Blood of the Mountain Man (13 page)

As soon as he received the wire, he bought a train ticket and was on his way, sleeping in the car with his horse and his Sharps “English Model” 1877 .45-caliber rifle. Peter hand-loaded his own ammunition (2.6-inch casing) and knew almost to the inch what distance they would carry, and they would carry accurately for more than fifteen hundred yards, providing the wind was not kicking up.

Peter would kill man, woman, or child. He made no distinction. He was a man utterly without morals. And he was looking forward to this job.

Smoke stepped out of the house for a breath of night air after another of Sally and Jenny’s excellent suppers. The men had staggered off to the bunk-house, all of them full as ticks. Three days after the fight, and his hands were no longer sore or swollen. There had been no trouble from Biggers, Cosgrove, or Fat. Smoke was not expecting any from Club Bowers. Scoundrel that he was, he was also a man who had been around and could read signs. Smoke had him a hunch that Club would pull out of this fight given just the slightest opportunity.

Van Horn walked up and stood silent for a moment, rolling a cigarette. “When you figure they’re gonna hit us, and how do you figure it?”

“Just as soon as they get everyone in here that’s coming in.”

“You know of a person name of Peter Hankins?” “Peter Hankins?” Smoke mused. ‘Yes. I do. He’s a long-distance shooter. He uses a special made Sharps .45. Sharps made the rifle for about a year, I think. Made it for target shooters. It had something to do with English marksmanship rules, I believe. I’ve never seen one. Hankins, huh? My mentor killed Hankins’ father. Preacher caught him stealing horses and carved him up. That was years before I knew Preacher. I’ve known for a long time that Hankins hates me.”

“How old a man would he be?”

“Probably in his early to mid-forties. He was a teenager when Preacher killed his father back in ’55 or so. I have no idea what he looks like or where he lives. He’s a loner. He comes in, bodies fall, he leaves. Usually without anyone ever seeing him. How’d you find out about him coming in?”

Van Horn smiled. “Oh, those sources of mine I told you about.”

Smoke chuckled. “You mean the girls at the Golden Cherry, don’t you?”

Van Horn laughed quietly. “Not much gets by you, does it, Smoke?”

“I can’t afford to let much by me, Van. I have too many people who want to see me dead.”

“I do know the feelin’,” the old gunfighter said.

“But if they attack this ranch, they’re gonna be in for a tough fight of it. That’s a salty bunch yonder in the bunkhouse.”

“They’ll attack. It’s coming. That’s why I sold off most of the cattle, except for the good breeding stock, and had you bunch the rest in that box. Will the girls tell you when Hankins gets into town?” 

“Within the hour.”

“Let me know. Tomorrow we all work close to the ranch, We’ve got to get ready for anything that might come our way.”

“See you in the morning.”

Smoke was up before dawn, as usual, and with coffee in hand, stepped outside to meet the dawning, about a half hour away. Wolf Parcell had been waiting on him.

“What’s on your mind, Wolf?”

“Let’s take the fight to them. Kill them all,” the old mountain man said coldly and bluntly. “End it. Then the girl-child can live in peace.”

Smoke smiled in the darkness. Mountain men were not known for their gentle loving nature toward anyone who had openly declared themselves an enemy. And for the most part, that philosophy was shared by Smoke. But he had learned to temper his baser urgings. . . to a degree. “Those days are just about gone, Wolf. Besides, we’ve got to keep public sentiment on our side.”

The old man
harrumped
 at that but said nothing in rebuttal for the moment. He drained his coffee cup and stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. He chomped and chewed and spat and finally said, “Two Injun friends of mine come to the bunkhouse last night. Told me a whole passel of gunslingers rode into town ’bout ten o’clock.”

“I thought I heard something about one.”

“Figured you would. Injuns asked about you. I told ’em you wasn’t near ’bouts ugly as Preacher, and you was sizable bigger and somewhat smarter.” Smoke chuckled. And waited. He knew Wolf had more on his mind and would get to it in his own good time.

“Said they was a double handful of the gunslingers,” Wolf said, after he spat. “They didn’t know no names.”

“The odds are getting longer, aren’t they?”

“Yep. But we can handle them come the time. You’ll cut your puma loose soon enough I reckon. And we’ll be right there with you.”

