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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Destiny Of The Mountain Man
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Smoke nodded, while Preacher just leaned his head to the side and spit a glob of tobacco juice into the brass spittoon several feet away. It hit dead center.
“Well, uh,” Jackson stuttered, trying to think of some way out of his predicament with his hide intact. “What you got to say for yourself 'bout slappin' a pistol in Preston's face?”
“You know Preston, do you, Sheriff?” Preacher asked.
“I know him.”
“What kind of a man is he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you know him, do you really think my friend here just slapped him for the fun of it? Or do you think maybe Preston might have brought it on himself?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “I reckon he's the kind that might have brought it on hisself.”
“He tried to draw on me,” Smoke said. “And it was either slap some sense into him or shoot him dead. Would you rather I'd killed him?”
Before the sheriff could answer, a thin young man in a suit and vest stood up from a corner table. “Sheriff Jackson, if I may. I witnessed the entire episode and I can vouch for the veracity of these gentlemen's account.”
“Huh?” Jackson said, his forehead wrinkling.
“What I'm saying is, they are telling you the truth.” The young man smiled and walked up to the sheriff and handed him a card. “My name is Robert Justus Kleberg and I am chief counsel for the governor of the Colorado Territory.”
Jackson heaved a sigh of relief and for the first time let the barrel of his Greener drop. “Oh, well, if the lawyer for the governor says he's tellin' the truth . . .”
“But Sheriff,” Dean called from halfway across the room. His beady eyes were narrow and angry. “Jensen's got a price on his head. Everybody knows that! You've got to arrest him and put his ass in jail where it belongs.”
“You want me to take a chance on getting my ass killed just so you can collect some reward?” Sheriff Jackson asked.
“Well . . . that's your job . . . ain't it?” Dean asked.
Kleberg leaned close to the sheriff, whispered a few words in his ear, and the sheriff nodded, relief evident on his face. “Mr. Kleberg here says he's gonna take Mr. Jensen and his friend over to the hotel to meet with the governor and that'll be the end of it.”
“But . . .!” Dean cried.
Sheriff Jackson glared at Johnny Dean. “My advice to you, Johnny, is to shut up 'fore I run you in for disturbin' the peace. You and that drunk Preston are the ones started all this in the first place. Now let's get the hell outta here and let Mr. Kleberg do his job.”
Once the sheriff, Dean, and Preston's other friends were gone, Kleberg walked up to Smoke and handed him one of his cards. “Mr. Jensen, Preacher, if you don't mind coming with me over to the hotel, I'd like you to meet the governor.”
“They got a bar in that there hotel?” Preacher asked. “I still got me some trail dust needs washing outta my throat.”
Kleberg smiled. “I am sure libations can be arranged.”
“What?” Preacher asked.
“He said yes,” Smoke said as they followed Kleberg out of the saloon.
“Say, Mr. Kleberg,” Smoke said as they walked down the street toward the hotel, “any particular reason you want us to talk to the governor?”
Kleberg smiled. “First, please call me Bob. When I hear someone say mister, I always look around to see who they are talking to.”
Smoke glanced at Preacher and grinned. He was beginning to like this young man. He wasn't full of himself like so many of the lawyers Smoke had met in the past. “Sure, Bob, but that didn't answer my question.”
Kleberg looked over his shoulder at Smoke. “I know,” he said. He smiled, but didn't add anything else. “This way,” he added, holding his arm out.
Kleberg showed them through the large doors that led into the Palace Hotel; then they went straight across the lobby toward a room off to the side. “Since it's lunchtime, I suspect he'll be here in the dining room,” Kleberg said.
“Dinin' room?” Preacher protested. “I ain't hungry, I'm thirsty!”
As they walked past a man wearing a suit jacket and a horrified expression on his face, Kleberg snapped, “Pierre, bring my friends here anything they want to eat or drink. We'll be at the governor's table.”
“But Mr. Kleberg . . . their conduct, their mode of dress . . .” the head waiter protested.
Suddenly Smoke saw the steel in Kleberg's makeup. He turned cold eyes on the waiter and snapped, “Are you questioning the attire of guests of the governor, Pierre?”
