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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Ambush of the Mountain Man
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“Smoke?” Sarah asked, “My, what an unusual name.” It was him. She was married to a monster.
Sally's eyes became distant as she thought back to what Smoke had told her of his early days in the wild West . . .
 
 
Sarah stared at Sally, who seemed lost in a pleasant memory for the moment. This wasn't what she'd expected. Most gunmen, at least all that she'd been acquainted with or told about, didn't have wives. They were for the most part a sorry lot of drunkards and malcontents who drifted from one place to another, selling their guns and their willingness to kill without reason to the highest bidder. And the women they did take up with, when they weren't busy killing, were nothing like Sally Jensen. Why, she and I could be friends if things were different, Sarah thought wryly. I just can't believe she's married to a man as evil as Smoke Jensen and doesn't realize how bad he really is.
After a moment, Sarah reached over and gently touched Sally's arm. “Mrs. Jensen,” she said tentatively.
Sally started and seemed to come out of her reverie. “Oh, excuse me, Sarah,” she said, smiling almost sadly. “I fear my long journey has tired me considerably and I was daydreaming for a moment.”
“No, that's all right,” Sarah said, returning the smile. “You seemed to be someplace else for a minute . . . someplace nice.”
“I was just remembering some tales my husband told me of his first days out here in the wilderness, back when he was no more than a child.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Things were very different then, and Smoke had to learn to use both his wits and his guns at a very young age.” Sally laughed softly. “Thank goodness we're much more civilized nowadays and things are different.”
Not so different as you think, Sally, not so different at all, Sarah thought, struggling to keep the hatred she felt for Smoke from showing in her eyes or in her voice.
F
IVE
Sarah decided it would be best if she could find out all she could about this man she planned to kill, this man who went by the unlikely name Smoke. She didn't like taking advantage of a nice woman like Sally, but it wasn't her fault the lady had married a monster and didn't seem to realize it. Perhaps if she could get her to talk about him, she would find out how best to get close to him and then take him out.
“Please, Sally,” she said, “if you're not too tired, tell me some of those tales about your husband's early days out here and how he got such an unusual name as Smoke.”
“Well,” Sally said, hesitating, “I wouldn't want to bore you.”
“Oh, you won't,” Sarah promised. “My father used to tell my brother and me about how he got started years ago, back when things were very different in Colorado Territory, and his stories always fascinated us.”
Sally smiled. “We're a lot alike, Sarah,” she said. “I too have always been interested in the history of the Old West.”
The only difference is my father is a respectable rancher and your husband is cold-blooded killer and gunman, Sarah thought.
Sally settled back in her seat and closed her eyes, letting the memories of the stories Smoke had told her come to the front of her mind....
 
 
Smoke was sixteen years old when his father returned to their hardscrabble farm in Missouri from fighting for the Gray in the Civil War. When young Kirby told his father that his mother, Emmett's wife, had died the previous spring, Emmett put the farm up for sale and he and Kirby moved off headed west.
They rode westward, edging north for several weeks, moving toward country controlled by the Kiowa and Pawnee Indians. When they arrived at the Santa Fe Trail, they met up with a mountain man who called himself Preacher. He was dressed entirely in buckskins, from his moccasins to his wide-brimmed hat. Young Kirby thought him the dirtiest man he'd ever seen; even his white beard was so stained with tobacco as to be almost black.
Soon after their meeting, the three men were ambushed by a group of Indians that Preacher said were Pawnees, and took refuge in a buffalo wallow just behind a low ridge.
Suddenly the meadow around them was filled with screaming, charging Indians. Emmett brought one buck down with a .44 slug through the chest, flinging the Indian backward.
The air had changed from the peacefulness of summer quiet to a screaming, gun-smoke-filled hell. Preacher looked at Kirby, who was looking at him, his mouth hanging open in shock, fear, and confusion.
“Don't look at me, boy!” he yelled. “Keep them eyes in front of you!”
