Savagery of The Mountain Man Read online

  Colby turned back toward Quentin. “Yes?”

  “Don’t take this personally. It’s pure business.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Colby said.

  “Gentlemen,” Quentin said after Colby left, “we have made good progress here, today. I will start buying Hereford cattle to build our new herd, and to strengthen that herd, I plan to acquire at least one champion Hereford bull. I thank you for your confidence and support.”

  Chapter Three

  Big Rock, Colorado

  The stagecoach rolling out of Big Rock, bound for the nearby town of Mitchell, met four riders who were just coming into town. The stage diver nodded at the riders, who nodded back. The riders passed by the WELCOME TO BIG ROCK sign, which was just before the blacksmith shop, where sparks were flying from the heated iron wheel-band the smithy was working with his hammer. As they came deeper into town, they rode on by the butcher shop where the butcher, Stan Virden, was sweeping his front porch; by the feed store, where a wagon was being loaded; and the apothecary, where a painter was touching up the mortar-and-pestle sign that was suspended from the porch overhang.

  Just up the street from the riders was a building with a huge sign that was an oversized boot.

  BIG

  ROCK

  BOOTS

  & SADDLES

  An outside set of stairs ran up the north wall of the leather goods store, and at the top of the stairs the printed sign on the door read:

  STEVE WARREN

  Cattle Broker

  Smoke Jensen, owner of Sugarloaf Ranch, had come to see Steve, to arrange a sales contract for his beeves.

  At six feet one inch, Smoke Jensen was an impressive man. He was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, and his biceps were as thick as most men’s thighs. Though he was still a relatively young man, stories about him were legend, both true and false. The irony was that many of the true stories were even more dramatic than the myths that abounded.

  Smoke had never really known his mother, and when he was barely in his teens, he went with his father into the mountains to follow the fur trade. The father and son teamed up with a legendary mountain man called Preacher. For some reason unknown even to Preacher, the mountain man took to the boy and began to teach him the ways of the mountains: how to live when others would die, how to be a man of your word, and how to fear no other living creature. On the first day they met, Preacher, whose real name was Art, gave Kirby Jensen a new name. For reasons known only to himself, Preacher began calling Kirby “Smoke.” Later, when Smoke’s father was killed by outlaws, young Kirby Jensen hunted them down and killed them. That action was the birth of the legend of Smoke Jensen.

  Now, he was married and settled down as a rancher, and his Sugarloaf Ranch was known as one of the finest cattle spreads in the entire state of Colorado. And his ranch, as were many other ranches, was in the process of transition. Texas longhorns, a breed of cattle that had been the staple of Western beef production for many years now, were gradually being replaced by new breeds, such as the Angus and the Hereford.

  “I hate to tell you this, Smoke, but it looks like about the best we can come up with is seven dollars a head,” the cattle broker said.

  Smoke was standing at the window, looking down onto the street, watching as the four men came riding into town. There was nothing particularly unusual about them—it wasn’t even that unusual for four riders to arrive together. Nevertheless, there was something about them that triggered some deep-set instinct. He couldn’t put his finger on it—but something about them nagged at him. He turned away from the window when he heard Steve’s offer.

  “Did you say seven dollars?” Smoke asked.

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “That’s not very good. Last year, I got ten dollars a head,” Smoke replied. “And the year before that, I got fifteen. What’s happening to the market? Are people not eating beef anymore?”

  “Oh, they’re still eating beef all right,” Steve said. “But they’ve gotten a lot more particular. Now, if we were talking Herefords instead of longhorns, I could offer you twenty-five dollars a head.”

  “I have a few Herefords,” Smoke said, turning away from the window and coming back to sit across the desk from Steve. “But not enough to sell yet. I’m just beginning to build up a herd.”

