Trail of the Mountain Man (4 page)

“Yes,” Haywood agreed, just as the right rear wheel of their wagon fell off.

Smoke was up long before dawn spread her shimmering rays of light over the land. He slipped out of his blankets and put his hat on, then pulled on his boots and strapped on his guns. He checked to see how Horse was doing, then washed his face with water from his canteen. He built a small, hand-sized fire and boiled coffee. He munched on a thick piece of bread and sipped his coffee, sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes taking in the first silver streaks of a new day in the high-up country of Colorado.

He had spotted a fire far down below him, near the winding road. A very large fire. Much too large unless those who built it were roasting an entire deer — head, horns, and all. He finished the small, blackened pot of coffee, carefully doused his fire, and saddled Horse, stowing his gear in the saddle bags.

He swung into the saddle. “Steady now, Horse,” he said in a low voice. “Let's see how quiet we can be backtracking.”

Horse and rider made their way slowly and quietly down from the high terrain toward the road miles away using the twisting, winding trails. Smoke uncased U.S. Army binoculars he'd picked up years back, while traveling with his mentor, the old Mountain Man Preacher, and studied the situation.

Five, no — six wagons. One of them down with a busted back wheel. Six men, five women. All young, in their early twenties, Smoke guessed. The women were all very pretty, the men all handsome and apparently — at least to Smoke, at least at this distance — helpless.

He used his knees to signal Horse, and the animal moved out, taking its head, picking the route. Stopping after a few hundred twisting yards, Smoke once more surveyed the situation. His binoculars picked up movement coming from the direction of No-Name. Four riders. He studied the men, watching them approach the wagons. Drifters, from the look of them. Probably spent the night in No-Name gambling and whoring and were heading out to stake a gold claim. They looked like trouble.

Staying in the deep and lush timer, Smoke edged closer still. Several hundred yards from the wagon, Smoke halted and held back, wanting to see how these pilgrims would handle the approach of the riders.

He could not hear all that was said, but he could get most of it from his hidden location.

He had pegged the riders accurately. They were trouble. They reined up and sat their horses, grinning at the men and women. Especially the women.

“You folks look like you got a mite of trouble,” one rider said.

“A bit,” a friendly-looking man responded. “We're just getting ready to fulcrum the wagon.”

“You're gonna do
what
to it?” another rider blurted.

“Raise it up,” a pilgrim said.

“Oh. You folks headin' to Fontana?”

The wagon people looked at each other.

Fontana!
Smoke thought. Where in the hell is Fontana?

“I'm sorry,” one of the women said. “We're not familiar with that place.”

“That's what they just named the town up yonder,” a rider said, jerking his thumb in the direction of No-Name. “Stuck up a big sign last night.”

So No-Name has a name, Smoke thought. Wonder whose idea that was.

But he thought he knew. Tilden Franklin.

Smoke looked at the women of the wagons. They were, to a woman, all very pretty and built-up nice. Very shapely. The men with them didn't look like much to Smoke; but then, he thought, they were Easterners. Probably good men back there. But out there, they were out of their element.

And Smoke didn't like the look in the eyes of the riders. One kept glancing up and down the road. As yet, no traffic had appeared. But Smoke knew the stream of gold-hunters would soon appear. If the drifters were going to start something — the women being what they wanted, he was sure — they would make their move pretty quick.

At some unspoken signal, the riders dismounted.

“Oh, say!” the weakest-jawed pilgrim said. “It's good of you men to help.”

“Huh?” a rider said, then he grinned. “Oh, yeah. We're regular do-gooders. You folks nesters?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Farmers.” He ended that and summed up his feelings concerning farmers by spitting a stream of brown tabacco juice onto the ground, just missing the pilgrim's feet.

The pilgrim laughed and said, “Oh, no. My name is Ed Jackson, this is my wife Peg. We plan to open a store in the gold town.”

“Ain't that nice,” the rider mumbled.

Smoke kneed Horse a bit closer.

“My name is Ralph Morrow,” another pilgrim said. “I'm a minister. This is my wife Bountiful. We plan to start a church in the gold town.”

The rider looked at Bountiful and licked his lips.

Ralph said, “And this is Paul Jackson, Ed's brother. Over there is Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt is a lawyer. That's Colton and Mona Spalding. Colton is a physician. And last, but certainly not least, is Haywood and Dana Arden. Haywood is planning to start a newspaper in the town. Now you know us.”

“Not as much as I'd like to,” a rider said speaking for the first time. He was looking at Bountiful.