Kirby jerked his gaze to the small creek and the stand of timber that lay behind it. His eyes were beginning to smart from the acrid powder smoke, and his head was aching from the pounding sound of the Henry .44 and the screaming and yelling. The Spencer rifle Kirby held at the ready was a heavy weapon, and his arms were beginning to ache with the strain.
His head suddenly came up, eyes alert. He had seen movement on the far side of the creek. Right there! Yes, someone was over there.
Kirby was thinking to himself that he really didn't want to shoot anyone when a young brave suddenly sprang from the willows by the creek and lunged into the water, a rifle in his hand.
As the young brave thrashed through the water toward him, Kirby jacked back the hammer of the Spencer, sighted in on the brave, and pulled the trigger. The .52-caliber pounded his shoulder, bruising it, for there wasn't much spare meat on Kirby. When the smoke blew away, the young Indian was facedown in the water, his blood staining the stream.
Kirby stared at what he'd done, then fought back waves of sickness that threatened to spill from his stomach.
The boy heard a wild screaming and spun around. His father was locked in hand-to-hand combat with two knife-wielding braves. Too close for the rifle, Kirby clawed out the .36-caliber Navy Colt from leather. He shot one brave through the head just as his father buried his Arkansas Toothpick to the hilt in the chest of the other.
And as abruptly as they came, the Indians were gone, dragging as many of their dead and wounded with them as they could. Two braves lay dead in front of Preacher, two braves lay dead in the shallow ravine with the three men; the boy Kirby had shot lay facedown in the creek, arms outstretched, the waters a deep crimson. The body slowly floated downstream.
Preacher looked at the dead buck in the creek, then at the brave in the wallow with them . . . the one Kirby had shot. He lifted his eyes to the boy.
“Got your baptism this day, boy. Did right well, you did.”
“Saved my life, son,” Emmett said, dumping the bodies of the Indians out of the wallow. “Can't call you a boy no more, I reckon. You're a man now.”
A thin finger of smoke lifted from the barrel of the Navy .36 Colt Kirby held in his hand. Preacher smiled and spit tobacco juice.
He looked at Kirby's ash-blond hair. “Yep,” he said. “Smoke'll suit you just fine. So Smoke hit'll be.”
“Sir?” Kirby finally found his voice.
“Smoke. That's what I'll call you now on. Smoke.”
1
 
 
Sarah's face was flushed and she was fanning herself with a small handkerchief as Sally finished her tale of how her husband came to be called Smoke and of his introduction to the Wild West.
The story had been very exciting, and somehow it reminded Sarah of the stories Cletus and her father had told her as she was growing up, about how they'd had to hold off Indian attacks and bandit attacks while still trying to raise crops and cattle and babies.
“My, my, Sally,” Sarah said, taking a deep breath. “That was quite a story.”
Sally smiled as she patted Sarah's thigh next to her on the seat. “Things were quite different in those days, Sarah. The Indians were still around and hated the intrusion of the white man, and there was no law to call upon when you got in trouble. People had to learn to take matters into their own hands, and they became very tough in the doing.”
Kind of like me, Sarah thought as she turned her face to stare out of the window. Since the law is unable to do what is right, I'm taking matters into my own hands, and I'm going to kill Smoke Jensen for what he did to my brother.
After a moment spent composing herself and forcing her face into an expression of friendship, Sarah turned back around and faced Sally. “And did this country make your husband tough, Sally?” she asked, trying to keep the venom out of her voice and her expression pleasant.
Sally pursed her lips as she thought about the question. She didn't quite know how to answer it. True, Smoke was as tough a man when provoked as she'd ever met, but with her he was invariably gentle and kind, and she knew that there was no man more loyal to his friends than her husband, or more fearsome to his enemies. So, she guessed Smoke was tough when he needed to be and gentle and kind when he was allowed to be.
Unable to put all this into words without sounding like a fool, she just shrugged. “I suppose Smoke became as tough as he needed to be to survive in those days, but thankfully, those days are gone now and he has little need for that ability nowadays.” She smiled at Sarah. “Nowadays, he spends his time with me on our ranch just outside of Big Rock, raising cattle and horses and being a boring old homebody.”
