Ordeal of the Mountain Man (4 page)

 

 

In half an hour the trailing edge of the storm spattered itself out on the leaves of cottonwoods that ringed the valley. With Caleb Noonan left behind to watch over the sixty horses that had not fled the storm, the rest set out to search for the scattered remounts. Smoke had no doubt that they had a long, hard task ahead of them.

“We'll spread out and work in circles,” he suggested. “Bring them back as you find them.”

After a fruitless afternoon of search, Smoke had a flash of inspiration. While the others speared chunks of fatback from tin plates and chewed glumly, he outlined his idea.

“Tomorrow morning we're going to try it another way. Luke, I want you to go back to that valley after you eat. Bring up a couple of mares. It would be best if you can bag at least one that is in season.”

Grinning riders cut their eyes from Smoke to one another in knowing glances. So long as the wind held from the southwest, that would sure as shootin' work. Smoke came to his boots and went to the nearby stream to scrub his plate clean with sand. Luke Britton left with a good two hours' light remaining.

Later, with the sun only a pink memory on thin bands of purple clouds in the west, the tired hands rolled up to rest until morning. Smoke Jensen sat alone, smoking a cigar beyond the glow of dying coals. Lost in deep thought, his reverie was not disturbed even by the mournful hoot of an owl in a pine nearby.

 

 

Luke Britton considered himself lucky to find one mare in heat. He brought back three others, and wily horse experts, Jerry Harkness and Utah Jack Grubbs, offered advice on how to make the most advantage of this. What they came up with required a rather indelicate procedure involving some old cheesecloth from a side of bacon and a bit of messy work around the tail end of each mare. When they had finished, Smoke sent the dozen men out in groups of three.

Within half an hour, Jerry Harkness rode in with a dozen snorting, skittering young stallions in tow, led by ropes around their necks. He gave Smoke a cheery wave. “It worked, all right. What do we do with them now?”

“I'll hold them here. Go on back and find me some more. Ah—Jerry, you did good. Any more on the way?”

“Sure enough. Jeff is about twenty minutes behind me. He has a string of twenty.”

Smoke brightened. “At this rate, we might be on the trail again by this time tomorrow.”

 

 

Sunlight twinkled down on the puddles in the ranch yard thirty miles to the northeast of Muddy Gap. Elmer Godwin looked out from the barn, where he had been mucking out stalls. He liked working for Sven Olsen, an even-handed, fair-minded man who paid well and whose young wife set a good table. He also had a true friend in Sven's oldest son, Tommy. A gangling orphan in his late teens, Elmer had grown close to Tommy over the past nine months he had worked for the Olsens.

During that time, they had trapped for furs, and he had taken Tommy hunting, fishing, and even bare-bottom swimming in the coppery brown, shallow water of the Platte River. Still a kid at heart, Elmer had enjoyed it every bit as much as Tommy. His reflection ended when the subject of his thoughts called from inside the barn.

“Awh, c'mon, Elmer, I ain't gonna do this all alone.”

Elmer turned back. “Jist catchin' a breather an' a cup of water from the pump.”

Tommy Olsen appeared in the open barn door. Big for his age, he was a sturdy, stocky boy with a shock of auburn hair and a mask of freckles that covered both round cheeks. He examined Elmer with clear, blue eyes that twinkled with intelligence.

“We goin' swimmin' after this is done?”

Elmer grinned. “Sure are, Tommy. We'll take along a bar of soap, wash off this stink.”

“Wheewu! You tellin' me. The pigs are worst. Be glad when that's over.”

Before Elmer could make answer, he stiffened and cocked an ear to the distance. “Quiet,” he cautioned. “Someone's coming.”

Tommy's eyes went wide. “Is it Injuns?”

Turning his head to better hear, Elmer frowned. “Don't think so. Hoofbeats are too regular. Like soldiers riding.” That reminded Elmer of something else. Over the last two months he had heard a lot of talk about bandit raids. “Tommy, let's go to the house. We have to tell your mother and sisters. Then you take a gun and go with them to the root cellar. I'll fetch your paw.”

