Assault of the Mountain Man Read online

  Young Mary Dawson turned to her mother and they embraced. “You tell your grandmother we’ll be expectin’ her and grandpa around the Fourth of July,” Mary’s mother said.

  “I will,” Mary promised.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I mean, this is a pretty long trip to be taking all by yourself.”

  “Mama, I have friends who have gone back East for a whole year to go to school. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can. It’s just that I worry so.”

  “Don’t worry. I have to go now. Bye.”

  “I’m coming outside to see you off,” Mary’s mother said.

  The men, whether responding to the words of the driver, or out of authentic gentlemanly concern, were most solicitous of the ladies as they boarded the coach. The shotgun guard kissed his wife good-bye, then climbed up on the box, sitting on the left side.

  “You drive safely now, Stan,” Mrs. Conway said as McVey grabbed hold to climb up into his seat. “And you two look out for each other.”

  “We’ll do that, Martha.” He turned to Conway. “I saw you pick up the bag from the bank. Is everything all set?”

  “Yeah, we’re ready. It’s stowed under the seat,” Conway said. “Woulda been better though, if there hadn’t been anything about it in the paper.”

  “You got that right,” McVey replied.

  Removing his whip from its holder, McVey whirled it around once over his head, then snapped it over the head of his team, causing it to pop loudly.

  Inside the coach, Mary jumped at the sound of the popping whip. “Oh! What was that?”

  Calhoun chuckled. “Don’t worry ’bout that, miss. That was just the driver snapping his whip over the team.

  “Heah, team!” McVey shouted, his exhortation clearly heard by all who were inside the coach.

  It pulled away from the station, exiting Escalante at a rapid clip. There would be no way MeVey could hold this speed for any length of time, but he liked to depart and arrive in great fashion, and having the horses gallop as he drove out of town was a way of doing that.

  Bridgeport, Colorado

  Jericho Taggart was a regulator, a man who made a living by hunting wanted men. He specialized in hunting those who were wanted Dead or Alive, because the rewards were generally higher for such a person. Also the Dead or Alive provision gave him all the cover he needed to bring in his quarry dead. With live prisoners there was always the chance they could get away, and with it, the reward money. Also a live prisoner would, if he had the chance, kill the man who was attempting to bring him in.

  There was no such problem with dead prisoners.

  The men Taggart brought in weren’t just dead, they were very dead—because his weapon of choice was a Sharps .50 caliber buffalo rifle. He could stand half a mile off from his quarry, and with the energy generated by the large, heavy .50 caliber bullet, a hit almost anywhere would generate enough shock to kill, often before his victim even realized he was in trouble.

  A week ago, Taggart learned there was a fifteen hundred dollar reward for a man named Elliot Simpson. He also learned that Simpson had an old mother who lived all alone about a mile outside the town of Bridgeport. When it was safe for Simpson to come see his mother, she would hang a pair of red long johns on the clothesline as a signal.

  For the last three days Taggart had stationed himself just outside the Simpson house. This morning he watched as the old woman came out, looked around, then pinned a pair of red long johns onto the clothesline.

  Taggart lay down on a flat rock, five hundred yards from the house and waited until late afternoon, before someone came riding up. The old woman come out onto the porch, holding her arms out wide in welcome.

  Taggart squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet hit Simpson in the side of the head, and even from so far away Taggart could see the spray of blood and brain matter exploding from Simpson’s head.

  Simpson’s mother began screaming hysterically, and was still screaming when Taggart rode down to pick up Simpson’s body and drape it over his own horse.

  “You killed my boy! You killed my boy!” she shouted at him.

  Taggart didn’t bother to answer her.

  Five minutes later he rode away, leading Simpson’s horse, over which the body lay. Half an hour later he saw another wanted poster.

  $5,000

  SMOKE JENSEN

  WANTED

  FOR MURDER

  $5,000 REWARD

  to be paid by

  Sheriff of La Plata County

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On the road to Suttle

  Shortly after the coach got underway, Calhoun pulled his pistol and spun the cylinder to make certain it was fully loaded.

  “Sir, I wish you would be a bit more judicious in the handling of that firearm,” Mrs. Gray said.

  “Madam, if we are attacked by road agents, you will be thanking me for this gun,” Calhoun said.

  “Road agents?” Mary asked. “Are we likely to be attacked by road agents?”

  “I think not, miss,” Dr. Potter said. “I’ve made this trip several times and there has never been any problem.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, frightening the child,” Mrs. Gray said.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you none, miss,” Calhoun said. “I apologize.”

  Mary grinned back at him. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t be such a fraidy cat.”

  Stage, as in stagecoach, was actually a term that expressed distance. Way stops and swing stops were “staged” along the route approximately every fifteen miles. Swing stops consisted of nothing but a stable and small shack for the hostler who would have a fresh team ready upon the arrival of the coach. The team could be changed in about ten minutes, then the coach would be on its way. Way stops not only provided for a change of horses, but the passengers could take their meals, and even spend the night if they were on a trip that required such a thing. Although there would be no overnight stays on this trip of eight hours, there would be a noon meal at the way station that was halfway between the two towns.

