Rage of the Mountain Man (26 page)

Fifty-three men left Georgetown, Colorado, at the northern base of Gray’s Peak and rode north through Berthold Pass, on the way to Big Rock. Phineas Lathrop took the lead. He had been told that they had a more than a day and a half ride to the small town, nestled in the folds of the Rockies. Almost at once the flatlanders began to complain.

Everywhere they went, the terrain seemed to be up or down. The steep trails put a strain on them that few had ever experienced. By the time they reached their first goal, all of the eastern crime elite agreed that what they needed were a long soak in a hot tub, a soft bed, and a real chair to sit in.

So many hard-faced strangers banded together and riding into the small town roused a lot of curiosity, and more fear, in the residents of Big Rock. Monte Carson stood on the stoop of the sheriffs office and watched the cavalcade walk their mounts silently down the main drag. When the last had gone out of sight, he reached down a hand and put it on the spindly shoulder of the Seegers boy, who stood at his side.

“Jamie, I don’t reckon those fellers would suspect a tadpole like yerself of carryin’ a message to Smoke Jensen. Are you up to it?”

Red-haired and freckled, Jamie Seegers turned his big, brown eyes up to the sheriff. “Yes, sir. What is it?”

“You take yer pony and skirt around them hard cases, ride lickety-split for the Sugarloaf. Mind, you stop before you get half a mile inside the gate. If I know Smoke, there’ll be someone on watch. And you might run into something unpleasant on your own. Tell Smoke that they’re on their way, Lathrop’s bunch. Tell him, too, that as soon as I can put together a posse, we’ll be on the way to pick up the leavin’s. Can you remember all that, boy?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I’ll go tell my Paw, then get right on my way.”

“You leave that to me. It’s important you get to Smoke Jensen well before those bushwhackers do.”

Smoke Jensen found Bobby Harris exactly where Sally had told him the boy would be. Bobby sat on a large stump behind the sprawling house that had started as a simple log cabin, his feet dangling, hunched over with elbows on thighs, his chin in the palm of his upturned right hand. He had shoved his lower lip out in a pink pout. Smoke strolled up and rounded the stump to face the boy.

“I hear you’re vexed about something.”

Bobby looked up at Smoke and telegraphed his misery from cobalt eyes. “You should know.”

“Sorry. I don’t. What is it, Bobby?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Come on, son, tell me. If you don’t talk things out once in a while, they just fester inside.”

“It’s done festered, all right,” Bobby agreed. “I—I— ah—” He began stumblingly, took a deep breath and tried again. “I ain’t no use to the Sugarloaf anymore.” “Meaning you’re no use to me?” Smoke probed.

“If that’s the way you feel.”

“C’mon, Bobby, you can’t hide behind an attitude.” Suddenly large tears welled in Bobby’s eyes. He gulped and swallowed and fought them back. “I know I can’t be any use to you. You cut me out of this fight that’s cornin’ up. I do a man’s job, I can fight like a man, too.”

“Bobby, you can’t fight like a man. For all of your abilities with horses, you’re still an eleven-year-old boy. I care a good deal for you. I want you to be safe. So does Sally.”

The pout grew larger, until Bobby exploded. “You said the other hands could stay and fight when they brought up that they could hit what they shoot at. Well . . . I can hit what I shoot at, too.”

“Damn it all, I don’t want you killed. Is that too awful to accept?”

For all the misery on the face of Smoke Jensen, Bobby refused to melt even a little. “Go away. I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Exasperated beyond all patience, suspecting that he was somehow to blame for his failure, Smoke Jensen turned away. He’d crossed only half the distance to the house when his keen hearing picked up the wretched sound of the deep sobs that wracked the small boy’s shoulders. Inside the house, he recounted his lack of progress with Bobby to Sally.

She exerted her usual sensibility in such matters. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll talk to Bobby and help him see this is for his own good.”

Smoke threw up his hands. “Did we have the same problems with our own?” he asked unhappily.

Help came to Smoke Jensen shortly before midnight, in the form of a skinny redheaded kid. Little Jamie Seegers, escorted by one of the hands, arrived with his message from Monte Carson. Once he had delivered the sheriff's terse words, he stood in wonder, staring around the living room, which had once been the entire interior of the Jensen home.

“It’s late,” Smoke observed. “If that army of warhawks wasn’t right on your heels, I’d say you should stay the night. As it is, we’ve got to get you out of here.” The boy appeared startled. Smoke noticed that he was unarmed, unusual for anyone traveling at night in the High Lonesome. “Do you have a gun, boy?”