 

 

Reunited with his gang, Reno Jim Yurian led them up the lane to the Olsen ranch. When they reached the barnyard, they spread out and advanced on the house. Reno Jim raised his hat with his left hand, his right on the pearl grip of his six-gun.

“Hello the house. Your best chance is to come on out and not show any fight. Otherwise, someone is going to get hurt.”

In answer, a rifle barrel slid through a firing loop in a thick wooden shutter that had been hastily closed. “Git off this place, mister, or it'll be you who is hurtin'.”

It was a young voice, a boy not yet out of his teens, Jim Yurian correctly surmised. He had never met Elmer Godwin, yet he could clearly visualize him. Scrawny, scared out of his boots, perhaps his father gone for the day, his hands shaking so much he could not draw a good bead. With exaggerated slowness, Reno Jim drew his nickle-plated Merwin and Hulbert .44 and pointed it roughly in the direction of the window.

You've had your warning, boy. Now you and everyone else come out of there.”

Fear pushed young Elmer to incautiousness. “You can go to hell!”

Reno Jim put a shot into the wooden shutter an inch above the rifle barrel. At once the other outlaws began to blaze away. Suddenly one of them gave a startled yell and pitched forward over the neck of his horse. The tight circle of hard cases blew apart.

Gunmen spun their mounts while others rode out to ring the house. Those who had turned saw a stocky man kneeling in the doorway of the barn, a rifle to his shoulder. He fired as his presence registered on the gang. Three of them threw shots at him, all of which missed. Sven Olsen did not.

His next round clipped the hat from the head of Prine Gephart and cut a bloody gouge along the crown of his scalp. Wavering in his saddle, Gephart let his mount amble him away from the line of fire. Dazed, he indistinctly saw the demise of the valiant rancher through a haze of red, as blood washed down his forehead and into his eyes.

Half a dozen more bullets crashed into the barn door. Two of them struck Sven Olsen in the chest and abdomen. Knocked from his kneeling position, he sprawled, his Winchester inches from his outstretched hand. A wave of dizziness swept over the rancher. He blinked and bit his lip against the pain in his belly. Gradually it numbed to a low throb. Dimly he saw the outlaws abandon him for already dead and turn back to the house. Elmer was in there alone, the dying man thought in desperation.

A rain of slugs battered the Olsen house. Chunks of wood splintered away from the shutters, and the rifle barrel withdrew. Only to reappear at another window. Impatient at this stubborn resistance, Reno Jim dismounted and gestured to three others to join him. They ran to the porch, where they were in under the field of fire from the window.

Reno Jim saw a sturdy bench against the outer wall and produced a grim smile. “Here we go, boys. Grab hold of this bench and we'll batter down that door.”

With four strong men on the task, the portal rang and shuddered at each impact. After ten stout crashes, the crossbar began to yield. It splintered at first, then cracked loudly. Another push and the door flew inward.

Two outlaws, followed by Reno Jim, burst into the room. They caught movement to one side and swung their hot-barreled six-guns toward it. Reno Jim proved faster than any of his men. Coolly, he raised his .44 Merwin and Hulbert and shot Elmer Godwin through one lung and his heart.

Without another glance at the youth he had murdered, Reno Jim issued crisp orders. “All right. Clear out anything of value, then set this place afire.” Out on the porch, he called to the remainder of the gang. “You boys round up all the stock and head 'em up. We'll drive them to Bent Rock Canyon with the rest.”

Two days after the raid on the Olsen Ranch, Smoke Jensen and his hands rode into Muddy Gap. At first they did not understand the furtive, nervous, and downright suspicious glances afforded them by the residents. They got a clearer idea when they began to note bullet holes and scars on the building fronts, and above the town, on a knoll not yet fenced and consecrated for the purpose, fresh graves in what would be the town's cemetery.

Smoke Jensen passed on his observation to Utah Jack Grubbs. “Looks like these folks have run into some trouble of late.”

“Injuns, do you think?” Utah Jack offered.