“Wh . . . uh . . . no, sir!” the waiter answered, all but clicking his heels together before he turned to Preacher and Smoke with a wide, but obviously forced, smile on his lips. “What would you gentlemen like to drink?”
“A couple of beers would be nice,” Smoke said.
“And I'll have the same,” Preacher drawled, pulling the lapels of his buckskin coat together as if that could somehow make up for the several pounds of dirt embedded in his clothes.
The waiter looked at them as if he hadn't quite understood the order.
“Bring them two beers, Pierre,” Kleberg said. He paused for a moment, then with a smile, added, “Each. Didn't you hear what they said?”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter replied.
Moments later they were standing before a large round table, at which sat a rotund man in a three-piece suit of black wool. He wore his hair rather long and had a large, ornate mustache that drooped down almost to his chin.
At first glance, he was a typical politician, Smoke thought, self-important and arrogant. However, when the man raised his eyes, he didn't gasp at their soiled appearance or ask Kleberg what he meant by bringing such disreputable-appearing men before him. Instead he smiled, got to his feet, and held out his hand.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “I'm Governor William Gilpin, but please call me Bill.”
Smoke took his hand. “Hello, Governor. I'm Smoke Jensen and they call this old reprobate next to me Preacher.”
Preacher sniffed and grumbled, “I ain't old. You're just a wet-behind-the-ears pup is all.”
Gilpin raised his eyebrows. “You're
the
Smoke Jensen?”
Smoke nodded. “Only one I know of.”
“Forgive me for staring, Mr. Jensen, but I didn't realize you were so young.”
“He's young, but he's been rode hard and put up wet, Governor,” Preacher drawled, “An' he's got an awful lot of miles on him.”
Gilpin smiled and motioned to the chairs around the table. “So I hear, Preacher, so I hear. Please, have a seat, gentlemen. Did Bob tell you we'd been talking about you the last couple of days?”
Smoke frowned. “No, he didn't.”
At Smoke's look, Gilpin held up his hands. “Oh, no offense, Mr. Jensen. We were just remarking that there are some men in the territory who have . . . um . . . shall we say, have had more than their share of life's experiences.”
He paused while the waiter brought in a tray with four beers.
“Kleberg, you know I never drink beer,” Gilpin said.
Kleberg chuckled. “All four beers are for these two gentlemen,” he said.
Gilpin joined in the laughter. “Then by all means enjoy them, gentlemen. Would you care for some lunch?” he asked.
Preacher pursed his lips for a moment, and then he nodded. “I could use me a beefsteak, just charred enough to keep it from movin', some fried taters, an' maybe some canned peaches if you have 'em.”
Smoke grinned. “Preacher dearly loves canned peaches. I'll have the same.”
The waiter looked at Gilpin.
“Bring them what they want,” Gilpin said.
“You were saying something about our . . . life's experiences?” Smoke asked. He set the words apart.
“Yes,” Gilpin continued. “You see, gentlemen, Congress and President Grant are going to make Colorado Territory a state any time now, and it is my feeling that men like yourselves, men who've helped tame this country and make it safe for us Easterners, are going to be sorely needed in the next few years.”
“You hirin' outlaws, Governor?” Preacher asked before draining his first glass of beer.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. Bob has gathered a stack of warrants and wanted posters on most of the wanted men in Colorado, and we've investigated the charges against them and found most of them valid. We aren't interested in those men.” He leaned back and took a long, black cigar out of his coat pocket. He took a moment to light it, and not until he was puffing easily, and his head was wreathed with smoke, did he continue. “But from what we can tell, Mr. Jensen, every time you've been charged with murder, you've been acting in self-defense.”
Smoke snorted. “Well, now, Governor, I wouldn't exactly go that far. It's true that I've never killed a man that wasn't tryin' to kill me at the time, but I gotta admit that some of those times I kind'a forced their hands a mite.”
Kleberg nodded. “We know, Smoke, and we've found out that every one of those times, the men you killed had wronged you first by killing someone in your family.”