  Some four hours later, they heard the driver blowing upon his horn, a signal to the way station that they were arriving. Most of the time the signal was sent so a new team could be assembled, and the coach would require less than ten minutes to proceed on with fresh steeds. But this would be a stop for lunch, so it signaled the way station proprietors of the eminent arrival so they could make all accommodations ready for the travelers.

  When the coach came to rest just in front of the way station, McVey called down to his passengers. “Folks! We will be here for one half hour and one half hour only. I suggest you eat quickly then take care of anything that needs took care of.”

  The door was opened from the outside by Don Pratt who, with his wife, Marian ran the way station. “Oh, my, did you folks choose a good day to travel,” he said. “My wife made three apple pies this mornin’. But I suggest you eat quick, before McVey sees them. I’ve known that man a long time, and Lord does he like to eat.”

  The passengers enjoyed their meal, and laughed at the good-natured jibes tossed back and forth between the Pratts and the driver and shotgun guard. Less than thirty minutes after they arrived, McVey stood and hitched up his trousers. “Miz Pratt, I tell you, if you don’t stop feedin’ me so well here, I’m not goin’ to be able to get into my britches much longer. There ain’t no restaurant anywhere that sets a better table than you do.”

  Marian Pratt blushed at the compliment.

  “All right, folks, let’s go,” McVey called to his passengers. “We got a long way to go and I aim to be there before sundown.”

  The passengers, thanking Mrs. Pratt for her hospitality, filed out of the way station and climbed back into the coach, connected now to a fresh team.

  As the trip progressed, the passengers conversed, sharing not only their names and background, but the purpose of their journey. Mary Dawson was going to Suttle to spend some t
ime with her grandmother and grandfather. Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson were both from Suttle. They were members of the Colorado Ladies’ League, and were returning home after a most productive and successful meeting in Escalante. Dr. Potter was from Escalante, but he was going to Suttle to visit with a friend, another doctor, who wanted to discuss a patient with him. Calhoun had come to Escalante to make arrangements with the railroad for a cattle shipment. Evans planned to show a sample of his wares—cooking utensils—to housewives in Suttle.

  The coach had been underway for some six hours. The passengers, having recently partaken of a rather large meal at the way station, and having exhausted nearly all subjects of conversation, were quiet. All but Mary and Dr. Potter were asleep, and the lulling sway of the coach, the sound of the hooves, and the whirling wheels were lulling her to sleep as well. To keep herself awake, Mary thought of her grandmother, always so appreciative of gifts. Mary anticipated the joy she would experience in giving her a shawl that she had knit with her own hands.

  The coach slowed considerably, and the passengers could feel it going uphill. The change in motion and sound awakened the others.

  “Oh, great,” Calhoun said irritably. “I suppose we’ll have to get out and walk again.”

  His observation was born of the fact that twice previously, the driver had asked the passengers to get out and walk in order to reduce the weight the animals had to pull up the hill.

  “No, we’ll be all right for this hill,” Evans said. “I’ve made this trip dozens of times. We’ve never had to leave the coach for this hill.”

  On the train from Big Rock to Parlin

  Smoke, convinced that Sally’s recovery was well underway, left again on his quest to find Dinkins and his group of outlaws. His horse was in the stock car, and he sat looking out the window of the train as the terrain rolled by.

  Rugged hills and sage covered meadowland, but he wasn’t seeing it, so occupied was his mind with thoughts of Sally. He had nearly lost her. He had never fully recovered from losing Nicole. He didn’t know what he would do if something like that ever happened again.

  The train stopped, and a young cowboy who was wearing an ivory-handled pistol, a fancy vest, and a hat with a silver hatband came aboard. He swaggered back and forth through the car a few times, as if trying to make himself the center of attention, but Smoke paid little attention to him.

  At the next stop a very pretty young woman came aboard the train. She smiled prettily, shyly, at Smoke as she took her seat near the front of the car. Politely, Smoke nodded to her, then turned his attention back to the scenery outside. The swaggering cowboy moved quickly to sit next to the young girl and Smoke smiled, wondering if he had ever been that young and that eager around pretty girls. He put the cowboy and the girl out of his mind, then leaned his head back and tipped his hat down over his eyes for a little nap.

  Smoke was asleep when the conductor tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Jensen, I thought you might want to know we’ll be coming in to Parlin in about fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Thanks. Oh, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go forward to be with my horse,” Smoke said.

  “I thought you might. Just be careful stepping across the platform going from car to car.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  When Smoke got up from his seat, he saw that the young girl and the cowboy were gone. He thought nothing more of it until he stepped outside where he saw the two of them standing on the platform between the cars.

  “Please,” the young girl was saying. “I want to go back into the car.”

  “No ma’am, you done played fast and easy with me, and I intend to see the elephant.”

