Read Destiny Of The Mountain Man Online

Authors: William W. Johnstone

Destiny Of The Mountain Man (14 page)

BOOK: Destiny Of The Mountain Man
13.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“I am running a military organization here,” Brandt said. “I am not running a competition of personal accomplishments. I don't care whether you are better than he is or not. You do understand that, don't you?”
“Well, yes, sure I understand that,” Waco replied. “I mean, I guess I understand it. But if you're worried about me gettin' killed or . . .”
“I'm not worried about you getting killed,” Brandt said. “Individually, you mean nothing. Collectively, you are part of my army, and I don't want my army weakened, even by one more.”
“Yeah, but if someone would just take care of Smoke Jensen for you, you could . . .”
“You do want to stay with us, don't you, Jones?”
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“Then, not another word about you and this man Smoke Jensen having your own personal battle. A pretty good general for the other side once said that you win battles by getting their ‘fustest with the mostest.' That is the principle by which I am running this organization. We will win all of our battles with overwhelming military superiority . . . not with some brash young fool out to make a name for himself. You will make no effort to face this man by yourself.”
“All right,” Waco said. “But I just want you to know, I want everyone to know,” he emphasized, looking directly at Manning, “that I am not afraid of Smoke Jensen.”
Brandt sighed. “You are an idiot,” he said. “An absolute idiot.”
Waco seethed at Brandt's words, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Even though he could draw his pistol and kill Brandt in a heartbeat, he was surrounded by nearly a dozen of Brandt's men. This was a vivid example of Brandt's principle of overwhelming military superiority.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
When the King entourage turned up the long road that led to the main house, they were greeted with a large sign.
 
LAS PERSONAS DE SANTA GERTRUDIS RANCH DAN LA
BIENVENIDA AL CAPITÁN KING DE CASA
 
“What's that sign say?” Cal asked.
“It's the people of the ranch welcoming Captain King home,” Pearlie said.
“Really? You can read Mexican?”
“It's Spanish, not Mexican.”
As the coach rolled up the road, Sally looked through the window at those who were gathered to welcome them back. Men and women stood respectfully along the road. The men had all removed their hats and were holding them in front of their chests. Many of the women curtsied as the coach passed by. Children and dogs ran alongside the coach, keeping pace with it until it stopped in front of the house.
Sally started to reach for the door but something told her to wait, and a moment later the door was opened from outside, disclosing a weathered, gray-haired man.
“Welcome home, Señora, Señorita,” the gray-haired man said.
“Thank you, Pablo,” Henrietta said as she offered her hand to him to be helped down from the coach.
Sally started to wait for Alice but, with a warm smile, Alice made a motion with her hand, indicating that Sally should go before her.
When Sally stepped out, she looked over to see Smoke, Captain King, and Kleberg engaged in serious conversation with someone. The expressions on their faces were not happy.
“I wonder what happened while we were gone,” Henrietta asked. “Ramon looks very worried.”
Sally was glad to see that her intuition wasn't wrong. Something had happened, and even Henrietta had noticed it.
 
 
“It's Juan Arino and the others we sent down to Vetadero Meadows,” Ramon said. “They are dead.”
“How many are dead?”
“Everyone we sent down there,” Juan said.
“Numbers, man, I want numbers,” King said impatiently.
“Four.”
King sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then shook his head. “That makes a total of twelve,” he said. “Twelve good men killed, just because Brandt has some personal score to settle with me. Damn it! Why the hell won't he come out and face me in person?”
“Were the men decapitated?” Kleberg asked.
Ramon shook his head. “No, Señor.”
“Did they take any cattle?”
“Sí, señor.
They took all the cattle in the Vetadero Meadows. About three hundred head.”
“Richard, are you sure this was Brandt?” Kleberg asked. “No beheadings, and they took cattle. This is different from the last time.”
“It is him,” King insisted. “I don't care whether he is doing things differently or not. I know, as sure as I am standing here, that it was either Jack Brandt, or someone who is working for Jack Brandt.”
 
