Battle of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke finished cleaning his plate. “That egg custard does sound nice,” he said, changing the subject. Down deep he felt sure there would be excitement enough driving their cattle back up the trails to Big Rock country.

  “One more thing,” Chisum said as he got up to tell Maria to bring the flan, “I asked one of my hands to send a telegram to Fort Stanton while he was in Roswell delivering those bodies to Sheriff Romero. I told him to ask Colonel Dudley to meet you along the trail up to Fort Sumner somewhere with a squad of his soldiers, as an escort just in case Evans and Dolan try to rustle any of your cattle. I doubt if Dudley will agree. He’s hand in glove with Tom Catron and his Santa Fe Ring when it comes to this beef contract business. I find I’m not only pitted against a gang of paid guns in this range war, but I’m also at odds with the most powerful politicians in the territory. They’ll do all they can to put me out of business.” He looked down at Smoke. “That’s one reason I wish you’d reconsider staying on here for a while, Mr. Jensen. I have a feeling I’ll need all the help I can get… men who know their way around a gun.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not interested. I’ve got a wife waitin’ for me up in Colorado an’ a ranch to run. If things were different, I’d stay. As to those soldiers from Fort Stanton, I don’t reckon we’ll need ’em. I try to make a habit out of handlin’ my own affairs.”

  Chisum nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Smoke saw a frown on Bob’s face.

  “After what happened last night, I sure wouldn’t mind havin’ a soldier escort,” Bob said,

  “Me either,” Cletus added, toying with a spoon. “Wouldn’t be no disgrace to have a company of soldiers ridin’ with us part of the way.”

  “If they show up, we won’t send ’em back,” Smoke said, more to comfort his friends than anything else. “But you heard Mr. Chisum say it ain’t likely they’ll show. Apparently the army is backing the other side in this conflict. I never had much high regard for soldiers or politicians.”

  Johnny hadn’t said a word during supper, but he spoke up now, after mention was made of the soldiers. “Don’t know &’bout the rest of you, but I was plenty scared last night… bullets flyin’ all over the place, knockin’ holes in the side of that barn where I was hidin’. I couldn’t go back to sleep after it was over. I was thinkin’ how glad I was to be alive.”

  Cal was quick to agree, looking at Smoke when he said, “I was feelin’ might’ near the same way. Not that I ever doubted you’d git us out of that fix, Mr. Jensen, but them slugs sure was comin’ close a few times.”

  Smoke understood both boys’ concerns. They were young and inexperienced in the ways of battle. “Leave Evans and his gunslicks to me. The main thing you’re supposed to worry about is those cattle, come tomorrow. Just make sure you keep ’em bunched if there’s any trouble. Don’t let anybody close to those bulls, no matter what happens.”

  Now Pearlie was eyeing Smoke. “You expect Evans an’ his boys to come after our cattle, don’t you?”

  “It’s a strong possibility. I’ve never met Jessie Evans, but I know his kind. Some men can’t learn a lesson but one way, and that’s to teach it permanent.”

  “You aim to kill him, don’t you?” Johnny asked quietly.

  “Only if he comes at us again. I won’t go lookin’ for him, if that’s what you mean.”

  It was Pearlie who said, grinning, “He’s done come at us once already, which only proves you’ve gone an’ mellowed some in my opinion. If that’d happened a few years back, you’d have gone lookin’ fer Mr. Evans by now.”

  “We came here to buy Hereford bulls and cattle,” Smoke reminded Pearlie.

  “So we did,” Pearlie agreed, as Maria brought a tray filled with cups of caramel-coated custard into the dining room, which signaled an end to all further conversation as far as Pearlie was concerned.

  John Chisum had a small fire going in the fireplace due to a night chill, the house being without most of its windowpanes after the shooting. He had given Smoke a bill of sale for the cows and turned down the lantern while they shared glasses of whiskey while the men went to the bunkhouse.

  “I’m also interested in buyin’ a good Morgan stud to cross on my mares,” Smoke said, enjoying his drink, and the peace and quiet.

