Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke had figured it close as far as manpower was concerned. Some trail bosses figure one cowboy for every 400 cows. Smoke figured one cowboy for every 250 cows. They would be pushing slightly over 3,500 head, not all belonging to Smoke. A half a dozen other ranchers had put a number of their cattle up for sale as well. The price Duggan was paying was more than fair, so why not throw in with Smoke?

  The remuda was made up of more than a hundred horses, so the boys would have their young hands full.

  Just before pullout, Smoke found two more punchers drifting through and hired them. They were down at the heels and looked like they needed a good meal just to stay alive one more day. But their horses were in good shape and they had honest eyes and easy grins. Their hands were so calloused from handling cattle and ropes, Smoke knew they couldn’t be outlaws.

  The cook was a sour-faced old coot with never a kind word for anybody. But he was the best trail cook in five counties and could be counted on to have coffee ready anytime the men wanted it. While they were in camp, that is.

  “Damn bunch of snot-nosed boys gonna eat us out of grub ’fore we get fifty miles,” he had groused. “This many men, we’re gonna need another wagon and I got to have me a helper, too. That’s that, or I ain’t goin’.”

  “Will I do, Denver?” Sally asked, stepping up.

  “A female?” Denver shouted. “Hell, no!”

  “She’s a durn sight better cook than you, you old goat,” one of Smoke’s regular hands told him.

  Denver threw his hat on the ground. “That’s a tooken bet, boy!”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Smoke said. “I run this outfit. I say who goes along, and Sally is not coming along on this cattle drive.”

  The hands all gathered around, grinning like a bunch of fools. None of them would have missed this for a month’s wages and a little speckled pup.

  She marched up to him. She wore men’s britches and the men all admired that sight too. But there wasn’t a man among them—including the new hands—who wouldn’t stomp any man who said anything about Sally’s shape. Outside of their own bunch, that is, and that would be said very respectfully.

  “I see, Mr. Jensen,” Sally said, her head just about reaching the center of Smoke’s chest. “It wasn’t too dangerous for me to ride all over Hell’s creation a few months back with a rifle in my hand, getting you out of a bad situation…”

  “Now, Sally,” Smoke said.

  “Oh, no. That was quite all right for me to do that…”

  Smoke sighed.

  “Why, there ain’t no way this little bit of thing could keep up with me,” Denver stuck his mouth into the situation. “And what if we run into quarrelsome Injuns? I never seen a woman who could shoot worth a damn.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t said that,” Smoke muttered.

  Sally jerked one of Smoke’s .44s from leather and put all five rounds into the knot on a log some fifty feet away. She handed the pistol back to Smoke.

  Denver chewed his tobacco for a moment. “What do you know about a chuck wagon, little lady?”

  “I wish you hadn’t asked that, either,” Smoke muttered, reloading his .44.

  “I know how to doctor cuts, drive a wagon, prepare three hot,” she smiled, “and tasty meals a day. And I know to point the tongue of the wagon toward the north star every night.”

  Denver chewed, spat, and then grinned. “You and me, little lady, are gonna get along just fine.”

  “I didn’t say she was coming along,” Smoke protested.

  “I reckon you didn’t, boss. But I can see that you ain’t the only one who wears pants around here neither.”

  The drive was delayed for one day while Sally got ready to go and made arrangements for this, that, and the other thing, as females are wont to do before a journey. Just as dawn was cracking the sky, the drovers hi-hoed the herd and started them moving north. One of the boys would take turns driving Miss Sally’s wagon, which was not a chore for any of them. Miss Sally was beautiful and she smelled good, too.

  Only bad thing was that all the hands, men and boys, knew that Miss Sally had laid in a goodly number of bars of soap—like about five cases. And that meant that every time they stopped, if there was water handy, everybody was going to take a bath. Whether they needed it or not. And the boys were looking forward to doing a whole lot of cussing on this trip. That was out too. Well, they all could gather in a bunch and cuss quiet, they reckoned.

