Pearlie, his face flaming red, shrugged. “We know it’s ’cause you love Smoke and don’t want him to get shot no more, Miss Sally.” He paused, glanced at Cal, then continued. “But you been out here in the West long enough to know that don’t make no difference to the kind’a men who come lookin’ to make a reputation by killin’ the famous Smoke Jensen.”
Cal looked over at Sally. “Pearlie’s right, Miss Sally. Makin’ Smoke go without his guns ain’t gonna keep him safe . . . it’s more than likely gonna get him killed.”
Sally looked out the window, tears in her eyes, as she thought over what they’d said. After a few moments, she nodded to herself and got up.
“You boys finish the bear sign,” she said as she walked to the door and took Smoke’s gunbelt off the peg in the wall where it had hung since she’d asked him not to wear it anymore.
She hung it over her shoulder and walked out the door toward her horse, reined in at the hitching post in front of the cabin.
As she stepped into the saddle, Cal and Pearlie looked at each other. “Finally,” Pearlie said, “she’s showin’ some sense.”
* * *
Smoke was sitting on his horse, hands crossed over the pommel, looking out over the herd of cattle in the valley below, when Sally rode up, reining in beside him.
When he glanced over at her, she took the gunbelt off her shoulder and handed it to him. “Here,” she said simply.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Take it, please, Smoke,” she said. “The only reason I asked you not to wear it anymore was I was getting tired of either taking bullets out of you myself, or standing around while Doc Morrow did it.”
Smoke took the belt and slipped it around his waist, buckling it up. “You sure this is what you want?” he asked.
She leaned over and put her hand on his where it lay on his thigh. “Smoke, the only thing I want is for the man I love to stay alive. I don’t look good in widow’s black.”
Smoke leaned to the side and kissed her gently on the lips. “I promise you, I’ll be extra careful, Sally,” he said, his voice growing husky.
She looked around at the lush green grass and the maple and birch trees that were just beginning to come alive with the colors of fall. “You suppose we might get down off these horses and sit under that maple tree over there and talk about it for a while?” she asked, a mischievous look in her eyes.
Smoke grinned. “If we get down off these horses, I have a feeling we’re gonna be doing a whole lot more than talking.”
Sally swung down out of the saddle, unhitched the belly-strap and let her saddle fall to the ground. She took the saddle blanket off the horse, hung it over her arm, and walked toward the nearest tree, looking back over her shoulder with an unmistakable invitation in her eyes.
6
As the dawn sun peeked over mountain tops to the east, Lieutenant Jonathan Pike knocked on Sergeant Bob Guthrie’s room at the Pleasure Palace.
Guthrie, his hair disheveled and his eyes still full of sleep, cracked the door. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
Pike glanced over Guthrie’s shoulder, seeing a large thatch of red hair sticking out from under the covers and an empty bottle of whiskey lying on its side on his bedside table.
“Sun’s up, Sergeant,” Pike said, trying to hide a smile. “We’re burning daylight.”
“Yes, sir!” Guthrie said, covering a wide yawn with the back of his hand. “I’ll get myself presentable and muster the men soon’s I can.”
“I’ll wait for you in the dining room, Sergeant,” Pike said. “And,” he added as Guthrie started to close the door, “I’ll have breakfast waiting for you, so no . . . further delays.”
Guthrie grinned. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
After he closed the door, the woman in the bed stuck her head out, rubbing eyes that were red from a late night. “That mean you don’t have time for a mornin’ pick-me-up?” she asked.
Guthrie shook his head. “I said I’d get right on it, Mary Belle,” he said as he dropped his trousers to the floor. “An’ that’s just what I intend to do.”
He laughed as he dove beneath the covers, his cold hands making Mary Belle yelp as he grabbed her.
* * *
Guthrie’s breakfast was cold by the time he arrived at Lieutenant Pike’s table, and his cheeks showed patches of whiskers he’d missed in his hasty attempt to shave.
“I’m afraid your eggs are cold, Sergeant,” Pike said, frowning.
