Heart of the Mountain Man (4 page)

6

Sally stood on the porch and waved as the three men rode off toward the high lonesome. Smoke turned in his saddle and stared at her for a moment just before they got out of sight, and she knew it meant he'd be thinking of her on his journey.

Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal were all riding horses that were crosses from Smoke's Palouse mares and Joey Wells's big strawberry roan stud, Red. Joey and his wife had bought the old Rocking C Ranch in Pueblo, Colorado, after killing Murdock, the man who owned it. Sally, as a gift to Joey's wife, had given them some Palouse mares to breed with Red and start their remuda.
²

The offspring Joey had sent to the Sugarloaf were all beautiful animals that had inherited their father's big size and strength and the Palouses' speed and endurance.

Smoke's stud was a blanket-hipped Palouse, red or roan-colored in front with hips of snow white, without the usual spots of a Palouse. He'd named him Joker because of his funny coloring.

Pearlie's descendant of Red was a gray-and-white Palouse he'd named Cold. When Smoke asked him why he'd named him that, Pearlie said it was because the sucker was cold-backed in the morning and bucked for the first ten minutes every day when Pearlie saddled him up.

Cal's mount was a quicksilver gray and was actually almost pure white, differing from a true albino by having blue eyes instead of pink. The bronc was a pale gray in front with snow-white hips without the usual Palouse spots. Cal had named him Silver and had formed a deep and immediate bond with the animal the first time he rode him.

As they approached the mountains, with the peaks hanging in the air and looking as if they were right overhead, Cal pulled out his makin's and began to build himself a cigarette.

“Miss Sally'd whup you if she saw you doin' that,” Pearlie said.

Smoke glanced at Cal and smiled. “She would that, all right.”

“But Smoke,” Cal protested, “if I'm old enough to ride the herd and go after
bandidos,
I ought'a be old enough to smoke if'n I want to.”

“You get no argument from me, Cal. I agree with you. A man old enough to strap on a gun and saddle a horse is old enough to make his own decisions about how he lives his life. Like I always say, a man's got to saddle his own horse and kill his own snakes.”

“But Miss Sally . . .”

Smoke nodded. “You're right, Sally don't agree with you starting to smoke, or drink, so young. It's that mothering instinct all women have, son, to try and tell a man what's best for him, even if he doesn't want to hear it. Don't pay it no mind, Cal. Just try not to light up in front of her and everything'll be all right.”

As they rode up the slope, the sun hung over the distant peaks, gleaming a dull orange-red, like a frying pan left on the fire too long, surrounded by clouds a dull gray in color.

Smoke nodded toward the clouds. “Tell me what kind of weather we're going to be facing up there, boys.”

Pearlie pursed his lips. “Well, clouds like that usually mean rain down in the valley, so I 'spect there'll be some snow off and on at the higher places and maybe some freezing rain down lower.”

“Heavy or light?” Smoke asked.

“Heavy,” Cal replied. “When the clouds are kind'a flat-like and fluffy, it means a light fall. When they're high and thick like that, it means it's gonna be a frog-drownin' son-of-a-buck of a storm.”

Smoke grinned. “Looks like I don't have much to teach you boys about how to read the weather. We'll have to see what little bits of knowledge you can pick up from the mountain men we're going to meet.”

“Who do you think'll be up here, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.

“Old Bear Tooth for one. He always makes his camp up in this area in the winter. And maybe Long John Dupree or Bull Durham will be somewheres nearby.”

“Bull Durham, like the tobacco?” Cal asked.

Smoke laughed. “Yeah. His real name is Christopher Durham, but he's called Bull 'cause he's always got a chaw in his cheek, even when he drinks coffee or eats.” He shook his head. “I don't know how he does it, but it doesn't seem to bother his appetite any. He eats about as much as Pearlie.”

“Man knows what's good for him then,” Pearlie said.

“Better shag those mounts, boys. We've got a long way to go and we're going to need to have time to make a good camp before nightfall or we're going to freeze our
cojones
off when the snow starts to fall.”