She glanced over Sarah's shoulder and pointed. “And speaking of Big Rock, I do believe we're pulling into town right now.”
Sarah followed Sally's gaze, hoping her friends already stationed there wouldn't be foolish enough to try to meet her at the station. She'd told Sally she didn't know anyone in town, and she didn't want them to make a liar out of her. She realized if she was to have any chance to get close enough to Smoke Jensen to do him in, she was going to have to have the trust of his wife.
She sighed. “Well, here I go about to start a new life for myself,” Sarah said. She looked at Sally. “I hope I'll be able to find a nice place to stay and a good job soon.”
Sally didn't hesitate. “I'm sure that won't be a problem,” she said. “I know that Ed and Peg Jackson, who own the town's largest general store, are always looking for someone to help out so that Peg can spend more time at home with the children, and there's a very nice boardinghouse right on Main Street that caters to young, single women.”
Sarah forced herself to smile brightly. “Oh, thank you, Sally. I don't know what I'd have done if we hadn't met.”
Sally added, “Of course, if money is tight, you could always stay out at our ranch for a while until you've worked long enough to afford your own place.”
Sarah paused, considering Sally's offer for a moment. True, that it would give her plenty of access to Smoke Jensen, and would make it much easier when she finally decided to kill him, but she would be severely limited in being able to contact her friends in town or to keep in touch with her father about the details of what was going on. She finally decided against accepting Sally's offer, but she wanted to leave the door open for visits out to the ranch just in case.
“Oh, that is so kind of you, Sally, but my father made sure I had plenty of money when he sent me here. I have enough to tide me over until I get a few paydays behind me, but I would appreciate the chance to see your spread and visit with you if I get too lonely.”
Sally patted her arm and stood up, getting her valise from the overhead rack. “Well, you know that you're always welcome, Sarah, and I'll be sure to have you out to dinner once you're settled in.”
As they moved down the aisle when the train had ground to a halt, among much screeching of brakes and hissing of steam, Sally said, “I'll stop by the Jacksons' place on my way out of town and tell them that you'll be calling for a job.”
Sarah nodded, her mind elsewhere as she searched the small crowd on the platform looking for either Carl Jacoby or Dan Macklin. If she saw them, she was going to have to give them some sign to stay away until they could meet later, when no one was around to see them.
Fortunately, there were no familiar faces in the group waiting on the platform, and Sarah let herself relax as she handed a porter her claim ticket for her luggage.
Still, it wouldn't hurt to be extra careful. Sarah decided to take her time exiting from the train so she wouldn't be next to Sally in case her friends were out there waiting for her.
She went back into the ladies' parlor room, and pretended to be fussing with her hat and dress in front of the mirror, giving Sally plenty of time to leave the car ahead of her.
S
IX
Sally too was anxiously scanning the crowd, looking for her husband as she stood on the platform, her heart beating a little faster than usual in her anticipation of seeing and holding him again.
Just as she was about to give up, thinking that perhaps he hadn't gotten her wire stating her arrival day, she saw him on the edge of the crowd, leaning up against the wall of the station house.
Gosh, but he looks good, she thought, flushing at the sight of his wide shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and tanned, handsome face. Even though his ash-blond hair was beginning to be streaked with touches of gray at the temples, he was still the best-looking man she'd ever seen, and the most desirable to boot.
She was glad to note the way his eyes lit up and his lips curled in a wide grin when he spied her. She dropped her valise and ran into his arms, inhaling the musky man-scent of him and sighing deeply with contentment. She was where she belonged, finally, and it had been a long time since she'd felt so safe and happy. She wondered briefly if he could feel the way her heart beat wildly in her chest at the touch of his arms around her.
She leaned back and looked up at his hair. Usually unruly, with a lock or two falling down over his forehead in a most appealing manner, it was shiny and slicked back and smelled faintly of pomade.
She grinned at him. “I see you've changed your hair,” she said, running her hands through it and mussing it up just as she liked it.