“He's right there, son,” Preacher said. “Ain't neither one of us ever kilt nobody that didn't deserve it—an' deserve it in spades.”
“So, we all agree, we're a couple of saints,” Smoke said, laughing. “But just what do you have in mind, Governor?”
Gilpin leaned back and shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He smiled. “You tell them, Bob. It was your idea.”
Kleberg looked from one to the other. “The governor is going to issue you both full pardons for all crimes you've been charged with up to now. You'll both start with a clean slate as far as the law is concerned.”
Smoke's smile was replaced by a look of shock. This was a tremendous offer. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden into a town and not had to look over his shoulder to make sure the law wasn't gunning for him.
“We're certainly grateful for that, Governor, but just what do you expect from us in return?”
“Nothing, son, absolutely nothing,” Gilpin said around his cigar. “Just go on doing what you've been doing. The stories of your exploits and the exploits of men like you will do more to bring civilization to this territory than all the government bureaucrats in Washington can.”
“You see, Smoke, when ordinary men back East read about your adventures, they will want to come West to live like that themselves,” Kleberg said.
Smoke chuckled. “Well, Bob, let me tell you. It reads a whole hell of a lot better'n it lives.”
Just then Pierre showed up with two trays containing their steaks. He grimaced at the blood oozing from the barely cooked meat as he placed the plates on the table.
“Just a minute,” Preacher said, picking up his fork. “Let me stick it to make sure it's dead enough to eat.”
C
HAPTER
O
NE
Ten Years Later:
 
Nearly 2500 cows stood quietly in the predawn darkness, gathered during the spring roundup. The cows gathered represented but a tiny percentage of the over 100,000 head that occupied the rangeland of the 825,000-acre Santa Gertrudis Ranch. When 7500 more head were gathered, Richard King, the owner of the ranch, would start the long, long trail drive up to Dodge City, Kansas, where the cattle would be put on trains for markets in the East.
From the small breakfast fire the cook had kindled, glowing orange sparks rode a column of hot air to join the stars in the predawn darkness. One of the cowboys at the camp reached for a coffeepot, but jerked his hand back quickly when he touched the handle.
Ted Abbot laughed. “Hot, is it, Carter?”
“Not all that hot,” Roy Carter replied.
Carter took his hat off and, using it as protection, picked up the coffeepot a second time.
“Anybody else want any?” he asked after he poured himself a cup.
“
Gracias,
Carter, I'll take a cup,” Ramon Gonzales said. Though he was a Mexican in the midst of a bunch of Texans, Ramon was the top hand, appointed to the position by Richard King, the owner of the ranch, and readily acknowledged as such by the other cowboys.
“And I too shall imbibe of your fair brew,” one of the cowboys said, holding out his cup.
“Harbin, you are as full of shit as a Christmas goose,” Carter said, chuckling.
“Say us a poem, Harbin,” one of the other cowboys said.
Harbin stood up and folded his right hand across his heart while he held his left out before him, striking an exaggerated orator's pose.
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
“Hey, speaking of night, who's ridin' nighthawk?” Emil Barrett asked.
“Noble, Tanner, and Gillis,” Ramon said.
“It's about time they come in, isn't it?”
“Hell, they're prob'ly on the other side of the herd, sound asleep,” Carter suggested, and again, the cowboys laughed.
“Ramon, you've made cattle drives before,” Abbot said. “How long does it take?”
“Two months,” Ramon answered.
“Two months? That's not so bad,” Harbin replied.
Carter chuckled. “Not so bad for you. You're going back East to go to school, so you won't be making the drive.”
“I've never made a drive,” Abbot said. “What's it like?”
“It's like nothin' you've ever done,” Carter said. “You'll be working seventeen-hour days, seven days a week, on very little grub, with no tents, no tarps, and damn few slickers. The horses will get tired and their backs will get so sore that they'll fight you when you ride them. And the worst thing is no sleep. Five hours when the weather is nice, maybe an hour when it isn't. But that don't matter 'cause you'll have to do another fifteen miles the next day whether you got 'ny sleep the night before or not. Sometimes you'll find yourself rubbing tobacco juice in your eyes, just to keep awake.”
