Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (35 page)

In the same instant, Yancy Osburn bellowed forcefully, “Nooooo!”

A gunshot blasted the night’s silence. Prine Gephart’s bullet struck true, burst the heart of Colin Fike and erupted through his back with a fist-sized hole. Instantly, the established herd leader let out a squeal of alarm, and whinnies of fright answered. Another bugle from the lead stallion, and the herd dissolved into a mindless, panicked mass of walleyed, terrorized animals. They jolted to the right, then back to the left, then in a second dashed away, tails high, in all directions.

“You idiots!” Hubble Volker bellowed over the noise of the stampede. “You goddamned idiots. Get to your horses, get after those critters. Move or I’ll kill you myself.”

And so it ended before it even started. Della stared in disbelief and relief as the outlaws raced for the picket line to throw saddles on their mounts and flog them after the splintered herd, all thought of rape driven from their minds.

Crouched down on the parched ground, Smoke Jensen searched for a small, smooth pebble. With a fiercely hot summer sun burning down over the previous afternoon and through most of his second day in pursuit of the stolen herd, Smoke had exhausted the contents of his single canteen. In the past he had gone without food many a time, and he knew that hunger was endurable. Now, plagued by thirst, Smoke stretched his perseverance to the limit by entertaining images of what he would like to do to the rustlers who had shot up every visible water container at his former campsite. He had to find an alternative or give up his quest. On his third try, he came up with a suitable, light brown stone.

Smoke used the last few drops of water from the canteen to wash the little rock, which he then popped in his mouth and worked under his tongue. At once, saliva began to flow. With his temporary measure in place, he began once more to trudge along the swath of disturbed turf that marked the passage of the stolen horses. So long as he found water by nightfall, he would be all right. Failing that, Smoke realized he could not survive.

Back in Muddy Gap, Ginny Parkins found herself restless and ill at ease as she tried to get a gaggle of ten-year-olds to understand the mysteries of long division. When a fit of giggling broke out among the fifth grade girls, she dismissed school early for the day. Her charges stormed the exit with squeals of jubilation. That still left Ginny with an empty feeling.

And, darn it, she knew the reason why. She had treated Sheriff Smoke Jensen most shabbily. No other word for it. He had only been doing his job. For a moment she wondered if he still enforced the law in Muddy Gap. The town had been so peaceful the past five days. Fortunately the riffraff had not returned after the final, brutal expulsion of the most unrepentant. No, Ginny chided herself, not brutal, rather necessary. Goaded by her conscience, Ginny Parkins left the former security of the schoolhouse on what she considered a delicate mission.

Her bustle swishing behind her, Ginny Parkins reached the downtown sector of Muddy Gap slightly out of breath. With a start, she realized she had been walking at twice her normal pace. Face set in a prim expression, she looked both ways before entering the office at the jail. To her surprise, she found Grover Larsen sitting behind his desk, and Deputy Chase in the sheriff’s chair. She looked around a moment in consternation.

“Is Sheriff Jensen making his rounds?” she inquired.

Grover Larsen answered her. “He’s not sheriff anymore, ma’am. He’s moved on with his horse herd.”

Ginny did not believe what she had heard. “What?”

Fred Chase offered assurance. “It’s true, Miss Ginny. I’ve been appointed interim sheriff until the next election. Smoke left four days ago.”

“I—I don’t understand. I c-can’t believe…”
That he would leave without telling you? After the way you treated him?
her mind mocked her.

Grover Larsen undertook to enlighten her. “Smoke Jensen is a rancher. He raises blooded stock for the rich folks, and a large herd suitable as remounts for the army.”

“But I thought he was some sort of gunfighter. A living legend.”

Larsen smiled softly. “He’s both, Miss Ginny. Let me tell you a little about Smoke Jensen. No one out here, but him, knows where he was born. His family was movin’ west, out to Oregon Territory, when he got separated from the wagon train. He was a little tad, no more’n eleven or so. He managed to survive a few days on his wits.

“Some say he traded what few possessions he had with Injuns for food. They wanted to keep him, adopt him into the tribe, but Smoke had it in his head he could catch up and find his folks. That didn’t happen. The old mountain man, Preacher, found young Smoke first. He took him in and raised him up. There’s some argue it was a bad upbringin’, that Smoke learned to fight and to kill. Supposed to have killed his first man at the age of twelve.

