Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Any problems with rustling?” Smoke asked.

  “Once,” Van Horn replied. “I caught two of Biggers no-’count hands usin’ a runnin’ iron and shot them both.”

  Smoke noticed but made no comment about Van Horn’s strapping on two Remington hoglegs and tying them down. If just half of what Preacher had told him about Van Horn was true, the old man was a pure devil in a gunfight. Preacher had said that Van Horn had once faced six men in a trading post down in Colorado and when the gunsmoke had cleared, Van Horn was the only one standing, and he had four bullet holes in him.

  “Fat Fosburn owns the spread north of this one,” Van Horn said as they rode. “He’s the mayor of Red Light. Biggers owns the land south. They got us boxed for a fact.”

  “Fosburn? That name is familiar.”

  “Used to be an outlaw. Rode with Bloody Bill back in the sixties. He’s as mean as a hydophoby skunk and will stop at nothin’ to get what he wants. He’s said that if he has to, he’ll kill Jenny to get the land.”

  “Real nice fellow.”

  “Yeah. Just dandy. Yonder comes Ladd. He’s been ridin’ the south fence. Good boy.”

  Ladd was a man in his early twenties, stocky and with a go-to-hell look in his eyes.

  “Ladd,” Van Horn said. “This here’s Miss Jenny’s uncle, Smoke Jensen.”

  Ladd’s eyes widened.

  “He’s gonna be with us for a time, seein’ that Miss Jenny gets her due. You go on to the house and get you some breakfast. Then you and Ford stay close to home.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young puncher said. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Smoke.”

  “Now you’ve met all the hands we got,” Van Horn said. “Ladd, Ford, and Cooper. We need at least three more.”

  “We’ll get them. Parcell has a cabin somewhere in these mountains.”

  “Wolf Parcell?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Hell, Smoke, he’s older than me, and I’m near ’bout as old as God. I didn’t know he lived around here.”

  “Over there,” Smoke said, looking toward the towering mountains. “I’ll find him. And there is a kid in town at the livery, Jimmy. He’ll do to take care of things around the house.”

  Van Horn smiled. “Little Jimmy Hammon. His folks had a small spread west of here. Biggers and Fosburn burned them out and killed the boy’s parents ’bout seven or eight years ago. You’re right. Jimmy’s a good boy.”

  “We need one or two more good men.”

  “You got anything against Mexicans or Indians?”

  “Not as long as they do their work. Knowed some fine Mex punchers in my time.”

  “There’s one in town. I saw him.”

  “Pasco? He come in here as a sheepherder. No rancher will hire a sheepherder.”

  “I will. I know Pasco’s cousin. He’s a gunfighter. Carbone. He spoke highly of Pasco. One more.”

  “There’s a half-breed Injun roams the valley. But he’s a surly one. Don’t seem to like nobody.”

  “Has anybody ever given him a chance?”

  “You do have a point.”

  “What’s the Indian’s name?”

  “Bad Dog.”

  “We have a crew.”

  It took Smoke two days to find the cabin of Wolf Parcell. The old mountain man was standing in the door when Smoke rode up.

  “I heard you was in the area,” Wolf said. “Figured you’d be about, pesterin’ me.” The old mountain man was still rock-solid tough and had a mean look in his eyes. He wore two pistols belted outside his buckskins and a huge Bowie knife. “I’ll have to say that Preacher done well with you. What do you want?”

  “Get your kit together, you worthless old coot. You’re going to work for me.”

  “Work! Wagh! I ain’t worked for nobody but myself in fifty year.”

  “I need you,” Smoke said simply.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Wolf said. “Light and set. Coffee’s hot and strong. I’ll be a few minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the two men rode out.

  That afternoon, with Wolf leading the way, they rode to the camp of Bad Dog, a half-breed Cheyenne.

  “Dog,” Wolf said, “this here is Smoke Jensen. His little niece is in trouble down in the valley, and I aim to help her.”

  Bad Dog looked up at Smoke. “Heard of you. My people say you are a fair man. You fight Biggers and Cosgrove and Fat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  And the three rode out.

  Van Horn had sent Ladd into town, and he returned with Little Jimmy and the Mexican, Pasco.