  Chisum wagged his head. “This isn’t good horse country yet, not by a long shot, however I have a friend in Saint Louis who raises purebred Morgans, and you can trust him. His name is Penn Wheelis. I’ll give you his address and you can say I recommended him to you. He’ll quote you a fair price, and even arrange for delivery by railroad car as far west as Denver. Wheelis is an honest man, and he’ll send you exactly what you’re paying for if you do business with him.”

  “I’d sorta made up my mind to look at one before I paid for it, but if you say this Penn Wheelis is honest, that’ll be good enough for me. With those Herefords and cows to tend to this summer, I won’t have time to travel to Saint Louis.”

  Chisum sipped his drink thoughtfully. “A Morgan is a good horse for adding muscle to a common mare. The crosses make good cow horses, I’m told.”

  “I’ll take that address in Saint Louis, I reckon.”

  Chisum got up and went to a rolltop desk, fumbling through a sheaf of papers until he found what he wanted. He wrote down a name and address and handed it to Smoke. “You won’t regret doing business with Wheelis. He’ll send you a good horse. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Smoke replied, tucking the paper into his waistband.

  Chisum took his chair again… There was something else on his mind. “I can send Buck Andrews or Curly Tully along with you for part of the way,” he offered. “Both of them have made a name for themselves with a gun.”

  “No thanks, but I’m obliged for the offer. I handle most of my own problems without any help.”

  “I can see that,” Chisum said. “I’m curious about a couple of things. Where did you learn to fight like that? An ordinary man can’t kill almost a dozen men the way you did single-handedly without getting a scratch.”

  Smoke thought about Preacher a moment. “I had a real good teacher, an old mountain man up in Colorado. If I had to try to explain it, I suppose I’d say he had a born instinct for taking care of himself in any situation. He lived alone in the wildest part of the Rockies. He never depended on anyone else. He survived in a place where all odds said he couldn’t, goin’ up against Indians like the Crows, Blackfeet, the Utes, and the Shoshoni back when the Indian wars were at their worst. After a spell, most tribes got to where they respected him… even made friends with him. Some of the Crow medicine men believed he was a medicine man himself, even though his skin was white and his eyes were the wrong color. He earned their respect as a fighting man, and they left him alone to hunt an’ run his traps.”

  “It sounds to me like you were very close to him, whoever he was.”

  Smoke felt a slight twinge when the old memories came back. “I reckon we were real close, if that’s the right word. He went by Preacher. He told me the last time I saw him his first name was Arthur. I never knew his last name.”

  “Is he… gone now?”

  Smoke downed the last of his drink, not wanting to discuss Preacher any longer. “Can’t say for sure. He’d be close to ninety by now, if he’s still alive. When I left him, it was at his request. He’d been wounded mighty bad and looked for all the world like he was gonna die. He asked me to dress him in his best buckskins an’ a sash, which is the way old-time mountain men want to be buried. Then he ordered me to leave that high country for good, to get clear of the trouble brewin’ there, He rode off on his favorite mare. That’s the last I ever saw of him, an’ I believe it was the way he wanted it, so I wouldn’t know if he’d lived or died. Preacher had a hell of a lot of pride, an’ I’m sure this was his way of sparing me from seeing him pass on, or as mountain men say, cross over.“(See "The Last Mountain Man")

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what became of him?”

&
nbsp; Smoke stood up, stretching his legs. “I owe him too much not to respect his wishes.”

  Chisum got up, a puzzled expression on his face. “What an unusual story,” he said, following Smoke over to the front door to show him out.

  “G’night, Mr. Chisum,” Smoke said, to end any further talk about Preacher or Smoke’s beginnings. “We’ll be up before first light to get that herd started.”

  “My men will help you get them started north,” Chisum said as Smoke started for the bunkhouse.

  “We’ll be grateful,” he said without turning around, lost in an unwanted memory, of the day Preacher was dressed in his best beaded buckskins, badly wounded from a scrape with men who had tracked him into the Needle Mountains, putting a rifle ball all the way through his hip, a wound that was badly festered by the time he found Smoke.

  Smoke glanced up at the stars, hoping that somewhere those same stars were shining down on Preacher, perhaps at the high mountain pass Ned Buntline told Cal and Pearlie about. Was the man dressed in an albino buffalo robe truly Preacher?