To complicate matters, Bountiful was looking square at the rider.

The women is flirting with him, Smoke noticed. He silently cursed. This Bountiful might be a preacher's wife, but what she really was was a hot handful of trouble. The preacher was not taking care of business at home.

Bountiful was blonde with hot blue eyes. She stared at the rider.

All the newcomers to the West began to sense something was not as it should be. But none knew what, and if they did, Smoke thought, they wouldn't know how to handle it. For none of the men were armed.

One of the drifters, the one who had been staring at Bountiful, brushed past the preacher. He walked by Bountiful, his right arm brushing the woman's jutting breasts. She did not back up. The rider stopped and grinned at her.

The newspaperman's wife stepped in just in time, stepping between the rider and the woman. She glared at Bountiful. “Let's you and I start breakfast, Bountiful,” she suggested. “While the men fix the wheel.”

“What you got in your wagon, shopkeeper?” a drifter asked. “Anything in there we might like?”

Ed narrowed his eyes. “I'll set up shop very soon. Feel free to browse when we're open for business.”

The rider laughed. “Talks real nice, don't he, boys?”

His friends laughed.

The riders were big men, tough-looking and seemingly very capable. Smoke had no doubts but what they were all that and more. The more being troublemakers.

Always something, Smoke thought with a silent sigh. People wander into an unknown territory without first checking out all the ramifications. He edged Horse forward.

A rider jerked at a tie-rope over the bed of one wagon. “I don't wanna wait to browse none. I wanna see what you got now.”

“Now see here!” Ed protested, stepping toward the man.

Ed's head exploded in pain as the rider's big fist hit the shopkeeper's jaw. Ed's butt hit the ground. Still, Smoke waited.

None of the drifters had drawn a gun. No law, written or otherwise, had as yet been broken. These pilgrims were in the process of learning a hard lesson of the West: you broke your own horses and killed your own snakes. And Smoke recalled a sentiment from some book he had slowly and laboriously studied. When you are in Rome live in the Roman style; when you are elsewhere live as they live elsewhere.

He couldn't remember who wrote it, but it was pretty fair advice.

The riders laughed at the ineptness of the newcomers to the West. One jerked Bountiful to him and began fondling her breasts.

Bountiful finally got it through her head that this was deadly serious, not a mild flirtation.

She began struggling just as the other pilgrims surged forward. Their butts hit the ground as quickly and as hard as Ed's had.

Smoke put the spurs to Horse and the big horse broke out of the timber. Smoke was out of the saddle before Horse was still. He dropped the reins to the ground and faced the group.

“That's it!” Smoke said quietly. He slipped the thongs from the hammers of his .44's.

Smoke glanced at Bountiful. Her bodice was torn, exposing the creamy skin of her breasts. “Cover yourself,” Smoke told her.

She pulled away from the rider and ran, sobbing, to Dana.

A rider said, “I don't know who you are, boy. But I'm gonna teach you a hard lesson.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“To keep your goddamned nose out of other folk's business.”

“If the woman had been willing,” Smoke said, “I would not have interfered. Even though it takes a low-life bastard to steal another man's woman.”

“Why, you . . .
pup
!” the rider shouted. “You callin' me a bastard?”

“Are you deaf?”

“I'll kill you!”

“I doubt it.”

Bountiful was crying. Her husband was holding a handkerchief to a bloody nose, his eyes staring in disbelief at what was taking place.

Hunt Brook was sitting on the ground, his mouth bloody. Colton's head was ringing and his ear hurt where he'd been struck. Haywood was wondering if his eye was going to turn black. Paul was holding a hurting stomach, the hurt caused by a hard fist. The preacher looked as if he wished his wife would cover herself.

One drifter shoved Dana and Bountiful out of the way, stepping over to join his friend, facing Smoke. The other two drifters hung back, being careful to keep their hands away from their guns. The two who hung back were older, and wiser to the ways of gunslicks. And they did not like the looks of this young man with the twin Colts. There was something very familiar about him. Something calm and cold and very deadly.

“Back off, Ford,” one finally spoke. “Let's ride.”

“Hell with you!” the rider named Ford said, not taking his eyes from Smoke. “I'm gonna kill this punk!”

“Something tells me you ain't neither,” his friend said.

“Better listen to him,” Smoke advised Ford.

“Now see here, gentlemen!” Hunt said.

“Shut your gawddamned mouth!” he was told.