  “You got any objection to working with cows?” Smoke asked the Mexican.

  “If it means a fight with Biggers, Cosgrove, and Fat, I’ll work for the devil,” Pasco replied.

  “I’ve been called that,” Smoke said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Pasco smiled his reply.

  “Stow your gear in the bunkhouse.”

  Over coffee, Jenny said, “That is the most disreputable-looking crew I think I have ever seen. Except for Jimmy.”

  “They’ll stand to the last man, Jenny. They’re tough as rawhide and meaner than pumas. Right now, I want you to bake a half dozen pies and fry up a tubful of doughnuts. Then I want you to bake a dozen loaves of bread and cook up the thickest stew you ever made in your life. Can you do that?”

  “You bet I can, Uncle Smoke.”

  “After this evening’s supper, Jenny, you won’t be able to drive those men off with a shotgun.”

  The men spent the rest of that day getting set up in the bunkhouse, mending shirts or socks, looking over the remuda, and loafing. Young Jimmy Ham-mon was in for a quick education, bunking with these salty ol’ boys, but most of what he would learn would be vital and stand him in good stead for the rest of his life. And Smoke also knew that the older men would look after the boy.

  Soon the aroma of baking began to fill the house and Smoke had to leave before his mouth got to watering so bad he’d look like a drooling fool.

  He got a couple of carrots and an apple from the kitchen and walked to the corral and picked out a horse to ride, sparing Buck. The horse was a big black with a mean eye. He and Smoke took to one another right off.

  Van Horn strolled up and leaned against the railing. “He’s a bad one, Smoke. Nobody rides Devil. He’s a pure killer.”

  Smoke smiled and whistled softly. The big black came right to him, the other horses giving him a wide berth. Smoke had quartered the apple and the black took the pieces as gently as a baby.

  “I knew one man tried that and lost part of a finger,” Van Horn said.

  “We understand each other,” Smoke said, rubbing the velvet of Devil’s nose. “We’re alike and he senses it.”

  “He ain’t been cut, Smoke. He’s dangerous.”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s just misunderstood, that’s all.” Smoke stepped inside the corral and walked around, the big black following along behind him, just like a puppy, occasionally reaching out to nibble at Smoke’s shirt, but with only his lips, not his teeth.

  The other hands had gathered around the railing, watching Smoke and the big horse. After a time, Smoke put a blanket on him and walked him around, then saddled him and the black took the bit with no fuss.

  “Damnedest thing I ever did see,” Van Horn said.

  “Open the gate,” Smoke called, swinging into the saddle, and he and the black went out of the corral at a gallop. The black loved to run, and Smoke let it go until it tired. Several miles from the house, the big black slowed and Smoke reined up and swung down, letting the animal blow.

  “We’re going to get along just fine,” Smoke told the horse named Devil. “I might even buy you from Jenny and take you back with me.”

  Smoke looked all around him, in this valley surrounded by mountains. Fine spread, he thought. I can see why the others want it. But they’re not going to get it … not the way they plan, anyway.

  Back in the saddle, he walked Devil bac
k to the ranch. Rather than risk Jimmy getting hurt, he rubbed the black down himself and turned him into the corral. He forked some hay for the animals and finished just as Jenny started ringing the supper bell. The men started lining up and Smoke smiled at them as Jenny waved them into the house.

  “We all eat together, gentlemen,” the girl informed them. “So come on and fill your plates.”

  And fill them and eat they did, all of them with one eye on the mound of doughnuts she had fixed and covered with a cloth. Then she started taking apple pies out of the oven and Smoke thought the men were going to stampede the stove.

  The hands drank at least two gallons of coffee, and were so stuffed with stew and fresh baked bread and pies and doughnuts, Smoke hoped the ranch was not attacked that night. None of the men seemed capable of moving, much less fighting.

  He gave them an hour to rest after so much food and then walked over to the bunkhouse. “You boys get enough to eat?”

  Bad Dog rubbed his belly and smiled. “The young lady has a cowboy here forever, if she chooses.”

  “Same goes for me,” Pasco said. “For one so young, she sure knows her way around a kitchen.”

