Destiny Of The Mountain Man Read online

  Dear Readers,

  Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”

  I’ve never forgotten those words, And now, many years and almost 200 books later, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the Last Gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid Mountain Man, or John Barrone and his hardworking crew keeping America safe from terrorist lowlifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.

  Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.

  As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.

  Respectfully yours,

  William W. Johnstone

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  WITH FRED AUSTIN

  DESTINY OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AFTERWORD - NOTES FROM THE OLD WEST

  PREACHER’S FORTUNE

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  PROLOGUE

  1870:

  The Golden Nugget Saloon in Pueblo, Colorado Territory, was already a beehive of activity, even though the Regulator clock sitting against the back wall indicated that it was just after twelve o’clock in the afternoon. A man with a two-day growth of beard and red-rimmed eyes was plinking away on a piano in the corner of the room while a glass of warm beer, its head gone, sat beside him. Two cowboys stood at the bar, engaged in a vociferous discussion as to the relative merits of rye versus bourbon. One of them punctuated his argument by expectorating a large quid of tobacco into a nearby spittoon, making it ring with the impact. A soiled dove, whose profession had already caused dissipation beyond her years, adjusted her low-cut evening gown as she made the rounds of the tables, letting the customers know, by flirtatious smiles and intimate touches, that she was available for business. She was trying to sing in tune with the piano, but was failing miserably.

  All sound and activity stopped, however, when two men slapped the batwings open, stepped into the saloon, and crossed over to the bar. Everyone in the place paused and stared at the pair as they made their way across the room. They looked like perfect examples of what life in the mountains would do to anyone crazy enough, or antisocial enough, to endure it.

  The older of the two had fought in the Battle of New Orleans as a fourteen-year-old boy. The younger of the two was a boy during the Civil War, which had been over but five years. Despite their age differences, there was a strong similarity between them. Both were dressed in buckskins that were almost black with accumulated trail dust and dirt and grime, and both had full beards and long, unkempt hair that hung down almost to their shoulders. The older man’s hair was white, while the younger man’s hair was the color of dark smoke. It was obvious from their appearance and smell that they’d been up in the high country for some time, without benefit of a bath.

  They belonged to that most reclusive of breeds—mountain men—but it wasn’t the fact that they were mountain men that caused everyone in the Golden Nugget Saloon to stop what they were doing and stare. Mountain men weren’t all that rare in this part of Colorado Territory, especially in winter when storms would sometimes drift the snow deep enough to drive even those hardy souls down to civilization. What caught everyone’s attention was the fact that they were armed to the teeth. The old man was carrying what looked to be a Sharps Big Fifty cradled in his arms, and a Navy Colt .37 stuck down in his belt. The younger one had enough weapons to start a war: A Navy Colt was tied low on his thigh in a right-hand rig. A matching Colt was butt-forward in a high holster on his left hip, and a twelve-inch-long bowie knife rested in a scabbard in the middle of his back. A Henry repeating rifle was slung across his shoulders to complete the picture.

  The young man’s eyes were as hard and uncompromising as new ice on a pond, while the older man’s expression was one of whimsy, as if he’d seen just about all that was worth seeing in his many years and saw little now that would impress him.

  When the older man set his rifle down and they both leaned on the bar, all but one of the saloon customers went back to what they’d been doing, ignoring the two odd-looking newcomers. One of the customers, however, Bradford Preston, continued to stare at the two.

  Though it was still early in the day, Preston had already had more than enough to drink. If you asked, Preston would call himself a cowboy, though he found work only sporadically, due to his temper, hardheadedness, and the fact that not many cattlemen trusted him. It had never been proven, but there were those who suspected that Preston would sometimes support himself by cutting out a few head of cattle, butchering them, then selling the meat and the hide.

  Preston drained his glass and slammed it down on the table, nodding his head at one of the others sitting with him to refill it from the almost empty bottle on the table. “Damn, Johnny,” Preston said in a loud, grating voice, “it smells like a skunk done up and died in here! Why don’t somebody open up some windows or something to get the stink of those two mountain hombres outta my nose?” he called out to no one in particular.

  The younger man’s back stiffened and he started to turn around, until the older man put a hand on his arm.

  “Take ’er easy, Smoke,” he said in a low voice. “It’s just a young pup with too much whiskey in his gullet tryin’ to impress his friends. If ’n you try ’n shut all of them kind’a beavers up, you’ll wind up takin’ on a job you ain’t never goin’ to be able to finish.”

  Smoke Jensen nodded and took a deep breath as he looked at Preacher and grinned. “Now I know why we spend so much time up in the high lonesome away from assholes like that.”

