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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Tommy looked on Smoke with new awe. “You’re right smart, Smoke. Think it will work?”

  “If it don’t, we’ll be up to our a—ears in outlaws before nightfall. Now, get goin’.”

  Twenty minutes later, they rode away, the outlaws, the living and the dead, slung over their individual saddles. A quick look downward gave Smoke Jensen the satisfaction of noting the authentic appearance of the tracks left behind. Frequent checks of their back trail showed no sign of close pursuit.

  Sundown found Smoke Jensen and Tommy Olsen in a cold camp amid a heaped mound of boulders. They had with them three outlaw horses, which had not strayed far from their course during the day. They had left the wounded hard cases tied up on the ground before they abruptly changed directions and headed northward, back toward the camp. While they munched on biscuits and fatback taken from two pair of outlaw saddlebags, Smoke listened to Tommy’s account of his escape.

  “I had gotten this rock, see? It was to use if any of them decided to pester my maw or the girls. Oh, they’d talked about that before an’ I knew what they meant. I figgered to clobber one and get his gun. So when that storm broke out, I wondered why not get a gun and a horse, and come find you? It worked, sort of.”

  Smoke snorted in reply; then Tommy went on. “Oh, one other thing. That feller with you, Utah Jack? Well, he’s a turncoat. Seems he was workin’ with the rustlers all along. I’d like to fix him good.”

  Smoke gave him a short nod. “His time will come, right enough. Now, let me tell you how I figure we’re going about getting your mother and sisters out of there.”

  For the next twenty-five minutes, Smoke went over in detail what he had in mind. He emphasized what he expected of Tommy by two repetitions and concluded with a third. “You will take the three extra horses to the spot I determine to be best and hold them there for your family. You are to do nothing, absolutely nothing, else. Now, repeat that for me.”

  Tommy did and Smoke pressed him further. “Is that clear? No room open for second guessing what I expect of you, Tommy?”

  “It’s clear, sir. I’ll do what you say.”

  “Good. We’ll be ready to head out at one in the morning. Now roll up and get some sleep.”

  Far from the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains, Sally Jensen watched from her darkened living room while three scruffy men, who even in her most charitable of moods Sally would have to call saddle bums, walked their mounts to the tie rail outside the bunkhouse. They dismounted and threw their reins over the crossbar and looped them loosely. They started for the door in the yellow light of a kerosene lantern hung from a peg in the front wall. As they progressed, they eased their six-guns in their soft pouch holsters.

  Their earlier furtive actions had already decided Sally Jensen, even if she had not seen this latest threatening move, and she had crossed the room to an oak, glass-fronted, upright chest. She opened the hinged face piece and reached inside. She selected a light-weight, 20 gauge Purdy shotgun and plucked six rounds of No. 4 buckshot from a box, then dropped them into a pocket of her skirt.

  She opened the front door as one of the prowlers reached for the knob to enter the bunkhouse. “Odd hour to be looking for work, strangers,” Sally announced from behind them. Startled by the unexpected voice, and a female one at that, they stiffened, then turned toward her as one.

  They found themselves confronted by the twin black circles of the shotgun muzzle. Immediately, they spread apart, one holding the center while the other pair took small side steps to put distance between them. The piece of trash in the middle raised a gloved hand and pointed at Sally, his face screwed into an expression of mean humor.

  “Now, missy, that little-bitty scattergun ain’t gonna do us a whole lot of harm, don’t ya know?”

  “I figure I can take out two of you even before my hands get a shot at the last of you trash.”

  Rat-faced and unshaven, the talkative one hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You mean the hands in there, missy?” he sneered. “Why, they ain’t there, now are they? They all rode out early this afternoon. We watched them go. That’s why we decided to pay the place a visit.”

  Determined to keep control of the situation, Sally spoke confidently. “Then tell me why you were headed for the bunkhouse.”

  Nasty laughter answered her. “We jist wanted to make sure every one of them left. Since nothin’s happened to us through all this palaver, I think we can be sure there ain’t a soul at home.”