“No, sir. My paw won’t let me.”

“That’s a stupid attitude,” Smoke said musingly to himself. “With Lathrop’s men on the loose here, it isn’t safe for you to go around unarmed.” Smoke continued thinking out loud. “If I could spare one of the hands . . . wait a minute!” he barked a second later.

Smoke strode to the split logs set into the inner face of an outside wall to form the staircase to the second floor. There he paused to tell Jamie that he would be right back. Upstairs, ducking his head under the low ceiling, Smoke went to Bobby’s room. He rapped sharply before opening the door.

Bobby sat on the end of his bed in the unlighted room, staring out at the darkness beyond. Smoke crossed to him. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and Bobby squirmed away.
He’ll sing a different tune in a minute
, Smoke thought.

“Bobby, do you have your sixgun cleaned, oiled, and loaded?”

Excitement bloomed on the youngster’s face. “Then you’ve changed your mind?”

“Sort of. There’s an important thing that needs doing. I think you’re the right one to handle it. Downstairs is a boy who brought me a message from Monte Carson. With Lathrop’s gang swarming around the place anytime now, he can’t get back home safely by himself. He’s unarmed and needs someone to escort him back to Big Rock. I think you’re the one to do that. Are you game?”

“Am I!” Bobby squeaked. “I’ll get dressed right away.” “You’ll have to take the high pass and go the long way around. I’ll have Sally pack enough food. Take your carbine along, and I think a shotgun for Jamie Seegers.”

“Jamie! I know him from school. His Pop’s dumb; won’t let Jamie learn to shoot.”

Smoke Jensen hid his grin. “Don’t speak ill of your elders, Bobby. Though in this case, the truth is, I agree with you. That’s why I think a scatter gun is best. Now, hurry along and we’ll get you on the way.”

Downstairs Smoke crossed to Sally’s side. He spoke more to her than to Jamie Seegers. “I think we’ve got the problem solved. Bobby Harris will be going with you, Jamie. You’ll take the high pass and circle down to Big Rock. Should be there by late afternoon tomorrow.”

“Oh, Smoke, you’ve done it again,” Sally praised him, with a light laugh.

“Just takin’ care of loose ends, ma’am. Now, fix them enough vittles to last. They’re growin’ boys, remember.” “What are you going to be doing?”

Smoke smiled at Sally. “I’ve changed my mind about sitting here and waiting. I’m going to take a dozen hands out and give Phineas Lathrop a headache.”

At first, Phineas Lathrop thought some idiots were taking potshots at squirrels and woodpeckers. Dawn had just put a pink haze across the steep grade their horses pulled into, the stretch of road that marked the last five miles to the Sugarloaf. Sharp cries of alarm and a sudden increase in the volume of fire changed his mind. He slowed the heavychested mount he straddled and swiveled in the saddle.

Darkness still shrouded the trail behind. From it he marked the yellow-orange winks of muzzle blast. He counted five . . . no, seven points from which fire was directed into the rear of his column. It had to be Smoke Jensen. How in hell could he have found out so soon?

Frantically he pointed to the source of attack. “Up there, in those rocks.”

Return fire proved to be of no avail. Lathrop’s inexpert gunmen chipped a lot of granite and sprayed lead high over the heads of the Sugarloaf hands. Mounted men, twirling loops and covered by riflemen, charged the rear. The lassos settled around the arms and shoulders of three New Yorkers. A trio of quick dallies and sharp turns, and the hoodlums went flying. They landed hard.

In the next instant, they were slithering through the grass, away from their companions. Out of sight of the column of thugs, hard-handed wranglers deprived them of their weapons, boots, trousers, and shirts. A few punches convinced them to head back in the direction from which they had come.

Then, quickly as it had come, the attack broke off. Only echoes of the flurry of gunshots remained in the narrow defile between high mountains. Driven beyond his customary reserve, Phineas Lathrop could only pound an impotent fist on his saddlehorn and bellow his displeasure.

“God damn you, Smoke Jensen!”

None of which bothered Smoke Jensen. He had heard it all before—many times.

Another plan had developed in Smoke’s head on the way to attack Lathrop in the rear. He now led his men, none of whom had received a scratch, on a wide run around the approaching column. Smoke had been surprised to learn that Lathrop had not been battle-wise enough to divide his large force and assault the ranch from several directions at once. Perhaps, he decided, unwilling to underestimate his opponent, Lathrop’s lack of unfamiliarity with the terrain had caused this mistake. Whatever the case, Smoke Jensen determined to make use of the error to the detriment of the would-be empire builder.

