Vengeance of the Mountain Man Read online

  He pulled his Henry rifle out of the saddle boot and loosened rawhide hammer thongs on his Colts, then began to creep up the mountain through thick underbrush, toward the fire.

  He knew it was much too soon to worry about Sundance and his gang, but in the high lonesome your enemies weren’t necessarily known to you. As Preacher had told him on more than one occasion, strangers are always hostile, unless you know both their first and last names.

  Moving through the forest so silently most of its wildlife was unaware of his passage, he inched ever closer to the source of a column of woodsmoke above him.

  Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he came close to a small clearing and peered from behind a ponderosa pine at the camp. A rough-hewn log cabin of one room sat in the trees. A paint pony grazed nearby, enjoying lush green mountain meadow grass. There was a fire going in front of the shack, with coffee heating on a trestle and a deer haunch roasting on a spit.

  Smoke relaxed when he saw the horse, straightened up and walked into the clearing. “Yo, the cabin. Can I join you?” he called, holding his rifle pointed down, his hands in plain sight.

  He felt the barrel of a rifle touch his neck seconds after a sixth sense warned of someone’s approach from behind, then a high-pitched chuckle followed. “Heh-heh, thought you’s gonna sneak up on old Puma, huh, boy?”

  Smoke laughed and raised his arms in the air. “Please don’t shoot, Mr. Mountain Man, I’m just a poor pilgrim who’s lost his way in the woods.”

  He turned and the two men embraced, pounding each other on the back, Smoke’s pats raising dust and dirt from the old man’s buckskins.

  “Puma Buck, you old cougar, you get uglier every time I see you,” Smoke said around a grin. “And that cayuse has got to be twenty years old if it’s a day.”

  “Smoke Jensen, I thought old Preacher taught you better trail-smarts than that. Hell, I heared you comin’ nearly an hour ago, an’ that’s why I put that there deer on to cook.”

  Smoke shook his head. “Mighty hard to keep in practice trackin’ when you live ’round civilization, Puma. Matter of fact, a body can forget plenty of important lessons if he stays away from the up-high too long.”

  Puma nodded and threw his arm around Smoke’s shoulder, leading him over to the fire. “That’s true, boy, that’s surely true. Bein’ ’round people just purely sucks the smarts right outta a man. Come on, light and set and let me pour you some coffee.”

  Smoke squatted and held out a tin cup he found near the fire. After Puma filled it, he took a drink. “Yeah, I’ve missed your cookin’, Puma. Been a long time since I had coffee that’d float a horseshoe.”

  “Takes a long time to cook it just right. Guess you civilized folks don’t never take the time to do it right. I been workin’ on that pot fer might’ near three days now, and it’s just about ripe. Maybe another day or two . . .”

  Smoke took his knife from its scabbard and sawed a hunk of meat off the deer haunch, handing the first piece to Puma, who took it and nodded his thanks.

  There was little more in the way of conversation until both had eaten their fill. Puma grunted once and pitched Smoke some wild onions. They were strong and sweet and went well with wild venison and boiled coffee.

  After supper, Smoke trotted back to retrieve his horses and returned to the cabin. The mountain man had his makings out and was about to fashion a cigarette. Smoke said, “Uh-huh, just a minute Puma.” He reached in a pouch on his packhorse and pulled out a package wrapped in wax paper. He pitched it to Puma and stooped to pour himself another cup of coffee.

  Puma unwrapped the package and grinned widely, exposing yellow stubs of teeth. “Hoss, it seems like years since I had any store-bought ceegars.” He licked one, bit the end off, and lit it with a flaming stick from the fire’s edge. “Young’un,” he sighed, “this is one of the few things I miss about civilization, ready-made stogies.”

  He flipped one to Smoke, and they lay back against a log, smoking and drinking coffee and swapping tales until the sun went down and the temperature began to drop.

  Puma glanced at clouds covering the peaks turned orange-red by a setting sun. He raised his nose like an old wolf sniffing for his mate. “Smells like snow’s on the way. Seems to come earlier and colder every year.”

  Smoke grunted and grinned in the twilight. “That’s just ’cause you’re older’n dirt, Puma. You’re gettin’ a mite long in the tooth to winter up here. Maybe it’s time for you to winter in the desert, where the cold don’t make your bones as brittle as dead wood.”

