Rage of the Mountain Man (31 page)

“Well—ah—well, then, Mr. Jensen, I gotta apologize for my friend here. Ya see, Harper ain’t got all his smarts. Puts his mouth in gear before his brain is engaged.”

“You shut your mouth, Willie Lowe,” Harper screamed. “I can apologize for myself.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out, his eyes closed to summon calm. “I’m right sorry I doubted your word, Mr. Jensen. Uh—what—ah— what did them boys do?”

“Exactly what I said. They pushed and I pushed back. End of story.”

“Yeah,” a chagrined Harper agreed. “For them.”

“It don’t have to repeat itself,” Smoke prompted. “Right! You’re absolutely right, Mr. Jensen. Matter of fact, we was just leavin’—right, boys?” Three heads nodded in unison. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jensen. Have a good afternoon.”

Smoke breathed deeply as the last one left the saloon. At least he had prevented a shootout this time.

Tall columns, with black bottoms and white anvil-heads, climbed tens of thousands of feet into the azure sky to the northwest. Like scouts ahead of a military movement, long, roiling fingers of the gathering mass tumbled across the vast dome of blue. Smoke Jensen eyed the building storm with a wary eye. All hell could break loose at any time, he knew.

Although not as tempestuous as their brothers of the plains, these mountain thunderstorms could unleash enough violence to claim their relationship. So far, the leading edge of this jumble of cumulo-nimbus skirted diagonally across the trail Smoke followed. It didn’t yet look dangerous enough to take his mind off the gnawing certainty that he knew the destination sought by Phineas Lathrop. The problem was, he couldn’t put a name to it. A muted rumble of distant thunder brought his attention back to the building storm.

Fully a third of the horizon to the north and west now lay robed in green-tinged black. The clouds towered up and seemed to bend out over him. A huge, rain-bloated thunder-head glided over the sun. Eye-hurting in their brightness, silver shafts splintered outward around its edge as the solar orb tried to exercise dominance. This was getting serious, Smoke Jensen realized. He raised the collar of his sheepskin jacket as a jet of cold air squirted out of the forward wall of the tempest and rushed down the canyon where Smoke rode.

At once, Smoke began to look for some place to take shelter. As a youth, he had traveled all of this country with Preacher. He knew of abandoned fur trappers’ cabins, large rock overhangs, and an occasional cave. It was this latter he sought now. If he had reckoned his position right, a series of small caves dotted the canyon walls some short ways ahead.

The mutter of far-off thunder grew louder. Flashes of lightning could be seen in the overcast that spread toward him at an alarming rate. He touched blunt spurs to Dandy’s flanks and urged more speed. The big roan stallion walled his eyes and twitched nervous ears. Smoke could physically sense the change in pressure.

Without warning, the sky split apart in the manner attributed to Judgment Day. A white bolt caved into half a dozen wicked forks with the sound of ripping sailcloth. The odor of ozone hung heavily long after the cannon blast of thunder rumbled away down the canyon. Dandy needed no more urging. The frightened animal set out at a fast lope. Smoke Jensen screwed the hat tighter onto his head, his eyes busy searching for any sign of the anticipated caves.

Large, fat drops, still bearing the chill of early spring, began to pelt Smoke’s back and slap him in the face. They fell like balls of mercury attached to silver strings. The crops were reasonably far apart at first, then the downpour thickened and their size grew smaller. Visibility began to reduce for Smoke. If he didn’t find a cave soon, he realized, he would be caught out in this tumult.

A freight train sound rushed at him from the left. Two minutes and half a mile sped by when Smoke thought he could make out a small, black dot against the buff and gray of the canyon wall. He drew nearer and located the narrow ledge that formed a path to the entrance of a cave. Quickly he reined in and dismounted. Already soaked to the skin, Smoke led his jittery mount up to the hoped-for shelter.

Smoke had to duck to enter, as did his horse. Once they were beyond the low opening, the cave widened, the ceiling arched high above. Smoke ground-reined Dandy and used flint and steel, and a bit of treated thistledown, to light a candle he also took from his right-side saddlebag. With the limited glow of the wax taper, he searched his surroundings.

He soon discovered that he was not the first human occupant of the cavern. Powdery dry billets of wood lay in a natural crib. With a stick of that, and some kerosene from a tin flask in his gear, Smoke fashioned a torch. Its greater light revealed an astonishing scene. The walls, and part of the ceiling, were covered with petroglyphs, stick figures of animals and men, carved into the wall and crudely painted with natural dyes.