  Wolf Parcell was stretched out on his bunk, sound asleep and snoring softly. Jimmy was also asleep.

  But Smoke wasn’t fooled about Wolf. The old mountain man would come awake instantly at the first sign of trouble, a pistol in one hand and a razor-sharp Bowie in the other, cutting and slashing and shooting. Smoke knew from experience and observation that young trouble-hunters who tangled with old men usually came out much worse for wear, for old men have no illusions about fair fighting: they fight to win.

  Smoke was raised by old mountain men, and he shared their philosophy: there is no such thing as a fair fight. There is only a winner and a loser. If you’re in the right, it doesn’t make any difference how you win or what you use to win in defending yourself. Just win.

  Van Horn came out of his small private quarters into the main bunkhouse and said, “All right, boys. Wake up and listen up. By now, Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove will know we’ve hired a crew. Up to now, they haven’t made any raids on our property. But that might change. What you boys can expect is for their hands to try and catch you off this spread and stomp you or shoot you or drag you.” His eyes touched young Jimmy. “And that includes you, boy. For the time being, Jimmy, your job is take care of the ranch grounds and the barn and so forth. You’re mighty young to be totin’ a six-gun, but no younger than me or Smoke here. So startin’ tomorrow, you pack iron like the rest of us. I’m gonna put a rifle in the barn, the shed, and the outhouse. There’ll be an ammo belt with each one. Things are gonna get real bad real quick, I’m thinkin’. Try not to do no lone ridin’. Always buddy up if you can. We got to have supplies, so tomorrow I’m gonna send a wagon into town. Smoke here said he’ll ride in with it. Ladd will drive, Cooper will ride flank. One of us will always be here on the ranch, or no more than five minutes from it. Jimmy will be here all the time. The next day we start a cattle count, as close as we can, that is, and brandin’. We got to sell about five hundred head, and that means we got to move them into Red Light to the holdin’ pens. Smoke, when are you ex-pectin’ your wife to arrive?”

  “In a couple more days, three at the most. I’ve arranged for the Pinkertons to escort her up from track’s end.”

  “Good move. She’ll be safe along the way, then,” Pasco remarked. “No one around here wants to get the Pinks down on them.”

  “I’m counting on that. With Sally here, that will free another man to work the herd. My wife will put lead into a man faster than you can blink. And she’ll have Jenny shooting well in a few days. One thing we have to do tomorrow is stock up on ammunition. Enough for a siege. I suggest we take two wagons into town and stock up enough staples to last several months.”

  Smoke eyeballed the men. “Might as well tell you now, Jenny wants to ride into town with us.”

  Van Horn started cussing.

  Smoke let him wind down. “I don’t like it either. But she’s a young woman and she wants to pick up some lady-things and just shop for a time.” He smiled. “Besides, she is the boss.”

  Wolf Parcell belched, grinned, and patted his belly. “Damn shore is that.”

  Eight

  Sheriff Monte Carson had handed Sally the telegram and stepped back while she was opening it. He was expecting Sally to explode, and she didn’t disappoint him.

  “A whorehouse!” Sally yelled.

  “Now, Miss Sally,” Monte said. “It ain’t as bad as …”

  “A whorehouse!” Sally yelled. “My husband owns a whorehouse!”

  “He says you better get right on up there.”

  “You can bet your boots and spurs I’m going up there.” She went to the door and yelled for the foreman. He came at a flat run.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Get my horse ready for travel. I’m pulling out first thing in the morning. You run things here until we return.”

  “Uh … yes, ma’am.”

  Sally turned to the sheriff. “When you get back to town, you get me passage on the train. Rent a car. I’ll alternate between passenger car and staying with my horse.”

  “Uh …”

  “Do it, Monte!”

  “Right! Consider it done, Sally.”

  The sheriff gone, Sally packed swiftly. Just a couple of dresses; mostly jeans and work shirts and an extra pair of boots. She paused. And a pair of shoes for the dress, if she elected to wear a dress. She tossed in a gunbelt and her .44. Walking to the gun cabinet, she took down her .44 carbine and put it in the saddle boot.

  “A whorehouse!” she said.

  The next morning she was on the train, heading north.