Guthrie bent his head and dug right in. “I been in the Army nigh on twenty years, Lieutenant,” he said with his mouth full. “I’m used to bad food, long days, an’ cold nights.”
Pike’s face relaxed in a slight smile. “I trust last night wasn’t too cold for you, Bob?”
Guthrie grinned without looking up. “No, sir. Last night the temperature was right tolerable.”
“Good,” Pike said. “’Cause it’s liable to be the last warm night we spend for quite some time. The outlaws headed up into the high country, and I intend to follow ’em till we catch every last one of the scoundrels.”
Guthrie looked up from his eggs, a frown on his face. “You think that’s wise, sir?” he asked. “It’s not gonna be an easy campaign, followin’ those galoots up into the mountains.”
“What do you mean?” Pike asked, sipping his coffee and staring at the sergeant.
“Well, number one, they’re gonna know we’re comin’ after ’em, an’ if they’re at all smart, they’re gonna have someone watchin’ their back trail. Once they find out we’re on their trail, it’ll be an easy matter for ’em to set an ambush along the trail where they’ll have the high ground.”
Pike leaned back in his chair, his gaze stern. “So, you think we should just let them go on their way after all they’ve done?”
Guthrie shrugged. “Not exactly, sir. But they ain’t gonna do no one any harm up in those mountains, especially with winter just around the corner. It’s my guess they’ll soon get tired of wanderin’ around up to their asses in snow and freezin’ their butts off an’ come down to civilization. If we check the map, we can find out where they’re liable to come down and have someone waitin’ for ’em when they do.”
Pike looked out the window, his lips pursed as he considered what Guthrie had said. After a moment, he shook his head. “No, Sergeant, I don’t relish just giving up the hunt. Captain Bickford assigned me to track these criminals down and bring them to justice, and I intend to follow my orders.”
“Even if it means gettin’ half our men killed?” Guthrie asked, his eggs ignored on the plate in front of him.
Pike nodded. “My men didn’t sign up in the Army for easy duty, Sergeant, and I think you overestimate the fighting ability of our foes. After all,” Pike said, spreading his arms, “these men we’re tracking are ordinary killers, not military geniuses. I think when they see the number of men after them, they’ll more than likely give up without a fight.”
Guthrie clenched his jaw and went back to his breakfast, knowing it was no use arguing with an officer who had his head up his butt. He knew the men from the prison wouldn’t just give up, and he also knew that before this campaign was over, there was going to be blood on the snow of the high lonesome....
* * *
Ozark Jack Berlin crawled out of his sleeping bag and stood up, checking the weather. The wind was blowing out of the north, carrying with it small particles of ice and snow and chilling him to the bone.
The night before, he’d made camp for his men in the shelter of a group of boulders piled against the steep side of a mountain ledge. The fire they’d built was nothing but coals now, and was giving off little heat to combat the frigid cold of the north wind.
Berlin stepped over to Blue Owl’s sleeping bag and nudged the sleeping figure of the Indian with his foot.
“Blue Owl,” he growled, “get your ass outta bed an’ get the men movin’. We need a fire an’ some coffee ’fore we freeze to death.”
As Blue Owl stirred, trying to come awake, Berlin made the rounds of the other men, kicking them awake and telling them to get up and get ready to travel. By the time he’d finished, Blue Owl had the fire going and several pots of coffee cooking on the coals.
Billy Bartlett and Moses Johnson, a black man who’d killed a farmer and his family when they’d refused him work, were filling skillets with eggs and slabs of fatback bacon, while kettles of pinto beans bubbled and boiled on iron trestles over the flames.
Soon, thirty men were gathered as close to the warmth of the fire as they could get, drinking steaming coffee from tin mugs and wolfing down eggs, bacon, and beans as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Blue Owl, his shoulders hunched inside a buffalo robe he’d taken from town, held his coffee mug in both hands to keep them warm and glanced up at Berlin, who was standing next to him smoking a cigarette and staring at the mountains to the east.
“Yo, Boss,” he said, “what are your plans for today?”
Several of the gunmen who were sitting nearby looked up, waiting for what Berlin had to say.