“Well now,” Larsen continued, warming to his subject, “that ain’t true. Preacher was through here a number of years back, when Muddy Gap was nothing more than a wide place in the road. I was a youngster then, myself, not more’n seventeen. I heard Preacher talkin’ about Smoke Jensen. Said he got his name and the start of his reputation at the same time, when he was sixteen. That came from the man who should know. And in these mountains, Preacher’s known to have never told a lie.” Larsen flushed and waved a hand in dismissal. “There I go, ramblin’ like an old fool.”

Ginny protested at once. “No, please go on. I’m fascinated. I…never got to know Sheri—Smoke well.”

“Well, Smoke grew up, like folks are likely to do. He learned Injun things, and their talk, too. Likewise, Preacher taught him to read and write and do his sums. Taught him to trap, skin and cure beaver hides, though the trade was fast dwindlin’. Smoke learned about horses from Preacher, also a lot about other animals, an’ how to respect them and give ’em all space to live and move about. They say he’s whipped the daylights outta more than one man who has mistreated animals. Seems quirky in a man who became a gunfighter an’ eventual’ a lawman. Don’t you think?”

“I see nothing odd about a person who is fond of animals. After all, they need our care and protection,” Ginny went on, taken up in her zeal. “They can’t speak or write, so they can’t stand up for their rights like humans can.”

Young Fred Chase put in his outlook. “I can’t agree with you more, Miss Ginny. The way I see it, animals don’t have any rights because they can’t nego—negotiate what they will do in order to get them. So a man who mistreats a horse or dog is the lowest form of inhuman trash.” He looked defiantly at Grover Larsen. “An’ that’s a fact.”

Larsen offered coffee, poured and they talked on for another half an hour about Smoke Jensen. Before Ginny departed, Marshal Larsen raised a staying hand. “Oh, before you go, Miss Ginny, there’s something I have to give you. Smoke Jensen left this for you against the time when you might need it.”

He reached into his top drawer and came out with a small .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. Ginny gaped, gulped, stammered and gingerly accepted the gift. “Thank you for giving me Smoke’s present, although I’m certain I shall never have use of it.”

Ginny left feeling somewhat better at having secured a promise that Marshal Larsen would send a telegram to the town nearest Smoke Jensen’s ranch with her apology. Yet part of her felt worse, over becoming owner of a firearm. She would write Smoke, too, she pledged as she crossed the street to the general store. She would have to thank him for the gun, but also assure him that she would never use it. Idly she wondered if she would ever see Smoke Jensen again.

Sweat stained the armpits of the shirt worn by Smoke Jensen. The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. It sapped him of the precious little moisture his body retained. For the past hour he had been watching the hazy, insubstantial outline of trees in the distance. Certain he had not circled and come back to the Powder River, Smoke fixed on the long file of greenery that indicated a watercourse.

Even the pebble failed to do its magic. The length of his stride had shortened, and his head throbbed. Slowly, the pale green leaves of cottonwoods began to swim into sharp focus. A creek all right. Smoke forced himself forward. Another fifty paces. His footsteps faltered.

Thirty paces now. Alarmingly, the sweat dried on his skin to a clammy coldness. His body had stopped producing moisture. Twenty paces now. The individual trunks of the trees could be seen. He could smell the water.

Stumbling like a drunken man, Smoke closed the last distance to the grassy bank that hung over a narrow streambed; below, the water peacefully glided past. Its surface reflected a cool, inviting green. With the last of his strength, Smoke eased over the bank and lowered himself to a sandy shelf. There he removed his boots and cartridge belt, then jumped into the water.

Its coolness embraced him. When his clothes had become thoroughly wet, he removed them and washed out the salt and dust. His thoughts snapped back to young Tommy Olsen doing exactly the same thing not so long ago. Wringing out his garments, he flung them up on the grassy bank. The cool water exhilarated him, and he noticed his skin had turned a rosy pink. Satisfied, he climbed out and let his effluvium drift away before filling the canteen.

Then he gained the embankment and spread his clothes on a hawthorn bush to sun dry. He would continue to use the pebble in order to preserve his water, he reminded himself. While he dried off, he drank deeply, but slowly, from the canteen. When his limbs stopped trembling, he returned to the creek to refill the canteen. He turned his clothes once and was soon dressed and ready.

Fastening his cartridge belt around his waist and easing his weapons into place, Smoke started off. He had a goodly ways to go before dark. Idly, he wondered what he might find to eat along the way.

Well over eight feet long, the sleek, fat diamondback lay torpid on a large, flat rock. Drowsed by the lowering sun, the serpent only vaguely felt pangs of hunger. It had killed and eaten a jackrabbit three days ago. Now the time had come to hunt and feed again. So enervated had the viper become from the late afternoon sun that it only sporadically employed its early warning system. After a long two minutes, the forked tongue flicked out, sensing the vibrations and flavors of its surroundings. Then it flicked out again, the creature suddenly alert.

