William Johnstone: Battle of the Mountain Man

“I’m obliged for what you’ve been willing to tell me, Mr. Cole, and for the directions.” He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Just one more thing. You said Smoke Jensen is running a ranch now, and I know it’s close to Big Rock. That must mean he’s given up his old ways, using a gun the way he did in the past.”

Grizzly Cole wagged his head. “Yer dead wrong, son. Smoke ain’t changed one bit when it comes to gunplay. He’s every bit as dangerous as he ever was, a fact yer liable to find out if you press him any. Just last year, he put a feller by the name of Sundance Morgan into an early grave, along with a pack o’ his hired guns, pistoleros from down around the Mexican border. He ain’t given up nothin’ fer the sake of ranchin’ or anything else, an’ if you happen to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time, you can git a firsthand look, if you live to tell about it.”

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

Cole smiled. “You said you was lookin’ for Smoke Jensen. What you ain’t understood just yet is them two are the same, if you ain’t an acquaintance or a neighbor of his.”

“But I’m not here to cause him any trouble…”

“Askin’ him about the past is gonna put him on the prod. If I was you, I’d find out ’bout mountain men some other way.

Cole turned away from the fire. Ned tossed out the grounds from his tiny coffeepot as Cole started toward a line of trees behind the abandoned cabin.

“Thanks again, Mr. Cole, for everything you’ve told me. I am in your debt. I’ll be very careful while I’m up here.”

Grizzly Cole ignored his remark, taking long quiet strides up a grassy slope with his rifle over his shoulder. Ned watched him until he went out of sight in shadows below the pines.

“At last,” he muttered under his breath. He’d just had his first talk with a mountain man, and learned a number of things he could use. The heroes he would write about later on would be like Griz, hardened by an unbelievably brutal and lonely way of life into strong, silent types. This initial meeting with a true mountaineer had given him far more than he had hoped. Now it was time to look for more men of Cole’s strange breed, until he had enough to make characters come to life on the pages of the series of books he planned to write about them. Six

Smoke let Horse pick his own gait, an easy jog trot that was only a little faster than the buckboard loaded with supplies, to keep him well out in front of Pearlie and Cal and the flour, fatback, sugar, coffee beans, and other necessaries Sally put on her list, along with iron hinges for a sagging barn door, horseshoes and nails, saddle soap and axle grease, and a load of planking to fix a slant-roof cowshed. As the summer ended, all ranch chores needed to be attended to, despite not owning cows or bulls after selling off their herd to the Duggan sisters. This was a winter Smoke and Sally planned to spend alone, more or less, if you didn’t count visits with some of Smoke’s old friends in the mountains. Pearlie and Cal would be watching the ranch and saddle stock while Smoke and Sally enjoyed time together in a cabin that once was home to Puma Buck, a two-room affair with a dogrun and sod roof, plenty of shelter from the worst storms in a deep mountain valley where wintertime was both beautiful and bitterly cold. In the spring, Smoke planned to head down to New Mexico Territory, along with a handful of neighbors, to pick up a few prized Hereford bulls and a herd of Mexican longhorns in order to produce a hardier breed with more beef. It was an idea they’d talked about for some time, and after a telegram from John Chisum, called the Cattle King of New Mexico, offering them bulls at a good price, the decision was made. It would be a long and rugged drive, coming back north with spooky longhorn cows and the gentler, slower Hereford bulls, but well worth the increase in beef their offspring would produce. Smoke felt good about the notion. And about spending a winter with Sally where he could have her all to himself for a while, enjoying a few months without the responsibilities of ranch work and tending cattle.

Crossing a wooded switchback, Smoke heard a voice coming from a crossing over Aspen Creek down below, a high-pitched voice full of anger. He heeled the Palouse forward at a lope to find out what the shouting was all about, to see if a neighbor or a friend might be in trouble.

When he came to the caprock at the top of the switchback, he saw a sight he didn’t fully understand at first. Two men were standing beside a team of mules at the crossing, mules hitched to a wagon loaded with wooden crates and barrels. He didn’t recognize either one of them, for they were strangers to this part of the country—he was sure of it, and sometimes finding strangers close to Sugarloaf made him edgy.

Then he saw what was causing the disturbance. One of the men was whipping the mules’ hindquarters with a blacksnake whip, and it was evident the mules had balked at the creek, refusing to cross, which was sometimes a trait in certain mules that hadn’t been trained properly. The crack of the whip and the men shouting, one of them trying to force the off-side mule to take a step into the stream by way of striking it across the rump with a wood fence stave, got Smoke’s dander up.

“Damn fools,” he muttered, urging Horse down toward the creek at a full gallop. “Can’t stand to see a man whip an animal when it don’t understand what it’s bein’ whipped for…”

It really wasn’t his affair, and he knew it, but when a mule or a horse got a whipping it didn’t deserve or understand, Smoke was likely to take a side with the animal even when it didn’t belong to him. At times he wondered about the contradiction, the absence of feeling when men killed each other and the deep sorrow he experienced when an animal suffered needlessly. One mule could have easily been unharnessed and led across the stream so the other would follow on its own… but it was apparent these two men knew nothing about mules or their inclinations. If one mule balked at a stream, most often the other did. Smoke was about to offer his help whether it was wanted or not, since these weren’t men he recognized as being from these parts.

The men saw him coming and one moved his right hand to the butt of a pistol belted around his waist, quite possibly a very deadly mistake if he’d pulled it out. Smoke pulled down on the big stud’s reins when he got within earshot.

“Take it easy on those mules, boys. There’s an easier way to get across.”

“Who the hell asked you to interfere?” one bearded man asked in a low growl.

Smoke brought his Palouse to a halt. “Nobody,” he said in a calm, even voice. “It’s just my nature. Can’t stand to watch a man whip a mule when the man’s got less sense than the animal. I can show you how to get those mules and your wagon across.”

“You’re a smart-mouth son of a bitch, an’ you goddamn sure are inclined to stick your nose in where it ain’t wanted, whoever the hell you are.”

Smoke gave both men a humorless grin. Then he spoke to die man who had spoken to him. “You’re wrong on two counts, mister. I ain’t no part of a son of a bitch, and I put my nose wherever I please when an animal’s bein’ injured. Now, get your hand off the butt of that pistol or I swear I’ll make you eat it. If you give me a couple of minutes, I’ll have those mules across the creek and you’ll be on your way.”

The cowboy touching his gun made no move to lift his hand away, and the gleam in his eye was a warning that Smoke had best be ready for trouble. He swung down, leaving the Palouse ground-hitched, his eyes fastened on the man resting his palm on his gun grips.

Smoke walked toward them, both hands dangling beside the brace of pistols he carried. “Get your hand off that gun or I’ll make good on my promise,” he said, approaching the cowboy whose hearing needed improvement.