Dear Readers,
Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”
I’ve never forgotten those words. And now, many years and almost 200 books later, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the last gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid mountain man, or John Barrone and his hard-working crew keeping America safe from terrorist low lifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.
Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.
As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.
Respectfully yours,
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
COURAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
BOOK TWO
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
BOOK THREE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
COURAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
SMOKE JENSEN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN: ABSAROKA AMBUSH
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The various Indian tribes who knew him called him Ghost Walker, White Wolf, Killing Ghost, and a dozen other names, all attesting to the man’s ability as a fighting man who had no equal. The other mountain men called him Preacher. He had walked and ridden into the high mountains as a mere boy, and had not been west of the Mississippi since then. His home was the High Lonesome. The Big Empty. Preacher was a lean-hipped, wide-shouldered, heavily muscled man of average height for the time. Many women thought him ruggedly handsome. Preacher was a man to ride the river with. He liked his coffee hot, black, and strong, his whiskey raw, and his women lively.
He thought he was about thirty-five years or so, but he wasn’t real sure about that. And while the mountain man known as Preacher was by no means the first mountain man ever to ride the High Lonesome. He was there during the good ol’, wild ol’ times, and he rode with the best of them. Preacher lasted long after the final chapter was written about the breed called Mountain Man, continuing to gain fame as an army scout, a warrior, a leader of wagon trains, and an Indian fighter. Preacher named creeks and rivers that still bear the names he gave them.
Many modern-day campers and hikers return from the high mountains with wild tales of seeing a ghost rider ambling along. Some say he sings old songs; others say they have awakened to find this old mountain man squatting beside the dying embers of their fire, drinking coffee right out of the pot. They say that he smiles at them, stands up silently, and then disappears into the night. Still others have said they have seen a man dressed all in buckskin playing with wolves and cougars.
One camper awakened in the dead of night to the sight of an old man standing over him, and when he recovered from his shock, asked the ghostly old mountain man his name.
“Preacher,” the apparition replied.
BOOK ONE
No matter how thin you slice it, it’s still baloney.
—Alfred E. Smith
1
It was still winter in the high country when the man called Preacher packed up his few possessions and stood for a moment before pulling out.
“Horse,” he said, “I think you and me have done agreed to a bad deal.”
His horse, named Hammer, turned his head and rolled his eyes, as if saying that he didn’t have a damn thing to do with any deal Preacher might have made.
Preacher looked at Hammer. “All right, all right. Stop lookin’ at me that-away. I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t give me no trouble on this run, and with the money I was promised, when we get back I’ll put you out to pasture in a pretty little valley and you can live out the rest of your days with a whole herd of mares. How about that?”
Hammer stared at him for a moment, and then snorted.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Preacher said, then gathered up the lead rope of his packhorse and swung into the saddle. He pointed Hammer’s nose east.
It was not uncommon for solitary-riding men to talk to their horses, and Preacher was no exception. A mountain man’s life was a self-imposed lonely one, and he had not seen a white man all winter; spotting only the occasional Indian during the long winter months. The Indians had left him alone, and he’d returned the favor. Preacher was not a hunter of trouble, but he damn sure wouldn’t back away from it if trouble came calling. And the Indians knew that only too well.
Preacher topped a rise and stopped for a moment, knowing he was sky-lining himself, but not terribly worried about it. Hammer was relaxed, and Hammer was a better watchdog than any canine that Preacher had ever seen. If there had been any Injuns about, Hammer would have let him know.
Near as Preacher could figure it, he had near’abouts seven hundred and fifty miles to go to the jump-off place in Missouri. And while the government had agreed to pay him more money than he had ever seen in his whole life, Preacher damn sure had misgivings about this job.
If them men out yonder in the northwest had such a cravin’ for womenfolk to marry up with, seemed to Preacher like they could do their own fetchin’.
But they hadn’t, and the government man had handed the job to him.
Preacher figured he might just retire after this job was over and done. Providin’ he got it d
one, that is.
He walked Hammer on down the slope to the valley below. The government man had said there would be between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and fifty women ready to move west across the mountains.
Preacher shuddered at the thought.
He’d spent all winter trying to figure out a way to hand the job to someone else. But he hadn’t come up with anybody he’d felt was dumb enough to take it. Besides, he’d given his word, and Preacher had never broken his word to anybody in his life. The government man had also said there’d be fifty wagons. Preacher would make a bet it would be more like seventy-five or eighty wagons.
