle of gold coins sound clearly.

  Avarice glowed in the gray eyes of the trader. “I might be able to find something. It’ll have to be after I get rid of these wimmin. Can’t have them knowin’ there’s liquor around. They’re Utes and their bucks would burn this place down for a swallow apiece.”

  “Very well, then.” Spectre crossed to the door and stepped outside. From a vest pocket, he took a highly polished gold watch and lined the open face cover up with the sun. The flash could be seen clearly by the waiting outlaws.

  They came down on the trading post like the Tartar warriors of Gengis Khan. By then, Victor Spectre had reentered the trading post. He crossed to the agent/trader and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  He put his face close to that of the suddenly frightened man and growled at him. “Your strongbox. Where is it?”

  Consternation registered a moment before anger washed it away. “You are going to rob me? You’ll not get much, and you’ll not get away with it. Harvey, Lem,” he called to the sourdoughs at the small bar across the room.

  Harvey and Lem could do little to help him. They faced into the drawn six-guns of Ralph Tinsdale, Nate Miller, and Judson Reese. Squawking like pudgy hens, the Ute women made for the door. Victor Spectre dragged the spluttering trader across the room and rammed him against a wall.

  “Tell me now and I might let you live.”

  Raising a trembling hand, the meek Indian agent pointed to the bar. “There, under the counter. It just has a key lock.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “In it, during business hours. It’s where I keep my whiskey.”

  Spectre motioned to Reese and Miller. “Clean it out.”

  That’s when shouts of alarm in the Ute language came from outside. The outlaws swarmed around the agency trading post and began to shoot down the helpless Ute men, who were armed with only lances, bows, and arrows. Women screamed and the children ran in panic.

  Laughing, Farlee Huntoon took aim on a boy of about nine and shot him between the shoulder blades. He eared back the hammer to pot the child’s little brother, then yelped in pain as an arrow creased the upper side of his left shoulder.

  “Owie! That damn buck done drew blood,” he bellowed as he turned to one side and fired into the face of the Ute who had shot the arrow. “Owie,” he repeated for emphasis.

  Those among the Ute men who had not already been killed or seriously wounded began to flee. They dragged along what women and children they could. The gang spread out and methodically began to exterminate the remaining males. The old women they let go. The young ones they corralled in the Council lodge, a large brush shelter. Back inside the trading post, Victor Spectre examined the booty.

  “You were correct about one thing. There isn’t a lot of gold here,” he said to the proprietor. “Too bad. Had there been money enough, I might have been persuaded not to do this,” he added casually as he lifted his revolver.

  “No! Oh, please, no!” the Indian agent pleaded. “There’s—there’s more whiskey. In the root cellar,” he bargained with his life.

  “We’ll find it,” Spectre assured him, then shot the man dead.

  By the time the two prospectors had been killed and stripped of their small pouches of placer gold, the last of the Ute men had run off with the women and children they had rescued. Gus Jaeger gathered the gunhawks and tolled them off by twos to make their pick of the young Ute women and girls. The female population of the Ute village began to shriek and wail the moment the first pair were dragged from the Council lodge.

  Sally Jensen sat in the old wooden rocking chair on the front porch at the Sugarloaf. The rocker played a game of tag with the tail of a plump, orange-and-white tabby that lay at her side. So far the cat was winning, th
e wooden bow had not yet made contact as the tail whipped in and out beneath it. She glanced up at the angle of the sun. The hands would be in for supper before long.

  She looked across the open yard to where the ranch cook bent over his pots of spicy beef stew, thick gumbo, and New Orleans-style rice and beans. A Cajun who had drifted north and west of his native bayous, he had proven to be a natural with the hearty fare of the High Lonesome country. Though where he obtained the okra she would never know. The summers were too short and mild to grow it here. He looked up and saw the expression she did not know she wore. A wide smile flashed in the swarthy Acadian face and he spoke with words he hoped sounded reassuring.

  “Won’t no harm come to Mr. Smoke, Miss Sally. I gar-ron-tee it.”

  How did he know I was worried about Smoke? Sally gave a little shiver and looked expectantly toward the direction from which the hands would ride up on the headquarters as she answered him.

  “I know that, Jules. I was…only thinking.”