“From the looks of all the bullet holes and the scared way the folks have been looking at us, I'd say white men. Outlaws from one gang or another.”

Utah Jack discounted that. “Surely they have some law in this town. That the place ain't shot up worse than it is, I'd say whoever it was, they got run out real fast.”

Smoke shrugged. “You may be right, Utah. We'll find out soon enough.” He nodded ahead in the street, to where half a dozen armed men stood resolutely, weapons at the ready. They formed a wedge that denied passage to anyone not at a full gallop. At the head stood a man with a bandaged right shoulder.

When Smoke and his hands came within twenty feet, that man raised his arm to signal a halt. “That's far enough, strangers. Who are you?” He shifted uneasily. “And what's your business in Muddy Gap?”

Smoke Jensen did not answer directly. “Looks like you had some trouble here lately.”

A frown creased the mayor's brow. “And how do we know you're not the ones who caused it? Besides, you haven't answered my question.”

Smoke went unfazed. “My fault. M'name's Jensen; I'm from the Sugarloaf horse ranch in Colorado. These are some of my hands. We're driving a herd of remounts to Fort Custer.”

Mayor Norton's frown deepened to a scowl. “You're going on the Crow Reservation with only four men?”

A light smile brightened Smoke's face. “Nope. The rest are holding the herd outside town.”

Norton cradled the shotgun in the crook of his right arm, winced at the pain in his shoulder, and scratched his head with his left hand. “Jensen, you say? Might you be any relation to a fellow named Smoke Jensen?”

“Might be and am. Folks have called me Smoke for a long time.”

Hope flickered momentarily on the face of Lester Norton. He took a step forward, extended a hand. “Mayor Lester Norton. My pleasure. It's said that you have been a lawman for many years now. A U.S. marshal?”

“Deputy, yes.”

“Are you still carrying a badge, Mr. Jensen?”

“Not at the moment.”

A raucous bray came from one of the saloons. On top of it came a yelp of protest in a decidedly feminine voice. Smoke cut his eyes that direction for a moment. Mayor Norton looked that way also, his glower even more thunderous. He made an inviting gesture to Smoke Jensen.

“I would be obliged if you would accompany me to the Iron Kettle, Mr. Jensen. There is something important I wish to discuss with you over a cup of coffee.”

Smoke shrugged. “Fine with me. We came in for supplies. That won't take a lot of time. You boys might as well come along,” he told Jerry Harkness and his hands. “Load up on some real grub for once.”

Walking their horses to a tie rail, the Sugarloaf party went with the mayor to the corner cafe. Once inside, Jerry and the other hands took a separate table. Smoke seated himself across from Mayor Norton. His gaze took in the blue-checkered, lace-trimmed curtains at the window, the row of shiny copper molds on a shelf above the back counter and a sturdy potbelly stove at the center of the rear wall. A serving window under the shelf gave a view of the kitchen beyond. A still-trim woman who might have been in her early thirties brought them coffee without being told. When she had served them and gone to take the orders of the ranch hands, the mayor leaned across the table and spoke with some urgency. Smoke could smell his pitch a mile off.

“We're in trouble here. Over the five days since those outlaws raided town, half the riffraff in the territory have drifted into town. It wouldn't take much of a spark, or a whole lot of smarts, on the part of some to make a move to take over the town. We need you, or someone like you, to clean the trash out of Muddy Gap.”

“Why not have the sheriff take care of it?”

“Sheriff Hutchins was killed by the bandits. We buried him two days ago up on the hill out there.”

“You have a town marshal, don't you?”

Mayor Norton looked Smoke Jensen square in the eye. “Marshal Grover Larsen is too busy hiding under his bed to help us against this glut of ne'er-do-wells.”

“But, why me? I have a herd of horses to take care of. I have a contract and a deadline to meet.”

“First off, because I have heard that you are a fair and honest man, a top-notch lawman, regardless of the wanted posters and what they say. Secondly, you have acquired some notoriety as a gunfighter. Third, because you are here, we don't waste time we may not have sending for someone. Lastly, because the town can pay handsomely for your services. Can't your hands take care of the horses for a while, even a few days. Surely you can clean them out in less than a week.”