  After the second day out, the lead cows were established and the herd moved along. “Keep them out of the dew in the morning,” Smoke reminded the men. Dew tended to soften the cattle hooves.

  They would average ten to twelve miles a day. The chuck wagons were new, both bought from the Studebaker Brothers Manufacturing Company. Sally had seen to it that the coffee beans were Arbuckle’s, which always had a stick of peppermint packed in each one-pound bag. Cowboys had been known to come to blows—and sometimes guns—over who got the peppermint. Sally straightened out that problem easily by buying a huge box of peppermint candy before leaving. Everybody got a peppermint occasionally. Even Smoke, if he behaved.

  Sally and Denver worked well together, and the meals, although simple, were tasty and, with Sally along, varied. Smoke picked up the Western Trail just outside of Cheyenne and headed due north. They would stay on that trail until they got into Montana Territory. Once they crossed the Powder in Montana, Smoke would cut north and west, heading for the mountains and the town of Blackton. That final leg would be the real test, for the drovers would be pushing the huge herd over no established trail.

  “Are we going to see wild Indians, Mr. Smoke?” young Rabbit asked.

  Smoke looked at the boy across the flames of the fire. He’d been just about his age when he killed his first man, back on the plains of Kansas. He smiled at Rabbit. “I’m sure we will, Rabbit. But it’s unlikely they’ll be hostile ones. More than likely they’ll be begging for food. The route I’ve mapped out will keep us off of any reservation land. But not by many miles.”

  Later, when the crew had bedded down, Smoke was having a cup of coffee with Denver. “You know Clint Black, Smoke?” the cook asked.

  “Not personally. Only by reputation.”

  “He’s a bad one. Tried to hire me one time, right after the war, when he first come out here. I wouldn’t work for him.”

  Smoke sipped his coffee and waited, knowing there was more.

  “He runs the biggest cattle operation in the territory. Hundreds of thousands of acres. He started the town of Blacktown. It’s grown so much now that he don’t control it no more. But he does swing a mighty big loop when it comes to town matters. In my opinion, this Duggan feller’s a damn fool for goin’ up agin someone as powerful as Black.”

  “Surely Black is not the only rancher in the county.”

  “Oh, no. ’Course he ain’t. But the others is just hangin’ on. Black controls the best water, the best graze, the best everything. This is a story that’s been played out a thousand times in the West, Smoke. But…this Duggan feller just might hold the joker in the deck.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Several rivers and some fair-sized cricks run through that part of the country. Black is big, but he ain’t so big that all the water, or all the best graze is on his holdin’s. You say Duggan’s brand is the Double D?”

  “That’s right.”

  “More than one Duggan, then.”

  “Unless his name is Don Duggan.”

  Denver smiled. “Dumb Duggan is more like it.”

  “What’s Black’s brand?”

  “The Circle 45. And brother, his hands don’t hesitate to back up that brand with lead.”

  “If he leaves me alone, I’ll certainly leave him alone.”

  “This many cattle comin’ into a part of the country Black thinks he’s the lord and master of? No, he’ll stick his nose in to see what’s goin’ on. And if he thinks he can get away with it, he’ll take this herd.”

  “No law
in that part of the territory?”

  Denver snorted. “The sheriff is Clint’s brother.”

  Smoke delayed the start of the drive the next morning. He sat alone, drinking coffee and giving some serious thought to sending the boys back home. Sally came over and sat down beside him, on the ground.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  Smoke laid it out for her. He never kept anything from her and was going to ask her opinion anyway.

  “Well, the boys would be awfully disappointed. Do you really think this Black person would harm a boy?”

  “From what I’ve heard about him, I think he’s probably capable of doing just about anything. But it’s hard for me to believe that a man who would do that could make it as big as he has here in the West. You know how Western people feel about kids. But all that means is he’s either never done something like that before, or didn’t get caught. Maybe Denver is stretching the truth a bit. I don’t know. I do know that I’ve got a contract to deliver this herd and I’m going to push it through. Come on, let’s go meet with the crew.”