“Oh, damn, that hurts just to think about it,” Abbot said. He pretended to rub tobacco juice into his eyes, then squinting, squatted down and flailed about. The others laughed at his antics.
 
 
On the other side of the herd, nearly sixty men rode through the dark of a copse of scrub oak trees. Shadows within shadows, they moved quietly to the edge of the trees, then fanned out into one long flanking line.
The leader of the group was wearing a Union officer's jacket of the style worn some fifteen years earlier during the Civil War. The shoulder epaulets had major's bars on a yellow field, indicating cavalry.
Jack Brandt, who was no longer in the Army but still insisted upon being called Major, stood in his stirrups to stretch out just a bit, then settled back into the saddle.
“Look at all them cows,” one of the men near him said. “What do you say, Major, that we cut out a hundred head or so, then run 'em across the border and sell 'em down in Mexico?”
“No,” Brandt said.
“But to just ride down there and kill 'em seems like such a waste.”
Brandt glared at the man. “Preston, you knew what you were signing up for when you enlisted.”
Although Brandt was no longer in the Army, he ran his outfit as if it were an Army unit. Because of that, suggesting that the man had “enlisted” came natural to him.
“You heard the major's plans,” Sarge said. Like Brandt, the man, whose real name was Stone, but who preferred to be called Sarge, was wearing a blue Army tunic. On his sleeves were the stripes of the rank he'd once held. “All we have to do is fix it so's nobody will work for him and he'll go broke, plain and simple. Then we'll have our revenge.”
“Yeah, well, revenge is good,” Preston said. “But it don't buy you no whiskey or women.”
“Think about it, Preston. In a few weeks, he's going to be drivin' ten thousand head or so all the way to Kansas,” one of the other men said. “If he don't have nobody to work them cows, they'll be as easy to gather up as apples that's fallen from a tree. You are talking about stealing a hundred head. Hell, we'll be able to take ten thousand head with no problem.”
“Yeah,” Preston said. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”
Brandt, who had not joined the conversation, pulled his sword.
“It's not dawn yet so, like as not, the night riders are still out there. We'll take them first.”
 
 
Of the three nighthawks, Noble, who was nineteen, was the oldest. At sixteen, Tanner was the youngest, and he came in for a lot of teasing from the other two.
Tanner had dismounted and was relieving himself.
“Damn, listen to that boy pee, will you?” Noble said. “He sounds like a cow pissin' on a flat rock off'n a fifty-foot cliff.”
Gillis laughed. “Hell, when peein's the onliest thing you use your pecker for, you bound to be able to pee hard. Wait till he has him a woman. She'll take some of that steam out of him 'n he wont be able to pee so hard.”
“How do you know I ain't never had me no woman?” Tanner asked as he buttoned his pants.
“'Cause iff'n you'd'a had yourself a woman, you wouldn't be able to shut up about it. That's all we'd be hearin',” Gillis said.
From the darkness, a calf started bawling.
“Damn, some little feller's wandered off from his mama,” Noble said. “Guess I better go get' im back.”
“It's time to go in now, ain't it?” Tanner asked. “I know they got breakfast ready and I'm hungry.”
“You was born hungry,” Noble said. “We'll go in soon as I get back.” He clucked at his horse and rode toward the sound of the bawling calf, disappearing into the darkness.
“I ain't, you know,” Tanner said.
“You ain't what?” Gillis asked.
“Had me no woman.”
Gillis chuckled. “Hell, there's got to be a first time for everything. Just wait until—”
Gillis's comment was interrupted by a loud, bloodcurdling scream.
“What? What the hell was that?” Tanner asked.
“I don't know. It sounded like Noble. Noble? Noble, you all right?” Gillis shouted.
“Gillis, I'm scared,” Tanner said.
Gillis pulled his pistol and when he did, Tanner pulled his as well.
“Noble? Noble, are you out there?”
“Wait a minute,” Tanner said suddenly. “Are you two trying to run a shuck on me?” He chuckled. “That's what you're doin', isn't it? Trying to scare me?”
