William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

Jessie shrugged. “When we’re finished with Jensen, I don’t give a damn what you do. You can kill all those Apaches for all I care. That way, Dolan don’t have to pay ’em.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pickett said.

Jessie noticed Tom Hill’s color wasn’t quite right after he heard what Pickett meant to do to the Indians. Glancing over his shoulder, Jessie took another look at the ten Mexicans who’d ridden in at Bosque Redondo the night before. All were bearded, hard-faced men with crisscrossed cartridge bandoliers over each shoulder. The pistolero who led this bunch was named Jose Vasquez, and he had a certain look about him showing confidence. Pedro said Jose was a bandido , and a killer who took great pride in his work.

Jessie thought about Smoke Jensen. For a man he’d never met, this Colorado rancher was sure as hell causing a lot of trouble in New Mexico Territory, a condition that was about to end tonight, or whenever they caught up to him and his cow herd. With the odds being over four to one against Jensen, he would be dead by the time the sun went down tomorrow. Jessie was certain of it, as Little Horse and his Apaches came out of the store to climb aboard their scrawny ponies.

“Let’s ride,” he said to the men around him, wheeling his horse to the east.

“We can’t get there soon enough to suit me,” Pickett said as they struck a trot out of Lincoln.

Forty-three gunmen followed Jessie into the hills east of Lincoln Township. The rattle of curb chains, spur rowels, and armament accompanied their departure. Dust curled away from their horses’ heels.

Jessie noticed Jimmy Dolan standing on the porch of his store watching them ride off. Jessie promised himself Mr. Dolan wouldn’t be disappointed this time when he heard what had happened somewhere along the Pecos River. Thirty-three

Bob and Cletus and Johnny rode slow circles around the herd as the cattle bedded down for the night. The day had passed uneventfully, but when Smoke scouted for a place to hold the herd for the night, he selected it carefully, with defense from an all-out attack in mind, deciding upon the middle of a flat, grassy prairie with no trees or brush nearby where a rifleman would be in range. He knew, once the shooting started, the longhorns would scatter in every direction, making for a difficult time rounding them up, even in daylight. Under the present circumstances, it was the best he could do, to stay out in the open so Evans would have to charge them without benefit of cover. Defenders lying in tall bunch grass would have an advantage over men charging across the flat meadow toward the herd.

Pearlie handed Smoke a tin plate full of beans and fried fatback. He had been watching Smoke use a whetstone across the iron blade of a Ute tomahawk he always carried in his saddlebags. “You figure they’re comin’ tonight, don’t you?” he asked.

Smoke began eating, his face more deeply etched by lines in the light of their campfire. “Hard to say, Pearlie. Best thing to do is be ready for ’em anytime:”

“They’ll come from the west, from the direction of Lincoln., I reckon.”

“Most likely.” He chewed thoughtfully a moment. “That’s why I’m headed that way, as soon as I’ve eaten. Those trees way over yonder will give me some cover. I’ll go on foot, so I can move around quiet. They may come at us from the south if they’ve been following our tracks. I want you and the rest to spread out around the herd with rifles and plenty of ammunition. Find a spot in that tall grass where you’ll be harder to see when you shoot. They’ll have to cross a bunch of open ground to get to us, and that’ll cost ’em. Those longhorns are gonna run like mad as soon as the first shot gets fired. I’ll try to drop as many of Jessie’s boys as I can before they get too close. Main thing is to stay down. I don’t want anybody to take chances.”

“You’ll be the one takin’ chances,” Pearlie observed.

Smoke continued eating. “I’m accustomed to it, Pearlie. I reckon I’ve been taking chances all my life, so I’ve had plenty of practice. The most important thing is that none of you take a bullet, and if you can, protect those Herefords. We can buy more long-horns if we lose a few, but those white-faced bulls can’t be replaced very easy. Save as many as you can.”

Pearlie glanced across the dark prairie. “Evans would have to be a fool to charge us out in the open like this, even if he done it at night, ’less he’s got a helluva lot of men with him.”

“I expect him to bring a sizable bunch this time. I’ll kill as many as I can before they rush you.”

-“I noticed you’s wearin’ your moccasins ’stead of your boots tonight.”

“Quieter,” Smoke said.

Cal had been listening closely while he ate. “I reckon I’m about to git another chance to kill somebody. It sure does a job on my nerves.”

“It ain’t affected yer appetite any,” Pearlie said.

“I’m eatin’ because I’m nervous.”

“Hell, you eat all the time anyways…”

Smoke got up as Duke was corning to the fire after tying his horse to the picket rope. He saw the tomahawk in Smoke’s hand.

“I sure hope they don’t get that close, Mr. Jensen,” he said as Smoke tucked the handle under his cartridge belt.

“That’s why I’m headed for those trees yonder,” Smoke replied, inclining his head to the west, “so I can keep some of ’ern from getting close.” He looked over his shoulder at Pearlie and Cal. I’ll see you boys at daybreak if nothing happens tonight. Put out that fire soon as everyone’s eaten.“

Pearlie nodded. “We’s all wishin’ you good luck, boss.”

Smoke picked up his rifle. “You should know by now I never depend on luck, Pearlie.” He strode softly into the darkness, his moccasins making no sound.

False dawn came to the eastern sky, making shadows that played tricks on a man’s eyes… unless he knew a thing or two about shadows in early light. The night had passed without incident, although Smoke continued to circle the herd from a distance, moving from tree to tree, pausing to listen and study the forest before moving on again.

A sound came from an unexpected place, the unmistakable plop of an unshod horse’s hoof. He hadn’t been expecting Indians, not when Jessie Evans was the enemy. But few white men rode unshod horses in rough country, and the sound of a hoof without an iron shoe was distinctive, easy to recognize.

He hurried toward the sound, dodging from pine trunk to pine trunk, until he crept close to a small clearing, where the outlines of two Apache warriors on wiry ponies moved slowly in the direction of the prairie where the herd was bedded down.

Apache scouts, he thought, by the way they wore their hair under a headband. Smoke continued forward, pulling his tomahawk with his right hand, a pistol with his left.

The element of surprise would be with him if he moved quickly. He crept up behind the pair of Indians, and when the distance was right, he broke into a soundless headlong run.

His first blow with the razor-sharp tomahawk sliced across the back of an Apache’s neck, severing muscle and ligaments and tissue all the way down to bone. Jerking his weapon free, he swung at the other Indian just as he was turning to see what had made the wet, chopping noise, then the dull thud of a falling body.

The tomahawk’s blade struck the Apache full in the face, entering his cheek and eye socket, splitting bones with a sharp crack. A muffled cry came from the warrior’s throat as his pony lunged forward, sending him toppling to the ground with Smoke’s Ute tomahawk buried in his brain.

Again jerking the weapon free, Smoke whirled around to dash back into the forest with blood dripping from the ax blade onto his leggings. Where there were two scouts, there could be more. He was certain these were not wandering renegades on the lookout for easy pickings—they worked for Evans, leading his gang to Smoke and his friends. A full-fledged attack was only moments away, coming at dawn, when cowboys who had been vigilant all night would be tired, sleepy, not as watchful.