 
Nearly ten miles away from the main house, Ted Abbot, Roy Carter, Emil Barrett, and Bobby Spitz were on horseback, moving alongside a meandering creek. They had been out for four days, taking a tally of the cattle that weren't with the main herd.
One of the problems with Santa Gertrudis was that the ranch was so large, and there were so many head of cattle, that it was easy to lose count of how many head there actually were. It was nearly a full-time job for cowboys to ride around the perimeter of the ranch, locating the maverick herds.
“Whoa, stop here,” Carter said.
“What for?” Barrett asked.
Carter swung down from his horse. “I've gotta water the lilies,” he said.
The other three remained in their saddles while Carter went about his business; then they heard him laugh.
“What are you laughin' at?” Spitz asked.
“I just peed me a grasshopper off'n that branch there,” Carter said. “You should'a seen him, he was hangin' on for dear life, but I peed him right off.”
“You must be very proud,” Barrett said, and the other three men laughed.
“Hey, Cap'n King is supposed to get back today, ain't he?” Carter asked as he remounted.
“Yes, I think so,” Barrett said.
“He ain't goin' to like it when he hears about Juan and them others,” Carter said as he clucked his horse on.
The four rode in relative silence for about another mile. Then Carter saw three riders, pushing about twenty head of cattle. He pointed them out to the others.
“Look down there,” he said. “Them ain't Santa Gertrudis riders, are they?”
“Ain't none that I know,” Spitz said.
“Maybe we ought to go down there and see what's goin' on.”
“I don't know,” Barrett said hesitantly. “I mean, if they are rustling cattle, it might not be a good idea to just ride in on them.”
“Come on, there are three of them, there are four of us,” Spitz said.
“Bobby is right,” Carter said. “Let's go down there and see what's goin' on.”
The four rode toward the three men who were pushing the cattle, urging their horses, not into a gallop, but a ground-eating trot. Because the three riders were paying attention to the cows, and because of the sound of their horses' hoofbeats, they did not hear anyone coming up on them. As the four cowboys approached a rather dense thicket, Carter indicated they should go on the left as the cattle passed by on the right. That gave them the opportunity to overtake the three men and then, on the other side of the thicket, suddenly appear in front of them.
And that is exactly what they did, startling the three riders.
“Hold it!” Carter shouted.
The three riders were stopped by the challenge.
“Who the hell are you?” Carter asked.
“Who the hell are you?” the youngest of the three riders replied.
“We're riders for the Santa Gertrudis Ranch.”
“Santa Gertrudis Ranch?” the youngest rider said. He shook his head. “Nope, I've never heard of it.”
“That's funny,” Carter said.
“What's funny about it?”
“You're on the Santa Gertrudis right now,” Carter said. He pointed to the cattle. “And them are Santa Gertrudis cows.”
“There's no brand on these cows,” the young rider said.
“That don't matter none. You can't . . . what did you say your name was?” Carter asked.
“My name is Jones. Waco Jones.”
“Jones. Well, Jones, you can't come onto another man's ranch an' start roundin' up his cattle just 'cause they ain't been branded yet. That ain't no better'n stealin'.”
Waco smiled, a cold, evil smile. “Well,” he said, “I reckon you called it, 'cause stealin' is what we're doin', all right.”
Carter was surprised by Waco Jones's response. He'd as much as admitted that they were rustling cattle.
“My God, mister! You admit that you're stealin' cattle?”
“Yep. What are you goin' to do about it?” Waco asked.
“Well, I don't intend to let you get away with it,” Carter said, reaching for his gun.
“Carter, no, don't draw!” Abbot shouted. “Shit!” he yelled, going for his own gun to support Carter.
Waco's draw was unbelievably fast. He fired two times before either Carter or Abbot could pull the triggers on their guns; then, even as they were tumbling from their saddles, Waco turned his gun toward Spitz and Barrett.
“No!” Barrett shouted, putting his hands up. “We ain't drawing on you!”
Waco held his gun pointed toward them for a long moment, smiling at his enjoyment of their fear. Then he put his pistol back in his holster.
“What is my name?” Waco asked.
“What?” Spitz asked in a weak voice.
“What is my name?” Waco asked again.
“I . . . I don't know your name,” Spitz said. “And he don't either,” he added, nodding toward Barrett. “So there ain't no way the law is goin' to find out who done this.”
“What is my name?” Waco asked again, more pointedly this time.
Spitz looked at Waco with an expression of confusion and fear.
“I'll be damned,” Barrett said, suddenly realizing what Waco was doing. “He wants us to tell.” Barrett stared at Waco. “That's it, isn't it? You want us to tell.”
“The name is Waco Jones,” Waco said. “Do you have that? Waco Jones.”
“Yeah,” Barrett said. “I've got it.”
“Now, if you boys will excuse us, we'll just take these unbranded cows on,” Waco said.
“We'll be takin' our friends on back, if you don't mind,” Barrett said, pointing to Carter and Abbot. Both men were sprawled on the ground.
Waco nodded, and Barrett and Spitz put the two bodies belly-down across the dead men's horses, using their own ropes to secure them. Once the bodies were loaded, they rode off while Waco and the two with him continued driving the cattle. “We just going to let them get away with it?” Spitz asked, his anger barely controlled.
“What do you propose we do about it?” Barrett asked.
“I don't know. But it just galls me to see them get away with it.”
 