  Smoke hadn’t bothered to keep his voice low and Preston heard his remark. He jumped to his feet, wobbled for a second, and then walked over to stand just behind Smoke. “Hey, you stinkin’ pile of shit, did you just call me an asshole?”

  Preacher sighed. “Now the fat’s in the fire.”

  Smoke turned to face Preston. The belligerent drunk was standing less than three feet away from him, and Smoke stared at him with a face totally devoid of expression.

  “Yeah,” Smoke said easily. Moving his right hand slowly, he unfastened the rawhide hammer thong on his righ
t-hand Colt. “I did.”

  Preston blinked a couple of times. He had expected Smoke to deny it, or talk around it, or at least show some anxiety over being called down on it. He did not expect the young man to show such dead, cool calm.

  “Them’s fightin’ words, mister,” Preston said angrily, his fists balling at his sides.

  Suddenly, and inexplicably, Smoke laughed. “You’re too drunk. If you want to fight, get a wife,” he said. “My partner and I just want to have a couple of beers in peace and be on our way.” Smoke started to turn back around, but Preston’s voice stopped him.

  “That ain’t gonna happen now,” Preston said angrily. “I’m callin’ you . . .” he began, and slapped at his pistol.

  Before he could clear leather, Smoke’s pistol was in his hand and, taking a step forward, he laid the barrel of his Colt across the drunken man’s cheekbone, slashing it open and knocking him to his knees. Preston wobbled once, and then his eyes crossed and he flopped to land face-forward on the wooden floor. Blood began to pool around his face and soak into the planks.

  Smoke spun his pistol once and replaced it in his holster, glaring at the men at Preston’s table who’d gotten half out of their chairs and were staring at him.

  “Anyone else here object to my friend and me having a quiet drink?”

  Johnny Dean, one of the other men who had been at the table with Preston, whispered in a hoarse voice full of awe, “Good God Almighty, boys, I didn’t even see him draw!”

  Smoke reached down, pulled Preston to his feet, and looked at the bleeding wound on his face. “You boys might want to take your friend over to see a doctor. That cut’s gonna need some stitches.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the men said as they grabbed hold of a still-stunned Preston.

  Johnny Dean hesitated. “Uh, did I hear your friend call you Smoke?”

  “That’s what they call me.”

  “Smoke Jensen?” Dean asked, his voice quaking a bit.

  “Look, friend, I’d like to carry on a conversation with you, but right now I have a beer that’s getting warm on the bar.”

  When he turned to the bar and picked up his glass, Preacher whispered, “Better hurry up and drink it, Smoke. I don’t figure we’ve got too long ’fore somebody informs the sheriff that we’re here.”

  Smoke nodded. He still had a price on his head up in Utah from when he’d taken on the gang of outlaws, and he never knew just where those pesky wanted posters were going to turn up. Preacher was right; it was better to drink up and be on their way before trouble found them again. And, he had noticed, trouble did have a way of finding them if they tried to stay planted for too long in one place.

  It seemed, Smoke thought, you could outrun a man or a posse, but you could never outrun your reputation.

  Smoke had just put his empty beer glass down on the bar when a group of several men crowded through the saloon batwings and gathered in the doorway. The man at the head of the pack was a couple of inches over six feet tall and had wide shoulders, a beer gut that hung over his belt, and a Greener ten-gauge shotgun cradled in his arms.

  Johnny Dean came in with the sheriff, but he made a point to be standing behind him. From that position, he pointed toward Smoke and Preacher. “There they are, Sheriff, jest like I tole you! Them’s the two men what pistol-whipped poor ole Preston and damn near tore his cheek plumb off ’n his face.”

  Smoke stared at his accuser and, trembling, Johnny took a few steps back.

  Smoke looked at Preacher and shrugged. “Sorry, Preacher. Looks like we might’ve waited too long.”

  Preacher smacked his lips as he let his hand drop to the barrel of his Sharps. “Yeah, I think you are right. But I do believe the beer was worth it.”

  The man Dean had called “Sheriff” raised his shotgun to point at them. “I’m Sheriff Tom Jackson, boys, an’ I’d be obliged if you’d drop them irons on the floor. We don’t take kindly around here to strangers comin’ into our town and assaulting our citizens.”

  Without speaking or looking at each other, Smoke and Preacher eased apart until they were separated by a few yards.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” Smoke said in a low, dangerous voice, his eyes as hard as emeralds and his face set in stone. “But we won’t be droppin’ our guns.”

  Jackson’s face expressed surprise and he cut his eyes down at his Greener. “Are you boys blind? You do see what I’m holdin’, don’t you?”

  Smoke smiled and peered at the shotgun. “Looks like a W.W. Greener ten-gauge double-barrel shotgun to me. What do you think, Preacher?”