“I could, given some help.”

Lester Norton glowed with expectation. “Then you'll undertake to do it?”

Smoke drained the last of his coffee and came to his boots. Leaning toward the mayor, he made his decision. “I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor. I'm not your man. We can't be late at Fort Custer or the army will not pay for our horses.”

Smoke Jensen started for the door when a choked, frightened cry for help came from outside. The voice was that of a woman.

 

 

After brooding for a week over his humiliation by that snotty twist of a schoolmarm, Brandon Kelso saw the opportunity to gain his revenge. In the aftermath of the bandit raid on Muddy Gap, as more and more frontier trash moseyed into town, the thought came that he and his friends could get away with just about anything.

Sheriff Hutchins was dead, his deputies out on the trail of the gang that had robbed every store in town, and Marshal Larsen had taken to bed, complaining of a terrible gripe. His chance came unexpectedly on the day Smoke Jensen rode into town. It being a Saturday, Prissy Missy Parkins had no duties around the school. Instead, she had come out of her small house and walked to the center of town to purchase her needs for the week to come. She entered Blackmun's Ladies' Fashions first. Brandon quickly summoned his two willing accomplices.

They watched from the mouth of an alley as Virginia Parkins went from store to store. Her last stop, Harbinson's General Mercantile, coincided with the arrival of Smoke and his hands. Brandon Kelso paid scant attention to the strangers and the confrontation with the mayor. Intent on his prey, he had eyes only for Ginny Parkins.

When she came out of the general store, her arms filled with packages, Brandon and his two loutish friends stepped out onto the boardwalk and formed a semicircle around her, Ginny looked up startled.

Braying in self-generated contempt, Brandon leaned close to her. “Sorry you tried to make a fool out of me now, you dried up sow?”

Although caught off guard, Ginny's quick wit came to her aid. “I never tried to make a fool of you, Brandon. You do quite well at that all by yourself. Now, please get out of my way.”

Emboldened, Brandon reached out and gave her a shove. “You ain't goin' nowhere, you bitch. Not until we say you can. What a sorry waste of a woman you are.” He cocked a sarcastic pose, one eyebrow elevated. “Never had a man, have you?”

“You vulgar gutter snipe, that is none of your business,” Ginny answered hotly.

Brandon chortled, then spoke through a sneer. “Yup. You ain't never had a man. Bet you're a shriveled prune . . . know what I mean?”

“You filthy animal. Your father will hear of this.” Ginny wished she had a free hand. She would slap the face of this impudent, odious, degenerate around on the other side of his head. Then, remembering the switch she had used on them at the school, her higher, moral self sternly chided her.
Bite your tongue, girl. Violence never really settled anything.
Ginny had only a second to rethink her outburst.

Stepping forward the three brutes snatched the packages and string net bag from her arms. Laughing nastily, they hurled the parcels into the street. Hooting in derision, they stepped off the boardwalk and began to kick and stomp her purchases. Paper bags burst, to spray flour and salt. Eggs splattered and ran yellow out into the dust to be absorbed. Three onions went flying.

Enjoying himself immensely, Brandon hauled back a booted foot and kicked a head of cabbage with such force it went flying through a second-floor window of the Wilber House Hotel across the street. Ginny Parkins gathered herself and put hands to the sides of her mouth.

“Stop that! Please stop. Someone help me. Please help me.”

By that time, three drunken pieces of human debris had come out of the Sorry Place saloon to see what was going on. Brandon, carried away by his success so far, and seeking to impress the saddle tramps, spun back on one boot heel and snarled as he raised a hand as though to strike her. “Shut up, you bitch.”

At that moment, Smoke Jensen stepped out onto the street. He instantly took in the tableau before him. His cold, gold-brown gaze fixed on Ginny as she cringed back and raised a hand defensively. Aroused by her helplessness, Brandon and his sidekicks took two quick steps toward her, the destruction of her groceries forgotten, and closed around her, their hands raised again. Laughing, the trio of worthless frontier rubbish joined them, and they began to push Ginny around the circle from one to another.

