Destiny Of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Men,” King said. “I know that you know about the troubles we have been having lately. So far we have had fourteen of our men murdered.”

  “Fourteen?” someone said, and there was a murmur through the assembly as they contemplated that fact.

  “We’ve had some cows stolen too, haven’t we, Cap’n?” another asked.

  “Yes, we’ve had some cattle stolen, but I don’t care about that. What I do care about is the men we have lost, and I intend to put a stop to that.”

  “How?” one of the men asked.

  Some of the others glared at him.

  “Don’t you boys look at me like that,” King said. “I was out there when them fellers hit us the first time. They was like an army ridin’ through. Hell, they was an army. We’re going to be an army too. And we have just the man to lead us. Men, I want you to meet Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke had been waiting just inside the house, and he came out onto the front porch when King said his name.

  Several of the men had heard of Smoke Jensen, and there were several comments passed back and forth.

  “Damn, if that is the real Smoke Jensen, we are going to kick some ass,” someone said. There was a smattering of laughter, though the laughter quieted as Smoke began to speak.

  “Gentlemen, am I correct in assuming that you are ready to fight back next time something happens?”

  “Yes!” Barrett shouted, and the others echoed his yell.

  “Is there anyone here who does not have a gun?”

  Three of the Mexican riders raised their hands, and Smoke glanced toward King.

  “I will supply you with guns,” King said. “And I will supply ammunition for everyone.”

  “All right, men, let’s get started,” Smoke said.

  For the next few days, only a minimum work force was kept in the field to tend the cattle. Everyone else stayed back at the ranch headquarters, where they were trained by Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal.

  When someone commented that Cal seemed a little young to be training grown men, Smoke asked Cal to give them a demonstration.

  Cal put a skillet on the ground, then held his hand out in front of him palm-down. On the back of his hand was a heavy metal washer. Smoke put a bottle on a fence post, then nodded at Cal.

  Cal turned his hand and the washer slid off, falling toward the skillet. Cal pulled his pistol and shot, breaking the bottle, before the washer hit the skillet.

  Those who watched the demonstration applauded.

  “That’s good,” Barrett said. “But that don’t mean you can teach us to be that good.”

  Sally had been watching the demonstration and, when Barrett made his comment, Smoke called out to her.

  “Sally, you want to show what I taught you?” he asked.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Sally said. “I’ve got some bear claws in the oven.”

  “Oh, you have time for this,” Smoke said.

  “All right,” Sally replied. “Let me get my pistol.”

  “You can use mine, Miss Sally,” Pearlie said. “I wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen to them bear claws.”

  Sally glared at Pearlie.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to those bear claws,” he said to correct himself.

  “That’s more like it,” Sally said as she took Pearlie’s gun and spun the cylinder, checking the loads.

  “Is she going to do a fast draw too?” Spitz asked.

  “I don’t do fast draw,” Sally said.

  “Being able to draw fast is good for show,” Smoke said. “But the kind of fighting you will be doing will have nothing at all to do with drawing fast, and everything to do with hitting what you are shooting at.”

  Smoke picked up three bottles and held them in his hand, then looked over at Sally. She nodded, and brought the pistol up to ready.

  “When you come up against more than one target, the trick is not to get confused, but to choose a target that you know you can hit.”

  Smoke tossed all three bottles into the air at the same time. The gun in Sally’s hand roared three times and, after each shot, a bottle burst. Little bits of shattered glass rained to the ground, but not one whole bottle.

  The applause was instantaneous and enthusiastic.

  “I thought you said to select the target you thought you could hit,” Spitz said.

  “I did,” Sally said, smiling, as she handed the gun back to Pearlie.

  The men laughed.

  “Now,” Smoke said when the laughter died down. “Are you men ready to learn?”

  The response was an enthusiastic “Yes!”

  Smoke designed a training course consisting of target practice for both pistol and rifle. For the next few days, the area around Casa Grande reverberated with the steady firing of weapons, shouts from the men, and galloping hoofbeats as the men rode at full speed through difficult obstacle courses.

  After a week of training, he had a pretty good idea of what he was working with. He began to divide the men into smaller groups, sometimes reassigning a man from one group to another. When King asked why he was doing that, Smoke explained that he was trying to get each group balanced as to capabilities.

  “I don’t want all the best shots together,” he said. “And I don’t want all the best horsemen together. I also want someone with leadership who can take charge of each group so that, if they encounter the raiders, he can determine the best course of action.”

  “Yes,” King said, nodding. “Yes, I can see that. That’s a good idea.”

  “In a couple more days, I believe we will have as effective an army as Brandt,” Smoke said.

  “I agree,” King replied. “You have done splendid work. Oh, and speaking of armies, maybe it’s time I showed you something,” he added mysteriously.

  “What?”

  “They are down there, behind a false wall at the back of the machine shed,” King said, pointing to a building about fifty yards away from the main house.

  “Now, you do have me curious,” Smoke said as he walked with King to the ripsawed, unpainted, and sun-grayed wood-sided building.