First thing he’d have to do is dress up about half of them women in men’s britches to fool the Injuns. If the Injuns ever found out there wasn’t no more than a handful of menfolks with the wagons, they’d attack. And before they pulled out, Preacher would have to find out how many of the women knew how to shoot, and how well.
“Boy,” he said to the lonesome beauty of the wilderness around him, “you can damn sure get yourself into some pickles. And this is about the sourest barrel you ever dropped into.”
As soon as the other mountain men within a two-hundred-mile radius had learned of the agreement Preacher had made with the government, they had immediately left the area, knowing that Preacher would be sure to ask them to help him out, and not wanting any part of it.
“Cowards,” Preacher muttered, for the thousandth time that winter. “A-leavin’ me to do this by myself.” But he knew there wasn’t none of them that were cowards. They was just showin’ a whole lot of uncommon good sense.
“Probably a lot more sense than I got,” Preacher muttered. “Come on, Hammer. Let’s make tracks.”
A very uneventful week later, Preacher had put the High Lonesome of the Rockies behind him and was on the flats. He had not seen a living human soul and that suited him just fine. He angled south for a day and then once more cut east toward Missouri. As he rode, he tried to figure out what year it was. He thought it must be 1839. Someone had told him it was ’38 last year, so it stood to reason. Providin’ the person who told him it was 1838 knew what the hell he was talkin’ about, that is.
In his mind, Preacher was going over the trail that lay behind him—the trail that some folks had taken to calling the Oregon Trail. But that was not official yet.
Since there was no way to talk the women out of this fool’s mission, Preacher was working out in his head the best way to lead these female types, with marryin’ on the mind, to the coast. The Injuns were getting some worked up about all the people with a sudden urge to move west, and for sure there was going to be trouble with them.
All in all, Preacher thought glumly, I have got myself into a mess.
Then he saw the smoke and reined up short. He hopped off Hammer, ground reined him, and with Hawken rifle in hand, edged up closer for a look-see. Preacher grinned. It was Blackjack Perkins, live and in the flesh. If there was a surlier man anywheres to be found than Blackjack, Preacher didn’t know of him. But Blackjack was a man to ride the river with, and if he gave his word, it was the same as chiseled in stone.
Preacher knew Hammer and the packhorse would stay right where he left them, come hell or high winds, so he wasn’t worried about them. He began Injunin’ up on Blackjack, the devilment fairly popping out of his eyes.
Blackjack was hummin’ to himself, as he was boilin’ coffee and fryin’ bacon and stirrin’ up a pot of beans. Blackjack had himself a regular feast a-goin’.
Preacher had worked in close and Blackjack’s horses were beginning to get a little skittish. Blackjack cut his eyes toward them and, without giving anything away, reached for his rifle with one hand and kept on stirrin’ the beans with the other. Preacher grinned and decided the game was up; Blackjack’s horses was near’bouts as good at watchin’ as his own.
“Steady now, Blackjack,” Preacher called, still on his belly in case Blackjack wanted to shoot first and feel sorry about it later. “It’s me, Preacher.”
The big buckskin-clad and bearded mountain man relaxed and said, “Show yourself, you damn reprobate. I’d recognize you anywhere. You be so ugly you frighten the flight right out of birds. I believe the last time I caught a glimpse of you was back in ’35 on Horse Crick.”
“You be right on one point, Blackjack,” Preacher said, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t be talkin’ none ’bout ‘ugly.’ Even your dogs run away from home. I’ll fetch my horses and then partake of your grub.”
“You got any salt, Preacher?”
“I do for a fact.”
“I run out. I found me a lick a few days ago, but I didn’t feel like fightin’ no puma over it. He’d nailed him a deer and I never liked to disturb no man nor beast whilst they’s feastin.”
“That’s right considerate of you. But I’m fixin’ to disturb you.”
“You ain’t gonna get me to hep you lead them petticoats to the coast,” Blackjack called. “You can put that slap out of what good sense you got left.”
“It never entered my mind,” Preacher said, leading his horses into camp. “How’d you hear about that anyways?”