When she screamed again, Brandon brought up his ham hand to strike her in the face.

Suddenly an iron-hard grip encircled Brandon's wrist. His eyes bulged with the effort as he tried to move and found he could not.

 

 

It took Smoke Jensen only three long, swift strides to reach the scene of the shameful encounter. He lashed out with an arm and closed steely fingers around a thick wrist and squeezed. He encountered resistance and applied more pressure. At once, the hand of the punk he held in his grasp turned snowy, then began to swell and flush a dark red.

Let go! Leggo me!” Brandon Kelso wailed two octaves above his normal register.

Smoke Jensen yanked him around and drove a hard right fist into the pouting lips of Brandon Kelso. Blood flew and a tooth cracked. Kelso went slack in the knees. Smoke indifferently pushed him aside. Brandon sprawled face-first into the dirt. Smoke faced the three riffraff.

“Leave, if you don't want to hurt for a long time,” he advised. “Leave town if you don't want to stay here forever, out on that hill above us.”

Two of them still possessed enough sobriety to actually glance over their shoulders at the mounds of bare earth that covered seven graves. “Oh, yeah,” the third, more inebriated one sneered. “Who do you think you are?”

Calmly, Smoke answered him. “Oh, I
know
who I am.”

Jist who is that?”

With a nasty, deadly smile, Smoke answered him. “Folks call me Smoke Jensen. I'm the new sheriff in Muddy Gap.”

“Oh, God,” one of the less intoxicated blurted.

White-faced with sudden terror, his partner gasped and gulped and staggered to the edge of the boardwalk, where he bent over the tie rail and gave up his burden of beer. Gripped by the certain presence of sure, swift death, he bleated miserably to his companions.

“C'mon fellas, let's get out of here.”

Quickly they stumbled away. Behind them, Brandon Kelso dragged himself to his boots. He looked confused at the departing backs of the saddle trash. He raised appealing hands to them.

“Come back. What's so important about who this peckerwood happens to be?”

Over his shoulder, one of them answered him. “Because he is Smoke Jensen, that's why.”

Brandon looked down at his hands, then cut his eyes to Smoke. “That don't mean nothin' to me,” he muttered and then charged.

Smoke Jensen squared off and met him with a solid left-right combination that rocked Brandon's head back, pink spittle flying from already split and bleeding lips. Brandon let go a wide, looping right, which Smoke blocked easily. Then the last mountain man stepped in and began a snare drum tattoo on the soft, pulpy belly of his opponent.

Brandon gulped and grunted. Eyes wild, pain flaming in them, he turned his head to appeal to his friends. “Wal, don't just stand there. Jump in an' help me.”

Young Danny Collins held back, while Willie Finch, always in the sway of Brandon Kelso, and filled with false bravado, leaped forward to join the fray. Less than a second later, he began to regret it.

Smoke rapped Brandon in the mouth again and pivoted sideways to Willie, cocked back at the hips and drew up his right leg. When Willie Finch charged within range, Smoke unleashed that leg in a lightning strike. The flat of Smoke's boot sole caught Willie in the belly. Its force drove the boy back, doubled over, cheeks puffed out by the force of the wind knocked from him. Thin, green, bitter gorge rose up from his throat and spilled onto his shirt. Darkness danced before his eyes. Smoke turned back to young Kelso. Grinning, he made inviting gestures to draw the lout in closer.

“C'mon, you want more, don't you?”

“You bet your butt, mister. I ain't afraid of you.”

“You ought to be,” Smoke advised him.

“Oh, yeah? What for?”

Smoke shook his head sadly. “You just don't get it, do you? I've killed a hundred better men than you'll ever grow up to be. Now, get out of here, you little turd, before I break something serious.”

“Like hell!”

By then, Willie Finch had recovered his courage and leaped on Smoke's back. Momentarily pinning Smoke's arms to his sides, he yelled in the gunfighter's ear. “I got him, Bran. I got him good.”