Triumph of the mountain.., p.1
Triumph of the Mountain Man, page 1
part #18 of Mountain Man Series
COLD STEEL, HOT LEAD
Another five minutes and they would be as dead as King Sol, Smoke Jensen thought as the fresh wave of bandits rolled toward them. He took time to aim carefully and knocked another outlaw from the saddle. Still they came. Around him, the vaqueros from Rancho de la Gloria pumped round after round into the advancing gang members.
Little more than two dozen yards separated the contending forces. Smoke and the vaqueros would have to break and run or be annihilated.
The outlaw leader sensed it also. With a triumphant whoop, he urged his men on. They closed the gap by five yards. Suddenly a stutter of shots erupted behind them. It rapidly grew to a ragged volley. Confused, fully half of the bandits turned about. Smoke Jensen seized the moment to charge.
“At them! jCuchillos y machetes!” he yelled, calling for knives and the deadly long blades used for chopping jungle and high grass.
“Yiiiiiiii!” several vaqueros shouted in unison.
With bared blades in one hand, revolvers in the other, reins between their teeth or looped over the large, flat pommels of their saddles, the Mexican cowboys broke clear and thundered down on the astonished Anglo outlaws. The appearance of keen-edged steel unnerved many among the gang. They would gladly face down four or more blazing six-guns, but the thought of deep, gaping wounds, of severed limbs, or decapitation filled them with dread. Pressed from both sides, they abandoned all effort at resistance and fled in panicked disarray.
In no time, the posse led by Sheriff Banner and the vaqueros joined up. The field had been abandoned by Quinn’s rogues so swiftly that the wounded had been left behind. Smoke and the sheriff rode among them. None of them appeared capable of further fight.
“It’s over,” the sheriff opined.-
Smoke did not share Banner’s confidence. “For now.”
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TRIUMPH OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
William W. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 1997 by William W. Johnstone
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First Printing: January 1997 10 9
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
One
Once a week, a Sugarloaf hand rode into Big Rock, Colorado to pick up the mail. Lost Ranger Peak brooded over the town, its 11,940 foot summit covered by a mantle of white year round. Often the journey proved to be nothing more than an excuse to spend an hour or two in the Bright Lights saloon. With the exception of Sally Jensen’s sporadic correspondence with a few old school friends, scant mail ever came to the home of the fabled gunfighter, Smoke Jensen. On a fine morning in late April, then, Ike Mitchell, the Sugarloaf foreman, expressed his surprise when Smoke Jensen announced that he reckoned he would be the one to ride into Big Rock.
Ike hastened to relieve his employer of the burden. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Jensen. One of the boys can make the mail run.”
“No trouble, Ike. I really feel like I ought to go.” Smoke brushed at his reddish blond hair and gazed across the pastures of the Sugarloaf with his oddly gold-cast eyes. “There’s some little — something — nagging me to make the ride into town.”
Ike chuckled behind a big, work-hardened hand. The wings of gray hair at his temples waved in a light breeze. “Needin’ a little time away from Miz Sally, eh?”
“Not exactly, Ike. Though I’ll admit I would enjoy a good card game and a few schooners of beer with friends.”
With a knowing wink, Ike encouraged Smoke. “You’ll have time enough for that, like as not. Not many people know where the Sugarloaf is, let alone how to reach it by mail. Enjoy your day, Mr. Jensen.”
“I will Ike. Anything I can bring you from town?”
Ike removed his black, low-crowned Stetson and scratched his head. “The missus could use a bottle of sulphur elixir to treat the young’uns for spring.”
Smoke involuntarily made a face at the memory of that medical treatment. It had not been one of the things he missed when separated from his family and taken in by Preacher. “I’ll get it, then. Only, don’t tell your brood who it was brought it.”
Amorous meadow larks whistled to prospective mates as Smoke Jensen rode over the wooden bridge that spanned the Elk River, and entered Big Rock. He kept his ’Palouse stallion, Cougar, at a gentle walk. In spite of the chill in the air, the sun felt warm on his shoulders. He had left his working chaps behind, and wore a rust-colored pair of whipcord trousers, a green, yoke shirt and buckskin vest. Around his narrow waist he carried his famous — or infamous according to some — pair of .45 Colt Peacemakers. The right-hand one was slung low on his leg, the left in a pouch holster high on the cartridge belt, the butt pointed forward. Several writers of dime novels, Ned Buntline included, had made such a getup known to millions as a “gun-fighter’s rig.”