Hunt closed his mouth. Heavens! he thought. This just simply was not done back in Boston.

“You gonna draw, punk?” Ford said.

“After you,” Smoke said quietly.

“Jesus, Ford!” the rider who hung back said. “I know who that is.”

“He's dead, that's who he is,” Ford said, and reached for his gun.

His friend drew at the same time.

Smoke let them clear leather before he began his lightning draw. His Colts belched fire and smoke, the slugs taking them in the chest, flinging them backward. They had not gotten off a shot.

“Smoke Jensen!” the drifter said.

“Right,” Smoke said. “Now ride!”

The two drifters who had wisely elected not to take part in facing Smoke leaped for their horses and were gone in a cloud of galloping dust. They had not given a second glance at their dead friends.

Smoke reloaded his Colts and holstered them. Then he looked at the wagon people. The Easterners were clearly in a mild state of shock. Bountiful still had not taken the few seconds needed to repair her torn bodice. Smoke summed her up quickly and needed only one word to do so: trouble.

“My word!” Colton Spalding finally said. “You are very quick with those guns, sir.”

“I'm alive,” Smoke said.

“You
killed
those men!” Hunt Brook said, getting up off the ground and brushing the dust from the seat of his britches.

“What did you want me to do?” Smoke asked, knowing where this was leading. “Kiss them?”

Hunt wiped his bloody mouth with a handkerchief. “You shall certainly need representation at the hearing. Consider me as your attorney.”

Smoke looked at the man and smiled slowly. He shook his head in disbelief. “Lawyer, the nearest lawman is about three days ride from here. And I'm not even sure this area is in his jurisdiction. There won't be any hearing, Mister. It's all been settled and over and done with.”

Haywood Arden was looking at Smoke through cool eyes. Smoke met the man's steady gaze.

This one will do, Smoke thought. This one doesn't have his head in the clouds. “So you're going to start up a newspaper, huh?” Smoke said.

“Yes. But how did you know that?”

“Me and Horse been sitting over there,” Smoke said, jerking his head in the direction of the timber. “Listening.”

“You move very quietly, sir,” Mona Spalding said.

“I learned to do that. Helps in staying alive.” Smoke wished Bountiful would cover up. It was mildly distracting.

“One of those ruffians called you Smoke, I believe,” Hunt said. “I don't believe I ever met a man named Smoke.”

Ruffians, Smoke thought. He hid his smile. Interesting choice of words to describe the drifters. “I was halfway raised by an old Mountain Man named Preacher. He hung that name on me.”

The drifter called Ford broke wind in death. The shopkeeper's wife, Peg, thought as though she might faint any second. “Could someone please do something about those poor dead men?” she asked.

Dawn had given way to a bright clear mountain day. A stream of humanity had begun riding and walking toward Fontana. A tough-looking pair of miners riding mules reined up. Their eyes dismissed the Easterners and settled on Smoke. “Trouble?” one asked.

“Nothing I couldn't handle,” Smoke told him.

“ 'Pears that way,” the second miner said drily. “Ford Beechan was a good hand with a short gun.” He cut his eyes toward the sprawled body of Ford.

“He wasn't as good as he thought,” Smoke replied.

“ 'Pears that's the truth. We'll plant 'em for four bits a piece.”

“Deal.”

“And their pockets,” the other miner spoke.

“Have at it,” Smoke told them. “The pilgrims will pay.”

“Now see here!” Ed said starting to protest.

“Shut up, Ed,” Haywood told him. He looked at the miners. “You gentlemen may proceed with the digging.”

“Talks funny,” one miner remarked, getting down and tying his mule. He got a shovel from his pack animal and his partner followed suit.

“You live and work in this area, Mister Smoke?” Mona asked.

“One miner dropped his shovel and his partner froze still as stone. The miner who dropped his shovel picked it up and slowly turned to face Smoke. “Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes.”

“Lord God Almighty! Ford shore enuff bit off more than he could chew. Smoke Jensen. My brother was over to Uncompahgre, Smoke. Back when you cleaned it up. He said that shore was a sight to see.”
⁴

Smoke nodded his head and the miners walked off a short distance to begin their digging. “How deep?” one called.

“Respectable,” Smoke told them.

They nodded and began spading the earth.

“Are you a gunfighter, Mister Smoke?” Willow asked.

“I'm a rancher and farmer, Ma'am. But I once had the reputation of being a gunhawk, yes.”

“You seem so young,” she observed. “Yet you talk as if it was years ago. How old were you when you became a ... gunhawk?”