“You’re looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t. That’s a good girl in yonder. I like her. I ain’t got no use for people who’d hurt a girl like that. Riles me up considerable. I take it personal. Bad Dog feels the same way. So’s the rest of the fellers. When they come, Smoke, I ain’t offerin’ no quarter to none of them. I just want you to know that. I’m speakin’ for me, Pasco, and Bad Dog. Cain’t talk for none of the others.” 

“Try not to take scalps,” Smoke said drily.

“I’ll think about it.” The old mountain man got up as silently as a stalking cat and moved into the darkness. He stopped and turned around. Smoke could see the faint smile on his lips. “You’re a fine one to tell me not to take scalps, Smoke.”

“That was a long time ago, Wolf.”

Wolf chuckled. “You ain’t old enough for it to be that long ago, boy. You got more of Preacher in you than you think. And I think this here fight’s gonna turn real interestin’. For a fact I do.”

Smoke saddled up, secured his bedroll, and rode out alone, taking a couple of sandwiches with him. He had told Sally, “I’ll be back.”

She did not question him. He might be back by noon, or he might return the next day. He might be back in three or four days. Sally knew they were in a fight to the death now, for her husband never tried to shield her from the truth. Hired guns were riding in from all over a three-state and territory area. By stage, by train, by horse. They were coming to Red Light to accept the fighting wages of Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove. They were coming in to attempt to kill Smoke Jensen.

And this teenage girl, Sally added, cutting her eyes to the young girl standing at the kitchen counter, kneading dough for bread. They have no right to do that, Sally mused, her thoughts turning savage. She has harmed no one. She has a right to live on the ranch her mother left her, and to live in peace. Damn those men who would harm a child . . .

“When you finish with that, Jenny,” Sally said, “get your guns. We’re going to practice awhile.” “Yes, ma’am. Won’t Uncle Smoke be alarmed at the gunfire?”

“No. I told him about it. Sally went to the front door and looked for Van Horn. The old gunfighter was by the corral, Wolf Parcell and Bad Dog with him. She walked down to him. He turned at her approach, taking off his hat.

“Jenny and I will be down by the creek for a time, shooting. I want Jimmy to come with us. I want to see how he handles a gun.”

Van Horn smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll come down, too. Smoke say where he was goin’?”

“No. I didn’t ask him. He’ll be back when he finishes what he set out to do.”

“I thought he was gettin’ a mite riled when I spoke with him.”

“He’s given those who want this spread fair warning. In his own way. Now, I suspect, he’s taking the fight to them.”

“But he’s all alone,” Jimmy Hammon said, walking up.

“No, he ain’t, boy,” Wolf said. “He’s got the spirits with him. Preacher’s with him. And so is Griz and Nighthawk and all the rest of ’em. Five hundred years of fightin’ and ridin’ alone is with Smoke this day. Everything about survivin’ that could be taught a man was taught to Smoke by them that took him as a kid and saw to his needs. Mayhaps we — and I was a part of lookin’ after him —mayhaps we didn’t do him right. Our time was endin’ when Ol’ Preacher took the boy under his wing. We didn’t teach him no gentle ways. He’d done been taught that by his ma and pa. And they done a good job of it. Smoke’s got a good mind to what is right and what is wrong. What we done was teach him the gun and the knife and the fight. I allow as to how it was fate that brought the boy to the High Lonesome and to us.” He smiled down at young Jimmy.

“I’d take you under my arm and tote you up to the High Lonesome, son, and I’d larn you the ways of the mountain men. But I’d be doin’ you a disservice if I did. Them fancy-pants Eastern ways is rapid movin’ out here. All talk and no action is the way it’ll be in a few years. ’Fore long, any man’ll be able to walk up to you and spit in your face. And if you gut him or shoot him, the law’ll put you in prison for it. You mark my words: this country is in for a turrible time of it.”

Sally put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Jimmy will receive a formal education. Smoke and I will see to that.”

“You mean I got to go to school?” Jimmy blurted.

‘Yes,” Sally said firmly. “You will go to school.” Van Horn looked at him. “Don’t say nothin’ ’ceptin’ yes, ma’am, boy.”

‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Sally,” Jimmy said.

Smoke sat his saddle on the north side of the fence, facing three of Jack Biggers’ hands, who sat their saddles on the south side. The three had known it would someday come to this. They had just hoped it would not be this soon.

“We ain’t doin’ you no harm, Jensen,” one finally spoke. “And we’re on our own range.”

“That’s right,” Smoke replied. “And it is a mighty pretty place to be buried.”

“Huh?” another said.

