War Of The Mountain Man

“My wife’s name is Sally. We live in Colorado on a spread we named the Sugarloaf. My wife went to college back east with your wife, Victoria. Sally calls her Vicky. Vicky lost her parents while she was in school and had to work very hard to get through. You have one child that lived, Lisa. Your wife can’t have any more children. Sally got a letter from Vicky today, telling us about the recent killings in Hell’s Creek and the outlaw who staggered up to this ranch and told you about it. You got this ranch by befriending an old man who was visiting back east. You ...”

“Enough.” The doctor held up a hand, visible in the faint light of a quarter moon. He smiled and stuck out the hand for Smoke to shake it. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke shook the hand. “We don’t have much time, Doctor. Things are going to blow wide open around here very soon, and you and your family have got to get clear. Let’s go in the house and talk.”

Lisa was in bed, asleep. Vicky was introduced to Smoke. She stepped back and inspected him, good humor in her eyes. Smoke liked her immediately. He would reserve judgment on the doctor.

“Sally always could pick them,” Vicky said. “You are one hell of a man, Smoke Jensen.”

“Vicky,” her husband said in a long-suffering tone.

Smoke laughed. “Relax, Robert. Sally can occasionally let the words fly herself. I can see why these two were friends at school.”

“How about some coffee and something to eat, Smoke?” Vicky asked.

“That would be nice. While I’m eating, you two can pack.”

That stopped them both in their tracks. Robert asked, “Pack? Where are we going?”

“Getting out of here.” Smoke found the cups and poured his own coffee. Very quickly, he explained what was going on. “As far as your ranch goes, if Max burns the buildings down, you’ve still got the land. You don’t have any cattle or any hands. You can always rebuild. You can’t do anything from the grave. So pack. We’re pulling out.”

Smoke drank his coffee and ate a sandwich. Then he went outside and hitched up the teams to a wagon and a buggy. He helped the doctor load his medical equipment onto the wagon, then their luggage and a few possessions from the house. Lisa was awake and wide-eyed as she solemnly stared at the most famous gunfighter in the West.

“I’m surprised Lisa doesn’t have a dog,” Smoke said.

“I did,” the little girl said, sadness in her voice. “Patches was his name. A man killed it a few months ago.”

“A rather unsavory character named Warner Frigo rode up into the yard and shot him,” Robert said. “It was another one of Max Huggins’s little not-too-subtle warnings.”

Smoke knelt down and, with a gentleness in his voice that surprised Robert and Vicky, said to Lisa, “We’ll get you another dog, Lisa. It won’t take the place of Patches, I know that. You’ll always remember him. But you can love your new puppy, too. How about it?”

“I’d like that, Mister Smoke. I really would.”

Smoke picked her up with no more effort than picking up a feather pillow and smiled. “First thing after we get you all settled is a new puppy, Lisa.”

“Frigo is a bad man,” the girl said. “He’s awful. Only cruel people kill dogs who aren’t doing them any harm.”

“That’s right, Lisa. That’s exactly right. Don’t you worry about Frigo. I’ll take care of him.”He set her back down and said, “Let’s go, people. We’ve got a long haul ahead of us.”

Vicky walked through the house once more, and there was sadness in her eyes. “I’ve grown to love this old house, this land with the mountains and the eagles and all its vastness.” She blew out a lamp, plunging the room into darkness. “I pray that Max and his hooligans will let the house stand.” She sighed and squared her shoulders. “But if they don’t ... we’ll rebuild.”

“That’s the spirit,” Smoke told her. “But you might decide to relocate down in Barlow.”

“Why would we do that?” Robert asked.

“Because I intend to destroy Hell’s Creek, that’s why.”

Because with the wagons they would have to come within a half mile of Hell’s Creek, Smoke wrapped the horses’ hooves in sacking when they got close. Out of habit, he checked his guns, loading them up full. The action did not escape the eyes of the doctor and his wife. Lisa had fallen asleep in the back of the wagon, lying on a soft comforter and wrapped up in a blanket, for the night was cool.

“Rumor has it you’ve killed twenty-five men, Smoke,” Robert said.

“Closer to two hundred, I reckon,” Smoke corrected.

“Two hundred!” the doctor blurted out. “Two hundred men?”

“Killed twenty-five when I was about nineteen or twenty, I think I was. They raped my wife and then killed her and our son. I tracked them down to a silver camp on the Uncompahgre and read to them from the Scriptures, so to speak.”

“You were only nineteen?” Vicky breathed the question.

“Maybe twenty. I don’t remember.”

“So young,” Robert muttered.