“That’s good,” Cal said, taking off his hat and slapping dust off his clothes. “I’d sure hate to drive these beeves all this way and have them take sick too.”
Smoke looked up as a light dusting of snow began to fall from dark clouds overhead. “The cold weather and snow will help too,” he said. “It should kill off any ticks that still have the disease before they can make the new cattle sick.”
Pearlie rode over to join Smoke and Cal. “You two gonna sit here jawin’ all day, or are we gonna get these beeves down to the Wileys?”
Smoke laughed. “What’s your hurry, Pearlie?” he asked.
“It’s time for lunch, Smoke, an’ I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
As they moved the cattle down the ridge toward the valley, Mr. Wiley and his hired hand saw them coming, and got on their horses and rode out to help them bring the herd in.
* * *
Bill Wiley shut the gate on his north pasture behind the last of the beeves, dusted his hands off on his britches, and turned to Smoke and the boys. “Come on up to the house, men. Martha oughta have lunch ready by now.”
Smoke drew a startled look from Pearlie when he said, “We don’t want to impose, Mr. Wiley.”
“Don’t be silly, and please call me Bill. When I saw you boys up on the ridge, I told Martha to cook us up a couple of turkeys I trapped this fall.”
“Turkeys?” Pearlie said, almost drooling at the thought of a turkey dinner.
“Yep, with all the fixin’s,” Wiley said.
6
Snow began to fall from dark, ominous-looking clouds and the temperature started to fall. Sally, riding near the front of the band of outlaws, shivered and felt her hands begin to grow numb.
Bill Pike looked at her, noticing for the first time she was only wearing a relatively thin housedress. Her heavier clothes and coats had been in the cabin they’d burned, and none of the men had thought to get something more suitable for Sally to travel in before the house was torched.
Pike reached behind his saddle and pulled a yellow poncho out of his saddlebags. Even though it was thin, it was made of oilcloth and would keep the worst of the wind and snow off the woman. He kneed his horse over next to Sally’s and prepared to drape it over her head and shoulders.
Sally glanced at him, her eyes flat and emotionless. “Since you’re being so thoughtful, would you mind loosening my hands?” she asked.
Pike glanced at her hands, and saw that they were pale and almost blue from lack of circulation. Though he wasn’t sure just yet what he was going to end up doing with this woman of Smoke Jenson’s, he wasn’t totally heartless.
He slipped a long-bladed knife from a scabbard in his boot and sliced through the ropes binding Sally’s hands behind her back. Holding the knife point in front of Sally’s face as she rubbed her hands trying to get feeling back in them, he growled, “I’m gonna leave your hands untied, Mrs. Jensen. But I’m warnin’ you, if you try to run or cause any other trouble, we’ll catch you, an’ then I’ll use this knife on your face so even Smoke won’t ever want to look at you again.”
Sally looked at the knife. “Point taken,” she said in an even tone, showing no fear.
“What?” Pike asked, not understanding the term.
“I understand what you’re saying,” Sally said, carefully not promising not to try and escape.
“That’s good,” Pike said, “’Cause my problem is with Smoke, not you, an’ I’d hate to have to hurt you.”
Sally’s eyes narrowed. “What problem do you have with my husband, Mr. Pike?” she asked.
Pike gave her a nasty grin as he put the knife back in its scabbard. “That’s none of your business, Mrs. Jensen.”
“I think it is my business, Mr. Pike. After all, when a woman’s husband has to kill a man, it’s only right she should know why he had to do it.”
Pike threw back his head and laughed. “I think you got it backward, little lady. Smoke ain’t gonna kill me, I’m gonna kill him.”
Sally smiled sweetly and shook her head, her eyes sad. “Do you have any idea how many men before you have said that, Mr. Pike, and how many men are dead because they underestimated Smoke Jensen?”
Pike’s expression darkened, and he clamped his jaws shut tight and spurred his horse on up ahead of Sally so he wouldn’t have to talk to her anymore.
He rode up next to Rufus Gordon, who was riding bent over with his ruined hand pressed tight against his belly. Gordon glanced at him and then back over his shoulder at Sally. “I’m hurtin’ awful bad, Bill,” he groaned.
Pike nodded. “I know, Rufe. We’ll get you some laudanum when we get to Canyon City. We got to pass through there on the way to Pueblo.”
Gordon cut his eyes back to Sally. “And when the time comes, I want to be the one to kill her, Bill. I owe her for what she done to my hand.”
Bill grinned. “Maybe you ought to thank her instead, Rufe. From where I sit, it looks like she coulda put that bullet in your brain just as easily as in your hand.”
“That don’t matter, Bill. She damn near shot my hand off an’ I’m gonna make her pay!”
Pike’s eyes got hard and his expression soured. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do and nothing else, Rufe!” he snarled back. “I’m still head man of this outfit, and I’ll tell you what you can do and what you can’t do. Got me?”
Gordon’s eyes fell. “Yeah. I ain’t tryin’ to cross you, Bill.”