He blushed. “Oh, I thought I'd get a trim in honor of your arrival, so I let the barber whack a little bit off the sides.” He winced. “He put that smelly stuff in it before I could stop him, and I didn't have time to wash it out 'fore your train was due to arrive.”
She locked an arm in his and walked with him toward the baggage car to collect her luggage. “Well, don't worry. I'll heat us up some water when we get to the Sugarloaf and we'll have a bath.”
He turned to her, a slight flush on his face. “We?” he asked.
She too blushed. “Of course. I have to wash the grime of my journey off, and you have to get that pomade out of your hair.” She hesitated. “If we share the bath, you won't have to work so hard to bring extra water into the cabin,” she said, her face bright red at the brazenness of her proposal. Not that they hadn't shared an intimate bath before. It was just that they didn't usually discuss it out in public beforehand.
He smiled slowly. “So, I see that you've missed me as much as I've missed you.”
She cocked one eye up at him. “More!” was all she said, but her tone caused him to rush the porter to get her luggage and put it on the buckboard so they could get back to the Sugarloaf as soon as possible. He had some serious welcoming-home to attend to, and he wasn't sure he could wait the few hours the trip home would take!
Sally looked around at the crowd of people near the baggage car, hoping to see Sarah. She wanted to introduce Smoke to her new friend, but Sarah was nowhere to be seen. Oh well, Sally thought, there'd be plenty of time for that later.
She made a mental note to tell Smoke to be sure and stop by the general store on their way out of town so she could tell Peg Jackson about the girl who wanted to work there. Peg would be ecstatic, since that would allow her more time at home with their children.
 
 
At that very moment, standing only a couple of dozen feet behind Smoke and Sally, Sarah put her hand in her handbag and closed her fingers around the butt of a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .36-caliber revolver. Her eyes narrowed as she saw for the first time the man who'd killed her brother. Her heart beat fast, and she began to tremble at the sight of the monster who'd ruined her family. Perhaps it would be best to get it over with and kill him now. After all, she might never get a better chance.
She started to pull the weapon out and put a bullet in the back of his head, but a hand closed over her arm.
She whirled around, her hate-filled eyes glaring as Carl Jacoby whispered in her ear, “Not here and not now, Sarah. Don't be a fool.”
She struggled against his grip for a moment, and then she relaxed as the killing fever left her. She slumped against him and let him pull her out of sight around the corner of the station building.
“You're right, Carl,” she said as he leaned her back against the wooden wall. “A shot in the back with no warning would be too easy for that man. I want to look into his eyes when he knows he's about to die and tell him just why I'm going to kill him. I want him to suffer, to think about never seeing his wife again, to know what his dastardly act in Pueblo cost him.”
Carl glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Sarah was really worked up, with her red face and animated talk. He knew he'd better get her out of sight before someone came up and asked what was going on.
“Come on, Sarah. I've got a room reserved for you at the hotel.”
She stopped him with a hand on his chest. Nice girls didn't stay at hotels, especially by themselves without any other family around.
“Uh-uh, Carl. I think I'll get a room at a boardinghouse Mrs. Jensen recommended to me.”
“What?” he asked, his eyes wide and his face paling at her words. “What do you mean Mrs. Jensen . . . ?”
Sarah smiled, calmer now that her thoughts of an immediate kill were over, and she began to walk up the street. “I'll explain it all to you later, over dinner.” She looked at him. “This place does have an acceptable eating establishment, I take it?”
He nodded, his expression worried. He still couldn't believe she'd been talking to Smoke Jensen's wife on the train. He hoped she hadn't given anything away. He knew that if the people of this town thought that anyone was going to try and harm their favorite son, Smoke Jensen, they'd most likely string them up from the nearest maple tree.
 
 
Cal and Pearlie were lying around the bunkhouse, mending socks and sewing buttons on shirts and doing all the things that needed doing after a few months away from home, when they heard the buckboard pull up in front of the ranch house.
Cal jumped to his feet and looked out the window. “Hey, Pearlie,” he called, turning with a big grin on his face as he headed for the door. “It's Smoke and Sally.”
