Heart of the Mountain Man (11 page)

A small, sad smile tugged at the corners of Mary's mouth. “Yes, I do. And if I know my neighbors, Smoke Jensen won't be the only man to ride with Monte. I'm very afraid you've bitten off more than you can chew, Mr. Slaughter,” she added with a slight nod of her head.

“This is all bullshit, Boss,” Whitey growled as he stood up and drank the rest of his coffee. “Ain't no man gonna ride over three hundred miles just'cause some old bounty hunters once kilt his wife and son.”

Slaughter turned to look at the albino, a resigned look on his face. “I'm afraid you're wrong, Whitey. I would, and evidently so would this gunfighter named Smoke Jensen.”

Swede sleeved sweat off his forehead, his eyes troubled. “I think we made a big mistake bringin' this woman here, Boss.”

Slaughter nodded. “Maybe so, but it can't be helped now. Remember, we're holed up in the best place on earth to defend against any attempt by Monte and his friends to rescue Mrs. Carson. There simply ain't no way they can get in here without us knowin' about it beforehand.”

“So what are we gonna do about it?” Swede asked, his face knotted with worry.

Slaughter shrugged. “Nothing, for the moment. I'm sure that if we do no harm to Mrs. Carson, Monte will be more than glad to hand over the money he owes us and take his wife on home. If she tells him we've treated her all right, he won't have no kick comin'. After all, it IS our money he stole.”

When Mary smiled, Slaughter whirled on her. “What are you grinnin' about?” he almost screamed.

“I'm afraid you've forgotten what kind of man my husband is, Mr. Slaughter. It doesn't matter whose money it is. Now that you've involved me in this matter, he will never rest until he sees you dead and buried. Even if you get the money in a trade for me, you will have to spend the rest of your lives looking back over your shoulders for Monte Carson. And someday, somehow, when you least expect it, he will be there and you will cease to exist.”

13

Monte Carson was delighted to see Smoke and the others when they arrived at his camp with Muskrat Calhoon. He stepped from behind a tree and let the hammer down on his rifle when he saw them approaching the camp.

“Man, am I glad to see you,” he said, leading them to his campfire where he had a pot of coffee brewing.

As the men stood next to the fire warming their hands, he filled coffee mugs from the pot and passed them out. The fall air was just above freezing, and in spite of their heavy coats the men were chilled to the bone from their long ride on horseback.

Muskrat lifted his nose to the air and took a deep whiff. “Smells like snow,” he said.

Pearlie glanced at the cloudless sky, then back at the mountain man. “I don't see no clouds,” he said. “How do you know it's gonna snow?”

Muskrat sipped at his coffee, making a loud slurping sound. “More'n fifty years in the high lonesome, pup,” he answered with a stub-toothed grin. “After a while, ya git to know these things, or ya don't survive yer first blizzard.”

Monte was impatient with the small talk. “Smoke, just what did you find out in Jackson Hole? Anything on Mary?”

“No, Monte, no one there mentioned seeing Slaughter or any of his men with a woman,” Smoke said. “But that doesn't mean anything. Slaughter would hardly bring her to town where she might yell for help or attract attention he didn't want.”

Louis lit a long cigar and between puffs added, “We did ascertain that he has between twenty and thirty men in the hole-in-the-wall with him, however.”

Monte's face sobered. “Them's pretty long odds,” he said.

“Is it yer woman he's taken, young man?” Muskrat asked, staring at Monte through narrowed eyes as if taking the lawman's measure.

Monte nodded. “Yes.”

“Then, don't go gittin' discouraged 'bout odds nor nothin'. We got right on our side, an' ol' Muskrat gonna show you how to sneak up on the bastards and hit 'em 'fore they know what's happenin'.”

Monte's expression lightened. “When can we get movin'?”

Muskrat glanced at the mountain peaks surrounding Monte's camp. “I'd say this here storm gonna blow for a day or two. Won't do no good to take off now an' git caught in it.”

Smoke nodded his agreement. “Muskrat's right, Monte. It'll be better to use the time to plan just what we're going to do when we get in position around the hole-in-the-wall, after we see how the place is laid out and how many men he's got on sentry duty.”

“Do you think we might fix some supper first?” Pearlie asked, a pained expression on his face. “I think a lot better when my belly's full.”

Louis glanced at the cowboy. “I wasn't aware your belly ever got full, Pearlie, since I've never known you not to be hungry.”

Cal walked to one of the packhorses and pulled a burlap bag off its back. He carried it to the fire and set it down. “Before we left, I had Aunt Bea fix us up a mess of fried chicken and biscuits and some tinned peaches an' stuff. It ought'a do to put the fire in Pearlie's innards out for a while.”