  “Yeah,” the one on his right said through a giggle. “So we might as well get right down to the fun part. Be a good girl an’ gather up all the hard money around the place. Bring it to us, along with any jewels you’ve got. After that, you can fix us up some grub. We’re real hongry.”

  A sick giggle came from the other side. “He-he, tha’s right, missy. We need to build our strength with some good vittles. ’Cause after that, we’re gonna give you a whole lot of what you’ve been missin’ for a while. He-he-he.”

  Sally had said her last word in argument. Instead, the Purdy spoke for her. A full load of No. 4 buck splashed into the chest and belly of the pig-faced satyr who had hinted at rape. He went down with a soft moan. A split second later, Sally unloosed the other barrel on the dirty, rat-faced trash in the middle. As he bent double in shock, he saw a flicker of movement at one of the windows of the bunkhouse.

  A boy’s face, under a mop of white-blond hair, appeared in the open space, along with a rifle. It barked twice rapidly, and the leader saw his last man go down, shot through the belly and his left thigh. His vision dimmed while Sally pushed the locking lever and opened the breech of the shotgun. Calmly she extracted the spent brass casings and inserted two more. Then she walked across the yard to stand over him, a shy smile on her lips.

  Gasping, he looked up with blurred, close-set eyes. “You’re a…a hard woman, Missy. Who—who is it that killed me?”

  “My name is Sally Jensen. This is the Sugarloaf, the ranch of my husband…Smoke Jensen.”

  Already pale from blood loss, the drifter turned alabaster white, his jaw sagging. “Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord, have mercy on me.”

  “He’ll have to be the one. I have neither the time nor the inclination. And you won’t live long enough for me to develop them.”

  “But…I don’t…want to—die!”

  Ignoring the thug’s mortal protest, Bobby called out exuberantly, “We got ’em, Maw. We got ’em good.”

  “Yes we did, Bobby.”

  From beyond her boot tips came the appeal. “Who’s that? We didn’t see anyone else around.”

  “That’s Bobby, our adopted son. He killed your sidekick over there.”

  “My God, a whole fambly of gunfighters. What did we walk into?”

  “Your doom.” Sally bent down and retrieved his weapons. He shivered violently and groaned. Then his death rattle rose eerily in his throat.

  That night, Smoke Jensen escorted Tommy Olsen to a strategic spot near the outlaw camp. He spoke briefly of the importance of controlling the three spare horses they had brought along.

  “Keep a tight rein on them, Tommy. When I scatter the remount herd, many of them will head this way.”

  Tommy nodded vigorously. “I’ll do it, Smoke.”

  “Good. You won’t have much doubt when things get started.”

  With that, Smoke faded into the blackness and headed for the new camp. Due to the search for Tommy and their missing men, the gang had moved the horses less than fifteen miles that day. His first task was the same as the previous night.

  Smoke located two outriders easily. They sat their horses, faced inward to the remounts, oblivious to any threat from outside. One rolled a cigarette while they talked about inconsequentials. Smoke dismounted and approached stealthily through the tall grass. A softly soughing breeze masked his movements.

  After lighting his quirley, one of the outlaws queried his companion. “Rafe, where we takin’ these critters?”

  “To Bent Rock Canyon, Norm.”

/>   Norm drew in a deep draft of smoke. “Kinda a roundabout way, ain’t it?”

  Rafe nodded agreement. “Way I hear it, the boss wants to make the herd disappear somewhere over by Buffalo. Then we head south to the canyon.”

  “How do we make all these horses disappear?”

  Norm did not get an answer. Smoke Jensen chose that moment to leap atop the rump of the horse Norm rode. Arms extended, he grabbed each outlaw by the side of his head and slammed them together with enough violence to ensure they would stay unconscious for a long while. When Smoke released the hapless pair, they fell to the ground.

  Smoke dropped into the saddle and calmed the horses. Then he dismounted and tied the insensible men hand and foot. He led the horses off a distance and tied them to a sage bush. That accomplished, he set off to find more of the herd guards.

  Smiling Dave Winters had little use for night herd duty. He looked upon himself as a leader, not a flunky. At least three of the men in his section of the gang had caught this turn with him. He had not encountered any difficulty in ordering around the other five. Which allowed him to make a circuit of the entire herd in a casual, relaxed mood.

