William Johnstone: Triumph of the Mountain Man

Look for These Exciting Series from

WILLIAM W.JOHNSTONE

With J. A. Johnstone

The Mountain Man

Preacher: The First Mountain Man

Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man

Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter

Those Jensen Boys!

The Family Jensen

MacCallister

Flintlock

The Brothers O’Brien

The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty

Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

Hell’s Half Acre

Texas John Slaughter

Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal

Eagles

The Frontiersman

AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS

Triumph of the Mountain Man

WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

PINNACLE E-BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

1

Once a week, a Sugarloaf hand rode into Big Rock, Colorado, to pick up the mail. Lost Ranger Peak brooded over the town, its 11,940-foot summit covered by a mantle of white year-round. Often the journey proved to be nothing more than an excuse to spend an hour or two in the Bright Lights saloon. With the exception of Sally Jensen’s sporadic correspondence with a few old school friends, scant mail ever came to the home of the fabled gunfighter, Smoke Jensen. On a fine morning in late April, then, Ike Mitchell, the Sugarloaf foreman, expressed his surprise when Smoke Jensen announced that he reckoned he would be the one to ride into Big Rock.

Ike hastened to relieve his employer of the burden. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Jensen. One of the boys can make the mail run.”

“No trouble, Ike. I really feel like I ought to go.” Smoke brushed at his reddish blond hair and gazed across the pastures of the Sugarloaf with his oddly gold-cast eyes. “There’s some little—something—nagging me to make the ride into town.”

Ike chuckled behind a big, work-hardened hand. The wings of gray hair at his temples waved in a light breeze. “Needin’ a little time away from Miz Sally, eh?”

“Not exactly, Ike. Though I’ll admit I would enjoy a good card game and a few schooners of beer with friends.”

With a knowing wink, Ike encouraged Smoke. “You’ll have time enough for that, like as not. Not many people know where the Sugarloaf is, let alone how to reach it by mail. Enjoy your day, Mr. Jensen.”

“I will Ike. Anything I can bring you from town?”

Ike removed his black, low-crowned Stetson and scratched his head. “The missus could use a bottle of sulphur elixir to treat the young’uns for spring.”

Smoke involuntarily made a face at the memory of that medical treatment. It had not been one of the things he missed when separated from his family and taken in by Preacher. “I’ll get it, then. Only, don’t tell your brood who it was brought it.”

* * *

Amorous meadowlarks whistled to prospective mates as Smoke Jensen rode over the wooden bridge that spanned the Elk River. and entered Big Rock. He kept his Palouse stallion, Cougar, at a gentle walk. In spite of the chill in the air, the sun felt warm on his shoulders. He had left his working chaps behind, and wore a rust-colored pair of whipcord trousers, a green, yoke shirt and buckskin vest. Around his narrow waist he carried his famous—or infamous, according to some—pair of. 45 Colt Peacemakers. The right-hand one was slung low on his leg, the left in a pouch holster high on the cartridge belt, the butt pointed forward. Several writers of dime novels, Ned Buntline included, had made such a getup known to millions as a “gunfighter’s rig.”

Smoke looked on it as a practical necessity. The same as the .45-70-500 Winchester Express rifle in the saddle scabbard. While not expecting trouble, Smoke had learned long ago that it paid to come prepared at all times. As his legendary mentor, Preacher, had said, “It tends to increase a feller’s life span.”

* * *

“Morning,” Smoke greeted a teamster who struggled with the ten-up team hauling a precarious-looking load of logs on a bedless, cradle wagon. The man gave a wave as Smoke rode on.

Farther into town, the streets became more populous. Women in gingham dresses and bonnets, their shopping baskets clutched in gloved hands, clicked the heels of their black, high-button shoes on the boardwalk of the main street. Horses stood, hip-shot, outside the saddle maker’s, the bank, three saloons and the general store. A couple of empty buckboards rattled in from another direction, while one was being loaded by a harassed-looking teenager in a white apron. A typical Saturday in Big Rock, Smoke allowed. He nosed Cougar toward the hitch rail in front of the general mercantile. There he dismounted and climbed to the plank walk.

Inside the store, Nate Barber, the owner, greeted Smoke warmly. “Not often enough we see you, Mr. Jensen. You sure picked a day for it. Got near a whole mail bag full for you.”

Smoke raised a yellow-brown eyebrow. “That so? I wonder what the occasion might be?”

“Catalogue time again,” the postmaster/merchant advised, then added a familiar complaint. “Those mail order outfits are going to be the ruin of stores like mine.”

Smoke nodded and went to the caged counter, behind which ran a ceiling-high rank of pigeon-hole boxes to hold the mail. His, he noted, bulged with envelopes. Barber went into his small post office and bent to retrieve a stack of bound, soft-cover volumes. “Here you are, Mr. Jensen. I’ll get those letters for you, too.”

Smoke went quickly through the catalogues. He found the latest Sears issue for Sally, another for musical instruments by mail order, and one for himself, from a saddle and tack manufacturer. That might prove useful, he reasoned. Anything made of leather eventually wore out, and no manner of patching could salvage it in the end. Some of the breaking saddles used on the Sugarloaf had begun to look rather shabby. If the prices were lower for this outfit in San Angelo, Texas, than in Denver, he might order four new ones. Among the correspondence he found a creamy, thick envelope of obvious high quality, addressed to him in a rich, flowery script that denoted that the writer had learned his letters in a language other than English. The return address was Rancho de la Gloria, Taos, New Mexico Territory. Don Diego Alvarado, Smoke recognized at once.

Smoke had come to know Diego Alvarado several years ago, when he had been in New Mexico briefly on a cattle-buying trip. The gentlemanly, reserved Don Diego was the grandson of an original Spanish grandee, who had the patent of the King of Spain for roughly a thousand acres of high, mountainous desert to the west of Taos. His father had retained title to the land through service to the Mexican government after independence and had added to the family holdings. Steeped in the traditions of his ancestors’ culture, Alvarado was a superb host who loved to entertain. Smoke had soon discovered that Diego’s facade of reserve quickly vanished with a glass of tequila in one hand and a slice of lime in the other. The “little feast” put on for Smoke and his hands had turned out to be a three-day extravaganza of food and drink. They had paid for their lavish keep before leaving, however. Smoke and his men had joined the vaqueros of Rancho de la Gloria in fighting off a band of renegade Comanches who swarmed up out of the Texas panhandle.

Barber interrupted his speculation. “Need any supplies today, Mr. Jensen?”