William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

Smoke leaned out of the saddle and shook hands with John Chisum. “Pleasure doin’ business with you,” he said, watching Pearlie and Duke lead the cattle north over the very same hills where he’d killed six of Jessie Evans’s men.

“The pleasure has been all mine,” Chisum replied. “You be careful, Smoke Jensen. Don’t let those owlhoots riding for Dolan jump you.”

Smoke grinned. “I’m always careful,” he said, urging his horse forward to ride around the herd so he could scout the way for several miles before the cattle came.

Dawn had just come to South Springs, casting golden light over tree-studded hills and shallow valleys. Off to the east, the Pecos River was a thin, distant line of deeper green where cottonwoods and grass were nourished by its waters. It was a peaceful beginning, as the heifers and bulls moved away from the Chisum ranch. Smoke wondered how long it would stay this way.

Keeping the Pecos in sight, he led them over grassy meadows where the cows would have plenty of grazing. Once the herd got settled to the trail, the likelihood of a stampede would be less of a worry.

When he’d scouted ahead for a couple of miles, Smoke turned back to see how the herd was moving, and when he topped a rise he could see them strung out in good trail fashion, traveling along at a slow pace, with the Hereford bulls bringing up the rear, an expected outcome since their legs were far shorter and they would have more trouble staying up with longer-strided longhorn cows.

“So far, so good,” he said under his breath. The land they were traveling was empty, no houses or signs of civilization in sight as far as the eye could see.

They were passing through what Chisum called the Haystack Mountain range, little more than foothills to a man who knew the Rockies. Water was plentiful in creeks and arroyos. With so much grass and water, the cattle would have an easy time of it until they reached drier regions to the north.

An hour later, Smoke tensed in the saddle when he saw Duke Smith headed his way at a fast trot. Smoke swung his horse to ride to meet him.

“Nothin’s wrong,” Duke said quickly, when he saw the look on Smoke’s face, “but we did see this horse an’ rider way off to the west, an’ he didn’t stay long afore he plumb disappeared.”

It could be someone riding to warn Evans of their departure from Chisum’s ranch, although he didn’t want to worry Duke or the others. “Maybe just a range cowboy out lookin’ for strays. But keep your eyes peeled anyway.”

“Pearlie said to tell you it didn’t look right, how this feller rode off that hilltop so quick, like he didn’t want nobody to see him.”

“Could just be a coincidence. I’ll ride over to the west a ways, just to make sure. Keep the cattle moving. Some of those longhorns are a little spooky yet. If one gun goes off, they’ll all break into a run.”

“I know the ornery critters right well,” Duke declared, as he turned his horse around. “Ain’t no creature on this earth as likely to run off as a damn longhorn. We’d be tryin’ to round ’em up till doomsday if somethin’ scares ’em.”

Smoke wondered about the rider they had seen as Duke rode off to rejoin the herd at point. Was Jessie Evans keeping an eye on them, planning his next attempt at revenge?

Swinging west, Smoke galloped his horse to the highest hill, where he had a view of what lay beyond. For a time, he sat his horse, motionless, making no effort to hide himself should anyone be watching. A herd the size of theirs couldn’t be hidden as it moved northward, no matter how carefully they were kept to low ground, making it pointless to hide his own presence on the hilltop now.

As far as the eye could see, the land was empty. A red hawk soared above distant stands of trees, hunting prey, a sign it sensed no danger from the presence of man in forests below. A hawk’s eyesight and hearing were far keener than a man’s, and it convinced Smoke they were alone here. For now. Twenty-nine

Ignacio Valdez came to a decision. Instead of riding back to Bosque Redondo to warn Jessie about the herd moving northward away from Chisum’s like Jessie wanted, he would take care of this broad-shouldered stranger called Smoke Jensen himself, and that would please Jessie. The sneaky gringo who’d killed so many of their gang would be dead, and Ignacio would get the credit for it, killing this loco hombre who had done so much damage when he snuck around behind them in the dark, like a coward. Ignacio was sure he could take Jensen down. In Chihuahua and Coahuila he’d been the fastest gun in northern Mexico, killing the likes of Luis Ortega, Manuel Soto, and the worst of them all in a pistol duel, Emiliano Zambrano.

He’d killed Zambrano with his first shot when they drew against each other in Juarez, over a woman. Ignacio remembered how much faster he had been, getting off a shot before the famous Zambrano could level his gun. Stories circulated that Zambrano had killed more than a dozen pistoleros in gunfights. He’d had ten notches in the walnut grips of the pistol he carried when Ignacio ended his life with a bullet through the heart.

“I can kill Jensen,” he told himself as he spurred his bay gelding well to the north of the cattle herd. “He is only a man, and I will be quicker, much quicker. I will cut off his head and bring it to Jessie as proof of what I have done…”

He guided his horse down a winding arroyo to a small stream lined with cottonwood trees, lying directly in the path of the herd. Ignacio spenta moment deciding where to hide his horse before he selected a spot to wait for Jensen. Jensen would stop to water his horse, or simply slow down to cross the creek, and this would be when Ignacio would kill him.

Hurrying away from the ravine where he tethered his bay, he trotted down to the stream, where a massive cottonwood trunk would hide his presence. Out of breath, he took off his sombrero and placed it on the ground in the tall grass where Jensen wouldn’t see it, before he pulled his Mason Colt .44/.40, checking each load carefully. Ignacio had decided against using a rifle—he wanted Jensen close before he killed him, close enough to see the fear and surprise on his face when he saw the man who would cut off his head for a trophy to give to Jessie Evans.

He peered around the cottonwood, waiting patiently. This would be easy, killing Jensen, almost too easy. It would make up for the lives Jensen had taken in such a cowardly fashion, to creep up behind some of Jessie’s men and four of Pedro Lopez’s pistoleros .

“Adios, Senor Jensen,” he whispered, pulling back so that only one eye was visible next to the tree trunk.

Water gurgled softly in the creek, passing over smooth stones on its way rejoin the Pecos. Ignacio ran the tip of his tongue across his gold tooth, almost grinning with anticipation.

A horse and rider approached the stream. Ignacio recognized Jensen and drew back out of sight, awaiting the moment when he could be sure of the kill. Resting his right palm on the butt of his Colt, he was eager for things to begin. The sounds made by the horse carne closer, very close, and suddenly, they stopped.

Ignacio jacked back the hammer on his pistol, so he only needed to draw and pull the trigger when he killed Jensen. He took a deep breath.

He heard a spur jingle when it touched the ground. He is down off his horse , Ignacio thought. All the better .

And still he waited for the right moment, when the sounds came nearer, making for surer aim.

Quiet footfalls approached the stream. This was the moment Ignacio had been waiting for. He swung around the cottonwood and spread his feet slightly apart.

“Jensen!” he cried, when he saw a tall cowboy wearing two pistols around his waist.