The Adventures Of The Brothers Dent (The Mountain Men Book 3)

by Terry Grosz

  While sitting in the far comer of Bosco’s Saloon waiting for their supper, Gabe noticed four rough-looking men entering the front door of the saloon. The men looked like they had been riding hard and were a rough-looking lot even for Missouri backwoods folk. Nudging Josh under the table with his boot, Gabe gave a slight nod of his head in the direction of the newcomers. Looking over the rough lot of humanity, Josh and Gabe soon disregarded them as being Black Bill and his kin. There wasn’t a large man in the bunch. And only one sported a beard of any proportions and it was salt and pepper in color. However, the men, after ordering drinks, seemed to be taking an unusual interest in Josh and Gabe with a lot of subtle sideways looks as the brothers began eating their just-delivered supper.

  Noticing the intense furtive glances of interest from the men drinking at the bar, Josh and Gabe continued eating their supper as if not interested in the strange looks they were now getting. However, their outward calm did not betray their inner feelings for what was to come, especially if the strangers got their “red” up.

  Then the four men, with drinks in hand, sauntered over to the comer in which Gabe and Josh sat quietly eating their supper. As they did, Josh and Gabe pretended to be looking unconcerned over the strangers’ less-than-casual approach. However, their calm looks did not betray their feelings now running fast and

  furiously underneath their quiet demeanor. The older man with the salt and pepper beard stopped and quietly stood in front of the Dent brothers’ table for a moment as if he belonged.

  Not getting a visible rise from Josh and Gabe over his rude manners, he loudly said in a sneering sort of way, “You two be the lawmen following Bill Jenkins and his kin?”

  Gabe never looked up from eating his meal while tensing up inside, as his brother said, “No, sir. We two brothers are heading for St. Louis so we can join up with a fur brigade to trap beaver in the Trans-Mississippi West and become Mountain Men.”

  “That so,” continued Salt-and-Pepper. “I hear tell you boys be the law who are following our kin and asking lots of personal questions. And from the description of your size and the looks of your stock tethered outside, you be the two everyone has been gossiping about from the ‘Boot Heel’ to this here place.”

  “Like I said,” said Josh, looking up from his plate of now not-so-interesting grub lying in front of him, “we are on our way to join a fur brigade in St. Louis. Once there, we can join up and trap so we can make our fortunes selling beaver pelts like other Mountain Men are doing.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, you ‘som-beach?’” bellowed out Salt-and-Pepper as his hand menacingly went for his sheath knife! At the same time, the other three men went for their knives or tomahawks as well as if on cue from their leader!

  Boom! roared Gabe’s .69-caliber horse pistol, heretofore unseen under the supper table pointing upward! Its huge slug tore through the wooden table top and smashed into Salt-and- Pepper’s chest, blowing him backwards, killing him instantly!

  At that moment, Josh grabbed the bottom of the table and heaved it violently upward into the faces of the three surprised and still-standing assailants. Crash! went the table into the three men causing them to hesitate and stagger backwards in their knife-and tomahawk-retrieving actions. Boom! went Josh’s horse pistol in the next second, its big slug tearing into the chin of the closest man just as he cleared his tomahawk from his belt. The impact from such close range skidded the man backwards across the floor in a bloody smear killing him instantly! By now, Gabe’s tomahawk was flipping through the air in vicious circles, striking the closest standing man of the two remaining assailants in his chest with a resounding, bone-crunching thump! As he toppled to the ground with a soft groan, his body tangled up the feet of the last standing man flopping him backwards to the floor as well. Rebounding with surprising quickness from the floor, the man lunged for Josh with a drawn knife. His actions were for naught, however, as Gabe’s speedily thrown knife and Josh’s tomahawk struck him simultaneously in the face and chest. The deadly impact from the weapons dropped him like a pole-axed hog! Then silence reigned in the saloon as the barkeep stared on in disbelief at the furious action that had just occurred in his place of business as he peered through the bluish-white cloud of black powder smoke as it slowly dissipated.