“What are you talkin’ about?” the third asked. “You ride for Jack Biggers. He’s paying you seventy-five dollars a month and found for your guns. Jack Biggers has sworn to take my niece’s ranch even if he has to kill her. That makes all of you an enemy of mine. So fill your hand or ride.”

The three Triangle JB riders wanted to exchange glances, but they dared not take their eyes from Smoke Jensen. In a time when the average cowboy made about thirty-five dollars a month, that seventy-five Biggers had offered had looked awfully big. Now they weren’t so sure of that.

“I’m giving you all a chance, boys,” Smoke spoke softly but firmly. “Take a moment and think about it.”

“Jensen,” one said. “I’m gonna put both hands on this here apple and keep them there. Okay?”

“Fine. Do it.”

The men carefully placed his gloved hands on the saddle horn and gripped it, one hand on top of the other, the reins under the hand holding the apple.

“Me, too,” another said, and slowly followed suit.

“I’m not,” the third hand said.

“Think about it, Jess,” the first hand to show some sense told him.

“I ain’t takin’ water from Jensen.”

“I am,” the second man said. “ ’Cause it’s mighty scarce in Hell.”

“Make your play, Jensen,” Jess said.

“After you,” Smoke told him.

Jess grabbed for iron and Smoke’s .44 boomed. Jess fell backward out of the saddle. Neither of his buddies had taken their hands off the saddle horn. Jess tried to get up, the front of his shirt stained with blood. His gun had fallen from the holster.

“Ain’t no human person that fast,” Jess gasped, unable to get any further than to his knees.

“You boys take care of the burying and then ride out of this country. Get you a good job punching cattle and leave the gunfighting to someone else,” Smoke told the remaining two.

Jess fell over to lie in the tall grass.

“Can we climb off these hurricane decks to see about him?” the first hand asked.

“Of course, you can. Just don’t try anything stupid.”

“Believe me, Mister Jensen, that didn’t even cross my mind.”

Jess cried out, “I’d like to live to see you get plugged, Jensen!”

“You’d be at the end of a long list,” Smoke told him. “You’d best start making your peace with God and tell these boys where to send your saddle.” 

“You go to hell!” Jess said.

“Jess,” one of his buddies said. “Hush now.”

‘You go to hell, too!” Jess told him. “As a matter of fact, both of you can just go to hell!”

Smoke watched as Highpockets Rycroft and Dick Miles rode up, both of them still looking sort of peaked from their last encounter with Smoke Jensen. Highpockets favored his left arm and Miles wore a pained expression on his face. Obviously, his stomach was still tender.

“What do you two want?” Smoke asked.

“We’re on our side of the damn fence!” Highpockets protested. “We ain’t botherin’ you.”

“I find you both offensive to look at,” Smoke replied. “I don’t want to see either of you again.” “Well, what are you gonna do if you do see us after this?” Dick asked.

“Shoot you.”

“Shoot us?” Highpockets hollered. “Now, wait just a minute!”

“What about me?” Jess said.

‘You done been shot!” Dick said. “Shut up.”

“Or I might decide to hang you,” Smoke added. “Now, just hold on here,” Highpockets protested.

“We’re just cowboys. We push beeves. And that’s all. You got my word on that.”

“Since when?” Dick blurted before he thought. “Since right now!” his buddy told him. “And shut your damn mouth, you fool!”

Smoke lifted his .44 and cocked the hammer, pointing it at Dick.

“Whoa!” Dick bellered, throwing both hands into the air. “I ain’t touched no gun, Smoke.”

‘You implied you hired out your gun against me,” Smoke told him. “That’s good enough for me.”

“I didn’t do no such a damn thing!” Dick yelled. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“I’m dyin’ and don’t nobody seem to care,” Jess moaned.

“Well, do so quietly,” Highpockets told him. “I got troubles of my own here.”

“Shuck out of your gunbelts,” Smoke told them. “Huh?” Dick asked.

Highpockets looked at him. “Dick,” he said, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall. “I always knowed you was slow, but you ain’t gettin’ me killed ’cause of it.”

“Oh!” Dick said, and let his guns fall. “Uh, Mister Jensen —are you gonna kill us?”

“Nope. At least, not this time around. But I really think you boys should stop wearing guns. Now, that’s not an order. But it is a suggestion. However,” Smoke slowly let the hammer down on his .44 and all in front of it relaxed, “I might also suggest this.” He looked at two standing over Jess. “What are your names?”