  Smoke was just about to go into the next car when he heard the exchange, and he stopped and looked back at them. He didn’t like butting in where it was none of his business, but the expression on the girl’s face indicated she was not a willing participant in what was going on. Still, what could happen to her on a train? He reached for the door to go into the next car.

  “What are you hanging out here for, mister?” the cowboy asked irritably. “What’s goin’ on here ain’t none of your business, so you just get on now.”

  Smoke sighed. He had already decided that what was going on was none of his business, but he didn’t appreciate this young polecat pointing that out to him.

  “Now, get on out of here before I throw you off this train,” the cowboy said.

  That’s it. Now the little son of a bitch has made it my business. “I think I will go on,” Smoke said. “But if I do, the young woman is going to go with me.”

  “What? What the hell did you just say?” the cowboy asked.

  “It seems pretty obvious to me that the young lady doesn’t want to be out here. I’m merely offering her my protection.”

  “Haw! Your protection?”

  “Yes, such as it is,” Smoke said. “I haven’t made a mistake, have I miss? I did hear you say you wanted to go back into the car, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but please go. I don’t want you to have any trouble because of me.” The tone of the girl’s voice betrayed the fear she was feeling.

  “There will be no trouble, miss,” Smoke said.

  “You better listen to her, mister, and leave while you are still in one piece,” the cowboy replied.

  “Come with me, miss,” Smoke said. “Don’t be afraid of him.”

  “I warned you!” The cowboy stepped across the vestibule and took a wild swing at Smoke. Smoke leaned back, easily avoiding the swing, then, capitalizing on the momentum of the young man’s swing, gave the young cowboy a swift kick in his behind.

  The cowboy might have yelled, but so quickly did it happen that by the time he hit the down slope of the berm, the train had moved forward enough so that he couldn’t be heard.

  Smoke leaned out and looked to the rear to see the young cowboy regain his feet and look on in utter shock as the train continued down the track without him.

  “Oh!” The young girl put her hand to her mouth. “I hope you didn’t kill him!”

  “Take a look,” Smoke invited. “He’s all right.”

  The girl started toward the edge of the platform, then stepped back. “I’m too frightened to look.”

  “Give me your hand, I’ll hold you,” Smoke said. “Then, take a look so you can ease your conscience.”

  The young woman offered Smoke her hand, and he held it firmly as she leaned out to look toward the rear. She giggled. “He looks really mad.”

  “I didn’t butt in where I wasn’t wanted, did I?” Smoke asked.

  “No, no, not at all. He was being very boorish. I’m glad you stepped out here when you did.”

  The girl’s smile and the expression in her eyes suggested that she would be more than willing to express her gratitude in other ways, but Smoke just returned her smile, then touched the brim of his hat before he went on forward to see to his horse.

  Bridgeport

  “You say you killed him in front of his mama?” Sheriff Adams said as he identified the body of Elliot Simpson. Identification wasn’t all that easy. The bullet had entered the back of Simpson’s head, and exited through his face. The resultant wound left his face very disfigured.

  “Yeah, that’s how I knew for sure who he was,” Taggart answered.

  “I don’t suppose you bothered to try and bring him in alive?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t write the posters, Sheriff,” Taggart said. “The poster says dead or alive, it doesn’t say alive or dead. And you know what I figure?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I figure anytime a poster says dead or alive, what it really means is they want him dead. Think of all the money and time you save by not having a trial.”

  “His mama must have taken it some hard,” the sheriff said.

  “She knew her son was an outlaw. She had to expect somethin’ like this sometime.”

  “Yes, but not right in front of her,” Sheriff Adams said. “Noni Simpson is a good
woman.”

  “A good woman who raised a bad son. Are you going to authorize the payment or not?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to authorize the payment.” Sheriff Adams took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote on it.

  Received of Jericho Taggart, the body of Elliot Simpson, wanted criminal. The reward of $1,500 dollars, said amount to be charged to the account of the state, is hereby authorized. Ty Adams, Sheriff, Delta County

  Taggart took the receipt down to the bank where it was paid without question. From the bank, he went to the saloon where he had a few drinks, and played some cards. “Any of you have any idea where Smoke Jensen might be?”

  “Like as not he’s at his ranch, Sugarloaf,” one of the other players said.

  “I bet he ain’t,” another said.

  “What makes you think he ain’t?”

  “Ain’t you been readin’ the papers none? Someone shot his wife.”

  “Damn, I ain’t heard that. Was she kilt?”

  “I don’t know, but it don’t really make no never mind. If someone shot his wife, whether it kilt her or not, he’ll be goin’ after ’em.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Purple Peak Pass

  Bill Dinkins, Wes Harley, Travis and Frank Slater were waiting at a turnout at the top of the hill the coach from Escalante to Suttle had just started to navigate. Harley climbed to the top of a rock that enabled him to see the various switchback turns in the road leading up to the pass.

  “Can you still see the coach?” Dinkins called up to Harley.

  “Yeah, they’ve made the last switchback. They’ll be here in a couple more minutes.”

  Travis laughed out loud.

  “What are you laughing at?” Dinkins asked.