  Josh quietly picked up the table and placed it back on its feet, then slid it back where it belonged. Gabe, on the other hand, calmly retrieved his knife and their two thrown tomahawks. Then both brothers began reloading their pistols while the bar- keep’s son ran from the saloon in abject panic to get the local Constable. Cleaning off their edged weapons on the homespun shirts of the dead men, Gabe quietly asked the barkeep to prepare another supper for him and his brother. With that request, he quietly pointed to their previous suppers lying spilled across the dirty floor. The barkeep, still standing stone-like in shock, hesitated, then ran back into the kitchen. Soon one could hear the clanging of pots and pans as a second set of suppers was quickly being prepared by a now-terrified man. A man hoping to be able to live through the night in light of what had just occurred out front in his saloon to four of his previous patrons.

  Just then, the front door of the saloon burst open and the local Constable flew in holding a double-barreled shotgun at the ready. Sensing the lawman was scared out of his wits, Gabe and Josh slowly raised their hands. The Constable with eyes now fixed on them, after glancing over at the four dead men, slowly walked over to the brothers with his street howitzer at the ready as indicated by both its hammers being cocked and a shaky finger on a trigger.

  “Sir, we both are Missouri Constables and the four dead men attacked us. All we did was defend ourselves,” said Josh, quietly trying to calm the excited lawman down. Continuing, he said, “If you will allow me and my brother to lower our hands, we can show you our badges and Missouri letter of authorization indicating we are bona fide lawmen.”

  “Jest do it mighty slow or the two of you will be meeting your Maker oncest the smoke clears from this here scattergun,” said the obviously still-deeply frightened lawman. Josh and Gabe did as they were told and then showed their badges and authorization letter to him. With that, the little man lowered his shotgun, being much relieved.

  “You boys sure messed up Bosco’s place of business here,” said the Constable, as local townsfolk, upon hearing the hell- raising subside, began poking their noses through the front door of the saloon to see what was going on. “You folks get the hell outta here till we get this here place cleaned up proper like,” growled the Constable. With that, the tide of gawkers began leaving the saloon as the Constable then yelled at the barkeep, “Bosco, get that boy of your’n to go and get the undertaker. Tell him the county has some business fer him.”

  By then, supper had once again arrived and since there was plenty, the three Constables sat down and ate until they were satisfied. Lying at their feet, the four dead men quivered their last. Shortly thereafter, the undertaker arrived and with the help of some townspeople, removed the bodies to his place of business but not before the Dent Brothers had removed all the firearms and edged weapons from the dead as the spoils of battle.

  During their dinner, the Dents had the opportunity to quiz the Constable as to the identities of the four dead men. As near as he could tell and from information supplied by the townsfolk, the four were shirttail relatives of Black Bill Jenkins and his clan. Word was out in the country that the Dent brothers were after Black Bill and his kin for killing folks down in the “Boot Heel.” And to the Constable’s way of thinking, the four dead men being relatives had been hot on the brothers’ trail to preclude them from catching Black Bill and the rest of their kin.

  After supper, Josh and Gabe took possession of the four dead men’s riding stock. They gave the dead men’s pack animals to the undertaker for his bill. Thanking the Town Constable for his help, the brothers rode off into the backwoods to set up camp and get a quiet night’s rest after a fairly heavy and exciting supper. Daylight the next morning found the
brothers leading a now- larger pack string of horses as they headed for Jefferson City, the last known destination of Black Bill Jenkins and his clan.

  ***

  Arriving in Jefferson City in the afternoon, the brothers headed for the nearest livery in the center of town. Placing their horses and gear in the safekeeping of the liveryman, the brothers with their saddlebags of hard coin from the sale of their uncle’s farm ventured out into the largest city they had ever seen. Just as they cleared the entrance to the livery, Josh noticed a large black stallion wearing four white fetlocks and sporting a white blaze tethered in a nearby corral! Nudging his brother and quickly looking around for any danger the horse might represent in the possible presence of his notorious owner, the boys soon relaxed. No such owner was in sight and the boys returned to the barn and the liveryman.

  “Who does that black stallion with the white blaze and fetlocks belong to?” asked Josh.