  Puma snorted and ambled into his cabin, returning after a moment with three half-cured bearskin blankets. He threw one over his paint pony and handed the other one to Smoke.

  Smoke’s nose wrinkled as he wrapped the green hide around his shoulders. “Whew! Puma, you done forgot how to cure skins? This bear’s ’bout as ripe as you are.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with you city folk. You bathe too much. That’s how I knowed you was a’comin’, I smelt soap on you from three miles off, an me bein’ upwind!”

  “I brought some extra if’n you’d care to try it.”

  Puma got a horrified expression on his face. “Hell no. I bathed in the spring. Don’t wanna overdo it, might git sick’n die, then who’d be here to teach you the thangs you done forgot ’bout wilderness livin’?”

  “Preacher always washed two, maybe three times a year,” Smoke answered.

  “Yeah, Preacher did git a mite too civilized in his old age. I heared in his later years he kilt a couple’a old boys and didn’t even take their hair.” He shook his head. “Don’t do to git too soft up here or folks’ll take ’vantage of ya.”

  Smoke sobered at the thought of his old mentor. “Puma, do you think Preacher is still alive?”

  Puma’s gaze shifted to the distant mountains, their snow-covered peaks still burnished pink by the fading sun. “I ’spect so, boy. There’s still beaver in them ponds, an’ grizzlies still look over their shoulders fer him in fear when they hunt. Ole Preacher ain’t about to cross over while there’s still game to be had or grizzlies to wrassle.” He studied the glowing end of his stogie, blue smoke curling toward stars just becoming visible at dusk. “By the by, speakin’ of ole warriors, I heared you was comin’ up here to put the war paint on.”

  Smoke shook his head in wonderment. It amazed him how these old cougars, who thought the up-high was getting too crowded if they saw another white man more than every two or three months, could know what was happening in flat country so soon.

  He pitched his cigar into the fire and settled deeper into his bearskin. “Yeah, that’s so. A feller back-shot a friend of mine a few years back. I took his ear and sent him on his way with a couple’a ounces of lead in his hide. Now he thinks it’s time I paid the fiddler for that little dance.”

  Puma grimaced. “Shoulda taken his hair, Hoss, then you wouldn’t have to be watchin’ your back-trail.” He took a final drag on his cigar, pinched the ash off, and began to chew the butt. “Man makes hisself enough enemies just livin’, without havin’ to go out and try to make more.”

  “I guess so. Preacher told me don’t never leave a man alive with your lead in’im. Just makes ’em wanna heal up and give it back to you when you’re least ’spectin’ it.”

  Puma chuckled. “Preacher knew which way the stick floats, all right. Took his share o’ scalps, too—both white and red.” He cut his eyes over at Smoke. “You figger on needin’ any hep, or some’un to watch your back in this war your’ gettin’ ready fer?”

  “Well, Preacher also said don’t never turn down help when it’s offered, though I hope these ole boys are like most flatlanders and don’t know nothin’ ’bout the high lonesome. I got some surprises planned for ’em that may make ’em think twice ’bout comin’ after me.”

  Puma spit tobacco juice into the fire, making it hiss and crackle. “Don’t underestimate the strength of vengeance, Hoss, it be a powerful motivator fer most folks.” He spit again. “Gold, wome
n, and blood-feuds kilt more men than all the wars put together. I wouldn’t count on those ole boys turning tail and runnin’ just cause you tweak their noses a little. You listen to an expert, boy, and don’t go halfway. You git a chance, you lift some hair and count some coup, ’cause as sure as beavers build dams, they’ll do it to you if’n they can.”

  “I’ll do it, Puma. Now, you think we can get under that shack you call home before my eyeballs freeze, or you gonna stay out here ’til the spring thaw?”

  “Heh-heh. You sure be gittin’ soft, Smoke. Good thang you come up here to relearn what Preacher and us other ole mountain beavers taught you, afore it’s too late. Come on, we’ll git covered and git some shuteye and talk more on this war of yours at sunrise.” Puma got up slowly and led the way into his cabin.