  “Smoke, I wish I could offer you more. As you know, I get ten percent of the contract, which means the higher the price I can get for you, the more money I make for myself. But no matter where you go—Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago—we are running into the same thing. The most any of the meatpacking houses will pay is seven dollars per head for longhorn cattle, and if they had a hard winter, they may pay as low as four or five dollars. I’ve seen your herd, your beeves are in good shape, so you’ll get top dollar. Unfortunately, top dollar is only seven dollars per head.”

  “You don’t have to explain the situation. I’ve worked with you for a long time, Steve, and I know you are an honest man, doing the best you can. But these cattle cost me two dollars a head to raise, and at fifty dollars per cattle car, that means they are costing me a dollar a head to ship. That leaves four dollars a head,” Smoke said. ‘No, counting your fee, it leaves me three dollars and thirty cents a head.” He sighed. “I’ll ship twelve hundred head, and I’ll make just over four thousand dollars. Well, I won’t even make that, because that does not count the salaries I pay my men. I tell you the truth. I’ll do well to break even.”

  “If it is any consolation to you, Smoke, this is happening everywhere and to everyone. The folks back East have gotten a taste of Hereford. Nobody wants longhorn beef anymore. But, as always, the final decision is up to you. Do you want to sell at that price?”

  “No, I don’t want to,” Smoke replied resolutely. He sighed. “But it doesn’t look like I have any choice.”

  “All right, I’ll get you a contract. What about the train cars? Do you want me to book them for you as well?”

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “Oh, and tell Mr. Bidwell I’ll be needing the holding pens for a couple of days.”

  “That’ll be thirty cents a head,” Steve said.

  “Right. That means it will cost me another three hundred sixty dollars just to do business,” Smoke said. “I don’t know but what this might not work out better if I just paid somebody to take the beeves off my hands,” he added with a sarcastic laugh. “At least I wouldn’t have to be worryin’ about feeding them and taking care of them.”

  “It’s good you can laugh about it,” Steve said.

  “When you get right down to it, Steve, I have to laugh about it,” Smoke said. “What else can I do?”

  “I guess you have a point there. All right, once I get this all set up, how soon can you get the herd in?”

  “How soon can you get everything set up?” Smoke wanted to know.

  “I can send wires back to Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago. I reckon I can have everything set up by tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll bring my herd in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have everything ready for you.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “As always, Smoke, it’s good doing business with you,” Steve said.

  Emil Sinclair was one of the four horsemen Smoke had seen riding into Big Rock. He and the other three riders stopped just across the street from the biggest store in town. A huge, brightly painted sign that spread across the front of the store read:

  Big Rock

  MERCANTILE

  Goods for all Mankind

  The store was very large and exceptionally well stocked, and one wag had commented that when it said, “Goods for all mankind,” it literally referred to all mankind.

  “Why, I’ll bet there’s enough socks for every man, woman, and child in Colorado,” he’d said.

  The store was not only well stocked. It had a wide variety of merchandise from groceries, to clothes, to furniture, to tools. In one section of the store, it had baby cribs, and in another, coffins, eliciting the oft-repeate
d comment that the “Big Rock Mercantile can supply you with everything you need from the cradle to the grave.”

  “Emil, you stay here with the horses,” Logan Taylor said. “Jason, Stu, you two come with me.”

  Emil, Jason, and Stu Sinclair were brothers. They had been recruited by Logan Taylor a week earlier to “do a job that will make us two or three hunnert dollars each, and there ain’t goin’ to be no risk to it at all.”

  “There ain’t no such thing as a job with no risk,” Emil had replied.

  “There ain’t no risk to this one. We’re goin’ to rob us a store.”

  “A store? You think we can rob a store and get a couple hundred dollars apiece?” Emil had asked. “I ain’t never heard of a store with that much money.”

  “This one does. It’s one of the biggest stores in Colorado, and does so much business that it has purt’ near as much money as a bank. Only, there ain’t no guards, the store clerk ain’t armed, and more than likely the only customers inside will be women.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me, Emil,” Jason had said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Stu had added.