“We ain’t got no choice but to head eastward,” Berlin said. “We got a town full of angry miners and half the goddamned Army behind us, so I guess we’ll just keep on movin’ east.”
Blue Owl shook his head, staring at the flames of the campfire. “If we keep goin’ east, that means we gotta climb higher up in those mountains, an’ it’s gonna get colder’n a well-digger’s asshole up there.”
He looked up at the clouds overhead. “We got us a big norther blowin’ in, an’ this is just the beginnin’ of the bad weather we’re gonna face if we go any higher up into the mountains.”
Berlin took a last drag off his cigarette and flipped the butt into the fire. “I’m open to suggestions, Blue Owl. If’n you got any better ideas, now’s the time to give ’em.”
“I think we ought’a head on back down the mountain. We got more’n enough men an’ guns to fight off the Army.”
Berlin nodded. “And then what?”
“Then we could head south, skirtin’ the mountains, till we come to a pass somewhere’s where we don’t have to go up into snow country.”
“Uh-huh,” Berlin said, a sneer on his face.
“Well?” Blue Owl asked. “What’s wrong with that plan?”
Berlin shook his head. “Just about everything. First off, you want to engage the Army in a fight on level ground with these men.” He indicated the group of murderers and rapists and robbers sitting around the fire listening to them with a wave of his hand. “Men who might be brave enough, but they aren’t exactly trained in fightin’ on horseback against men who are.”
He paused to bend down, grab the coffeepot, and pour himself another cup of coffee. After he took a drink, he continued. “Secondly, assuming we could win against the Army, and the miners from the town we just passed through, by the time we’d traveled fifty miles, someone would have telegraphed ahead an’ there’d be another group of Army men, or lawmen, or bounty hunters waitin’ for us.”
“So, what’s different about your plan?” Blue Owl asked.
Berlin put his coffee cup down and built himself a cigarette, turning his back to the wind so he could get it lit.
“First off, while we make our way up into the mountains, we’re gonna station some men on our back trail to warn us if the Army tries to come after us. If they do, then we’ll fix up a nice little surprise for ’em that’ll take them out without gettin’ half our men killed.”
“What about the telegraph you’re so worried about?” Blue Owl asked. “The miners in the town back yonder can still telegraph ahead an’ have people waitin’ for us.”
Berlin shook his head. “No, they can’t,” he said. “By the time they figure out the Army’s failed, they won’t know which way we’re headed. Once we reach the pass at the top of the mountains, we can go north, east, or south, an’ nobody’s gonna know which way we’ve gone.”
“What about the weather?” Billy Bartlett asked, holding his arms around himself and shivering in the cold.
Berlin nodded. “I’ll admit it’s gonna get a mite cold, but we got plenty of supplies, an’ we’ll be able to get more from the soldiers we kill if’n they come after us. With any luck, we’ll only be up here for a week or so. Then we can head back down the other side of the mountains to warmer weather.”
A large, barrel-chested man with a thick beard stood up from the other side of the fire.
“You got a question, Mack?” Berlin asked.
“Yeah,” Mack replied, squaring his shoulders and letting his hand hover near the pistol on his belt. “I want to know who made you the boss. I don’t recall no election.”
Berlin’s eyes narrowed. “You got an objection to me callin’ the shots, Mack?” Berlin asked, shifting his coffee mug from his right hand to his left as he talked.
“Yeah, you ain’t got no right to—”
Before Mack could finish, Berlin drew in a lightning-fast movement and fired through the flames. His slug took Mack in the chest, knocking him backward to land spread-eagled on his back in the gathering snow on the ground. Blood pumped out of his chest to mix with the ice and snow in a scarlet pool, steam rising from the liquid as it cooled.
Berlin looked around at the men gathered around him, his smoking pistol still in his hand. “Now, you men got to make a choice. This ain’t the Army, an’ it ain’t prison. Any of you who wants to can go your own way, an’ there’ll be no hard feelin’s.”