“Hold on, pard, just where do you think you're goin'?” Pearlie drawled from his place at the table next to the potbellied stove.
Cal stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Didn't you hear me, Pearlie? Miss Sally's back from her trip,” he said. “I'm gonna go out there an' tell her hello.”
Pearlie grinned and shook his head. “No, you're not, young'un,” he said firmly.
Cal put his hands on his hips. “And just why not?” he asked angrily. “It's been almost a year since I seen her and I want'a tell her how much I missed her.”
“Son, I know you ain't had a whole passel of experience with womenfolk like I have, so I guess I'll just have to excuse your ignorance on the subject and maybe try an' explain a few things to you.”
Cal raised his eyebrows and moved toward Pearlie. “And just what does my experiences with females have to do with anything, ‘ceptin' your dirty mind?”
Pearlie sighed and took a drink from his coffee mug that was sitting on a small pine table next to his bunk, along with some spare change, a pocketknife, and his tobacco pouch and papers.
“Think about it, Cal. Smoke and Sally have been away from each other for the better part of a year now, and they're fixin' to be alone together for the first time in a lot of months.” He raised his eyebrows as if that explained everything to the young man.
“So?” Cal asked, clearly not getting Pearlie's drift. “That's what I been sayin'. Miss Sally's been gone a long time an'—”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Cal?” Pearlie said with a heavy sigh, speaking as if he were talking to someone not quite right in the head. “Who do you think Sally wants to spend time with right now, you or Smoke?”
Suddenly, it dawned on Cal what Pearlie was trying to hint at.
“But you don't think they're gonna . . . ?” he said, his eyes wide and his face flushing bright red.
Pearlie laughed. “Well, if'n I was Smoke an' I hadn't been with my wife in over six, seven months, I sure as hell would first chance I got.”
“But . . . but it's daylight outside!” Cal argued, aghast at the very idea.
Pearlie sighed again and looked down into his coffee cup, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “Boy, do you have a lot to learn, Cal, more than you can ever imagine.”
 
 
A couple of hours later, after Sally had heated enough water to fill the oversized tub they kept in their spare bedroom, and after they'd both managed to get freshened up from their trip and their rather exuberant welcome home, Smoke knocked on the bunkhouse door.
Pearlie answered it, since Cal was in the middle of trying to mend a hole in one of his socks that was almost big enough to put a fist through.
Smoke leaned inside. There was no one there except Cal and Pearlie, the other hands not in from the fields yet.
“You boys interested in some real home cooking for a change?” he asked.
Pearlie shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his face. “You don't mean you're gonna make Miss Sally cook her first night back home, do you, Boss?”
Smoke shrugged. “I offered to eat leftovers from Cookie's dinner meal, but she insisted on cooking. Said it'd been a long time since she cooked for her family and she wanted to do it.”
“You sure she intended for you to ask Pearlie an' me over too, Smoke?” Cal asked from his bunk.
Smoke grinned. “When Sally said she wanted to cook for her family, who the heck do you think she meant?”
Pearlie beamed at him and Cal being included in the term family by Sally, and quickly nodded. “You bet, Smoke. Give us a few minutes to clean up an' we'll be right over.”
Smoke looked back over his shoulder and sniffed loudly through his nose. “Well, don't take too long. If my nose isn't wrong, I think her fresh apple pie is just about ready.”
Pearlie's eyes opened wide and he whirled around and headed for the pitcher and washbasin in the corner, already rolling his sleeves up. He hadn't had any of Sally's wonderful home cooking for a long time and he could hardly wait.
“Course you're gonna have to wait until you finish the fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans and fresh-baked rolls before she's gonna let you have any of the pie,” Smoke added from the doorway.
“Fried chicken?” Cal asked, licking his lips over the thought.
“And mashed potatoes and fresh green beans and oven-baked bread,” Pearlie finished, his eyes dreamy as if he were talking about a lovely woman who'd just asked him out.
“Outta the way, Cal,” Pearlie called as he hurried toward the door, “'less you want'a get runned over.”
BOOK: Ambush of the Mountain Man
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