Smoke looked on it as a practical necessity. The same as the .45-70-500 Winchester Express rifle in the saddle scabbard. While not expecting trouble, Smoke had learned long ago that it paid to come prepared at all times. As his legendary mentor, Preacher, had said, “It tends to increase a feller’s life span.”
* * *
“Morning,” Smoke greeted a teamster who struggled with the ten-up team hauling a precarious-looking load of logs on a bedless, cradle wagon. The man gave a wave as Smoke rode on.
Farther into town, the streets became more populous. Women in gingham dresses and bonnets, their shopping baskets clutched in gloved hands, clicked the heels of their black, high-button shoes on the boardwalk of the main street. Horses stood, hip-shot, outside the saddle maker’s, the bank, three saloons and the general store. A couple of empty buckboards rattled in from another direction, while one was being loaded by a harassed-looking teenager in a white apron. A typical Saturday in Big Rock, Smoke allowed. He nosed Cougar toward the hitch rail in front of the general mercantile. There he dismounted and climbed to the plank walk.
Inside the store, Nate Barber, the owner, greeted Smoke warmly. “Not often enough we see you, Mr. Jensen. You sure picked a day for it. Got near a whole mail bag full for you.”
Smoke raised a yellow-brown eyebrow. “That so? I wonder what the occasion might be?”
“Catalogue time again,” the postmaster/merchant advised, then added a familiar complaint. “Those mail order outfits are going to be the ruin of stores like mine.”
Smoke nodded and went to the caged counter, behind which ran a ceiling-high rank of pigeon-hole boxes to hold the mail. His, he noted, bulged with envelopes. Barber went into his small post office and bent to retrieve a stack of bound, soft-cover volumes. “Here you are, Mr. Jensen. I’ll get those letters for you, too.”
Smoke went quickly through the catalogues. He found the latest Sears issue for Sally, another for musical instruments by mail order, and one
Smoke had come to know Diego Alvarado several years ago, when he had been in New Mexico briefly on a cattle-buying trip. The gentlemanly, reserved Don Diego was the grandson of an original Spanish grandee, who had the patent of the King of Spain for roughly a thousand acres of high, mountainous desert to the west of Taos. His father had retained title to the land through service to the Mexican government after independence and had added to the family holdings. Steeped in the traditions of his ancestors’ culture, Alvarado was a superb host who loved to entertain. Smoke had soon discovered that Diego’s facade of reserve quickly vanished with a glass of tequila in one hand and a slice of lime in the other. The “little feast” put on for Smoke and his hands had turned out to be a three-day extravaganza of food and drink. They had paid for their lavish keep before leaving, however. Smoke and his men had joined the vaqueros of Rancho de la Gloria in fighting off a band of renegade Comanches who swarmed up out of the Texas panhandle.
Barber interrupted his speculation. “Need any supplies today, Mr. Jensen?”
“No, Nate, I didn’t bring a wagon along. Say, do you happen to have any of that sulphur elixir?”
Nate Barber nodded. “Just happens I do, now that I bought out old Doc Phillips’s stock from the apothecary shop. How many bottles?”
Smoke chuckled. “Ike’s got six youngsters out there. Might as well make it two bottles.”
“Sure thing.”
The merchant produced the corked, seamless glass bottles and wrapped each in paper. Smoke noticed that the packaging material appeared to be printed pages. “Advertising your place now, Nate?”
Nate glanced down, then smiled as he cut his eyes to Smoke. “Nope. Discarded catalogues Some folks find ’em a bother and toss ’em away.”
Smoke nodded his understanding, paid for his purchase and took his mail and the medicine along. Outside, he stowed it all in his saddlebags, swung into the saddle, and directed Cougar toward his next stop. Monte Carson would no doubt be downing his twelfth cup of coffee about now.
“Smoke! How’er you doin’?” Monte Carson bellowed as Smoke entered the office portion of the jail. Smoke and the sheriff had been friends for many long years, ever since the time when Smoke foreswore the dangerous life of a gunfighter-for-hire and stood back-to-back with Monte to rid the streets of Big Rock of some mighty nasty gunhawks and saddle trash. They had done a fair job of cleaning up all of Routt County for that matter. Smoke Jensen wore a badge for the first time in his life then, and had done so often since. Not that Smoke had been an outlaw in the truest sense of the word. He had never stolen anything, nor had he taken money for killing a man. Yet, it was always a close thing for a gunfighter to prove self-defense in a shoot-out. Being fully and permanently on the side of the law had a good feeling. Smoke had Monte to thank for that.