“Tanner, I swear to God, I don't know what this is about,” Gillis said.
They heard the sound of a horse coming at a trot. Then the horse appeared from the darkness.
“That's Noble's horse, but where is he?” Gillis asked. Clucking at his own horse, he rode toward it, then suddenly stopped. “Oh, my God!” he shouted, turning away. “Oh, my God!”
“What is it?” Tanner asked. Then he saw what Gillis had seen. There, mounted on the saddle horn, was the disembodied head of Ned Noble.
 
 
“Harbin, I think you, Jenkins, and Kelly should ride out to relieve Noble and the others,” Ramon said back at the cow camp. “They should've been in by now.”
“Your wish is my command,” Harbin replied. Nodding at the other two men Ramon had selected, he said. “Come, my noble fellows, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”
“Harbin, where do you come up with all that shit?”
“That's from Shakespeare's
Henry the Fifth,
” Harbin said as the three started toward the remuda. They had just cut out their mounts when a very large group of men burst out of the trees, firing.
Harbin went down with the opening fusillade.
“What the hell!” Barrett shouted.
The men swept through, firing as they galloped through the camp. One of them had a rope, and as he passed the chuck wagon, he threw a rope around a high stake, then pulled the wagon over. The cowboys were totally surprised by the attack, and many of them weren't even wearing guns. The few who were armed began firing back.
The attackers made two more passes through the camp, then rode out into the herd, shooting at the cattle as they rode by. The cattle began dropping.
“My God, they're killing the cattle!” Carter shouted.
“Who the hell are these people?” Barrett asked. “Where did they come from?”
“I don't know, but there sure as hell are a lot of them. Ramon, we need to get mounted! We need to get after them!” Carter said. “Ramon?”
Looking over at Ramon, Carter saw the top hand leaning back against the overturned wagon. Ramon's right arm was hanging down by his side, his pistol dangling from a crooked finger. His left hand was covering a wound on his right shoulder, and blood was spilling through his fingers.
By now, the sound of gunfire was receding as the attackers had passed through the herd and rode off on the far side of the valley. The cattle, spooked by all the shooting, were milling around, but had not stampeded.
“I think they are gone,” Barrett said.
“Emil,” Ramon said to Barrett, his tight voice evidence of the pain of his wound. “Ride back to the big house, tell Mr. King what just happened.”
“All right,” Barrett replied. He nodded toward the wound. “But you better get yourself into town and get that bullet hole looked at.”
“I'll see that he does,” Carter said to Barrett. “You better get started.”
 
 
Richard King had never done anything on a small scale. When he was eleven years old, he became dissatisfied with his apprenticeship in New York and stowed away on a schooner. Discovered, he had to work for his passage. After a few years learning the shipping trade from the bottom up, including becoming a captain, King took a partner and formed his own shipping company. By the late 1840's, his company was shipping supplies for General Zachary Taylor along the Rio Grande.
Enamored with Texas, Captain King settled there, started ranching, and by 1860 he and his new bride, Henrietta, had grown their various enterprises into an 860,000-acre ranch along the banks of the Santa Gertrudis River in Texas.
Ever the businessman, King invested in building railroads, icehouses, packinghouses, and harbor improvements in Corpus Christi, Texas, which was just forty miles from his ranch.
Now, the ranch owner was planning the logistics of a cattle drive to Dodge City, Kansas. He had considered shipping them to Kansas by rail, but the circuitous railroad route it would require to make all the connections would take two weeks, and it would cost him approximately four dollars per head, or forty thousand dollars. Driving the herd to Dodge would take eight weeks, but it would only cost him about three thousand dollars total.
King was sitting at his desk, working out the logistics of the drive, when Emil Barrett came in to see him. Standing in front of the big oak desk, holding his hat in his hands and nervously rolling it by the rim, he made his report to his boss. Barrett's jeans and shirt were covered with dirt and dust and he smelled of sweat and cows, but Captain Richard King took no notice of that. He did wonder why the young cowboy was here, instead of out on the range, helping with the roundup.
BOOK: Destiny Of The Mountain Man
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