Darkness had protected them and they looked down on this modern intruder in all their original, vivid color. Smoke Jensen found himself gape-mouthed. Preacher had shown him examples carved in visible rock faces: men and the sun and animals that could have been elk, or even bison. The old mountain man had also spoken of such rare and beautiful examples of the art of ancient people who had lived in these caves long before the coming of the Spanish and other Europeans. Some said, Preacher went on, that they had been here before the coming of the Indians.

Smoke mulled over this scrap of information while he continued to examine the cave. He found some non-representational designs also. Perhaps some sort of religious symbols, he speculated. Outside his shelter, the rain hissed and seethed down in a torrent. Smoke gathered wood for a fire. It would be utterly smokeless, he estimated, burn faster than hell, and keep him busy replenishing the fuel.

Once he had his blaze going, Smoke stripped to the buff and laid out his clothing to dry. Wisps of steam rose from coat, shirt, vest, and trousers as the rocks they lay upon heated up. Smoke made his way to the mouth of the cave. A careful study revealed why the entrance was to low.

Over the years, soil had collected in the roots of small trees. The network of entertwined tree roots had attracted more soil. At present, a huge pine dominated the overhead shelf. From slightly inside, Smoke could see the stone arch of the cave’s natural mouth, partly buried in dirt, pebbles, and roots. Once more it gave him pause to marvel at the intricacies of nature.

Breaking off his reflections, Smoke turned to his horse. “Well, Dandy, I reckon we could use a bit of something to eat.”

Smoke filled a tin cup with water, added about a tablespoon of Arbuckle’s Arabica, and set it on the fire, on a small trivet he unfolded from his camp gear. While it came to a boil, he put a double scoop of oats and cracked corn into a nosebag and fed Dandy. Then he returned to his coffee. The rich aroma made his stomach cramp. He broke out a smoked shank of deer meat and a couple of cold biscuits. That would have to do. For both of them.

While he ate, the fury of nature raged overhead. Rather than slacking off, the storm sent a second front sweeping down from Wyoming and dumped more rain into the canyon. When he completed his spartan meal, he retrieved a collapsible bucket he had set outside and gave Dandy a long drink. Nothing for it now but to make himself comfortable.

Darkness had replaced day with the coming of the storm and Smoke Jensen estimated it would remain until long after sundown. He unstrapped his bedroll and spread the blankets on the hard floor of the cavern. With his saddle as a pillow, Smoke leaned back, rolled a quirley, and puffed it to life. When the cigarette had burned down to his fingers, he extinguished it, put out the torch, and settled in for a long-needed solid sleep.

When the thunderstorm passed by, more water-laden clouds backed up against its rear and unloosed a steady downpour. The dim drum of rain drops lulled Smoke Jensen into so deep a slumber that he came only partway out of it at the sound of a loud crashing at the mouth of the cave. Only after he awakened with the first pale light of dawn did Smoke find his path out of the cavern impeded by the large pine that had fallen during the night.

*  *  *

With both himself and his horse on the inside, he was going to have one dandy fine hell of a time getting out, Smoke Jensen pondered, as he stared at the obstruction. He pulled gloves from his hip pocket and slid long, thick fingers into the supple leather. Then he started to climb the rough bark of the downed pine.

A thick, resinous odor assailed his nostrils. It smelled fresh and clean. Quite a contrast to the mud-slicked surface he wriggled upon. The five-foot-thick trunk left space enough for light and air to enter the cave. It let Smoke get his head and arms through the opening. His shoulders hung up.

The harder he struggled, the more tightly he became wedged in the restrictive mouth of the cave. Anger fired determination for Smoke Jensen. He reversed his left arm and tried to reach past his shoulder to the big coffin-handled Bowie knife at his side. No luck. With renewed patience, he began to pick and dig at the damp soil that denied him movement.

That, too, proved of no avail. The combined elements of his situation only fueled his burning humiliation when he heard an amused voice rise from below his line of sight, somewhere near the top of the up-ended tree.

“Well, dang me, am I witness to the raisin’ of the dead?”

“Don’t be such a jackass. Do something to help me,” Smoke snapped. Then he paused, frowned. He knew that voice. “L’Lupe? Is that you?”