  “I’d say you’re right. You might remember that ole Dooley had him a Greener just like that.”

  “Yeah, I do remember. Whatever happened to Dooley anyway?”

  “Don’t you recall? He married up with that Indian woman he had took to livin’ with. I think they went up into Dakota Territory somewhere.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

  The sheriff followed the conversation, turning from one to the other as they spoke. The expression on his face went from curiosity to incredulity.

  “What the hell? Are you two men daft? You’re carrying on a conversation like you’re taking a walk around town. You do see that I’ve got this gun pointed at your guts, don’t you?” the sheriff asked.

  “Which one of us?” Smoke asked.

  “What?”

  Preacher grunted. “What my friend is tryin’ to tell you, Sheriff, is that you haven’t cut the barrel down none.”

  Jackson raised his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Smoke grinned, though there was no mirth in his smile. “What it means, Sheriff Jackson, is that if you pull the trigger on that thing, you’re going to die, same as if you was to put the end of the barrel in your mouth.”

  “What? My God, are you totally crazy?” Sheriff Jackson asked.

  “Maybe I should explain,” Smoke continued. “Because you haven’t cut the barrel down, your scattergun’s gonna throw a pretty tight pattern at this distance. That means you can only get one of us if you pull the trigger.”

  Preacher nodded, but his lips were tight and thin and in a straight line, no evidence of a smile on them. “And that means, pilgrim, that ’fore the echoes of your shot are done bouncin’ off’n these walls, you’ll be lying dead on the floor, no matter which one of us you shoot.” He glanced around the room as he pulled back the hammer on his own pistol. “And in all likelihood, a whole bunch of yore townsfolk are gonna git kilt in the process too.”

  Johnny Dean started easing away from the sheriff and the possible line of fire.

  “Won’t do you any good to move, friend,” Smoke said. “You’ll be the next one killed, right after the sheriff.”

  “What? Why me?” Dean asked.

  “Because you’re the one who brought the sheriff over here,” Preacher said.

  The sheriff ’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe either of you two are that fast,” he said, but his voice was suddenly hoarse and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “Uh, Sheriff,” Dean said, “I kind’a forgot to mention that man’s name there on the left is Smoke Jensen, and I do believe I heard him call the other gent ‘Preacher.’”

  Jackson’s Adam’s apple bobbed and you could hear him swallow clear across the saloon, which was now deathly quiet.

  “You men are Smoke Jensen and Preacher?” he asked, his voice dry and husky with fear. Just about everyone west of the Mississippi had heard of Jensen and Preacher, and the sheriff knew that no one had ever gone up against them and lived to talk about it.

  Smoke nodded, while Preacher just leaned his head to the side and spit a glob of tobacco juice into the brass spittoon several feet away. It hit dead center.

  “Well, uh,” Jackson stuttered, trying to think of some way out of his predicament with his hide intact. “What you got to say for yourself ’bout slappin’ a pistol in Preston’s face?”

  “You know Preston, do you, Sheriff?” Preacher as
ked.

  “I know him.”

  “What kind of a man is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you know him, do you really think my friend here just slapped him for the fun of it? Or do you think maybe Preston might have brought it on himself?”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “I reckon he’s the kind that might have brought it on hisself.”

  “He tried to draw on me,” Smoke said. “And it was either slap some sense into him or shoot him dead. Would you rather I’d killed him?”

  Before the sheriff could answer, a thin young man in a suit and vest stood up from a corner table. “Sheriff Jackson, if I may. I witnessed the entire episode and I can vouch for the veracity of these gentlemen’s account.”

  “Huh?” Jackson said, his forehead wrinkling.

  “What I’m saying is, they are telling you the truth.” The young man smiled and walked up to the sheriff and handed him a card. “My name is Robert Justus Kleberg and I am chief counsel for the governor of the Colorado Territory.”

  Jackson heaved a sigh of relief and for the first time let the barrel of his Greener drop. “Oh, well, if the lawyer for the governor says he’s tellin’ the truth . . .”

  “But Sheriff,” Dean called from halfway across the room. His beady eyes were narrow and angry. “Jensen’s got a price on his head. Everybody knows that! You’ve got to arrest him and put his ass in jail where it belongs.”

  “You want me to take a chance on getting my ass killed just so you can collect some reward?” Sheriff Jackson asked.

  “Well . . . that’s your job . . . ain’t it?” Dean asked.

  Kleberg leaned close to the sheriff, whispered a few words in his ear, and the sheriff nodded, relief evident on his face. “Mr. Kleberg here says he’s gonna take Mr. Jensen and his friend over to the hotel to meet with the governor and that’ll be the end of it.”