So silently did Smoke Jensen move that the rattlesnake did not sense his approach until the man nearly came into sight. Lethargically, the viper roused itself and began to coil for a strike at what seemed a huge food source. Ancient instincts stirred, and it completed its spiral with renewed alacrity. The upper third of its body arched into the air; the snake swayed backward, prepared to strike.

That was when Smoke Jensen saw it. Despite the debilitating effects of no food and little water, a man of Smoke’s prowess and speed had ample time to unlimber his righthand Colt and blow the triangular head off the viper as it arched toward him. Deprived of command, the huge body writhed and twisted across the ground.

Instinct caused it to try to recoil, but the necessary command center no longer existed, and it all but tied itself in knots. Smoke stood well clear while the reptile’s violent motions slowed, his .45 Peacemaker ready. He well knew that prairie rattlers like this one frequently traveled in mated pairs. A bull this size was sure to have a harem.

When the creature’s spasms reduced to an occasional twitch, he grabbed the body below the rattles and held it at shoulder height while he walked quickly to a stunted oak that rode the top of a low knob. Using a fringe thong from his shirt, Smoke tied the snake upside down from a low limb. Expertly applying his Greenriver sheath knife, he slit the skin from neck to rattles, peeled it back, then opened the pinky white body from severed end to its bung. He used his boot heel to dig a small hole to dispose of the guts, then washed the meat with a little of his dwindling water supply. With that accomplished, he looked all around, scanning the horizon for any human presence besides himself.

Satisfied that he was alone, he made a fire ring, gathered deadfall from the oak, and kindled it to life from a tinderbox he habitually carried. When the blaze took, he fed it twigs until a decent bed of coals appeared. Nearly smokeless, the fire under the spreading limbs of the oak gave off no telltale column of smoke. After threading the snake on a green branch he had cut, Smoke Jensen placed it over the fire. He wished for salt, then banished the desire. While his meat cooked, he located a chokecherry bush and stripped it of a handful of berries.

He would crush these and rub them into the meat while it roasted. The bittersweet tang of the fruit would make a fair substitute for salt. When all had been accomplished, he feasted ravenously on the whole body, buried his fire, and made ready to leave. He had a lot of distance to cover before dark.

Smoke Jensen’s lean, muscular figure cast a long shadow to his right when he saw the dust cloud ahead. He had caught up to the herd. He grew more cautious. Deserting the trail, Smoke bent low and drifted through the tall buffalo grass, skirted sage and hawthorn, and advanced obliquely on the rustlers. When the drag riders came into view, Smoke sank down and disappeared in the waving sea of grass. A quarter hour had gone by when he heard a faint “halloo” from far ahead. Those in the lead were halting the herd for the night. Smoke would wait until dusk to move again.

When the last thin, orange crescent sank in the west and only the afterglow fought against the encroachment of night, Smoke Jensen left his hiding place and made a circuit of the herd. It took him five minutes shy of an hour to complete the journey. He made careful note of the location of herd guards and, most importantly, their degree of alertness. While he ghosted from rock to tree to underbrush, Smoke concentrated on what choices he had. Looming large in his considerations was his need to know exactly how many men occupied the night camp. He would have to pay them a visit soon, but in order for that to happen, these outer guards would have to be drowsy and distracted.

Once he knew what he stood against, Smoke had several alternatives. He could run the herd off and make a break for it, leaving the Olsens to their fate. Or he could run the herd off, along with all the outlaws’ horses, and possibly get the Olsens out with him.

Better still, Smoke reckoned, the ideal would be to locate the Olsens, get them mounted, and drive off all the other horses, leaving the rustlers afoot. He would have the remounts to Buffalo and beyond before the bandits could reorganize. From there, he would force the herd to greater speed, say twenty or twenty-five miles a day. At that rate, he would deliver them to the fort after a hard, three-day drive. Not bad. Smoke confidently believed that the stranded rustlers could not possibly close with them before then. Patiently, Smoke bided his time until shortly after midnight. Then he set out for the camp.

He slid past the inattentive herd guards with ease. Not until he drew close to the restive outlaws around their fires did he have to exert his greatest skill. They had picked their site wisely, Smoke noted. Two trees stood at enough distance apart to run a picket line to accommodate all of the horses not in use by the perimeter sentries. Good. That made his job much easier. Near the inner edge of the herd, Smoke caught a flash of a gray-and-black-spotted rump and recognized Cougar. At least they would all be properly mounted when the time came to take the herd.