He poured coffee for himself and used the toe of one boot to hook a captain’s chair over by a rung. Seated, he faced Monte. “Well, Monte, I came in on the mail run.”
“You expectin’ somethin’ important?”
“No, but it appears I got it anyway.” He went on to tell Monte about the letter from Don Diego Alvarado.
“Why don’t you open it up and find out what it is?” Monte asked. “Might be an invite to the wedding of one of his sons.”
Smoke shook his head. “I doubt that. Last I heard Alejandro was already married. Xavier is down in Mexico at some seminary, studying to become a priest. Pablo would be a mere boy in his teens. Lupe could be only eight or so, and Miguel was born not three years ago.”
Always curious, Monte prompted his friend. “So? Open the dang thing up and get a look.”
“I will. But, being it’s near noon, I thought you’d like to join me for a schooner or two of beer and some of Hank’s free lunch over at the Bright Lights.”
Monte grinned and, coming to his boots, nodded his head in eagerness. “You buyin’?”
“Of course. Although I wouldn’t want it to be considered bribing an officer of the law. I don’t want to be a guest of the county for even half an hour.”
Monte reached for a drawer. “Well, then, hang a deputy’s badge on yer vest and we’ll call it a treat among brother lawmen. You know I’ll bend heaven and earth to get a free beer.”
They laughed together as they left the office. It was a short enough walk, only across the street, Smoke left Cougar tied off in front of the jail. The bar of the Bright Lights was crowded when they entered, so they took a table near the back of the room. The resinous odor of fresh sawdust perfumed the saloon. Smoke and Monte ordered beer and then built sandwiches of thick-sliced country ham, Swiss cheese, and boiled buffalo tongue, all on home-baked bread. They added fat dill pickles and hard-boiled eggs to their plates and carried them to where they would sit.
After taking a bite and chewing thoroughly, Smoke asked Monte about the town. The lawman responded eagerly.
“Let me tell you about these two drifters who tried to rob Nate’s general mercantile,” Monte began around a bite of his huge sandwich. “This happened about a week ago. They went in with bandannas pulled up over their noses and six-guns out. Well, Nate had no mind to try to stop them. One of the saddle trash growled at him about giving up all the money. Nate did, and put it in a paper bag, like they asked. The one who took the bag must have had a sweet tooth, ’cause right then he spied a jar of rock candy on the counter. Like a kid who only gets to town once in six months, he set the bag full of money aside and made for that jar. He stuffed his shirt pockets full of candy, and the ones in his vest, too. Then he grabbed up the cash and started to back out the door with his partner.
“What he didn’t know,” Monte went on, fighting back laughter, “is that he set that paper sack on top of the pickle barrel. It was a new, unopened one, but the lid had sprung. The bottom of the bag got soaked, and the weight of the money caused it to fall through. Coins went ever which a way. Right then, Nate grabbed up his shotgun while the robbers gaped at the fluttering bills that still fell from the sack. He had ’em disarmed and hands in the air when a passerby saw what was happenin’ and came over to get me.”
Smoke joined Monte’s chuckles. “They don’t make desperados like they used to. That all the excitement you’ve had?”
“Nope. Mrs. Granger had another baby, her eighth. Her husband swore he thought they were both too old for that to happen. A boy. That makes five boys and three girls."
"And all living?” Smoke inquired.
“Yep. By some miracle. Oh, yeah, how’d you fare out at the Sugarloaf in that thunderstorm middle of last week?"
"Not bad. Barely a shower there.”
Monte frowned. “Might lot more around here. A regular goose-drownder. The Elk River went over its banks all along the valley. We had tree trunks and driftwood floating down Tom Longley Street for two days.”
Smoke bit, chewed, and swallowed before remarking, “I thought it looked a mite damp along there.”
“■‘Damp’ don’t get it by about three feet, Smoke. Had some of the merchants writin’ to the governor to ask for help in cleanup and repair. Hell, any fool knows the government ain’t got any money. Only that they take from the people in taxes.”
. Smoke nodded agreement. “And I remember the time when a decent man wouldn’t ask for a handout when he could make do for himself.”
Monte put on a poker face. “But I reckon times they are a-changin’. It’s gettin’ too civilized around here.”
Smoke slapped a big palm on one thigh. “Don’t get me started on that. Any other urgent news?”