  Not yet trusting Devil around people he was not familiar with, Smoke saddled up Buck for the ride into town. Jenny climbed up beside Ladd and off they went, rattling down the road.

  Just before leaving, Smoke told Van Horn, “I’m expecting trouble in town. It’s just a feeling I have in my guts.”

  The old gunfighter nodded in agreement. “So do I.” He toed out his cigarette butt. “Ladd and Cooper are good boys. They’ll stand. Don’t worry about things here. You just be careful. We don’t have many friends in Red Light.”

  That was evident when the man at the big general store insulted Jenny and refused to sell her anything. Ten seconds later, after looking into the cold eyes of Smoke Jensen and almost soiling his drawers, he apologized profoundly for his remark and began filling the large order as fast as he could work.

  Several cowboys appeared in the door. Smoke had seen the Biggers brand — a Triangle JB — on a dozen horses lining the narrow street. “Shopkeeper, you was told not to sell to them,” one of the men said.

  “It’s a free country,” Smoke replied, turning from the counter to face the men. “And who the hell asked you to stick your mouth in this matter?”

  “Jensen,” the spokesman for the group said, “you may be a big wheel down where you come from. But around here, you ain’t jack-crap. I’d bear that in mind, was I you.”

  “You’re not me,” Smoke told him. “Now why don’t you just shut your face and wander back to wherever the hell it is you came from?”

  “That’s all!” Sheriff Bowers said, walking up and stepping into the store. “Seems like you can’t even come to town without startin’ trouble, Smoke.”

  “I didn’t start this. But I will finish it, if I have to. We came into town for supplies, that’s all. These yahoos tried to stop the store owner from selling to us. Now, what do you have to say about that?”

  Club Bowers was silent for a moment. Everything would have been real easy if Smoke Jensen hadn’t a showed up. Everything was working out to plan … until he rode into town. Now everything was all fouled up. Taking a ranch away from a seventeen-year-old girl and an old has-been of a gunfighter was one thing. Pulling iron against a U.S. Marshal was something else. Especially when that marshal was Smoke Jensen. He knew the Marsh
als’ Service had a nasty habit of avenging their own. And they didn’t always do it according to a law book. What the powers that be in the town didn’t need right now was for a bunch of U.S. Marshals to come riding in, hell-bent for revenge. But, Club thought, if I ain’t in town, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.

  “You boys go on back to the saloon and cool down,” Club told the JB riders.

  “The boss said to …”

  “Did you hear me?” Club’s question was loudly and harshly spoken. “Move.” When the men had gone, Club turned and walked swiftly to the livery.

  “He’s ridin’ out,” Cooper said.

  “Well, we’re in for it now,” Smoke said.

  “That was Dick Miles doin’ all the talkin’,” Ladd said. “He’s a bad one, Smoke. All of Biggers’ men are drawin’ fightin’ wages.”

  Smoke smiled. “I forgot to tell you boys — so are you.”

  The punchers smiled. That extra money would go a long ways toward a new saddle or a gun or a handmade pair of boots to wear on special occasions.

  “There go the deputies,” Cooper said. “All of them. Hightailin’ it right after Club.”

  “And here comes Dick and a whole bunch of others,” Ladd added. “They ain’t even waitin’ ’til the law gets out of town.”

  Smoke walked to the gun racks and took down three double-barreled shotguns, tossing one each to Cooper, Ladd, and Jenny. He broke open a box of shells and said, “Load them up. I’m going to open the dance. Stay inside and when I yell, if I yell, open fire.”

  “Mister Jensen?” the shopkeeper said. “I heard that Major Cosgrove has offered a thousand dollars to anyone who kills you.”

  “Is that all?” Smoke asked. “That’s an insult. I’ve had a hundred times that amount on me.” Smoke pulled both guns and stepped out onto the high boardwalk, cocking the .44s. He’d been doing this since he was a boy, and Preacher had taught him that when somebody’s huntin’ you, why hell, just take it to them and open the dance.

  “Is it a good day to die, boys?” Smoke called, lifting his .44s.

  “Jesus!” one of JB hands said, a rifle in his hands and the words drifting to Smoke. “This ain’t gonna be no tea party.”