“Ever’body from the Missouri to the Pacific knows about that,” Blackjack said, pointing to the coffeepot. “That’s why you ain’t seen nobody for the past week—and you hasn’t seen nobody, has you?”
“For a fact it’s been sorta lonesome,” Preacher admitted.
Blackjack grunted. “It’s gonna get worser, too.” He shook his shaggy head. “A hundred and fifty or so wimmen headin’ into the big lonesome. I never heared of such a thing in all my borned days. Foolish, is what it is.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a real challenge,” Preacher said with a straight face. “That’s for a fact. It’s gonna take a real special kind of man to get this done. Most men I know just don’t have the sand to do it.”
Blackjack’s eyes cut to Preacher. “What the hell do you mean by that, Preacher?”
Preacher poured him a tin cup of coffee and shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Just what I said, Blackjack.”
“Are you suggestin’ that I ain’t got the wherewithal to see it done?”
Preacher looked hurt. “Now, Blackjack…did you hear me say that?”
“You better not say it, neither.” He tossed Preacher a plate. “Eat. Grub’s done.” While Preacher was filling his plate, Blackjack eyeballed the pistols strapped around Preacher’s waist. “What the hellfire is them things? I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in my life.”
“They take some gettin’ used to, but once a body gets the hang of ’em, they give you eight times the firepower. And I been practicin’, too. I can shuck these outta leather faster than you can blink.”
“So I heared. You might be on to something with them terrible-lookin’ pistols, Preacher. I heared ol’ Duckworth call you a gunfighter. He was at the fort when you plugged them three men last year. ‘Gunfighter’…” He tasted the word. “Has a ring to it, don’t it?”
Preacher nodded his head and chewed for a time. “I best be headin’ out, Blackjack. I got to head past the Mississippi to find me some men with the backbone to help me take them women west.”
Blackjack threw his fork to the ground and glared at Preacher. “Easterners!” he shouted. “No damn easterner could find his butt with both hands and a trained dog.”
Preacher sopped up the juice in his plate with a hunk of panbread. Blackjack was a good cook and set out a mighty fine meal. “I ain’t got no choice in the matter, Blackjack. ’Pears to me like the men I been knowin’ all these years just ain’t got the stomach for it…the way they been runnin’ and hidin’.”
“Do you see me runnin’ and hidin’?” Blackjack roared, rattling the leaves of the trees along the little creek.
“No,” Preacher said carefully, ducking his head to hide his smile. “But you done said you wasn’t gonna help me.”
“Well…mayhaps I got more important things to do.”
“What? You ain’t totin’ no traps. You don’t ’ppear to be huntin’ gold. Maybe it’s true what I heard about you?”
“What?”
“That you was gonna take up farmin’.”
Blackjack dropped his plate to the ground and his mouth fell open. “Farmin’?”
“Yep. That’s what I heard,” Preacher said sorrowfully. “Man that told me said: ‘Poor ol’ Blackjack. Done gone and lost his nerve.’ That’s what he said.”
Blackjack was approximately the size of a grizzly bear, but very agile for his bulk. He jumped to his feet. “I ain’t lost nothin’!” he shouted. “And, by God, you don’t have to look no further for a man to hep you with them wagons. I’ll show you, by God, a man who can get them wagons through.”
“Why, Blackjack, that’s plumb kindly of you. I knowed all them rumors wasn’t true. But Ned, now, I reckon what I heard ’bout him was true.”
“Ned Mason?”
“That’s him.”
“I ain’t heared nothin’ ’bout him.” Blackjack sat back down and filled his coffee cup. “Hell, his camp ain’t thirty miles from here. Over on the Badger. Are you tellin’ me that Ned has lost his nerve?”
“Yep. That’s what I heard.”
“We can be there this time tomorrow if we leave now.”
“You ready?”
“I will be in five minutes.”
After Ned Mason heard the rumor about his supposed loss of courage, he jumped up and down and roared and cussed. He uprooted a small tree and threw it into the creek. Then he picked up a boulder that would have herniated a lesser man and it followed the tree. He faced Preacher and Blackjack. “I just been a-waitin’ for you to ax me to hep you with them wagons, Preacher.” It was a lie and Preacher knew it. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.” Another lie. “And Charlie Burke is ’pposed to meet me here. He’s overdue now. He’ll come along.”
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 1