William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

The man Jessie believed to be Jensen disappeared into a tall stand of bunch grass near a group of tethered horses still pawing the ground, prancing as a result of loud gunfire coming from all directions.

“I’ll kill him for you,” Pickett promised again. “You just let me do it my way.”

Unconsciously Jessie shook his head in disbelief when he got a count of the men Billy was leading north, scarcely more than a dozen. Was it possible that Jensen could have killed so many men himself? It went against everything Jessie knew about paid shootists. Even the best of them in tough border towns like Laredo could barely claim a dozen kills over a lifetime. Jensen had killed at least that many in a matter of minutes.

Tom Hill spoke his mind. “Whoever Jensen is, he ain’t got any stake in this range war, really. We could let him ride back to Colorado an’ git on with rustlin’ Chisum out of business, so don’t no more of us git killed.”

“Are you turnin’ yellow on me, Tom?” Jessie asked.

“Nope,” Tom replied with conviction. “I’ve done my share of killin’ over the years, but there’s always come a few times when I knowed to toss in my cards an’ git out of the game. You ain’t asked me, but I’ve got this funny feelin’ about tryin’Jensen again. Never was all that superstitious myself, but I’ve seen with my own fwo eyes what this feller Jensen can do. Some men are borned with a knack fer killin’. It comes natural to ’em, same as breathin’ air.”

Pickett’s jaw tightened. “He’ll bleed same as any man”

“Maybe,” Tom said. “First, somebody’s got to git close enough to put a bullet in him. Since he come here, that ain’t been too awful easy.”

Pickett glared at Tom, as though he’d been insuited by the remark. “Ain’t nobody with backbone tried yet. These yellow sons of bitches Jessie hired don’t know the first thing ’bout killin’ a man, seems to me.”

Before Jessie lifted his reins to ride off, he caught a glimpse of an Indian riding out of trees to the west. It was Dreamer, if Jessie remembered right. “Yonder’s one of them Apaches. If he speaks any English, I’ll ask him what come of Little Horse an’ all the others.”

“My money says they cut an’ run,” Pickett growled. “I told you a goddamn Injun ain’t worth the gunpowder it takes to kill ’em when it comes down to cases.”

The Indian came galloping up on a piebald paint pony. He looked at Jessie for a moment as if trying to think of the right words to say.

Jessie grew impatient. “What the hell happened to Little Horse an’ the rest?”

“All dead,” Dreamer answered, making an odd slashing motion with his hand across the top of his scalp. “Chop head, like this. Come see.”

“I don’t need to see it,” Jessie snapped, when his grim prediction proved to be true.

Tom swallowed. “I didn’t know Jensen used a woodcutter’s ax in a fight like this. Most Apaches are mighty damn hard to sneak up on, ’specially fer a white man.”

“Let’s ride,” Jessie said, weary of hearing more bad news. “We’ll catch up with Billy an’ the others an’ then we’ll decide what to do.”

“I’ve already decided,” Pickett said as he turned his horse to follow Jessie. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch myself, an’ when I blow his goddamn head all to pieces with ol’ Betsy here, you’ll see Mr. Smoke Jensen wasn’t nothin’ but lucky he didn’t run into me first.”

As they rode around the cowboy camp Jessie wasn’t so sure of Pickett’s judgment when it came to Jensen. There was a ring of truth to what Tom had said, about some men having a natural gift when it came to killing. He recalled a time down in West Texas a few years ago, when he saw Clay Allison in action. Allison could draw and shoot as quickly as Jessie, and for that reason, Jessie left him completely alone until an offer of a job in New Mexico took him out of Sanderson.

He gave Jensen’s camp a last look before he urged his horse into a thin line of trees to the northeast. Jessie couldn’t help remembering what Dreamer had just told him, that Little Horse and his Apaches died from split skulls. Tom was right about one thing, that an Apache was hard to slip up on from behind. It was beginning to seem like Jensen was always finding a way to get behind them. Thirty-six

Smoke crept up to camp and spoke before he showed himself. “It’s me. Is everybody okay?”

Pearlie rose up from his grassy hiding place. “Johnny took a bullet in the leg, but it’s hardly more’n a scratch. I tied his bandanna ’round it till we could fix a proper bandage. He’s lyin’ over yonder next to the horses.” He pointed north. “All of ’em cleared out, leastways the ones we could see. Wasn’t near as many of ’em as I figured there’d be.”

Smoke didn’t bother to explain how he’d reduced the odds considerably. “Let’s get the horses saddled and round up as many of our cows as we can.” He examined the bunched Herefords not far away. “One of our young bulls caught a stray bullet in the neck, and we’ll probably have to put him down.”

“I seen it up close,” Bob called from a spot near the bulls, “an’ it’s in his brisket. Bullet passed clean through. It don’t hardly bleed any now, an’ I’m bettin’ he’ll make it.”

“That’s good news,” Smoke replied tiredly, sinking to the ground to put on his riding boots and place the bloody tomahawk in his saddlebags.

One by one, the cowboys stood up, when it was clear Evans and his men were gone. “We damn sure held ’em off,” Cletus said, as Johnny limped over to their blackened firepit with pain written across his face. “ ’Cept fer Johnny, I’d say we was lucky.”

Johnny agreed. “I was also lucky. That slug could have hit me in worse places. I’ll mend.”

Longhorn heifers were scattered from one end of the plain to the other, while many had run into the trees to escape the loud banging noises.

“We’ll be all day gittin’ ’em rounded up,” Pearlie said, as he carried his saddle to the picket ropes.

Duke was the last to come in from his hiding place in the grass. “I figured they was gonna run over us like a locomotive for a spell. Somethin’ must have changed their minds.”

Pearlie gave Smoke a knowing look. “I imagine Mr. Jensen can tell us what it was, ifn he’s of a mind to talk about it.”

“I got a few,” Smoke replied, pulling on his boots before he stood up with his saddle and bridle. “Everybody ride careful out there, just in case there’s some who ain’t dead, or still have some fight left.”

Cal ’s face was ghostly white when he spoke up. “What do we do if we find a wounded man, boss?”

“Leave the son of a bitch right where he is. We haven’t got time to be doctorin’ men who just tried to kill us. Let ’em rot for all I care.”

“I shot one,” Cal added quietly, “a big feller in a sombrero with belts on his chest. Makes two so far on this trip. I sure do hope there ain’t no more to my credit later on.”

“You were doing what you had to do to help protect your friends and the cattle herd, son,” Smoke told him. “Don’t let it eat on you so hard.”

“I’m tryin’ not to think about it.” Cal lifted his saddie to go to the picket line. “But I seen his face when I shot him. His eyes got big as fried turkey eggs, an’ then there was blood all over his face. He dropped the rifle he was carryin’ an’ put his hands over his eyes just before he fell off his horse. It damn near made me sick all over again.”

“I’m bettin’ a month’s pay you ain’t sick enough to keep from cleanin’ your plate tonight, young ’un. Don’t nothin’ make you that belly-sick.”

In spite of Johnny’s obvious pain, he chuckled. “That’s damn sure one thing about Cal, all right. He can eat no matter what.”