  Smoke knew he would never know, and that was the way Preacher had wanted it.

  Twenty-eight

  Driving half-wild longhorns away from their home range could be tricky business, Smoke knew from experience, and as they put a few lead heifers in motion northward, some tried to turn back. A cowboy had to ride up at just the right time in order to get the animals moving in the right direction.

  The young Herefords were another matter. Gentled by being around men feeding them in corrals, they plodded along at the back of the herd quietly.

  Smoke leaned out of the saddle and shook hands with John Chisum. “Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he said, watching Pearlie and Duke lead the cattle north over the very same hills where he’d killed six of Jessie Evans’s men.

  “The pleasure has been all mine,” Chisum replied. “You be careful, Smoke Jensen. Don’t let those owlhoots riding for Dolan jump you.”

  Smoke grinned. “I’m always careful,” he said, urging his horse forward to ride around the herd so he could scout the way for several miles before the cattle came.

  Dawn had just come to South Springs, casting golden light over tree-studded hills and shallow valleys. Off to the east, the Pecos River was a thin, distant line of deeper green where cottonwoods and grass were nourished by its waters. It was a peaceful beginning, as the heifers and bulls moved away from the Chisum ranch. Smoke wondered how long it would stay this way.

  Keeping the Pecos in sight, he led them over grassy meadows where the cows would have plenty of grazing. Once the herd got settled to the trail, the likelihood of a stampede would be less of a worry.

  When he’d scouted ahead for a couple of miles, Smoke turned back to see how the herd was moving, and when he topped a rise he could see them strung out in good trail fashion, traveling along at a slow pace, with the Hereford bulls bringing up the rear, an expected outcome since their legs were far shorter and they would have more trouble staying up with longer-strided longhorn cows.

  “So far, so good,” he said under his breath. The land they were traveling was empty, no houses or signs of civilization in sight as far as the eye could see.

  They were passing through what Chisum called the Haystack Mountain range, little more than foothills to a man who knew the Rockies. Water was plentiful in creeks and arroyos. With so much grass and water, the cattle would have an easy time of it until they reached drier regions to the north.

  An hour later, Smoke tensed in the saddle when he saw Duke Smith headed his way at a fast trot. Smoke swung his horse to ride to meet him.

  “Nothin’s wrong,” Duke said quickly, when he saw the look on Smoke’s face, “but we did see this horse an’ rider way off to the west, an’ he didn’t stay long afore he plumb disappeared.”

  It could be someone riding to warn Evans of their departure from Chisum’s ranch, although he didn’t want to worry Duke or the others. “Maybe just a range cowboy out lookin’ for strays. But keep your eyes peeled anyway.”

  “Pearlie said to tell you it didn’t look right, how this feller rode off that hilltop so quick, like he didn’t want nobody to see him.”

  “Could just be a coincidence. I’ll ride over to the west a ways, just to make sure. Keep the cattle moving. Some of those longhorns are a little spooky yet. If one gun goes off, they’ll all break into a run.”

  “I know the ornery critters right well,” Duke declared, as he turned his horse around. “Ain’t no creature on this earth as likely to run off as a damn longhorn. We’d be tryin’ to round ’em up till doomsday if somethin’ scares ’em.”

  Smoke wondered about the rider they had seen as Duke rode off to rejoin the herd at point. Was Jessie Evans keeping an eye on them, planning his next attempt at revenge?

  Swinging west, Smoke galloped his horse to the highest hill, where he had a view of what lay beyond. For a time, he sat his horse, motionless, making no effort to hide himself should anyone be watching. A herd the size of theirs couldn’t be hidden as it moved northward, no matter how carefully they were kept to low ground, making it pointless to hide his own presence on the hilltop now.

  As far as the eye could see, the land was empty. A red hawk soared above distant stands of trees, hunting prey, a sign it sensed no danger from the presence of man in forests below. A hawk’s eyesight and hearing were far keener than a man’s, and it convinced Smoke they were alone here. For now.