  Looking up from his stall-cleaning activities, the liveryman said, “That horse and his rider came in late last night along with three other fellas. The ‘black’ was going lame, so I sold his owner another horse and took the black one in on trade. Once he heals up, he will bring a pretty penny,” continued the liveryman with a grin through his tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Any idea as to where he was off to?” casually asked Josh, so as not to arouse any unusual suspicion relating to the question.

  “Why do you ask, Stranger?” asked the liveryman.

  “My brother and I just might be his kin if that be his old horse,” replied Josh, with a knowing wink over his obvious falsehood back at his brother.

  Back at his stall-cleaning work, the liveryman said, “I am not sure but one of his partners said to the one with the lame black horse that they had better keep moving since their kin had been killed in Taos and that those doing the killing were still at large. He suggested that maybe they not stop until they got to Hermann, Missouri, and only then, if the coast was clear.”

  Josh, looking over at his brother and realizing it would be too late to take up the chase that evening, asked, “Where is the best place to bed down, get a good steak dinner, and a bath?”

  Again not looking up from his cleaning work in the stall, the liveryman pointed a dirty finger down the street saying, “Ma Kettle’s Place. Serves the best steak in town and her rooms are always clean, free of bed bugs, and cheap. Two blocks that-a- way, Young Fella,” he continued, as he stabbed another pile of manure-soiled hay with his pitchfork and tossed it into a wheelbarrow.

  That night, the Dents enjoyed a hot bath with lilac water, a thick steak and a pleasant, mosquito-free night in a bed whose length and noisy, sagging springs did not suit their tastes. After a while, the men got up from their sagging beds and slept comfortably on the floor. And they did, quietly drifting off to sleep to the clanking tunes of a piano being played on the first floor beneath them, even though it was loud and somewhat off-key. The next morning after a large breakfast of hoecakes, side pork, a dozen fried eggs each, and scalding strong coffee made the night before, the Dents made their way back to the livery. One of their horses had thrown a shoe which was soon replaced and with the pack string packed, the brothers headed for Hermann, Missouri. All along their way, the Dents stopped at many farmsteads asking travel directions and if anyone had seen four bearded riders heading east. They did this pretending they were long lost kin to avoid any undue suspicions.

  However, from the lack of any new information from the locals, it now seemed as if Black Bill and his clan had once again vanished into the countryside. There were no killings or rapes reported and no one had been recently robbed. It was almost as if Black Bill and his clan had all they needed in the way of supplies and were now rapidly heading east for parts unknown. Parts unknown and, if they had their druthers, out of reach from the long arm of the law and the brothers Dent hot on their trail.

  Arriving in Hermann several days later, the brothers stopped in town and paid the local Constable a visit. In describing the four wanted men and their last known direction, the Constable had some news that he thought might be of interest to the boys. It seemed in the area of Hopewell, a small town to the east, word was that a farmstead had been burned and all the occupants had been killed. No one had seen the culprits but from the tracks they left behind, it had been four horsemen leading two pack- horses! Thanking the Constable, the Dents took their stock to the nearest livery and boarded them for the night. There they also sold the four riding horses taken from the battle in the saloon at Taos. They added those coins from that sale to their already bulging saddlebags. Remembering what a terrible night they had at Ma Kettle’s boarding house and the lousy beds previously, the brothers opted to sleep in the livery next to their horses and pack animals that evening. That they were allowed to do for the cost of ten cents each.

  The next morning at dawn found the brothers hard on the well-marked trail to Hopewell. Both were hoping the trail would grow hot and they would soon intercept the four killers. If they did, they figured they would settle up with God, the devil, and the innermost feelings languishing in their souls. However, it was not to be. The trail once again grew cold. In fact, colder than ever and soon the brothers ran out of all leads. No further information was forthcoming and the only lead they had from one local farmer was that the four’s last known trail led out of Hopewell towards St. Louis and that trail was now crowded with many other travelers of every cut, cloth, and kind. From that moment on, no more information surfaced as to Black Bill, his clan, and their evil, killing and raping ways. None!

