William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

“You worry too much.”

“What else can I do when the man I love is putting his life on the line?”

He thought about it for a time. “You can learn to trust me, to trust my instincts for staying alive. Over the years a hell of a lot of men have tried to kill me, for one reason or another. None of ’em got it done, although I’ve got a nick or two in my hide to show for it. Trust me when I promise you I’ll always come home to you.”

“It won’t stop me from worrying…”

He glanced up at the advancing clouds. “There’s a storm coming. Probably means snow, this high, and maybe some rain we need for our pastures down at the ranch.”

“You changed the subject, Smoke. We were talking about how much it scares me when you go off on one of your manhunts. Like what happened in Big Rock this summer when those three men came to town looking for Ned Buntline. Louis told me what happened. You could have ignored the way they were looking at you. Instead you prodded them into a gun-fight”

“They were looking for one anyway. I know I’ve got my share of faults, Sally, but when some gent challenges me, it’s just my nature to answer back. Let’s talk about something else, like what we’re having for supper. Whatever it is, it sure does smell good.”

“Venison and wild onions. I found some wild onions down at the creek when I went for a pail of water. And I’ve got another surprise. The Dutch oven is loaded. I’ve got it banked with a pile of hot coals, so it’ll cook slowly.”

“What’s in it?” he asked, his mouth already watering.

“You’ll have to wait and see, Mr. Jensen. I told you it was a surprise.”

“Those tins of peaches. You made a peach cobbler, didn’t you?”

Sally pushed away from him playfully. “I’ll never tell, not unless I can find a man who can chop wood without threatening to rip my clothes off.”

“Don’t tempt me, woman. I may just carry through with that threat.”

“You’re getting too old to catch me if I decide to run away. Which I just might do. Or I might take my clothes off and lie down naked under a pine tree, if the right man came along. But it would have to be for the right man…”

He laughed, and came toward her.

Wind whistled through cracks in the logs. Outside, it was full dark. They sat side-by-side in the soft glow from the fireplace, listening to the wind and the whisper of the first falling snowflakes landing on the sod roof.

Smoke was so full of venison stew and peach cobbler he was sure he would burst. Sipping coffee, he stared thoughtfully at the flames. “We’ve got enough money in the bank to buy fifteen of those bulls at Chisum’s price, and maybe two hundred head of good longhorn cows. We’ll offer a few of the bulls to some of our neighbors. We’ll need about ten to service that many cows.”

“Everything I’ve been reading about Herefords makes this seem a sure way to breed cattle with more meat on them,” Sally replied in the same thoughtful tone. “They are far better than shorthorns for the type of range we have, and I’ve read that they are resistant to most diseases, although they are susceptible to pinkeye in warm weather.”

“Crossing ’em on longhorns will take some of that out of the calves. A longhorn don’t hardly ever get sick, and they can take any kind of temperature extremes.”

“I can’t wait to get started next spring. Of course, I’ll be worried until you get back.”

“You’re looking for reasons to worry. We talked about that before.”

“I know you, Smoke. I don’t see any way you can take men all the way down to New Mexico Territory without running into some kind of trouble. Sometimes, I think you look for it.”

“That’s not true,” he complained, sipping more coffee. “I try to avoid it whenever I can.”

“I want you to promise me that this spring, you won’t let anything happen. Please?”

He felt her snuggle against his shoulder. “I’ll promise you I won’t let anything happen to me or our cattle. I’ll swing wide of a fight whenever I can, even if some bastard is lookin’ for one.”

Sally touched his cheek, turning his face to hers. “I wish I could believe that,” she said, then she kissed him hard before he could insist that he meant every word… just so long as nobody pushed too damn hard. Ten

A layer of light snow blanketed the valley and slopes above the log cabin when dawn came gray and windy to this part of the Rockies. Tiny windblown snowflakes came across the higher ridges in sheets, spiraling downward where mountains protected the land from blustery gusts. Smoke came out before sunrise, when skies were brightening, to feed the horses. The temperature had fallen forty degrees overnight, hovering close to freezing, and as he put corn on the ground inside a pole corral protected from winds by a three-sided lean-to for their four horses, he shivered a bit in the cold and smiled inwardly. This was weather he understood, and he had a fondness for it. Surviving blizzards back when he was with Preacher had been difficult at first, until he’d learned how mountain men kept warm, no matter how cold it got, with layers of clothing and footgear made from tanned animal skins and fur, and how to prepare for weeks of hibernation like a bear when the elements in high country unleashed their fury. Glancing at snow-clad mountains around him now, he allowed himself to think about those times and Preacher, wondering if the old man might possibly be alive up there somewhere after so many years. Preacher would be against sentiment like this. However, Smoke found himself with a longing to hear that familiar deep voice, to see his grizzled face etched by hard times and adversity. Preacher wouldn’t allow it, of course, if he were still alive in his declining years, a man with too much pride to let anyone, even Smoke, see him when age took its toll on him.

Spits of snow blew across a ridge to the northwest, flakes falling gently, almost soundlessly, around him. He inspected the horses; two pack animals, Sally’s chestnut mare, and a bay and white Palouse three-year-old, sired by Horse, that he was breaking to mountain trails so it would be bridle-wise climbing narrow ledges, where surefootedness counted. When he was satisfied they were in good flesh and warm inside the shelter, he turned away from the pole corral to fetch pails of water from the slender stream at the foot of the slope where the cabin sat.

Carrying wooden buckets down to the creek, he was again reminded of Puma. This cabin and valley, the mountains, were full of old memories, and in some strange way it wasn’t painful to remember them this morning. A part of him was comforted by those recollections of bygone days. The moments of sadness he felt when they first arrived here weren’t with him now. He could remember Puma without feeling lonely for his company.

He came to the stream, brightened by a slow sunrise above thick storm clouds moving across the valley, his boots crunching softly in a few inches of newly fallen snow. There was a crispness to the air he didn’t notice as often down at the ranch, a part of the experience in higher country, where most of his life he had felt at home. What had changed his feelings, his love for the high lonesome, was Sally. His whole life had changed because of her, and he’d never been so happy, so content. As he knelt beside the stream, he vowed to keep the promise he had made her last night, to steer clear of trouble whenever he could… not because he had any fear of it, of bad men. But because he loved her.

A small brook trout darted away from his shadow, moving downstream. Crystal clear water gurgled over multicolored rocks in the streambed, a sound so peaceful he couldn’t help listening to it before he dipped his buckets full. To his right was a deep pool where, as the creek froze over, he would be chopping through ice to get their water, or using melted snow should temperatures drop and remain low for long periods of time.