After they'd eaten, they scattered their ground blankets near the fire and sat in a group, discussing how best to attack Slaughter's men without causing Mary to be harmed.

“Muskrat, have you ever been to the hole-in-the-wall?” Monte asked.

Muskrat pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from his coat and pulled the cork before replying. After fortifying himself with a drink that emptied half the bottle, he sleeved off his mouth with his arm.

“Yep. Passed through there on a couple'a occasions a few years back. Place is a deep valley betwixt several peaks. Got its own little stream runnin' through it, so it won't be possible to starve 'em out. They prob'ly got enough provisions to last 'em for weeks.”

“If we positioned ourselves on the surrounding mountainsides, what kind of range are we talking about for shooting down into the camp?” Louis asked.

“Dependin' on jest where ya are, anywhere from a couple of hundred yards to a quarter mile or more,” the mountain man answered.

Louis pulled a rifle from his pack. “I brought a new Remington Rolling Block rifle with me,” he said, wiping the polished walnut stock with a rag. “It's a single-shot, but it's built strong and takes a .44-caliber rifle slug. I figure it's good for up to three hundred yards, shooting downhill.”

Smoke nodded. “I have a Sharps .52-caliber, like yours, Muskrat. If I have to, I'm pretty accurate up to fifteen hundred yards.”

Muskrat grinned. “Well, since my eyes've gotten a little dim with the passin' years, I can't hit nothin' past a thousand yards with my ol' Fifty,” he said, referring to the Sharps Big Fifty.

Pearlie shook his head. “Our Winchesters aren't much good over two hundred yards, Smoke, so I guess Cal and me better be on the short side of the mountain.”

Monte looked from one to the other of the men, a worried expression on his face. “Wait just a damned minute here. If we go firin' into those bastards, they're liable to shoot Mary.”

Smoke held up his hand. “Hold on, Monte. We're not going to start anything until we know Mary's safe.”

“And just how do you plan to do that, young feller?” Muskrat asked, tipping his bottle for another long drink.

Smoke glanced at him. “Why, I plan to go down into the robbers' camp and get her out before we let them know we're there.”

Muskrat laughed. “You mean yo're gonna just traipse on down there an' tell this Slaughter feller, ‘Excuse me, but I'm gonna take yer hostage on outta here'?”

The other men nodded. It was a fair question, and they all wanted to know how Smoke would be able to do it.

“Muskrat, you've been in this country for a lot of years. Do you remember how the Indians used to hunt buffalo, back when all they had were bows and arrows?”

The old man thought for a moment, then grinned. “Shore. They didn't have much range with those old bows, so they'd cover themselves up with an ol' buff'lo skin, smear some buff'lo crap on they skin, and creep right into the middle of the herd.”

Smoke nodded. “That's how I plan to do it.”

Pearlie looked over at Smoke, his face puzzled. “How's dressin' up like a buffalo gonna fool those men, Smoke?”

All the men around the campfire laughed, and Cal slapped Pearlie on the shoulder. “Sometimes, Pearlie, you're dummer'n dog shit.”

Snow began to fall, just as Muskrat had said it would, so the men built up the fire and wrapped themselves in thick, woolen blankets, trying to get some sleep before tackling the long journey up into the mountain passes toward hole-in-the-wall.

“How long do you figger this snow's gonna last?” Pearlie asked Muskrat.

Muskrat held his hand out and looked at the size of the snowflakes, sniffed the air, and glanced up at the sky. “Oh, prob'ly till tomorrow afternoon. We should be able to be on our way by jest past our noonin'.”

* * *

Just as Muskrat said it would, the snowfall began to lighten around noon the next day. The men finished off the last of Aunt Bea's fried chicken and packed the horses for their journey up into the mountains.

Muskrat stepped up on a paint pony such as Indians rode and said, “C'mon, horse, git movin'.”

Cal spurred Silver up next to the mountain man. “How come you don't give your horse a name, Muskrat?”

Muskrat cut a piece of tobacco off a twist he pulled from his coat and stuck it in his mouth. As he began to chew, he glanced over at Cal. “Ya don't never want to give nuthin' a name ya might have to eat someday, young'un.”

Cal's face showed his distaste. “You mean you'd eat your horse?”

Muskrat chuckled, “Hell, pup, I've seen times so bad up here in the winter I'd eat my partner, if'n I ever had one.”

“I could never do that,” Cal said with some feeling.

Smoke trotted Joker up next to the boy. “Don't never say never, Cal,” he advised, a small smile curling his lips.

“That's right, boy,” Muskrat added. “After twenty or thirty days of snow up to yer neck and nothin' to eat 'cept bark off'n trees, when yer stomach is pressin' agin yore backbone, you'd eat yer shoes if'n ya didn't need 'em to keep yer feet from freezin' an' fallin' off.”