“That’s good, Rufe, ’cause what that lady did to you ain’t nothin’ to what I’ll do to you if you ever try to go against me.”
* * *
After they finished the turkey dinner, Mr. Wiley and Smoke and the boys went out on Wiley’s porch for coffee and smokes. While Wiley filled an old corncob pipe with black tobacco, Smoke and Cal and Pearlie all built themselves cigarettes.
Wiley stood at the porch rail and watched as the snow became thicker. “I think it’d be best if you men spent the night here, Smoke,” he said. “There ain’t no use in you trying to get started tonight with this storm brewing.”
Smoke took a drag on his cigarette and chased it with some of Mrs. Wiley’s excellent coffee as he stared out into the early evening snowfall. “We wouldn’t want to put you and Martha out, Bill,” he said.
Wiley waved his pipe in the air. “Don’t be silly, Smoke,” he said. “It won’t be any trouble at all, and you and the boys can start out fresh in the morning after a good breakfast.”
At the mention of food, Pearlie’s ears perked up. “That sounds good to me, Smoke,” he said, licking his lips.
“Any time somebody mentions food it sounds good to you, Pearlie,” Cal said, laughing.
Smoke and Wiley joined in the laughter, and Smoke said, “We’ll accept your hospitality, Bill, but only if Martha will let Pearlie and Cal do the dishes after we eat.”
“That’s a deal,” Wiley said.
* * *
The storm broke during the night, and the day dawned with clear skies and the temperature just above freezing. After a hearty breakfast of scrambled hens’ eggs, deer sausage, and biscuits almost as good as Sally made, Smoke and Bill Wiley went out on the porch to finish their coffee while Cal and Pearlie helped Martha Wiley clean up the kitchen dishes.
As they sat there, smoking and drinking coffee, Smoke’s sharp eyes saw two figures appear on the ridge above the Wileys’ valley.
“Looks like you have company coming,” Smoke said.
Wiley got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the porch. “Must be something important,” he said. “The poor bastards must’ve ridden all night through that storm to get here.”
Smoke stepped into the house and got his binoculars out of his saddlebags. When he put them to his eyes, he was startled to recognize the riders as Monte Carson and Louis Longmont.
“Damn!” he muttered to himself, his heart racing. The presence of his two best friends way out here could only mean serious trouble back home. His mouth grew dr
y and his stomach churned at the thought that maybe something had happened to Sally.
Bill Wiley stuck his head back in the door to the house. “We got company coming, Martha. Better put on some more coffee and fix up some more breakfast.”
Smoke jumped off the porch and ran through ankle-deep snow to meet Monte and Louis in the front yard.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, not waiting for them to get off their horses.
Monte and Louis looked at each other, neither wanting to be the one to break the news to their friend.
Finally, Louis spoke. “Someone attacked the Sugarloaf, Smoke. They killed Sam Curry and Will Bagby, burnt your house down, and took Sally with them.”
Smoke stopped dead in his tracks. “Are you sure they took her?”
Monte and Louis climbed stiffly down off their horses. Snow and ice were packed on their hats and shoulders. “Yeah,” Monte said, reaching in his pocket. “They left this note.”
As he handed the note to Smoke, Bill Wiley came out of the house and took their horses’ reins. “You men get on in the house ’fore you freeze to death out here. I’ll have my hand take care of your horses.”
* * *
Minutes later, while Monte and Louis warmed up by eating breakfast and drinking several cups of coffee, they explained what had happened at the Sugarloaf to a rapt audience.
When they finished, Smoke read the note for the fifth time, trying to remember if he’d ever crossed paths with anyone named W. Pike.
“You have any idea why this Pike fellow would do such a thing, Smoke?” Monte asked. He knew Smoke had made a lot of enemies in his many years on the frontier.
Smoke started to shake his head, and then he remembered a day long ago when he and Preacher rode into Rico. . . .
* * *
Smoke and Preacher dismounted in front of the combination trading post and saloon. As was his custom, Smoke slipped the thongs from the hammers of his Colts as soon as his boots hit dirt.
They bought their supplies, and had turned to leave when the hum of conversation suddenly died. Two rough-dressed and unshaven men, both wearing guns, blocked the door.
“Who owns that horse out there?” one demanded, a snarl in his voice, trouble in his manner. “The one with the SJ brand?”
Smoke laid his purchases on the counter. “I do,” he said quietly.
“Which way’d you ride in from?”
Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry, concealing the click as he thumbed it back.
Smoke faced the men, his right hand hanging loose by his side. His left hand was just inches from his left-hand gun. “Who wants to know—and why?”
No one in the dusty building moved or spoke.
“Pike’s my name,” the bigger and uglier of the pair said. “And I say you came through my diggin’s yesterday and stole my dust.”
“And I say you’re a liar,” Smoke told him.
Pike grinned nastily, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “Why . . . you little pup. I think I’ll shoot your ears off.”
“Why don’t you try? I’m tired of hearing you shoot your mouth off.”
Pike looked puzzled for a few seconds; bewilderment crossed his features. No one had ever talked to him in this manner. Pike was big, strong, and a bully. “I think I’ll just kill you for that.”