“Fourteen. Or thereabouts. I disremember at times.” Smoke usually spoke acceptable English, thanks to Sally; but at times he reverted back to Preacher's dialect.

“He's kilt more'un a hundred men!” one of the miners called.

The wagon people fell silent at that news. They looked at Smoke with a mixture of horror, fascination, and revulsion in their eyes.

It was nothing new to Smoke. He had experienced that look many times in his young life. He kept his face as expressionless as his cold eyes.

Smoke cut his eyes to Bountiful. “Lady,” he said, exasperation in his voice, his tone hard. “Will you please cover your tits!”

Smoke had seen the remainder of the rancher-farmers in the mountain area and then headed for home. He almost never took the same trail back to his cabin. A habit he had picked up from Preacher. A habit that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Even though he was less than five miles from his cabin when dark slipped into the mountains, he decided not to chance the ride in. He elected to make camp and head home at first light.

He caught several small fish from a mountain stream and broiled them over a small fire. That and the remainder of Sally's bread was his supper.

Twice during the night Smoke came fully awake, certain he had heard gunshots. He knew they were far away, but he wondered about it. The last shot he heard before he drifted back to sleep came from the south, far away from Sally and the cabin.

He was up and moving out before full dawn broke. Relief filled him when he caught a glimpse of the cabin, Sally in the front yard. Smoke broke into a grin when he saw how she was dressed ... in men's britches. His eyes mirrored approval when he noted Seven and Drifter in the corral. As he rode closer, he saw the pistol belted around her waist, and the express gun leaning against the door frame, on the outside of the cabin.

Man and wife embraced, each loving the touch and feel of the other. With their mouths barely apart, she saw the darkness in his eyes and asked, “Trouble?”

“Some. A hell of a lot more coming, though. I'll tell you about it. You?”

“Didn't see a soul.”

They kissed their love and she pushed him away, mischief in her hazel eyes. “I missed you.”

“Oh? How much?”

“By the time you see to Horse and get in the house, I'll be ready to show you how much.”

Fastest unsaddling and rub-down in the history of the West.

Passions cooled and sated, she lay with her head on Smoke's muscular shoulder. She listened as he told her all that had happened since he had ridden from the ranch. He left nothing out.

“See anyone that you knew in town? Any newcomers, I mean?”

“Some. Utah Slim. I'm sure it was him.”

“I've heard you talk of him. He's good?”

“One of the best.”

“Better than you?”

“No,” Smoke said softly.

“Anyone else?”

“Monte Carson. He's a backshooter. Big Mamma O'Neil. Louis Longmont. Louis is all right. Just as long as no one pushes him.”

“And now we have Fontana.”

“For as long as it lasts, yes. The town will probably die out when the gold plays out. I hope it's soon.”

“You're holding just a little something back from me, Smoke.”

He hesitated. “Tilden Franklin wants you for his woman.”

“I've known that for a long time. Has he made his desires public?”

“Apparently so. From now on, you're going to have to be very careful.”

She lay still for a moment, silent. “We could always leave, honey.”

He knew she did not wish to leave, but was only voicing their options. “I know. And we'd be running for the rest of our lives. Once you start, it's hard to stop.”

In the corral, Seven nickered, the sound carrying to the house. Smoke was up and dressed in a moment, strapping on his guns and picking up a rifle. He and Sally could hear the sounds of hooves, coming hard.

“One horse,” Sally noted.

“Stay inside.”

Smoke stepped out the door, relaxing when he saw who it was. It was Colby's oldest boy, and he was fogging up the trail, lathering his horse.

Bob slid his horse to stop amid the dust and leaped off. “Mister Smoke,” he panted. So the news had spread very fast as to Smoke's real identity.

“Bob. What's the problem?”

“Pa sent me. It's started, Mister Smoke. Some of Tilden's riders done burned out Wilbur Mason's place, over on the western ridge. Burned him flat. There ain't nothing left no where.”

“Anybody hurt over there?”

“No, sir. Not bad, leastways. Mister Wilbur got burned by a bullet, but it ain't bad.”

“Where are they now?”

“Mister Matlock took the kids. Pa and Ma took in Mister Wilbur and his missus.”

“Where's your brother?”

“Pa sent him off to warn the others.”

“Go on in the house. Sally will fix you something to eat. I'll see to your horse.”

Smoke looked toward the faraway Circle TF spread. “All right, Franklin,” he muttered. “If that's how you want it, get ready for it.”