  “He be one brave mon, Miss Sally. Smart, too. He not be steppin’ in front of some sacre bleu outlaw bullet.” Jules Thibedeux nodded his head in confidence and understanding and went back to his cooking.

  Sally heard hoofbeats then. She came to her boots and marched to the head of the steps. She paused on the second one, her face lighted by the gold-orange of a lowering sun. Riding beside Ike Mitchell she recognized the slender figure of Bobby Harris.

  Bobby had taken to sleeping in his old room in the main house in the five nights since Smoke’s departure. His attitude bothered her. He had not as yet returned to school in Big Rock, and although content to teach him at home, she worried about his adjustment to children his age.

  Impatient with herself, she banished the thought and put a smile on her face. Bobby would be moody enough. He saw her worried about Smoke also. She ran fingers through her dark hair and tossed the curls to give them springiness. Then she stamped her foot in vexation when a tiny voice in her head asked her where Smoke was right then.

  Smoke Jensen drifted into Wyoming that day at mid-morning, near the small town of Baggs. He had been slowed because of a pulled tendon on his packhorse. The normally sure-footed animal had stepped into a prairie dog hole and badly strained its canon tendon. It limped and fought the lead. He would have to rent another one or trade off at the livery in Baggs.

  With that decided for him, he stopped thinking about it. The skyline of Baggs seemed to grow out of the tall, waving prairie grass. He saw the tall spire of a grain silo rearing on the horizon, then the slender one of a church. The town had grown since he had last passed through. Then the blocky shapes of the business district crept above the rim of the world. At a half mile distance, Smoke heard the barking dogs. Shrill cries of children came next. A cow mooed in a backyard. A wagon, badly in need of axle grease, shrieked its way along the main street. Smoke counted half a dozen new houses.

  Smoke felt his initial tension sloughing off. Too early, he realized as he swung off of the trail onto a maintained roadway. Two local farmers, their wagons stopped opposite one another to swap tall tales, looked hard at him with open suspicion. Beyond them, at the first house on the edge of town, three children, barefoot, shirtless boys, stared solemnly. The youngest popped a thumb into his mouth as Smoke rode by. A buxom woman rushed from the side door to scoop them up and hurry them inside. Something, or someone, bad had been here recently, Smoke reasoned. He guided Thunder to the livery first.

  He found it where it had been before. The same bent, stooped old man came forward to take the reins of Thunder when Smoke dismounted. The sturdy, buckskin-clad gunfighter nodded toward his packhorse.

  “I’ve got a horse with a strained tendon. I’d like to trade him or rent another if I have to.”

  “You got his papers?”

  “Sure do. He’s prime stock. Raised him myself.”

  “Say, you’ve been here before, ain’tcha?”

  “That’s right. Last time about two years ago.”

  Thumb and forefinger massaged his whiskered chin. “As I rec’llect yer name’s Johnson, Jennings, something like that?”

  “Jensen. I breed horses down in Colorado.”

  A light gleamed in aged eyes. “Yeah. Do a fair bit of gun-fighting, too, as I recall.”

  “Huh! Let’s keep that between the two of us, all right?”

  Thin lips spread to reveal toothless gums and the old man cackled. “I ain’t got any problem with that. M’lips are sealed.” He went to the roan gelding and ran an experienced hand down the forelegs. He lifted a thick lip and studied the teeth. His keen eyes noted that even with the heavy pack load, the back remained straight and firm.

  “If he comes from your stock, you’ve got a deal, Mister—ah—Smith.” He pointed to the corral beside the livery barn. “I got me a fine little mare out there. I’ll let her go for the swap and thirty dollars. She’s a Morgan an’ been broke to a packsaddle.”

  Smoke gave him a genuine smile. “I’ve been wanting some Morgan blood in my remount herd. I’ll sign the papers over and we can seal it with a drink on me.”

  “Fine as frog hair by me. My name is Issac Rucker. Put it on the transfer an’ I’ll get you Debbie’s papers.” He winked. “I could feel it weren’t broke. I had me a sharper dope a horse with a broken leg with laudanum and try to pass it off as only a strain.”

  Their transaction completed, Smoke and Issac walked toward the saloon at the corner of Spencer and Lode Streets. The Bucket of Blood looked exactly as it did when Smoke last paid it a visit. Green and white bunting decorated the balcony railing. Cut out letters of green blotting paper spelled out Erin Go Bragh! above the center of the back bar. The piano tinkled mournfully, playing The Minstrel Lad. It had been Danny Boy when Smoke had been here last. A huge, portly, handlebar-mustached man stood behind the mahogany, a spotted white apron folded double and tied around his ample middle. He saw Smoke and recognized him immediately.

