William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Uh—yes, so you are. Won’t you come in?”

“Of course. Right away. Can you get someone to take care of these dreadfully stubborn animals?”

For a moment Sally wondered if she meant the snorting, lathered horses or her three sons. The volume of their altercation had risen to the shouting stage. Sally recalled her school chum only too well. The daughter of a wealthy New England mill owner, she had always been a petulant, spoiled young woman. One who proved woefully empty-headed. Sally had been compelled to drag Mary-Beth’s grades upward at the Teachers’ Seminary. Worse, she absolutely, positively refused to eat meat. Yet those were not her only eccentricities, Sally recalled as Mary-Beth spoke again.

“These abominable horses, of course. They have made our journey from Denver absolutely miserable. So tedious. Well,” she declared, releasing the reins and standing upright in the carriage. “We’re here now. And we can look forward to not having to deal with these fractious creatures for a whole month.”

A month? Sally thought sinkingly. That was Mary-Beth’s idea of a brief stay? “I’m afraid we’re not . . . prepared for such a long stay.”

Mary-Beth’s face clouded up, and she produced a girlish pout. “But, we simply must. My husband is doing businessey things in Denver, and it is frightfully boring.”

“But . . . my husband is not here. He has been called away.”

“Oh, bother the men. They are all alike. Born to neglect. I sometimes regret that I gave birth to even a single male. Little Francine here is all my life.”

Her words chilled Sally, who instantly saw the confusion and hurt in the expressions and suddenly flat eyes of the boys. For all of that, Sally’s inborn hospitality compelled her to welcome them. She opened her arms in an inviting gesture. “Come on in, then. I’ll fix coffee. And I have a sponge cake. Your boys will like that, I’m sure.”

Three bright, happy faces shined out on her. “Cake, yah!” they chorused.

Inside, with the boys gulping down slice after slice of the cake Sally had planned to have for herself and Bobby for supper, Mary-Beth returned to her earlier topic. “Ever since you described this heavenly place to me, I’ve dreamed of visiting. And we simply must stay the whole month. Grantland will be tied up in dull meetings every day for a full thirty days. Lawyers have such a dreary life. Besides, Denver is so depressing, with its heavy pall of smelter smoke hanging over everything. And, such rough, unlettered people swarming everywhere, with absolutely no control over them.” Mary-Beth paused and looked at her cup.

“Actually, I prefer tea. Could you arrange to have tea from now on?”

Sally curbed her temper. “I have some tea. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Mary-Beth reached over and patted Sally’s forearm. “Fine, dear, I understand.” She looked over to where her sons had started to squabble noisily over the last slice of cake. “Boys, you go outside with that. You’ve eaten quite enough. It will spoil your supper.”

Grumbling, the three little louts jumped from the table and trudged outside. Mary-Beth picked up again. “At what hour do you serve dinner? We are accustomed to eight.”

“Well, Mary-Beth, we are accustomed to six. If you’ll pardon me, we will stick to that schedule.” Gloomy images of a month of this flashed through Sally’s mind.

* * *

Bobby Jensen first encountered the newcomers when he came up to the main house from the foaling barn where he had been mucking out stalls. He went directly to the wash house, where he had laid out clean clothes before beginning his task, to clean himself of the stink of blood, manure and horse urine. Bobby had barely eased himself into the big, brass bathtub and shuddered in pleasure at the feel of the warm water when he heard a sound like rats in the rafters. He looked around and saw nothing, so he went to his ablutions. The sound came again.

Bobby paused in the vigorous scrubbing of his hands and arms and let his gaze slide from corner to corner. Again he could find no source. He ducked his head of white-blond hair below the surface and began to lather it when he came up. The rustling persisted. Bobby rinsed his hair and pushed up on one arm.

“Who’s there?” When no reply came to his demand, he gave careful examination to the interior for a third time, then returned to his bath. When he was satisfied with his degree of cleanliness—he had not washed behind his ears—Bobby climbed from the tub and stepped under the sprinkler can nozzle attached to a length of lead pipe. Lukewarm water cascaded down on the crown of his head and his thin shoulders when he pulled a chain attached to a spring valve. While he rinsed, he caught sight of furtive movement over by the chair where he had laid his fresh clothing.

A small, pale white hand reached slowly around the obstruction of the chair and headed for the parrot bill grip of Bobby’s .38 Colt Lightning. Bobby took three quick steps toward the hidden person and called out in as hard a voice as he could muster.

“Get your hand off my gun.”

Suddenly, a boy somewhat smaller than Bobby popped up behind the chair. His appearance would have made Bobby laugh if he were not so angry. He wore a funny blue suit, with a big old flowery tie done in a bow under his chin, and had hair only a few shades more yellow than Bobby’s, done in a sissy cut. Ribbons tied the bottoms of his trouser legs just below the knees. Full, bee-stung lips that were made for pouting formed a soft, Cupid’s mouth. He screwed those lips up now and spoke in a snotty, superior tone.

“You can’t have a gun. You’re only a kid. Besides, nobody has a right to have a gun, except a policeman. And even they shouldn’t have them. My mother says.”

Although naked as a jaybird, Bobby immediately snapped out his verbal defense. “The hell I can’t. Smoke Jensen gave me this six-gun himself. I’ve got a rifle, too.”

“Liar. My mother says no one has the right to a gun. That they are the most evil things on earth.”

Bobby bristled further. “You’re the liar. You ever hear of the Constitution? Smoke taught me real good. There’s a part of it that says, ‘ . . . the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ So there.”

Mary-Beth’s eldest, Billy, narrowed his eyes and balled his small fists. “Think you’re one of those dirty, back-shootin’, coward gunfighters like Smoke Jensen?”

That proved too much for Bobby. He swiftly closed the distance between himself and the other boy and gave his antagonist a two-handed shove to the chest. Rocked off his heels, twelve-year-old Billy stumbled backward. Bobby came right after him. Another push and Billy went sprawling out of the wash house. Bobby watched the other boy flail in the dirt a moment, then turned back and shrugged into his trousers. He came out of the building as Billy scrambled to his feet.

Billy made the mistake of swinging the moment he saw Bobby. Young Jensen ducked and threw a punch of his own. It smacked Billy under the left eye. He cried out at the pain and then rushed Bobby. Bobby side-stepped and tripped Billy. At once, the older boy dropped down on his knees, astraddle the small of Billy’s back. Bobby began to drub his opponent on the shoulders. Billy made squealing, yelping sounds and kicked the toes of his boots against the ground. At last he found purchase enough to thrust upward and throw Bobby off of him.

“Damn you, you don’t fight fair,” Billy sobbed, his dirt-smeared cheeks streaked with tears. He dived on Bobby before the older boy could get up.

From there their fight degenerated into a lot of rolling around in the dirt. Bobby got a couple of good punches to Billy’s ribs. Then he clouted his opponent on the ear, which brought a howl of agony from Billy. Bobby wrestled himself around on top and began to drive work-hardened fists into Billy’s midriff. All pretense of toughness deserted Billy, and he began to wail in a pitiful voice.