Phineas Lathrop had barely managed to regain his composure and reorganize his column of eastern guns when Smoke Jensen and his twelve ranch hands struck at them from the front. Caught by surprise and confused as to who this could be, Lathrop bellowed to his men to resist with all they had. His hat went flying as a bullet punched through the crown.

Two more popped through the wide-spread sides of his coat. That sent Lathrop out of the saddle to sprawl in the thorny underbrush. At once, panic ensued. Wade Tanner assumed command and tried to rally the demoralized gangsters.

“The boss is down!” one of them shouted. “Let’s get outta here.”

“No! Hold on. We outnumber them,” Tanner urged.

Gradually, his determination and appeal to reason reached a few, who also turned back to take wildly inaccurate shots at the Sugarloaf hands. A yelp of pain showed one of the greenhorns to be a better shot than most. Another Sugarloaf rider threw up his hands and tumbled from his saddle. A friend swiftly swung from his saddle to scoop up the dead wrangler. With a wild whinny, a wounded horse set off out of control of its rider. Then a shouted command ended the encounter.

Swiftly as they had descended on the flatlanders, the mountain-wise ranglers set off at a fast run toward the distant ranch. Tanner was quick to seize upon it.

“Mount up. Get after them. Run them to the ground,” he commanded.

Numbly the products of the New York tenements and Boston docks began to comply. Then the rage- and pain-hollowed voice of Phineas Lathrop came from the chaparral to the side of the trail. “Someone get me out of here.”

Wade Tanner hurried to do just that. When a rumpled, leaf-bedecked Phineas Lathrop rose out of the spiny brambles, he looked furiously off in the direction Smoke Jensen had taken.

Both fists shook over his head as he wailed, “Smoke Jensen . . .
you baaaastaaard!
”

Smoke Jensen and his hands led the waterfront hoodlums off on a merry chase—one at least that the men of the Sugarloaf enjoyed a lot. Not the same could be said for those who followed. From a vantage point above a box canyon into which the unwitting eastern garbage had been led, Smoke studied their antics:

“Any bets as to how long before they realize the only way out is back the way they came?”

“Not me, Smoke.”

Smoke gave Zeke Tucker a fleeting smile. “What about you boys? Zeke’s not takin’ a chance.”

“Count me out,” Sam Waters declined. “Where to now, Boss?”

“We’ll pick up the main body and lead them right to the Sugarloaf . . . over the west slope.”

Delighted smiles lighted the faces of the Sugarloaf riders. They well knew what waited for the invaders. Less than twenty minutes later, they got the chance to lead the unsuspecting greenhorns into the deadly lane of fire established by Smoke Jensen.

At first, the Lathrop gang gave off excited halos, like eastern fox hunters, when they sighted their former tormenters. They raced along eagerly, drawing closer as the grassy incline increased. Boston soft A’s vied with nasal New York twangs as they cursed when the quarry disappeared over the crest of the rise.

Then they topped the ridge and found their way blocked by large, star-shaped wooden obstructions, their outward-pointed arms sharpened to wicked points. They closed up to thunder through a pair of gaps formed by three stumps. Beyond, they jinked to the left to negotiate another such opening. Their pace slowed, while that of those familiar with the layout remained steady.

Distance widened between pursuers and pursued. More angry curses rose among the flatlanders as they imagined these easy targets escaping them. It all worked the way Smoke Jensen had expected. The hard-riding mass of gunmen advanced at best possible speed, unaware that they were being channeled into an increasingly narrow passage.

Surprise registered on the faces of those in the lead when the fleeing ranch hands reined in and dismounted halfway up another slope, twin to the one down which they rumbled. Concealed rifle pits suddenly took on life and the meadow blossomed with spurts of gray-white powder smoke.

Only then did the oncoming hard cases realize that they had heedlessly ridden deep into accurate rifle range. Three men left their saddles, one with a terrible yell of pain. A second later, another New Yorker pitched to the side and fell under the hooves of the horses behind.

All at once it became too much for the city-bred gunfighters. Too unnerved to press the attack on Smoke Jensen’s ranch, they halted their headlong advance and milled in confusion for precious seconds, while the marksmen of the Sugarloaf picked off four more of their number.