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before they arrived at a place Smoke said would be suitable for a campsite.

“This place looks good enough for our first night,” he said. “We've got that ledge over there to block the north wind, the ground is fairly level, there's a stream of water for drinking and washing, and there's plenty of wood-fall for our fires and good grass for the broncs nearby.”

“Where do you want us to set up?” Cal asked.

Smoke stepped down off Joker and sat with his back against a tall fir tree. He built himself a cigarette and looked at them over the flame of a lucifer as he lit it. “I'll let you boys decide that. I'll just sit here and relax while you get the fire and coffee going.”

Pearlie nodded. “You do that, Smoke. Makin' camp is young men's work, an' old codgers like you need your rest after bein' in the saddle all day.”

Smoke leaned back against the tree, tipped his hat down over his eyes, and smoked. “Damn right, Pearlie, couldn't've said it better myself.”

“Do you think we'll find any mountain men today, Smoke?” Cal asked.

“Ought to,” Smoke replied from under his hat. “They've been watching us for the past three hours.”

Pearlie glanced around over his shoulder. “I haven't seen anybody.”

Smoke chuckled. “You weren't supposed to, Pearlie.”

* * *

The smell of bacon and beans cooking on an open fire woke Smoke up.

“Coffee's ready,” Cal called from where he and Pearlie sat next to a campfire.

Smoke got to his feet and stood and stretched for a moment, letting his eyes wander around the trees and bushes and boulders surrounding them.

As he walked to the fire, he called, “Might as well come on in and get warm, Bear Tooth. No need squatting out there in the cold.”

A tall hulking man well over six feet tall and wearing a bearskin coat and moccasins stepped from behind a nearby fir tree. He was carrying a Sharps Big Fifty rifle that was almost as long as he was tall, and had a coonskin hat on. His face was covered with a dark, scraggly beard, and as he got closer he gave off an odor like he hadn't bothered to clean the bearskin particularly well before making it into a coat.

“How do, Smoke?” he growled, his voice husky and deep, as if he didn't get much practice speaking.

“Right well, Bear Tooth. Light and set and draw up a cup of
cafecito
with us.”

“Don't mind if I do, young'un.”

As he got closer, he could be seen to be older than he'd first looked. In spite of still-dark hair and beard, he had to be in his seventies, but he moved and acted like a man much younger.

He wrapped his hands around the coffee cup Pearlie handed him and took a deep swig. “Just right,” he said, “strong enough to float a horseshoe.”

Smoke nodded. “Remember old Puma Buck?”

“Shore,” Bear Tooth replied with a grin.

“He used to say, the thing about makin' good coffee is it don't take near as much water as you think it do.”

Bear Tooth laughed. “Old Puma had a way with words, all right.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “By the way, Smoke, whatever happened to ol' Puma? I heared some rumors he was kilt down Colorado way, but never met nobody who knew fer shore.”

Smoke nodded. “You heard right, Bear Tooth. Puma was killed while trying to help some folks out that sorely needed helping.” Smoke's eyes were unfocused as he thought back to that night, and in a low voice he told Bear Tooth the tale . . .

* * *

Puma Buck walked his horse slowly through underbrush and light forest timber in foothills surrounding Murdock's spread. His mount was one they'd hired in Pueblo on arriving, and it wasn't as surefooted on the steep slopes as his paint pony back home was, so he was taking it easy and getting the feel of his new ride.

He kept a sharp lookout toward Murdock's ranch house almost a quarter of a mile below. He was going to make damned sure none of those
buscaderos
managed to get the drop on Smoke and his other new friends. He rode with his Sharps .52-caliber laid across his saddle horn, loaded and ready for immediate action.

Several times Puma had seen men ride up to the ranch house and enter, only to leave after a while, riding off toward herds of cattle that could be seen on the horizon. Puma figured they were most likely the legitimate punchers Murdock had working his cattle, and not gun hawks he'd hired to take down Smoke and Joey. A shootist would rather take lead poisoning than lower himself to herd beeves.