  That was until he discovered two men missing. Neither of them patrolled the sector he had been assigned to. At first it did not cause him any concern. With the horses quieted, no doubt they had wandered off to jaw with another of the sentries. Then he recalled who this herd was supposed to belong to. If true, there could be something very wrong with these missing men.

  He became convinced of that when he found a third of the herd tenders swinging from a tree limb, at the end of a rope tied around his ankles. Quickly Smiling Dave dismounted and hurried to the side of this apparition. Hank Benson had been gagged, and his hands bound behind him, although he remained conscious. The fury that burned in his eyes told a clear story to Smiling Dave.

  A quick look around failed to reveal to Smiling Dave a darker, more substantial shadow among the many that surrounded him. With one hand on the butt of his six-gun, Smiling Dave reached for his sheath knife. With a hiss, the loop of a lariat settled over his shoulders. Before he could react, it yanked tight, pinning his arms at his sides. The bite end of the rope went over the same tree limb that suspended Hank Benson, and Smiling Dave Winters rose into the air. Top-heavy, he turned head down the moment his feet left the ground.

  His hat went flying as his forehead struck the turf. He sensed light tugs that indicated the free end had been secured around the tree trunk. Then a human form, which appeared to be upside down to Smiling Dave, walked into view. The stranger deftly removed the weapons from the captive and studied his face closely.

  Then Smoke Jensen spoke in a whisper. “You’re the one who put a bullet in Jerry Harkness and killed one of my hands. Then you smacked me in the head with a rifle butt.”

  Although he didn’t really need to ask, Smiling Dave blurted out, “Who—who are you?”

  “I’m Smoke Jensen. And you are a dead man.”

  Smoke used Smiling Dave’s knife to slit the outlaw’s throat. Then he headed off to find the rest of the herd tenders.

  14

  Smoke Jensen had but a little distance to go in order to locate another sentry. He glided up behind him while the man stood on the ground, easing cramped leg muscles. With a single, swift blow, Smoke cracked him over the head with the butt of his Peacemaker. He tied the unconscious man and relieved him of his weapons. Then he glided off afoot to locate more.

  By one-thirty in the morning, Smoke had located all but the final sentry. The outlaw sat his mount, one leg cocked up around the pommel of his saddle, rolling a quirley. Smoke eased in close and spoke in a low, though friendly, tone.

  “Could you use a cup of coffee?”

  “You bet. I’m obliged.” He leaned forward as Smoke reached out with his left hand.

  When the thug’s head reached the proper level, Smoke swung his right arm and laid the barrel of his .45 Colt alongside the outlaw’s cranium, a fraction above his left ear. The victim uttered a low grunt and continued earthward from his perch. Swiftly, Smoke Jensen secured him and started for the distant camp, his goal the picket line.

  On the way, he worked through the remounts until he found his ’Palouse stallion, Cougar. The spotted-rump horse followed Smoke without need of a halter or reins. At the picket line, Smoke went from one animal to another, undoing the ropes that held them to the tether. He left Cougar there with a borrowed bridle and skirted the camp beyond the orange glow cast by the bed of coals. He emerged from the darkness when he reached the Olsen wagon.

  Smoke awakened Della first, with a hand over her mouth to prevent a cry of alarm. He whispered in her ear, and she tried to turn her head. Smoke eased his grip, and she glanced left to verify that it was indeed he.

  In a soft breath, Smoke explained his presence. “I came to get you away from here. Wake the girls and meet me out there in the dark, just beyond your wagon.”

  Della started to protest that their meager possessions would be lost, only to have Smoke shake his head sternly. “Would you rather it be your lives?” he asked harshly.

  Smoke remained behind to cover their escape. When the youngest Olsen girl disappeared into the darkness, Smoke withdrew from the edge of the camp. He found them huddled together at the base of a gnarled cottonwood and led them to the picket line, where he lifted the girls atop two of the outlaws’ horses. They settled astraddle with accustomed ease. Then Smoke turned to assist Della.

  “I’ve not ridden bareback since I was little,” she told him with a toss of her silver-frosted, light brown locks.