  Twenty-nine

  Ignacio Valdez came to a decision. Instead of riding back to Bosque Redondo to warn Jessie about the herd moving northward away from Chisum’s like Jessie wanted, he would take care of this broad-shouldered stranger called Smoke Jensen himself, and that would please Jessie. The sneaky gringo who’d killed so many of their gang would be dead, and Ignacio would get the credit for it, killing this loco hombre who had done so much damage when he snuck around behind them in the dark, like a coward. Ignacio was sure he could take Jensen down. In Chihuahua and Coahuila he’d been the fastest gun in northern Mexico, killing the likes of Luis Ortega, Manuel Soto, and the worst of them all in a pistol duel, Emiliano Zambrano.

  He’d killed Zambrano with his first shot when they drew against each other in Juarez, over a woman. Ignacio remembered how much faster he had been, getting off a shot before the famous Zambrano could level his gun. Stories circulated that Zambrano had killed more than a dozen pistoleros in gunfights. He’d had ten notches in the walnut grips of the pistol he carried when Ignacio ended his life with a bullet through the heart.

  “I can kill Jensen,” he told himself as he spurred his bay gelding well to the north of the cattle herd. “He is only a man, and I will be quicker, much quicker. I will cut off his head and bring it to Jessie as proof of what I have done…”

  He guided his horse down a winding arroyo to a small stream lined with cottonwood trees, lying directly in the path of the herd. Ignacio spenta moment deciding where to hide his horse before he selected a spot to wait for Jensen. Jensen would stop to water his horse, or simply slow down to cross the creek, and this would be when Ignacio would kill him.

  Hurrying away from the ravine where he tethered his bay, he trotted down to the stream, where a massive cottonwood trunk would hide his presence. Out of breath, he took off his sombrero and placed it on the ground in the tall grass where Jensen wouldn’t see it, before he pulled his Mason Colt .44/.40, checking each load carefully. Ignacio had decided against using a rifle—he wanted Jensen close before he killed him, close enough to see the fear and surprise on his face when he saw the man who would cut off his head for a trophy to give to Jessie Evans.

  He peered around the cottonwood, waiting patiently. This would be easy, killing Jensen, almost too easy. It would make up for the lives Jensen had taken in such a cowardly fashion, to creep up behind some of Jessie’s men and four of Pedro Lopez’s pistoleros.

  “Adios, Senor Jensen,” he whispered, pulling back so that only one eye was visible next to the tree trunk.
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br />   Water gurgled softly in the creek, passing over smooth stones on its way rejoin the Pecos. Ignacio ran the tip of his tongue across his gold tooth, almost grinning with anticipation.

  A horse and rider approached the stream. Ignacio recognized Jensen and drew back out of sight, awaiting the moment when he could be sure of the kill. Resting his right palm on the butt of his Colt, he was eager for things to begin. The sounds made by the horse carne closer, very close, and suddenly, they stopped.

  Ignacio jacked back the hammer on his pistol, so he only needed to draw and pull the trigger when he killed Jensen. He took a deep breath.

  He heard a spur jingle when it touched the ground. He is down off his horse, Ignacio thought. All the better.

  And still he waited for the right moment, when the sounds came nearer, making for surer aim.

  Quiet footfalls approached the stream. This was the moment Ignacio had been waiting for. He swung around the cottonwood and spread his feet slightly apart.

  “Jensen!” he cried, when he saw a tall cowboy wearing two pistols around his waist.

  The man froze in his tracks and Ignacio was sure it was fear that made him so still.

  “You called my name?” the cowboy asked, both hands relaxed at his sides.

  “Si, and I am calling you a yellow coward. You killed some of mi amigos. I have come to make you pay for what you did.”

  “You’d better be good,” the stranger said, his voice relaxed and even.

  “But I am, senor. Very good. Muy bueno con una pistola. I am faster than you.”

  “I reckon you’re gonna try to prove it now.”

  “Verdad. This is the truth. I will kill you for what you did.”

  Jensen gave him a one-sided grin, unusual for a man who was about to be gunned down.

  “Lots of men have tried it over the years. You can see I’m still here.”

  “But none were as fast as me, senor.” Ignacio raised his hand slightly closer to the butt of his gun, “Of that I am quite sure.”