  Once inside, King got a crowbar and began prying out a nail. The nail squeaked in protest as he started pulling it from the dried wood.

  “Keep in mind that, during the war, I often supplied the Confederate Army with arms and munitions,” King said.

  “Yes, I remember you telling me. You want me to help you with that?”

  “No, I’m just going to pull a couple of nails so we can pull the board out to let you look behind,” King answered.

  He pulled a second nail, then, when both nails were removed, grabbed the board and pulled it out at the bottom, just opening up enough space for Smoke to look through.

  Smoke put his eye to the crack and looked inside.

  “Holy shit!” he said with a low whistle.

  “I thought you might be impressed,” King said. “You know what they say. Artillery lends dignity to what would otherwise be an uncouth brawl.”

  There, behind the false wall, were two caisson-mounted Napoleon 32-pounder cannons.

  “I also have powder and ball for them,” King said. “And that’s not all.”

  “You have more of these?”

  “No, not these, something else,” King responded. “Come.”

  At the other end of the machine shed were two rather large objects covered with tarpaulin. King took the tarpaulin off one of them.

  “Damn! You have a Gatling gun?” Smoke asked in surprise.

  “Actually, I have two of them,” King said. “With ammunition.”

  “Damn,” Smoke said with a chuckle. “With you supplying them, how did the South lose the war?”

  “I’ve asked myself that same question a few times,” King admitted.

  The next day the reshuffled groups went out on the range. Although Smoke had balanced all the groups fairly well, he sent Pearlie and Cal with the two that he thought were the weakest. The effect of their presence was immediate, elev
ating those two groups to the best.

  Barrett’s group was the first to get its test under fire. They had been out less than a day when they saw a group of men heading toward an isolated part of the herd.

  “What do we do now?” one of the men asked.

  Barrett was snaking his rifle from his saddle holster even as he was answering the question.

  “Shoot the sons of bitches,” he said, levering a bullet into the chamber of his Winchester. “I’ve run across these bastards twice before. This time I’m not going to give them the first shot.”

  Barrett fired, and one of the rustlers grabbed his shoulder. The other cowboys began firing as well and they started toward the rustlers in full pursuit.

  The rustlers, caught off guard by the rapid and effective resistance, turned and began galloping off. Barrett kept up the pursuit until the rustlers were well away, and only then did he hold up his hand and call for a halt.

  Barrett looked at the men with him, then smiled broadly.

  “You did well,” he said proudly.

  Two days later there was another incident, this time with the group that Pearlie led. Eight rustlers tried to sneak in, riding bent over on their horses as they worked their way up through a long gulley.

  The raiders, shocked by the sudden appearance of Pearlie and his men, fired, then turned and tried to run. Pearlie and his men opened fire and two of the raiders fell. Then, one of Pearlie’s men was hit and Pearlie called a halt to the chase to tend to his wounded.

  Both raiders were dead.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Let me make the next raid, Major,” Stone said. He shook his head. “The last two raiding parties we’ve sent out have come back with their tails tucked between their legs.”

  Stone and Brandt were sitting at their regular table in the Gato Rojo Saloon.

  “I don’t know,” Brandt said. He picked up the bottle to pour himself another glass of whiskey, but the bottle was empty. Kunz, ever the efficient businessman, was there instantly to replace the bottle.

  “Captain King has been training his men,” Kunz said as he put the bottle on the table.

  Brandt looked up at him. “What do you mean, he’s been training his men?”

  “Several of the Mexicans who live in this town have relatives who work at the Santa Gertrudis. Word has gotten back that the gunman he hired, this man Smoke Jensen, has been training them, just like you would an army.”

  “Well, I’ll be damn,” Brandt said. He rubbed his disfigured eyelid with his forefinger. “An army, huh?”

  Kunz poured the liquor into Brandt’s glass. “Well, that’s what the Mexicans are saying. But if you live down here long enough, you know you can never believe anything a Mexican tells you.”

  “I don’t know,” Brandt said. He took a swallow of his drink. “It makes sense when you think about it.”

  “So, he’s got an army,” Stone said. “We’ve fought armies before, me’n you.”

  “Yes, but I remind you that we had an army behind us,” Brandt said. “Not a bunch of ragtag outlaws who are all out for themselves.”

  “What do you think we should do? Think maybe we should have one big raid? Maybe against the house?”

  “We can’t do anything until we have more information,” Brandt said. “I need to send someone to find out. The only problem is, I’m not sure where to send him.”

  “Benevadis,” Kunz said.

  “Why Benevadis?”

  “That’s the closest town to the ranch and it’s where all the cowboys from Santa Gertrudis go. And because there are a lot more Americans there than here, you could send someone there without raising too much suspicion.”

  “Thanks,” Brandt said. “That’s good to know.”

  “Happy to help, Major,” Kunz replied as he started back toward the bar.

  “Why?” Stone called out to him.

  Kunz stopped, but he didn’t turn around, nor did he answer Stone.