Pike and his partner reached for their guns.
Four shots boomed in the low-ceilinged room, four shots so closely spaced they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and birds’ droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and his friend were slammed out the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support pole, his eyes still open, unbelieving. Neither had managed to pull a pistol more than halfway out of leather.
All eyes in the black-powder-filled and dusty, smoky room moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand. “Good God!” a man whispered in awe. “I never even seen him draw.”
Preacher moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating he wanted no trouble.
“We’ll be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door slowly.
Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike, and walked past his dead partner in the shooting.
“What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.
“Bury ’em.”
“What’s the kid’s name?”
“Smoke.”
A few days later, in a nearby town, a friend of Preacher’s told Smoke that two men, Haywood and Thompson, who claimed to be Pike’s half brother, had tracked him and Preacher and were in town waiting for Smoke.
Smoke walked down the rutted street an hour before sunset, the sun at his back—the way he had planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in a big tent at the end of the street, which served as saloon and cafe. Preacher had pointed them out earlier and asked if Smoke needed his help. Smoke said no. The refusal came as no surprise.
As he walked down the street, a man glanced up, spotted him, then hurried quickly inside.
Smoke felt no animosity toward the men in the tent saloon—no anger, no hatred. But they’d come here after him, so let the dance begin, he thought.
Smoke stopped fifty feet from the tent. “Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me?”
The two men pushed back the tent flap and stepped out, both angling to get a better look at the man they had tracked. “You the kid called Smoke?” one said.
“I am.”
“Pike was my brother,” the heavier of the pair said.
“And Shorty was my pal.”
“You should choose your friends more carefully,” Smoke told him.
“They was just a-funnin’ with you,” Thompson said.
“You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“If that’s the way you want to take it.”
Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back or make your play.”
“There is no need for this,” Smoke said.
The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”
“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.
“The kid’s yellow!” Haywood yelled. Then he grabbed for his gun.
Haywood touched the butt of his gun just as two loud gunshots blasted in the dusty street. The .36-caliber balls struck Haywood in the chest, one nicking his heart. He dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes, and death relieved him of the shocking pain by pulling him into a long sleep, two more shots thundered. He had a dark vision of Thompson spinning in the street. Then Haywood died.
Thompson was on one knee, his left hand holding his shattered right elbow. His leg was bloody. Smoke had knocked his gun from his hand, and then he’d shot him in the leg.
“Pike was your brother,” Smoke told the man. “So I can understand why you came after me. But you were wrong. I’ll let you live. But stay with mining. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”
The young man turned, putting his back to the dead and bloody pair. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.2
7
Monte Carson, noting the faraway look in Smoke’s eyes, shook him gently by the shoulder. “Smoke, are you all right?” he asked.
Smoke’s eyes cleared and he shook his head. “Uh, yeah, Monte. I was just remembering a time long ago when Preacher and I went up against some men.” He glanced around the table. “One of them I killed was named Pike.”
“Do you think this W. Pike who kidnapped Sally is related to the man you killed?” Louis Longmont asked.
Smoke shrugged. “I don’t know, Louis.” He thought for a moment. “There was another man there, named Thompson, who said he was Pike’s half brother.”
“Did you drill him too, Smoke?” Cal asked. Smoke shook his head. “No. As I remember, after I shot him in the arm and the leg, most of the fight went out of him, so I let him live.”
Louis shook his head. “You know better than that, Smoke,” he said.
Smoke’s eyes met Louis’s. “I was only in my teens at the time, Louis. I hadn’t learned yet not to ever leave a man alive who has reason to come after you later.”
Bill Wiley, standing over at the counter next to his wife, Martha, cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I ain’t exactly an expert in all this, but I think we’re getting off the point here. It don’t matter why this galoot took Smoke’s wife. The question is, what are we gonna do about it?”
Smoke glanced over at Wiley, a sad expression on his face. “There is no we, Bill. Pike, whoever he is, made it clear in his letter that I was to come after him alone. I can’t risk any harm coming to Sally by charging up to Pueblo with a posse, even if they are my best friends.”
“But Smoke,” Pearlie said. “You can’t go after them alone. They’re sure to be waitin’ for you along the trail. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Smoke ignored Pearlie and asked Monte, “Did you check out the tracks around the cabin, Monte? Any idea of how many men were riding with Pike?”
Monte nodded. “Louis and I both took a look, Smoke. It wasn’t real clear, but it looked like between eight and twelve different tracks in the area.”
Smoke got to his feet. “Well, they probably didn’t know where I was, or they would’ve come up here to get me, so that gives me a slight edge. I can be in Pueblo a couple of days ahead of the deadline, before they’re expecting me.”
“So could Monte and I, Smoke,” Louis said.
Smoke shook his head. “No, it’s too dangerous, Louis. Both you and Monte are too well known around Big Rock. If this Pike sent a couple of men to look the town over before attacking the Sugarloaf, they might have seen you around.”
Trek of the Mountain Man Page 4