Off to the side, Puma could barely make out the riverbed, dry now, that ran through Murdock's place. He could see on the other side of Murdock's ranch house a row of freshly dug graves. He grinned to himself, appreciating the graves, some of them the result of his shooting, and appreciating the way Smoke had deprived the man of water for his cattle and horses.

Puma knew that alone would prompt Murdock to make his move soon; he couldn't afford to wait and let his stock die of thirst.

As Puma pulled his canteen out and uncorked the top, ready to take a swig, he saw a band of about fifteen or more riders burning dust toward the ranch house from the direction of Pueblo. Evidently they were additional men Murdock had hired to replace those he and Smoke and Joey had slain in their midnight raid.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered. “I'll bet those
bandidos
are fixin' to put on the war paint and make a run over to Smoke's place.”

He swung out of his saddle and crouched down behind a fallen tree, propping the big, heavy Sharps across the rough bark. He licked his finger and wiped the front sight with it, to make it stand out more when he needed it. He got himself into a comfortable position and laid out a box full of extra shells next to the gun on the tree within easy reach. He figured he might need to do some quick reloading when the time came.

After about ten minutes, the gang of men Puma was observing arrived at the front of the ranch house, and two figures Puma took to be Murdock and Vasquez came out of the door to address them. He couldn't make out their faces at this distance, but they had an unmistakable air of authority about them.

As the rancher began to talk, waving his hands toward Smoke's ranch, Puma took careful aim, remembering he was shooting downhill and needed to lower his sights a bit, the natural tendency being to overshoot a target lower than you are.

He took a deep breath and held it, slowly increasing pressure on the trigger so when the explosion came it would be a surprise and he wouldn't have time to flinch and throw his aim off.

The big gun boomed and shot a sheet of fire two feet out of the barrel, slamming back into Puma's shoulder and almost knocking his skinny frame over. Damn, he had almost forgotten how the big Sharps kicked when it delivered its deadly cargo.

The targets were a little over fifteen hundred yards from Puma, a long range even for the remarkable Sharps. It seemed a long time, but was only a little over five seconds, before one of the men on horseback was thrown from his mount to lie sprawled in the dirt. The sound was several seconds slower reaching the men, and by then Puma had jacked another round in the chamber and fired again. By the time the group knew they were being fired upon, two of their number were dead on the ground. Just as they ducked and whirled, looking for the location of their attacker, another was knocked off his bronc, his arm almost blown off by the big .52-caliber slug traveling at over two thousand feet per second.

The outlaws began to scatter, some jumping from their horses and running into the house while others just bent over their saddle horns and burned trail dust away from the area. A couple of brave souls aimed rifles up the hill and fired, but the range was so far for ordinary rifles that Puma never even saw where the bullets landed.

Another couple of rounds were fired into the house, and then Puma figured he had done enough for the time being. Now he had to get back to Smoke and tell him Murdock was ready to make his play, or would be as soon as he rounded up the men Puma had scattered all over the countryside.

Several of the riders had ridden toward Smoke's ranch and were now between Puma and home. “Well, shit, old beaver. Ya knew it was about time for ya ta taste some lead,” he mumbled to himself. He packed his Sharps in his saddle boot and opened his saddlebags. He withdrew two Army Colt .44s to match the one in his holster and made sure they were all loaded up six and six, then stuffed the two extras in his belt. He tugged his hat down tight and eased up into the saddle, grunting with the pain it caused in his arthritic joints. He kept to heavy timber until he came to a group of six men standing next to a drying riverbed, watering their horses in one of the small pools remaining.

There was no way to avoid them so he put his reins in his teeth and filled both hands with iron. It was time to dance with the devil, and Puma was going to strike up the band. He kicked his mount's flanks and bent low over his saddle horn as he galloped out of the forest toward the gunnies below.

One of the men, wearing an eye patch, looked up in astonishment at the apparition wearing buckskins and war paint charging them, yelling and whooping and hollering as he rode like the wind.