  Smoke laid it out for them all. He knew what the reaction of the men would be and Shorty put it into words.

  Shorty spat on the ground and hitched up his gunbelt. “Sounds like this ol’ boy is meaner than a snake, Boss. But I’ve killed a lot of snakes in my time. As far as him hurtin’ these youngsters, I can’t see him doin’ that. Western folks just wouldn’t stand for it. No matter how big and powerful he is, if he ever done something like that, a lynch mob would string him up real quick.”

  The other men nodded their heads in agreement. Even Denver agreed with the majority. “’Specially if the boys wasn’t totin’ no iron,” the old cook said.

  Smoke looked at the boys. “Any of you packing guns?”

  They shuffled their booted feet and exchanged sheepish glances that silently spoke volumes.

  “Get your saddlebags and bedrolls and spread them out right here in front of me,” Smoke told them.

  Every boy had a pistol tucked away. Smoke took the guns and gave them to Denver. “Tuck them away.” Smoke looked hard at the youngsters. “Boys, you know that out here, if you strap on a gun, that makes you a man on the spot. Now if we’re attacked, you certainly have the right to defend yourself. Your guns won’t be locked away. They’re handy if you need them. I’m going to squat down by the fire and have another cup of coffee. All of you talk this out and come up with some sort of decision. You let me know what it is.”

  Smoke chewed on a biscuit and drank a cup of hot, strong coffee while he waited. Sally stayed with the hands.

  Smoke’s drive foreman, Nate, broke off from the group and came over, squatting down and pouring a cup of coffee. “Boss, me and Miss Sally voted against these boys goin’ on. I think this drive is shapin’ up like trouble. But the others, they voted to go on. I reckon it’s up to you.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No. If the majority voted to go on, that’s it. Finish your coffee and let’s put some miles behind us.”

  There are those who paint a cattle drive as romantic and exciting. A cattle drive is just plain work. Hot, hard, dirty, dusty, muddy, often dangerous work. If it wasn’t too dry, it was too wet. If it wasn’t too hot, it was too cold. Mosquitoes could drive both man and beast half crazy. Rivers and creeks could be no more than a trickle or flooding over their banks. Water holes might be no more than caked mud. There wasn’t a damn thing romantic about it.

  People have been led to believe that the man who rode at the head of the drive was the point man. Not true. That was the trail boss. The chuck wagon was to the left of the trail boss. The point men—always two—rode behind the trail boss, on the left and right of the cattle. Behind the point men rode the drovers in the swing position. Behind them were the cowboys on the flank. The remuda was just behind and outside of the left flank, with the wranglers. In the rear were the drovers who made up the drag. It was the job of the trail boss to scout ahead for water and pasture. The other cowboys rotated positions. How often that occurred sometimes depended on the disposition of the trail boss, but usually it was left up to the cowboys to equally share the good and bad positions found on any drive.

  No sooner had the herd entered Wyoming than one of the point men shouted, pointing to the west. A dozen riders were coming up, trotting their horses. The riders didn’t look a bit friendly.

  3

  Smoke rode out to meet them, putting some distance between himself and the herd. If there was to be shooting, he didn’t want the herd stampeded. The riders pulled up and sat looking at Smoke. They were all pretty well set up, so they probably weren’t rustlers. But they all appeared sullen and Smoke didn’t take to them at all.

  “We’re from the cattlemen’s association,” one finally said, after Smoke refused to be stared down. His tone indicated that was a big deal to him. Didn’t impress Smoke at all.

  “Congratulations. Do you want applause?”

  “Oh, we got us a real smart-mouth here, Walt,” another said.

  Walt pointed a finger at Smoke. “You best button your lip, mister.”

  “I wasn’t born with a button on it,” Smoke told him. “Now state your business and get out of my way. I’ve got cattle to drive.”

  Nate and Shorty had left the herd, to ride up alongside the boss. While neither one was a gunslinger, they could both shuck a Colt or Remington out of leather mighty quick and they were crack shots.