 
“Did you say Waco Jones?” Smoke asked.
“That's what he said his name was,” Barrett said. “And he was real anxious that we remember it too.”
Smoke nodded. “Yes, he's just the kind that would want you to remember it.”
“You should have killed the son of a bitch when you had the chance,” Pearlie said.
Smoke looked at Pearlie, but he didn't say anything, because he knew that Pearlie was right.
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
On the day after Smoke arrived, Captain King called a meeting of all his hands, leaving a bare minimum to keep watch over his herds. They gathered in front of the big house, Americans and Mexicans alike, wondering what this was about.
Because of the size of the ranch, and the vastness of the operation, many of the men had not seen each other in quite a while. They shook hands and used the opportunity to visit and catch up on the latest news. The cooks came out to pass around coffee and sinkers and it took on the atmosphere of a party with laughter prevailing. But when Captain King came out on the porch, the men grew silent, out of respect, but also out of curiosity.
“Men,” King said. “I know that you know about the troubles we have been having lately. So far we have had fourteen of our men murdered.”
“Fourteen?” someone said, and there was a murmur through the assembly as they contemplated that fact.
“We've had some cows stolen too, haven't we, Cap'n?” another asked.
“Yes, we've had some cattle stolen, but I don't care about that. What I
do
care about is the men we have lost, and I intend to put a stop to that.”
“How?” one of the men asked.
Some of the others glared at him.
“Don't you boys look at me like that,” King said. “I was out there when them fellers hit us the first time. They was like an army ridin' through. Hell, they
was
an army. We're going to be an army too. And we have just the man to lead us. Men, I want you to meet Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke had been waiting just inside the house, and he came out onto the front porch when King said his name.
Several of the men had heard of Smoke Jensen, and there were several comments passed back and forth.
“Damn, if that is the real Smoke Jensen, we are going to kick some ass,” someone said. There was a smattering of laughter, though the laughter quieted as Smoke began to speak.
“Gentlemen, am I correct in assuming that you are ready to fight back next time something happens?”
“Yes!” Barrett shouted, and the others echoed his yell.
“Is there anyone here who does not have a gun?”
Three of the Mexican riders raised their hands, and Smoke glanced toward King.
“I will supply you with guns,” King said. “And I will supply ammunition for everyone.”
“All right, men, let's get started,” Smoke said.
 
 
For the next few days, only a minimum work force was kept in the field to tend the cattle. Everyone else stayed back at the ranch headquarters, where they were trained by Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal.
When someone commented that Cal seemed a little young to be training grown men, Smoke asked Cal to give them a demonstration.
Cal put a skillet on the ground, then held his hand out in front of him palm-down. On the back of his hand was a heavy metal washer. Smoke put a bottle on a fence post, then nodded at Cal.
Cal turned his hand and the washer slid off, falling toward the skillet. Cal pulled his pistol and shot, breaking the bottle, before the washer hit the skillet.
Those who watched the demonstration applauded.
“That's good,” Barrett said. “But that don't mean you can teach us to be that good.”
Sally had been watching the demonstration and, when Barrett made his comment, Smoke called out to her.
“Sally, you want to show what I taught you?” he asked.
“I don't have time for this,” Sally said. “I've got some bear claws in the oven.”
“Oh, you have time for this,” Smoke said.
“All right,” Sally replied. “Let me get my pistol.”
“You can use mine, Miss Sally,” Pearlie said. “I wouldn't want nothin' to happen to them bear claws.”
Sally glared at Pearlie.
“I mean, I wouldn't want anything to happen to
those
bear claws,” he said to correct himself.
“That's more like it,” Sally said as she took Pearlie's gun and spun the cylinder, checking the loads.
“Is she going to do a fast draw too?” Spitz asked.
“I don't do fast draw,” Sally said.
“Being able to draw fast is good for show,” Smoke said. “But the kind of fighting you will be doing will have nothing at all to do with drawing fast, and everything to do with hitting what you are shooting at.”
Smoke picked up three bottles and held them in his hand, then looked over at Sally. She nodded, and brought the pistol up to ready.
“When you come up against more than one target, the trick is not to get confused, but to choose a target that you know you can hit.”
Smoke tossed all three bottles into the air at the same time. The gun in Sally's hand roared three times and, after each shot, a bottle burst. Little bits of shattered glass rained to the ground, but not one whole bottle.
The applause was instantaneous and enthusiastic.
“I thought you said to select the target you thought you could hit,” Spitz said.
“I did,” Sally said, smiling, as she handed the gun back to Pearlie.
The men laughed.
“Now,” Smoke said when the laughter died down. “Are you men ready to learn?”
The response was an enthusiastic “Yes!”
 