  Although the whole operation sounded a little fishy to him, Emil had allowed himself to be talked into it, and now he sat on his horse, holding the reins of the other three horses as Taylor, Jason, and Stu walked across the street, then went inside.

  There were seven people inside: the clerk, who wasn’t armed, and six customers, all of whom, as Taylor had said, were women.

  “Oh, Julia, look at this material,” one woman gushed to another as they stood by a table that was filled with brightly colored bolts of cloth. The woman pulled some of it away and held it against herself. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful color? Wouldn’t this make a lovely dress?”

  “Oh, yes, it would be perfect with your—”

  “Good afternoon, ladies!” Taylor shouted loudly. “I’m going to ask all of you to step back into the storeroom for a little while.”

  “What?” one of the women asked.

  “Here! What is the meaning of this?” the only male, the store clerk, said.

  “We’re robbin’ your store,” Taylor said.

  One of the women drew a deep breath and put her hand to her mouth. Taylor swung his pistol toward her, pulling the hammer back as he did so.

  “Lady, if you scream, I’ll shoot you,” he said. “I’ll shoot anyone who screams. Now, get back into that storeroom like I said.”

  This time, the women reacted and started toward the storeroom at the rear of the store.

  “Jason, make sure they all get in there, then lock the door. Stu, you stand up front to take care of anyone else who comes in. Store clerk, let’s me and you do some business.”

  Sally had asked Smoke to pick up an iron skillet for her while he was in town, so he tied his horse off out front of the Mercantile and started inside to carry out the errand.

  He knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped through the door. At first, he didn’t know what it was; then he realized that the store was empty. Normally, at this time of day, there would be several shoppers in the store, milling around, looking at the merchandise, or making purchases. Now there was nobody.

  He stopped for a moment, every muscle in his body on the alert. Smoke was a man who had lived his life on the edge of danger—whether it be from wild animals when he was younger, renegade Indians, or desperate killers and outlaws. That lifetime of danger had given him a sixth sense, and because of his heightened awareness, he sensed, rather than heard, someone approaching him, very quietly, from behind.

  Making a fist, Smoke timed his reaction perfectly, and at exactly the right moment, he whirled around, swinging as he did so. He landed a haymaker on the jaw of the armed man who was approaching him. He grabbed the man and let him down easily so that the sound of his falling wouldn’t alert anyone else. It was obvious that something was going on in the store, and this man had been posted by the door to take care of anyone who might happen in, in the middle of it.

  Relieving the unconscious guard of his pistol, Smoke pulled his own gun, then started moving quietly through the store. He didn’t have to go too far before he saw, reflected in a dresser mirror, Eli Dawes, standing with his hands in the air. Dawes was the manager of the store. In the same mirror reflection, Smoke could also see two armed men, both of whom had their guns pointed at Dawes.

  “I know damn well you got more money than this,” one of the armed men said angrily. He had a flat nose and a handlebar mustache. “A store this big? I been watchin’ you for a couple of days now. You do a lot of business here.”

  “If you really have been watching, then you know we make a deposit in the bank every day at one o’clock,” Dawes said.

  “You’re lyin’,” Flat Nose said.

  “No, he isn’t lying,” Smoke said, stepping out to confront the robbers. “There have been times when, good-neighborly-like, I would make the deposit for him.” Smoke’s voice was agonizingly calm, almost as if he were having a dinner table conversation.

  “Who the hell are you?” Flat Nose asked, the high-pitched, anxious tremor of his voice in stark contrast to Smoke’s unruffled tone.

  “I’m the man who is going to kill you if you don’t drop your gun,” Smoke said. Again, his voice was calm and controlled.

  “Stu!” Flat Nose called. When he got no response, he called out again. “Stu, where the hell are you?”

  Smoke grinned. “Stu? Would that be the man you left standing guard at the front door?” Smoke had stuck Stu’s pistol down inside the waist of his pants, and now he patted it with his left hand. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be able to help you. This is the last time I’m going to say it. Drop your gun.”