  “By God!” another member of the association said. “I’ll not stand for talk like that. We’re here to inspect your herd and you best just stand aside.”

  “Inspect my herd for what?” Smoke asked, his right hand resting on his thigh, close to the butt of his .44.

  “Been a lot of rustlin’ goin’ on,” Walt said. “You’re a stranger here, so we take a look at your cattle, whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t care if you inspect my herd. But you’ll do it while they’re moving. Now get out of the way.”

  “Just who in the hell do you think you are, buddy?” another asked, belligerence in his tone.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  Those among them with any sense at all made certain their hands were in plain sight and they made no quick moves. But there is always one….

  “That don’t spell jack-crap to me,” a burly, unshaven man said. “I never believed nine-tenths of them stories ’bout you no way.”

  “That is your option,” Smoke told him. He glanced at Shorty. “Get the herd moving. If these gentlemen want to inspect it, that’s fine with me. But they’ll do it on the move.”

  “Right, boss.” Shorty wheeled his horse, took off his hat, and waved it in the air. “Head them out!” he shouted.

  “You gonna sit there and let this two-bit fancy-dan gunhawk get away with this, Walt?” the loudmouth asked.

  “Shut up, Baylis,” a man whispered hoarsely.

  Smoke lifted the reins and walked his horse into the group, stopping by the side of Baylis. He smiled at the man. Baylis not only didn’t believe in shaving every day, he didn’t bathe much either. “What’s your problem?” Smoke asked him. “Other than having to smell your own stink, that is.”

  “Baylis,” Walt said. “Close your mouth and keep it closed. I recognize the gentlemen now.”

  “Jensen,” Baylis said, “I think I’ll just get off this horse and whup your butt.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Smoke pulled his hat brim lower and then sucker-punched the man. He busted Baylis smack in the mouth; the blow knocked the man out of the saddle. Baylis sprawled on the hoof-churned ground, his mouth a bloody mess.

  Smoke backed his horse out of the group, stopping between Nate and Shorty. “If you gentlemen wish to ride along and inspect the herd, feel free to do so. We’ll be stopping for lunch in about an hour. You’re welcome to eat with us. And that includes the fool on the ground.”

  Several of the men tried to hide their smiles.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Jensen,” Walt said. “We’
ll just ride along for a time and then take you up on your most generous offer of a meal.”

  Smoke nodded and he and Shorty and Nate rejoined the herd. Walt looked down at Baylis, who was hanging on to a stirrup, trying to get up. “Baylis, I always suspicioned that your mamma raised at least one fool. Now I know I was right.”

  Over lunch, which was the thick rich stew sometimes called Sonofabitch Stew, with sourdough bread to sop in it, dried apple pie for dessert, and all the coffee anybody could drink, Smoke asked Walt about Clint Black.

  “I never met the man, Smoke. But I know about him. Runs the biggest spread in all of Montana Territory. The Circle 45. Has maybe…depending on the time of year…anywhere from fifty to a hundred men on the payroll. You’re not taking these cattle to him, are you?”

  “No. To a man named Duggan. Runs the Double D spread.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “I think he’s new out here. He bought my whole herd and about a thousand from neighboring ranches. Said he wanted to get into the cattle business fast. I’ve never met him. Everything was handled through lawyers.”

  “Gettin’ to be a man can’t break wind without checking first with a lawyer,” Walt grumbled.

  Smoke grinned at him. He shared the same opinion of most lawyers. “Speaking of sons of bitches, have some more stew, Walt.”

  Walt laughed and a new friendship was bonded.

  Baylis glared at Smoke and hatred was fanned.

  Walt gave Smoke a handwritten note and with it said, “You’ll have no trouble in Wyoming. Just show anyone who stops you that note and they’ll wave you right on through and help you with the drive for a time.”

  The men shook hands all the way around. All but Baylis. He rode out alone right after lunch. Nobody missed him until he couldn’t be found and a drover told them he saw him ridin’ out toward the northwest.