Cal finally smiled. He knew when he was being teased. “Now, I know Pearlie'd eat anything that didn't eat him first, but I just don't know as I could do it.”

“Hell, I jest hope ya don't never need to find out jest what you'd do, pup,” Muskrat said, and kicked his pony into a trot up the trail.

Smoke rode next to the mountain man, making sure he learned the way up the mountain, just in case he needed to lead the way back down.

He glanced around at the brilliant colors of fall foliage on the mountain slopes. The sugar maples were in full bloom, their leaves bright yellow and red and orange, intermixed with aspen and birch whose leaves were a golden yellow and seemed to glow with an almost iridescent flame in the bright sunlight. The peaks in the background were already covered with a layer of snow, looking like pieces of chocolate cake covered with marshmallow icing.

“You ever get tired of the colors of fall, Muskrat?” Smoke asked.

The mountain man glanced around and smiled, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “Nope, cain't say as I do, Smoke. Some say it's what keeps mountain men so young inside, the glories we see ever'day up here in the high lonesome.”

He shook his head and leaned to the side to spit a brown stream of tobacco juice at a lizard on the side of the trail, making it scamper to hide in a pile of fallen maple leaves.

“I cain't fer the life of me figger why anybody in they right mind would elect to live in a city or town when they got this beautiful country so close at hand.”

Smoke grinned. He knew Muskrat was a kindred spirit. “Nor can I, Muskrat, nor can I.”

As they followed the twisting, turning trail, which at times became no more than a path between copses of trees and outcroppings of granite boulders, Muskrat would point out to Smoke features to remember along the way . . . a boulder whose cracks and crevices looked like the face of a bear, a particularly old and weathered oak tree that looked to be over a hundred years old, a bubbling mountain stream they passed near a group of rocks that looked like a child's building blocks piled on top of one another.

The higher they climbed, the more the vegetation changed. Maple and birch trees became more and more scarce, and the evergreens such as fir and ponderosa pine began to become more prevalent.

“Are we going to have to climb above the tree line?” Smoke asked.

The old man shook his head. “Nope, but we're gonna come awfully close to it. Air's already gittin' so thin we gonna have to let the horses rest ever' little way or they'll founder.”

“This is as good a time as any,” Smoke said as they came again to a small mountain stream. “We can fill our canteens and make some coffee while the mounts rest up.”

After they'd dismounted, Pearlie began to pile some rocks in a circle in the clearing to make a fire.

Muskrat walked over and shook his head. “Not out here in the open, little beaver. They'll be able to see the smoke.”

He picked up the rocks and piled them at the base of a large fir tree, whose limbs stretched sixty feet in the air.

“Gather me up some deadfall, the drier the better,” he said to Cal and Pearlie.

After they'd piled old branches and twigs under the tree, Muskrat used a small gathering of dead leaves and his flint to start a fire.

As the smoke curled upward, the branches of the tree dispersed and scattered it so it wasn't visible from more than a couple of hundred feet.

“This way won't nobody know we're here,” Muskrat said as he watched Pearlie begin brewing a pot of coffee.

Then Muskrat pulled a package of jerked beef from his saddlebags and handed pieces out to the others. “Better git used to this,” he said, “'cause it's gonna be a while 'fore we have a hot meal again.”

“Are we gettin' close?” Monte asked, a hopeful expression on his face.

Muskrat pointed to a ridge about two hundred yards up the slope. “Jest over that ridge an' round a bend in the trail an' we'll be lookin' right down on the hole-in-the-wall.”

“What about sentries?” Smoke asked.

Muskrat shook his head. “They all on the other side of the hole, on the downslope side. Nobody'll figger we gonna come at 'em from up the mountain.”

* * *

It took them until just before dusk to make their way along the narrow mountain trails until they were in a position where they could look down into the hole-in-the-wall without being observed.

The place was laid out just as Muskrat had remembered. There were five crude log cabins arranged along the walls of the canyon, with a small mountain stream running through the center of the area. In addition, there were ten lean-to-type structures where most of the gunmen bedded down at night. The horses were kept in a large corral at the far end of the canyon, with saddles and blankets arrayed along the wooden fence surrounding the corral.

There was a large fire that seemed to be kept going day and night in the center of the cleared area between the cabins, where most of the men ate and gathered to drink and smoke and socialize during the evening hours.

The main trail into and out of the canyon could be seen winding down the mountainside, with several places where men in groups of two were stationed as sentries.

Muskrat pointed out vantage points around the canyon where Smoke and the others could place themselves so as to get clean shots down into the compound.