  As snowflakes began to drift down to cover the mountainside in winter’s white coat, Smoke snuggled deeper under his bearskins in the unheated room and hoped the coffee he drank wouldn’t cause him to have to venture forth into the frigid night air to relieve his bladder.

  Lying there, watching his breath frost and disappear in the moonlight coming through a crack in the roof, he began to question what he was doing. “Do I have the right to come up here and endanger my old friends in one of my fights?” he murmured to himself, on the edge of sleep. After all, he thought, he knew when he made his plans to make his final stand in the up-high, mountain men holing up in the area wouldn’t permit one of their own to fight against heavy odds alone. Some of the old cougars were likely to get dusted in the upcoming fracas. He considered, for a moment, spreading the word among them that he wanted to kill his own snakes without their help. Of course, he realized almost immediately, that would do no good at all. Asking mountain men, the most independent breed in the world, not to interfere in a fight would almost certainly make them all the more determined to buy chips in his game.

  Most of these old-timers were only a few years shy of going forked end up anyway, he thought. They’d like nothing more than to go out with rifles and cap and ball pistols in their hands, facing death and spitting in its face.

  Sighing, he turned to the side, pulled the skins up over his face, and slid into sleep, still undecided if he was doing the right thing.

  * * *

  After a fitful night of tossing and turning, Smoke awoke before dawn and went out into the snow-covered clearing in front of the cabin. He stoked the campfire embers to life and added more wood, warming his hands in the heat from the flames. He opened his supply pack and took out breakfast makings and began to cook.

  A short while later a yawning Puma Buck limped out of the cabin door, cursing his aching bones. “Smoke, I don’t know what you’re cookin’ up over there, but it smells right good enough to eat.”

  “Light and set, Puma. I made us some pan dulce, Mexican sweet bread, fried some bacon and ’taters, and opened a can of sliced peaches for dessert.”

  Puma glanced over at his paint pony and shook his head. “Good thang you’re not up here very often, Smoke, otherwise old Spot there wouldn’t be able to carry me around no more. I’d be so damn overfed I’d break his back.”

  Smoke poured some steaming coffee into Puma’s cup, saying, “Sorry about the bellywash. I had to add a little water ’cause it was so thick it wouldn’t come outta the pot.”

  Puma arched an eyebrow and frowned. “I hope you ain’t plumb ruined it, boy. Took a lotta cookin’ to git it just right.”

  To ease his feelings, Smoke cut a chunk of sweet bread out of the skillet and handed the sugary cake to the old man.

  Puma tasted it, then smiled and began to chew in earnest.

  The pair ate in amiable silence, enjoying the majestic views of mountain peaks, snow-covered valleys and meadows, and white-capped ponderosa pines.

  After they finished breakfast, Smoke rolled a cigarette and Puma started on another stogie, both men drinking a final cup of coffee.

  Smoke sighed. “You know, Puma, every time I come up here to God’s country, I wonder why I ever bother to leave and head back to the flatlands.”

  Puma grinned, dislodging crumbs of bread from his scraggly beard. “Might be that sweet woman who warms your blankets has more’n a little to do with it.”

  “She’s a big part of it, all right,” Smoke agreed. “But I think when this little dustup is over, I’ll bring Sally up here to show her why I can’t never get this country outta my heart.”

  Puma said, “Leave it to Smoke Jensen to call a war with thirty or forty men against him a little dustup. Well, Hoss, if this child is still kickin’ when that happens, I’d be honored if you and the missus would make camp with me for a spell.” His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “I promise not to tell her too many tales about you in the old days, when your juices were jest startin’ to flow.”

  Smoke clapped him on the back, stood up, and began to put together his pack. “Yours will be the first stop on our journey, Puma. Now, I’ve gotta get busy if I’m gonna get my surprises ready for that polecat and his gang afore they get up here.” He looked over his shoulder as he tied his packs on his packhorse. “You might spread word among the others up here to walk carefully on the trails. I wouldn’t want any of my friends to get hurt by my traps.”

  Puma shook his head. “Boy, if’n a mountain man don’t know enough to watch where he’s steppin’, he don’t hardly deserve to be in the high lonesome no-how.”