  “Yeah, that’s a good question,” Brandt said. “Before I act on any information you give me, I would like to know why you are helping.”

  Kunz put an obsequious smile on his lips, then turned to face the two men who were now the most important people in all of Concepcion.

  “Why, you ask?”

  “Yeah, why? I mean, let’s face it, we’ve run roughshod over everyone else in town . . . over your neighbors. So, why are you happy to help us?”

  “Are you kidding, Major? Look around you. I’ve never had business this good. And no matter what you are doing to everyone else, you and your men have been straight with me. Seems only fitting that I be straight with you.”

  Brandt nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll accept that.”

  Kunz kept the smile on his face until he turned back around and started toward the bar. At that moment his face registered complete relief that he had come up with an answer that satisfied Brandt. Kunz was playing with fire, and he knew it.

  “So,” Stone said, continuing his conversation with Brandt.

  “You want me to go to Benevadis and have a look around to see what I can find out?”

  Brandt shook his head. “No,” he said. “I need you here. I’ll think of someone.”

  “We could send Waco,” Stone suggested.

  Again, Brandt shook his head. “No, I don’t want to send him. He’s much too hotheaded to be dependable. We’ll have to come up with someone else.”

  “Shit! How do you do that with just three fingers?” someone asked from one of the other tables. His question was met with a raucous round of laughter from all the others at that table.

  Looking toward the laughter, Brandt saw Three-Finger Manning performing some sleight-of-hand tricks with a silver dollar.

  “It’s easy if you know what you are doing,” Manning said. He held the dollar between the thumb and forefinger of his Three-Finger hand, then passed his other hand in front. The coin disappeared and almost immediately, he turned his good hand over to show that it wasn’t there.

  “That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Preston said.

  “There’s our man,” Brandt said, pointing to Manning.

  Smoke had not left the ranch since he arrived, so when Kleberg invited him to go with him into Benevadis, Smoke jumped at the chance.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I might like to go into town?” Sally asked when Smoke told her of his plans.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t want to go into Benevadis,” Henrietta said. She shook her head. “It’s much too rough a place for a lady like you.”

  Sally started to respond, and Smoke could tell by the expression on her face that she was going to point out to Henrietta that she wasn’t quite the “delicate” lady she appeared. But a warning glance from Smoke stopped her, though Smoke’s glance was ameliorated by a smile.

  Sally walked out front with Smoke. Kleberg was over in front of the barn saddling his horse. Stormy was already saddled.

  “Thanks,” Smoke said.

  “Thanks for what?”

  Smoke chuckled. “You know for what. For not spoiling Henrietta’s illusion about your . . .” He paused and stared pointedly at her. “What was it you called it back in Colorado? Your female decorum?”

  Sally laughed, then hit Smoke on the shoulder. “You are awful,” she said.

  About that time Kleberg had his horse saddled, and he rode over to Smoke.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  “I’m ready,” Smoke replied.

  “Oh?” Sally said, lifting her eyebrows. “Are you really ready?”

  Smiling, Smoke kissed her.

  “Now,” she said, when their lips parted. “You are ready.”

  Benevadis was the closest town to the Santa Gertrudis Ranch, and although it, like all the other small towns around the ranch, was predominantly Mexican, Benevadis had considerably more Americans than the others. In fact, it was almost half and half. It was this demographic makeup that made Benevadis the destination of choice for most o
f the Americans in the area, whether they worked on the Santa Gertrudis or one of the other ranches.

  Even the architecture of the little town reflected its split personality. One side of the street was American, lined with false-fronted buildings thrown together, washed out and flyblown. The first structure Smoke and Kleberg rode by was a blacksmith’s shop. From the blacksmith’s shop, going down on the same side of the street, was a butcher shop, a general store, a bakery, six small houses, then a leather-goods shop next door to an apothecary. A set of outside stairs climbed the left side of the drugstore to a small stoop that stuck out from the second floor. A painted hand on a sign, with a finger pointing up, read:

  W. W. WEST, M.D.

  After that came a saloon. On the opposite side of the street the buildings were constructed of adobe, with red tile roofs. Here was a cantina, a seamstress, a Roman Catholic church, a restaurant, and a few houses.

  “You can go on down to the Hog Lot if you’d like,” Kleberg said, pointing toward the saloon that bore that unlikely name in front. “I have some business to take care of with the blacksmith. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “All right,” Smoke said.

  Kleberg dismounted and was met by a smiling blacksmith who was wiping his hands on his apron as he approached. Smoke rode on down to the far end of the street, stopping in front of the saloon. Tying off Stormy at the hitching rail, he stepped inside the saloon, moving quickly, as he always did, to one side of the door, then stepping back against the wall.

  He recognized many of the men because they were the same Santa Gertrudis riders he had been working with for the last several days.

  “Hey,” Spitz said. “There’s Smoke.”

  “Smoke, over here. Let us buy you a beer!” Barrett called.

  After scanning the entire saloon and determining that there was nobody there to pose a threat, Smoke smiled at the greeting and went over to join the others.