  “You’ll remember how easy enough,” Smoke assured her as he made a step-up with cupped hands.

  Della hoisted the hem of her night dress, placed a foot lightly in his grasp and grabbed a handhold in the mane of the horse. She swung aboard and settled in. Smoke vaulted to the back of Cougar and turned to take in the Olsens.

  “Now what?” Della prompted.

  Smoke waved a hand in the direction of the herd. “Now we stampede the herd.”

  He could not clearly see Della’s reaction, but Smoke heard her gasp. Then she spoke in a reasonable tone. “Then we’re going to need a way to guide these beasts.” So saying, she bent forward and formed a reasonably good hackamore out of the tie rope. With a steady hand, she eased over to her daughters and did the same for them, then spoke softly.

  “You girls stay close by me, hear?” They nodded, and Della turned to Smoke. “We’re ready.”

  Smoke drew his right-hand .45 Colt and eared back the hammer. A chilling wolf howl quavered from his lips, and he fired three rapid shots. The horses bolted at once. With wild whinnies, they raced off in the direction Smoke intended that they would take.

  Several of the rustlers yelled in alarm, and two screamed in agony as the remounts thundered through the camp. One of the screamers grew silent after a fifth set of hooves pounded into his chest and belly, pulped vital organs and shattered ribs. Taking care to keep the Olsens in sight, Smoke pushed the herd from behind. The terrain proved an ally, as the startled animals swerved to avoid rock out-crops and disastrous ravines.

  Thus channeled, the horses streamed toward where Tommy waited with the saddled mounts. Behind them, Smoke could hear the curses and uproar created when the outlaws found their own mounts missing. So far, he thought, not a bad night’s work.

  Smoke Jensen wasted not a second longer than required to retrieve his saddle and remount the Olsens on saddled horses. Then he gave them hurried instructions on how to bring the stampeding horses under some form of control. Over the days they had been together, Smoke had come to accept the fact that Tommy Olsen was mature beyond his years. He entrusted the left flank to Tommy and his mother. He took the two girls with him on the right flank. With only swing riders it would be difficult, yet Smoke trusted that the terrain of the foothills, which now narrowed the trail, would be to their advantage.

  Which set Smoke to thinking about another matter. If they continued to Po
wder River Pass, it stood to reason that the rustlers would jump them again. They could head due north, to Granite Pass, which would bypass Buffalo on the far side, where the Olsens wanted to go. Or they could turn west, which would take them far from the Crow Agency and Fort Custer. All three courses had advantages, but the disadvantages outweighed choosing the lower altitude Powder River Pass.

  Silently, he pondered his choices through the night. When the faintest gray ribbon spanned the eastern horizon, Smoke called a halt on the bank of the north fork of the Powder River. By then the horses had lost their fright and settled down in loose bunches under the herd leader and his subordinates. Comfortingly, to Smoke’s way of seeing it, the largest gather, some seventy animals, led the pack. The stop would do everyone good, even the critters.

  At least, they did not need any supervision to walk mincingly into the shallows and drink from the river. In the cool, mountain breeze, their coats steamed and their breath fogged the air. Smoke shared out some cold, hard biscuits and strips of jerky. He and the Olsens munched them industriously while the herd drank. At last, Smoke spoke what was on his mind.

  “We’ve covered what I’d reckon to be fifteen miles from where we left the rustlers. I think we should get some rest here, then move on. Sleep awhile if you can.”

  Della Olsen looked at the rugged Smoke Jensen with a radiant face. “Oh, I’m much too exhilarated to sleep. Goodness, getting rescued is certainly exciting.”

  Sarah-Jane and Gertrude nodded eager agreement. “And we get to ride astraddle, like Tommy,” Sarah-Jane declared in delight.

  Della’s eyes narrowed for a short moment. “Not too much of that, young lady. It is not proper for a woman to ride that way.”

  “But Momma, you’re doing it,” Sarah-Jane protested.

  “Yes, but I’ve had three chil—” Della broke off abruptly and blushed furiously. “Oh! What am I saying? You must think me terribly brazen, Mr. Jensen.”