Blue Owl glanced over at the body of Mack on the ground and laughed. “Yeah, Boss, I can see that,” he said as other men in the group joined in with nervous laughter.
“No, I mean it,” Berlin said. “Any of you who want to can leave, but those of you who stay have got to know who’s runnin’ things around here. If you stay, you’re gonna do things my way, or you can do like Mack and take your chances that you’re faster with a gun than I am. Any questions?”
The men all shook their heads and went back to eating their breakfast and drinking their coffee, some glancing nervously at Mack’s body lying nearby.
7
Lieutenant Jonathan Pike sat on his horse at the head of his column of men as they prepared to ride out of Lode, Utah, on the trail of the escaped prisoners.
Mayor Wilson Smith stood nearby, watching as the men readied their mounts.
“Mayor,” Pike said.
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant?”
“I need you to do me a favor,” Pike said.
“Whatever you need, Lieutenant.”
“Would you send some telegraphs for me?”
“Sure, where to?” the mayor asked.
“I’d like you to notify Fort Collins and Denver in Colorado, and the sheriff’s office in Cheyenne, Wyoming, of what’s happened here the past couple of days. If for some reason those criminals get by us in the mountains, they’ve got to either turn north to Wyoming, or south toward Colorado. I’d like the authorities to be aware that they may have to take action, if we fail to stop them.”
Mayor Smith nodded. “I’ll take care of it, Lieutenant, you got my word.”
Sergeant Guthrie walked his horse up next to Pike’s. “There’s one other thing, Mayor,” he said, cutting a corner off a square of chewing tobacco and sticking it in his mouth.
“What’s that, Sergeant?” Smith asked.
“If worse comes to worst an’ we lose this battle, there’s a small chance those men may head back down this way. If I were you, I’d make sure the town was ready for ’em if they decide to backtrack down here.”
Smith smiled grimly. “Oh, we’ll be ready for ’em, Sergeant. They won’t get another chance to raid this town.”
Guthrie nodded, glanced at Pike, and waved his hand to the men in the column behind him. “Forward, ho!” he growled, and began walking his horse toward the mountain peaks in the distance.
* * *
Jesus Santiago squatted next to a small fire on a bluff overlooking a winding trail up the mou
ntainside. The fire was set back from the edge of the cliff among stunted pines, its smoke whipped into nothingness by the strong winds coming from the north.
Santiago slapped his hands on his arms, then held his hands in front of the flames, trying to get some warmth from the fire. “God almighty!” he exclaimed. “I’m freezing my ass off up here.”
Wiley Gottlieb walked from the ledge, where he’d been looking along the path through binoculars, and took a small bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags. He pulled the cork and took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ozark Jack Berlin is crazy if he thinks the Army is gonna be fool enough to follow us up here in this blizzard,” he growled.
Santiago glanced up at heavy, dark clouds through swirls of snow and particles of ice slanting with the wind. “You think this is a blizzard, Wiley?” he asked. “Hell, this is nothing but a little fall storm. Just wait till we get to the high country; then you’ll see what a real blizzard looks like.”
“It gets any colder’n this an’ I may just take Ozark up on his offer to hightail my ass back down the mountain,” Gottlieb said, putting his whiskey bottle back in his saddlebag and walking back over to the edge of the overlook.
He put the glasses to his eyes and pointed them back down the trail.
Santiago had begun to stir the coals, trying to coax more heat from the fire, when Gottlieb yelled, “Jesus, I’ll be goddamned!”
Santiago jumped up and ran to stand next to Gottlieb, staring in the direction of his binoculars. He could see, through the mist and snow and sleet, a line of shadowy figures on horseback winding their way up the trail in the distance, their blue and gold uniforms clearly visible through the gloom.
“How many you make it?” he asked Gottlieb, who was still staring through the binoculars.
Gottlieb shook his head, “I can’t tell for sure, but it looks to be fifty or more.”
“Damn, Ozark was right,” Santiago said, rushing back to the fire and scattering the wood, kicking snow and ice over it to put out the fire. “We got to get going and warn the others.”
Warpath of the Mountain Man Page 4