  Faced with that reality, the brothers camped one evening near the small burg of New Melle, near the outskirts of St. Louis. After dinner of fresh venison, biscuits and coffee, the brothers sat quietly around their small campfire deeply lost in their thoughts.

  Breaking the silence, Josh said, “Well, Gabe, we are facing a cold trail once again. No more leads or evil deeds to guide us to the next junction on our quest. What are your thoughts, Brother, as to our next move?”

  Josh was met with a long silence from his brother before he spoke. Then Gabriel said, “I say we head into St. Louis and spend the winter which is now fast approaching. While there, we look to see if Black Bill and his clan went that-a-way and are staying there as well. If we find them, we kill the lot and toss our badges. If not, then we need to face what is left of our lives. As kids we always wanted to join a fur brigade and trap our ways west and see what adventure lies in that direction. Especially since neither of us wanted to spend the rest of our lives looking at the hind end of a mule as dirt farmers. So, I say that is where we cast our lot, for better or for worse. I would like to avenge our parents and kin but our efforts have been for naught to date. We can spend the rest of our lives chasing those four and may never find them. Look how many miles we have traveled since the death of our kin and what do we have to show for it. Nothing but spent stock and a lot of cold and sleepless nights. If we don’t get them, the good Lord will eventually tend to those four for their misdeeds. So, I say we move on. I, for one, would like to start over. And I say the Trans-Mississippi West and the land of the setting sun is as good a place as any to do so. Them is my thoughts for whatever they are worth, Brother.”

  Josh mulled over his brother’s words for a long moment as he stared into the fire. Then he arose and went over to where they had stowed their packs on the ground. Digging into a pannier, he pulled out a small keg of “white lightning” he had been carrying since they had left their Uncle John’s farm. Returning to the fire, he slowly filled his brother’s cup to the brim as he did his. Handing a cupful of the powerful liquid to his brother, Josh said, “Here is to our new quest. May we find Black Bill and settle what needs to be settled. If not, then may we move on into what the good Lord has in store for us in the Trans-Mississippi West as Mountain Men.” With that, the two brothers hefted their cups to the stars for luck and then drew down deeply its fiery contents. With that, the die of their destiny was now cast...

  C
HAPTER FOUR : ST. LOUIS

  The next afternoon, Josh and Gabe rode into the outskirts of St. Louis. What a sight awaited their unaccustomed, backcountry eyes! More people than they had ever seen were going every which way and all at once: gaily dressed Indians; Mountain Men dressed from head to toe in fringed buckskins; teamsters driving heavily loaded wagons from the docks along the Mississippi River up the bluffs and into town; Mexican muleteers leading their plodding mules; dragoons riding by in formation with their long clanking swords; French-Canadian voyageurs, loud and noisy in their discussions with one another; farmers carrying loads of goods from their fields; swaggering, swearing boatmen staggered by loaded with demon rum; merchants unloading wagons; women in long dresses trying daintily to walk the muddy streets; professionally dressed fur traders in frocked coats and beaver top hats; and mounds of horse and oxen manure lying in piles everywhere. The next street over, they observed street vendors selling their wares, hordes of sweating black men toting huge loads on their shoulders from the docked flatboats and keelboats along the river, and businessmen in suits and beaver top hats scattered throughout the mess of humanity in droves! Interspersed in that mass of humankind came all the noises and smells associated with such activity. It almost hurt Josh and Gabe’s ears and stung their noses after their many days and nights alone in the quiet and clean wilds of the dense forests of Missouri.

  Still riding on in amazement, the brothers made their way to a large, red-painted, two-story building with a bright yellow sign out front proclaiming, JENSENSUTTA, PROP., BLACKSMITH, LIVERY AND DRAYAGE. Riding their horses and pack strings up a ramp and through the double-wide doors into the cavernous place of business, Josh and Gabe met a thin, heavily whiskered man. Before they could say anything, he walked by hefting a beautifully tooled, black Mexican saddle adorned with silver conchos and a saddle blanket. Then he placed the items over a stall to dry.