A cackle of laughter answered. “Sure’s yer cornin’ back from the grave. Saay, don’t I know that voice? Be you the growed-up version of the li’l boy brat what pestered me an’ Preacher nigh unto death years ago?”

“I might be,” Smoke bit off, his irritation growing. “Smoke . . . Jensen.
De quoi s’agit-il?
” his accent thickening with each word, L’Lupe climbed toward Smoke Jensen and the laughter began again. "
Puis-je vous etre utile?
” The French Smoke had picked up from this, and other old mountain men, came back slowly. “Hell, yes, you can be of assistance to me. Get me out of here.”

L’Lupe—the Wolf—whose real name was Renard Dou-chant—continued to cackle while he studied Smoke’s predicament from up close. An old friend of Preacher, L’Lupe had been ancient when young Smoke Jensen had first met him. He looked not a day older now. His hair, worn in a long, thick braid at the back of his head, seemed no grayer than during that initial encounter. Nor had his seamed, leathery face and bright blue eyes changed. The latter still twinkled with amusement at a world gone mad from under a jutting ridge furry with salt-and-pepper brows. L’Lupe had to be well into his seventies, or even eighties, yet he looked fifty.

And he carried himself like a man that age, Smoke observed, as Douchant stretched and bent to study the restricting material that held Smoke fast. He hummed and hawed, squinted and rubbed his hairless, rock-square jaw. “You are fortunate,
mon ami
. I have a pick along. We can open the hole and pop you out like a grape from its skin,
ce n ’est rien
. ”

“It may be nothing for you,” Smoke grumbled, catching the buoyant mood of his old friend. “But I’m the one who’s stuck here.”

“Only for a moment, so take care to not excite yourself. Did not Preacher teach you patience?”

“Of course he did, but I have a horse in here which won’t have any air to breathe before long.”

“Aha! And I have two mules. The one I ride, and the one for the packs, non? With them we will pull this tree away in no time.”

With that, L’Lupe popped out of Smoke’s view. He was back in three minutes, during which Smoke continued to sweat and struggle to reach his knife. L’Lupe’s bounding joviality grated on raw nerves while the energetic oldster toiled with pick and shovel to open the way for Smoke. At last he paused.

“This will take an ax.”

“Oh, no,” Smoke protested. “There’ll be more meat than root in the path of that blade.”

“Take—how you say?—your ease,
mon ami
. I mean to cut away from below, to let the bole drop lower. Then you can crawl out.”

Twenty trying minutes later, Smoke Jensen sensed a loosening of pressure against his shoulders. Another solid
plock!
of the ax in L’Lupe’s hands and the uprooted pine sank with a thud. Quickly, Smoke crawled his way to freedom. At once he took charge.

“Bring up your mules. I’m worried about my horse.” The jerry-rigged harness fitted the mules with an unlikely collection of odds and ends. Trailing from the leather portions, ropes led to the trunk of the pine, each secured around its girth. When Smoke Jensen and Renard Douchant had both inspected them and concluded their satisfaction, the old mountain man split the air with a shrill whistle between gapped teeth.

"
Allons, mes amis
, pull! Put your backs into it. Pull!” 

Protesting vocally, the two powerful animals took up the slack, and leaned into their harness. Leather creaked and hemp rope hummed. The once tall, stately pine began to squeal in objection to the stress exerted on it.

Rocks and muddy rubble began to spill downhill. One of the mules, Biscuit, gave an impatient bray and set his haunches. An almost human groan came from the big animal and then a cascade of earth spilled out from below the fallen tree. The huge weight tottered on its exposed roots for a moment, then crashed downward, away from the cave.

L’Lupe clapped hands together and declared, “Well, that is done,” before he bounded off after his pair of mules. When he returned, he found Smoke soothing Dandy at the bottom of the path to the cavern. L’Lupe wasted no time in satisfying his curiosity.

“Now, tell me,
mon ami
—what is it you are doing out here all alone?”

Smoke Jensen carefully laid out the threat to the High Lonesome posed by Phineas Lathrop and his gang. L’Lupe interrupted frequently with expressions of shock or outrage.

His countenance darkened as each act of depredation unfolded. At last, clearly agitated, L’Lupe rose, dusted off his hands, and spoke in a quavering voice.

“This is monstrous, my friend Smoke. You say there are how many . . . thirty or forty? So, then, what you must do is keep on their track. And I? I shall go off and round up a little help.”