William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

“It isn’t our fight,” Smoke told him. “We’re buyin’ cattle and that’s all. No sense getting yourself all worked up over it, Cal. I promised Sally we’d ride a hundred miles in the wrong direction to stay out of trouble.”

“It’d be the first time,” Pearlie observed dryly. “Seems we make a habit outa ridin’ a hundred miles to look fer a Fight on occasion.”

Cal swallowed, seeming edgier than Smoke had ever seen him. “Just so nobody starts shootin’ at us before they know we ain’t on either side.”

There were times when Cal reminded Smoke of himself as a boy growing up, when he was known by his given name, Kirby Jensen, in a bleak part of southeastern Missouri at the edge of the Ozark Mountain range. He remembered too how his Pa, Ernmett, went off to war and how lonely he felt, trying to scratch a living out of thin soil to help support his Ma. It was after the war when he and his Pa rode west, running into the filthiest-looking old man he’d ever seen, dressed in greasy buckskins, calling himself Preacher and never anything else. It was another step toward manhood for Kirby Jensen, and a chance meeting where he earned the nickname Smoke early on, a meeting and a friendship that had changed Smoke Jensen’s life forever. And now Cal was becoming a man, one step at a time as it must always be, learning lessons that would keep him alive, as well as making him a man who could be a trusted friend and perhaps, later on, a deadly adversary. Cal had the basics, the things it took inside—courage and true loyalty to those who stood by him. His uneasiness now over the trouble in Lincoln County was just his way of preparing himself to stand and fight beside Smoke and the others if the need arose.

Smoke recalled his frontier education with Preacher, his own early fears, until Preacher taught him how to stay alive… and how to kill when necessary. With those skills came confidence, along with experience. While Preacher had been a hard taskmaster at times, he explained that it was necessary, that life-and-death struggles are unforgiving, usually allowing no mistakes. It had been hard to live up to Preacher’s expectations, without understanding it was a rite of passage into manhood in a land filled with sudden violence and harsh conditions. More than any other single thing, Preacher had taught him to rely on himself.

Smoke wondered if these memories were coming back because of the footprint Del had found at Willow Creek Pass, and the story Ned Buntline had told of encountering a solitary mountain man up there who handed Buntline his life. That would be just like Preacher, to help a tenderfoot in trouble and then abandon him as quickly as he’d arrived. Or was Smoke merely trying to comfort himself with the thought that Preacher was still alive up in the high lonesome, living out his final years?

Leading a string of spare horses, Duke pointed to a distant line of trees wandering back and forth to the south, stretching across the far horizon. “That looks like a river way off yonder,” he said.

“It’s the San Juan,” Cletus told him, before Smoke could say it. “Means we’re gettin’ mighty close to the New Mexico Territory line. Durango oughta be off to the west a few miles.”

Smoke setded back against the cantle of his saddle, hearing the bay Palouse colt’s hooves squish through melting snow and mud with some satisfaction. The young horse was proving itself to be like its sire, Horse, a solid trail pony with endurance and an easy gait, with enough stamina to outlast most other breeds in this part of the country. Crossing their mares on a good Morgan stud, he and Sally could raise tough cow horses with early speed at shorter distances.

“We’ll also be ridin’ into Apache country,” Bob warned as they neared the river. “Time we loaded our rifles an’ the rest of our guns.”

It was wasted advice for Smoke Jensen. He couldn’t remember a time when his guns weren’t fully loaded, or being reloaded for another round of gunplay. An empty gun was about as useless as a three-legged horse.

He noticed neither Cal nor Pearlie were checking their weapons, and Johnny North did not so much as look down at his pistol or rifle. Sugarloaf riders learned to be prepared for most anything at any time. Otherwise, they didn’t stay on the payroll.

Smoke smiled when he thought about Sally. If she happened to be wearing a dress, underneath it, strapped to her leg, she kept a short-barreled Colt .44. And if she rode the ranch in a pair of denims, she wore a gunbelt just like the rest of the cowboys, with a Winchester booted to her saddle. For a gentle-natured schoolteacher, she could damn sure shoot straight with a handgun or a rifle.

Above the river, on a twisting road that would take them to Santa Fe, then farther south, they were climbing into the San Pedro Mountains toward El Vado Pass two days later when Smoke sensed danger, a feeling he would be hard-pressed to describe, a tingling down his back resembling a chill. Although for now he saw nothing to arouse his concerns, the sensation was there just the same.

“Keep your eyes open,” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe it’s nothing, but my nose smells trouble up ahead.”

“That’s enough fer me,” Pearlie remarked, pulling out his Winchester, resting it across the pommel of his saddle. “I never have knowed how you could smell it comin’, but I’ll take an oath you’ve done it more times than I care to remember. Jerk that smoke stick, boy,” he said to Cal, “an’ git yerself ready to use it. Johnny, if you like the sweet smell of this air, you’d best git ready to fight fer your next breath of it.”

“I don’t see a damn thing,” Cletus said, squinting into the sun’s glare off melting snow on slopes leading toward the pass.

“Neither do I,” Smoke told him. “I just figure it’ll be a good idea to stay watchful.”

Bob and Duke drew their rifles, levering shells into the firing chamber, resting the buttplates against their thighs as their horses carried them higher. Cletus remained unconvinced for the present, leaving his rifle booted.

“Could be all you smell is a skunk,” Cletus argued, when nothing moved on either side of the pass.

“Maybe,” Smoke said softly, his experienced eye roaming back and forth across steep slopes dotted with smaller pirion pine trees and still barren aspen, it being too early in the spring for new leaves. “Skunks come in several shapes. I’m lookin’ for the two-legged variety. They’ve got a different smell.”

The sounds of hooves filled a silence. Smoke left his rifle in its boot, opening his coat to be able to reach for both Colts in case he needed them in a hurry.

Then he saw the source of his concerns, five or six Apache warriors by the cut of their hair, brandishing rifles, rounding a cutbank near the top of the pass. They rode to the crest of the trail and halted their multicolored ponies, fanning out, blocking the pathway of Smoke and his neighbors.

“Son of a bitch!” Cletus exclaimed, pulling his Winchester free. “How the hell did you know, Smoke?”

Smoke halted his horse without answering Cletus, judging the distance, measuring how much drop a slug would take reaching an Indian more than three hundred yards away. A .44 caliber rifle cartridge held a considerable amount of gunpowder, properly loaded with the maximum number of grains, but unlike a Sharps, its range was far more limited and the bullet had a tendency to fall at shorter distances, requiring a higher aim and a piece of luck.

Only now, Smoke unbooted his Winchester, when it became all too clear the Apaches were after their horses and money, blocking the roadway through El Vado Pass. He chambered a shell. “I’ll aim over their heads once,” he told the others, “a warning shot to convince ’em we’re willin’ to fight our way through if we have to. Maybe we can scare ’em off. We’ve got ’em outnumbered. I’d be willing to bet these are young renegades, not older warriors with a lot of fighting experience. Let’s hope they back off.”