  “Ah, faith an’ it’s Kirby me lad. C’mon me boyo, cozy up an’ take a wee dram. Jensen may not be a name from the auld sod, but yer an honorary Irishman whenever you are in me darlin’ place.”

  Smoke winced. If he had any hope of going unrecognized, Sean Doolin’s big mouth had ruined all that. If anyone in here connected the name Kirby Jensen with Smoke Jensen, the word would be all over the town in five minutes. He and Issac Rucker crossed to the bar. Doolin slapped down two large, fish-eye shot glasses and poured them with pale amber Irish whiskey and added a tot to his own. He set the bottle aside and raised his glass in a toast. Smoke and Issac joined him.

  “Up the Irish!”

  A surly punk halfway down the bar raised his head and glowered at them. “Up their backsides, I say.”

  Smoke turned to stare at him. He saw a long-haired, trashy piece of barely human refuse, of about twenty-two years, whose lank, greasy hair showed no familiarity with brush or comb. He had a snotty sneer smeared on his thin-lipped face and a two-day stubble of pale, yellow beard. He wore a six-gun slung low on his right thigh, secured by a rawhide thong. The holster, an old, worn military one, had its cover flap cut away to give quick access to the butt of the .44 Colt Frontier it held. Probably considered himself a gunfighter, Smoke appraised.

  The sad thing was that he would most likely die without ever knowing how wrong he was. Smoke looked again at the hateful expression, tiny, mean eyes, and unshaved jowls, then decided he might as well try to enlighten the lout.

  “Who or what are you?”

  Smoke’s words hung in the air a long moment before the punk worked his mouth and deliberately spat tobacco juice at Smoke’s boots. “If you don’t know, you’ve got a treat comin.’ I’m Tyrone Sayers. Folks here-about generally tremble when they learn that.”

  Smoke slid into his black, leather gloves as he forced his voice into a high, squeaky register. “Oh, I am trembling. Don’t you see? As far as I can tell, your name is spelled S-H-I-T.”

  “Back me, Norvie!” Tyrone Sayers erupted in instant vi
olence. His hand dropped to the butt of his revolver and began to yank it free, while Sean Doolin grabbed up a bung starter and started for Sayer’s companion. “Take it outside, boyos,” he commanded.

  Sayers ignored him. He had not cleared the back-plate of leather when Smoke went into action. Instead of drawing, he rapidly stepped forward and slammed a hard right fist into the punk’s mouth. Sayers flew backward and the small of his back smashed into the top rail of the bar. His gun-arm continued moving and he freed the long-barreled Colt. That’s when Smoke hit him again. The revolver thudded on the sawdust-covered floor. His friend went for his gun then.

  A loud thop! sounded as Sean brained Norvie with his wooden mallet. He went rubber legged and slumped to the floor, his head resting on a spittoon, while birdies sang in his head. Smoke did not even hesitate during this one-sided exchange.

  He waded in on Sayers. His elbows churned back and forth as he worked on the exposed gut of the stupid lout. Sayers wheezed and gasped and tried to escape along the bar. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and had to duck fast to escape a sledgehammer blow to his head. Lightning fast, Smoke recovered and smashed a vulnerable nose.

  Blood flowed in twin rivers from Tyrone’s mangled beak. His eyes watered and he pawed at them to clear his vision. Smoke went back to Tyrone’s middle again. Tyrone decided he had had enough of that. From a soft pouch holster at the small of his back he drew a stubby .38 caliber Herington and Richards and whipped it toward Smoke Jensen.

  Chin down to protect himself from any retaliation by Sayers, Smoke did not see the little gun coming until it lined up with the middle of his belly. “Smoke, look out!” Issac Rucker shouted.

  Smoke reacted instantly. With his left he batted the small revolver out of line with his body. It discharged through empty air in the same moment that Smoke Jensen drew his .45 Colt and jammed the muzzle into one ruined nostril on the face of Tyrone Sayers.

  He didn’t have to say it, the tiny .38 was on the way to the floor already, but he did anyway. “Drop it.”