  Smoke stepped into the saddle and reined away with only a wave over his shoulder as a farewell.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sundance Morgan sat on his mount, a cigarette stuck in a face full of stubble, and looked out at his gang gathered before him. They had crossed the border just before dawn, in small groups of five men to avoid being noticed, and gathered at the same grove of cottonwoods on the Rio Bravo where they first met.

  The desperados were bleary-eyed and surly from a night without sleep. The Hernandez women lasted for hours, until finally Sundance ordered his men to put them out of their misery and ride north.

  Two of the Mexicans argued over the scalps, and the loser of the fight now sat with his arm bandaged from a knife wound while the winner proudly displayed bloody hanks of hair on his saddle horn.

  Sundance tipped a pint bottle of whiskey at the sky and sleeved the excess off his lips with his forearm before speaking. “Hombres, we are like los corrientes, the wild longhorns who live in the brasada, obeying no man’s laws and answering to no one for our actions.” He waved his bottle in the air. “From now on, we ride hard and we ride fast. We will take what we want, and send those to the devil who oppose us.”

  The group nodded and laughed among themselves, too sleepy to work up much enthusiasm at such an early hour. Sundance continued. “We’ll ride ’til midday to put some trail between us and Mexico, then find a shady place for a siesta and for our nooning.”

  He pitched the empty whiskey bottle in the air and blew it to pieces with his Colt, the booming echo of the gunshot continuing long after the fragments of glass fell to the ground. “Now, ándale, compadres, shag your mounts! Vámonos!”

  The gang rode north on the trail toward San Antonio for several hours. When the sun reached mid-sky and heat waves danced over the desolate land of the Texas bush country, they pulled off the road into a stand of live oak trees and dismounted. Some men cooked bacon and beans, while others lay in the shade, drinking whiskey and eating jerked meat. A few slumped on the dirt snoring, hats pulled down over their eyes.

  Sundance took this time to call a meeting of his lieutenants to plan their next move. Lightning Jack, swigging out of a bottle with no label on it, said, “Sundance, there be a small settlement on the coast just north o’ here called Corpus Christi. Not much there, but it might be worth a look or two.”

  El Gato shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I there last year. It is full o’ campesinos and fishermans. There no gold in that town.”

  Toothpick looked up from spooning beans into his mouth, juice running down his chin into
his whiskers. “I heared there’s a big spread hearabouts.” His brow furrowed in thought for a moment. “King Ranch, I think it’s called.”

  Sundance smirked. “You heard right, Toothpick. Trouble is, they’s a bunch o’ hairy ole boys ridin’ fer that brand. Mainly Mexicans, but they all carry sidearms and they all know how to use ’em. Old man King hired him a bunch o’ buff’lo soldiers from the Union Army after the war, and them boys ain’t afraid of nuthin’ nor nobody.”

  He rolled a cigarette and placed it between his lips. “A bunch o’ pistoleros from down the border tried to tree that particular spread a few months back.” He grinned as he lit his smoke. “What was left of ’em, ’bout a third I reckon, came straggling back through Del Rio with their tails ’tween their legs, lookin’ mighty shot up.”

  Toothpick shrugged and went back to eating beans. Lightning Jack asked, “You got a better plan then?”

  Sundance tilted his head toward the road, just over a small ridge from their camp. “Yeah. The noon stage from San Antone is due to come down that trail in a couple o’ hours. The station where they change horses for the final leg into Laredo is ’bout three miles north o’ here.” He flipped his butt in the fire. “After the boys are finished eatin’, I figger we’ll just mosey on over the hill and be waitin’ on that stage when it pulls in.”

  Lightning Jack nodded, grinning. “Yeah, that’s a good idee. I’m in need of a fresh mount anyhow.”

  Gato threw his empty bottle against a nearby tree. “And más tequila, eh, compadres?”

  Sundance spent a few more minutes outlining his plan for taking the stage station, then the men were rounded up and they rode north.

  * * *

  Catherine Johanson looked up from her cooking as she heard the door to the way station slam shut. She peered out the small serving window and saw four disreputable-looking men enter. Something about their manner, swaggering and loud, alarmed her. Frowning, she turned to her teenaged daughter, Missy, and whispered for her to remain hidden in the closet and not to come out until she called her. Without haste, she slipped a derringer .44 over-and-under into her apron pocket.