 
Smoke designed a training course consisting of target practice for both pistol and rifle. For the next few days, the area around Casa Grande reverberated with the steady firing of weapons, shouts from the men, and galloping hoofbeats as the men rode at full speed through difficult obstacle courses.
After a week of training, he had a pretty good idea of what he was working with. He began to divide the men into smaller groups, sometimes reassigning a man from one group to another. When King asked why he was doing that, Smoke explained that he was trying to get each group balanced as to capabilities.
“I don't want all the best shots together,” he said. “And I don't want all the best horsemen together. I also want someone with leadership who can take charge of each group so that, if they encounter the raiders, he can determine the best course of action.”
“Yes,” King said, nodding. “Yes, I can see that. That's a good idea.”
“In a couple more days, I believe we will have as effective an army as Brandt,” Smoke said.
“I agree,” King replied. “You have done splendid work. Oh, and speaking of armies, maybe it's time I showed you something,” he added mysteriously.
“What?”
“They are down there, behind a false wall at the back of the machine shed,” King said, pointing to a building about fifty yards away from the main house.
“Now, you do have me curious,” Smoke said as he walked with King to the ripsawed, unpainted, and sun-grayed wood-sided building.
Once inside, King got a crowbar and began prying out a nail. The nail squeaked in protest as he started pulling it from the dried wood.
“Keep in mind that, during the war, I often supplied the Confederate Army with arms and munitions,” King said.
“Yes, I remember you telling me. You want me to help you with that?”
“No, I'm just going to pull a couple of nails so we can pull the board out to let you look behind,” King answered.
He pulled a second nail, then, when both nails were removed, grabbed the board and pulled it out at the bottom, just opening up enough space for Smoke to look through.
Smoke put his eye to the crack and looked inside.
“Holy shit!” he said with a low whistle.
“I thought you might be impressed,” King said. “You know what they say. Artillery lends dignity to what would otherwise be an uncouth brawl.”
There, behind the false wall, were two caisson-mounted Napoleon 32-pounder cannons.
“I also have powder and ball for them,” King said. “And that's not all.”
“You have more of these?”
“No, not these, something else,” King responded. “Come.”
At the other end of the machine shed were two rather large objects covered with tarpaulin. King took the tarpaulin off one of them.
“Damn! You have a Gatling gun?” Smoke asked in surprise.
“Actually, I have two of them,” King said. “With ammunition.”
“Damn,” Smoke said with a chuckle. “With you supplying them, how did the South lose the war?”
“I've asked myself that same question a few times,” King admitted.
 
 
The next day the reshuffled groups went out on the range. Although Smoke had balanced all the groups fairly well, he sent Pearlie and Cal with the two that he thought were the weakest. The effect of their presence was immediate, elevating those two groups to the best.
Barrett's group was the first to get its test under fire. They had been out less than a day when they saw a group of men heading toward an isolated part of the herd.
“What do we do now?” one of the men asked.
Barrett was snaking his rifle from his saddle holster even as he was answering the question.
“Shoot the sons of bitches,” he said, levering a bullet into the chamber of his Winchester. “I've run across these bastards twice before. This time I'm not going to give them the first shot.”
Barrett fired, and one of the rustlers grabbed his shoulder. The other cowboys began firing as well and they started toward the rustlers in full pursuit.
The rustlers, caught off guard by the rapid and effective resistance, turned and began galloping off. Barrett kept up the pursuit until the rustlers were well away, and only then did he hold up his hand and call for a halt.
Barrett looked at the men with him, then smiled broadly.
“You did well,” he said proudly.
Two days later there was another incident, this time with the group that Pearlie led. Eight rustlers tried to sneak in, riding bent over on their horses as they worked their way up through a long gulley.
The raiders, shocked by the sudden appearance of Pearlie and his men, fired, then turned and tried to run. Pearlie and his men opened fire and two of the raiders fell. Then, one of Pearlie's men was hit and Pearlie called a halt to the chase to tend to his wounded.
Both raiders were dead.
BOOK: Destiny Of The Mountain Man
13.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Chains and Canes by Katie Porter
Silk by Alessandro Baricco
The Ghost Brush by Katherine Govier
If I Break by Portia Moore
Burned by Ellen Hopkins
Love's Learning Curve by Felicia Lynn
The Dead Boys by Buckingham, Royce