  “Mister, are you crazy? There are two of us. There is only one of you.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll kill you first,” Smoke said. He looked at the second robber. “That will leave just the ugly one there, and he and I will be all even at one and one.”

  “You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Flat Nose asked.

  “Hello, Smoke,” Dawes said. “You got here at just the right time.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “Fellas, meet Smoke Jensen,” Dawes said. “I know you’ve heard of him.”

  “Smoke Jensen?” the second robber said. “Taylor, you—you never said nothin’ about us havin’ to go up against Smoke Jensen. I’ve heard of him. They say he is as fast as lightning.”

  “For God’s sake, Jason, be a man,” Taylor said.

  “It’s your play, boys. Taylor, Jason, what do you do now?” Smoke asked.

  “Wait! I ain’t no part of this!” Jason said, dropping his gun and putting his hands up.

  “Jason, you cowardly son of a bitch!” Taylor shouted. At the same time Taylor was shouting, he swung his pistol toward Smoke, pulling the hammer back and firing.

  The bullet whizzed by Smoke’s head and plunged into a large sack of cornmeal that was part of a high stack of cornmeal sacks behind him. Smoke returned fire, hitting Taylor in the chest. Taylor’s pistol twirled around his trigger finger, pointing toward the floor, then dropped. The outlaw clutched his hand over the entry wound of the bullet, staggered back a few steps, and fell.

  Smoke swung his pistol toward the one called Jason, but it wasn’t necessary. Since he’d dropped his pistol and put his hands in the air, Jason hadn’t made a move.

  For a moment, it was very quiet in the store, the only sound being the rushing sound made by the cornmeal as it oozed out of the bullet hole and poured onto the floor.

  “Are you all right, Eli?” Smoke asked.

  “I’m fine, but there are some lady customers locked back in the storeroom.”

  “You had better let them out. I expect they are all a little nervous about now.”

  Dawes chuckled. “I expect you are right,” he said.

  “Take a look at your friend,” Smoke said to Jason. “Is he dead?”

  Jason bent over to look down at th
e body of Logan Taylor, then shook his head. “Looks to me like you killed him.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t have time not to.”

  Dawes went to the storeroom, unlocked the door, and opened it. “It’s all right, ladies, you can come out now,” he said. “It’s all over.”

  “Oh, thank God,” one of the lady customers said. “We heard the shots and were afraid you had been killed.”

  “I might have been if Smoke hadn’t come along when he did,” Dawes said.

  Stu, the robber Smoke had knocked out, was just getting to his feet then. When he saw Taylor dead and Jason with his hands up, he reached toward his empty holster.

  “Are you looking for this?” Smoke asked.

  Like his brother, Stu put his hands up.

  “What are you going to do with us?” Jason asked.

  “It’s up to you, mister,” Smoke replied.

  “Up to us? How?”

  “I’m either going to kill you, or take you down to the jail. It’s your choice.”

  “You got no right to arrest us. Only a sheriff can do that.”

  “Or a deputy,” another voice said as a new person came into the store. “I made Smoke my deputy a long time ago.”

  Sheriff Monte Carson, having heard the shooting, had come into the store to see what was going on. When he saw that Smoke had everything in hand, he relaxed.

  “You want to take charge of these fellas, Monte?” Smoke asked. “Sally asked me to pick up an iron skillet for her and if I forget, I’m going to be in trouble.”

  Sheriff Carson chuckled. “Then by all means, you had better find that skillet. You don’t want to be in trouble with Sally.”

  “Pick out any skillet you want, Smoke, it’s free,” Dawes said in gratitude.

  “Well, I appreciate that, Eli,” Smoke said.

  Looking back toward the two would-be robbers, Sheriff Carson made a motion with his pistol. “Come along, boys,” he said. “I’ve got a nice jail cell just waiting for you.”

  “Wait a minute. Where is the other one?” Smoke asked.

  “The other one? What other one?” Dawes answered. “Only three of them came in.”