War Of The Mountain Man

He swung into the saddle and pointed Star’s head south, intending to backtrack. He had a headache, but other than that, he felt fine.

“You’re sure you don’t want some help?” Sal asked.

“No. A big posse is too easy to spot. Besides, Sally will leave messages along the way; messages and markers that would make sense only to me. It’s Big Max, I’d bet on that. I was instrumental in bringing down his little empire, so now he intends to destroy as much of what I hold dear as possible. See you, Sal.”

Smoke rode easy, down to the south end of the lake. There he dismounted and began searching the area, using tactics taught him by the old mountain man, Preacher. He worked in ever-widening circles, on moccasin-clad feet. By mid-afternoon he had picked up the trait—the true one, not the one that had been deliberately left for the posse.

The trail headed north by northeast. The lead horse was carrying a heavy load. That would be Max Huggins. Smoke recognized the hoofprints of Sally’s mare. If they stayed on this trail, Smoke surmised, they were heading for glacier country.

Smoke doggedly stayed with the trail, taking his time, being careful not to miss a thing. He found where they’d camped at the base of and on the east side of Mt. Evans. Sally had left three stones in the form of an arrowhead, pointing toward the Flathead River.

Smoke followed, his head no longer aching and his strength having returned. He kept his fury under control—barely. He met a lone hunter, and the man took one look into Smoke’s eyes’ and felt the chill of death touch him. The hunter backed off the trail and let Smoke pass with just a nod of his head.

The man would tell his grandkids that he had once seen Smoke Jensen on the prod, and that it was not a sight he ever wanted to see again.

On the east side of the South Fork Flathead, Max had met up with the tracks of a dozen riders. Probably the remnants of Max’s gang, Smoke thought. Several miles farther, one rider had left the bunch. Smoke left the trail and circled. He picketed Star and worked his way back a bit on foot. He smiled when he saw who had stayed behind to waylay him.

It was the young man who had taken to calling himself Kid Brewer; the young man with a few pimples on his face who had made the obscene gesture at Smoke after the window-washing incident.

“Waiting for me, Kid?” Smoke called from behind the young man.

Kid Brewer whirled, his hands frozen over the butts of his tied-down guns. Smoke Jensen stood facing him, a Winchester pointed at his belly.

“You really shouldn’t have taken a part in the taking of my wife, punk,” Smoke told him. “Coming at me is one thing; taking my wife is something entirely different.”

“Yeah,” the young gunhand sneered at him.“So what do you think you’re going to do about it?”

Smoke shot him. The .44 slug from the rifle struck the young man in the right elbow, knocking him down and forever crippling his gun hand. He lay on the cool ground, moaning and calling for his mother.

Smoke walked down to him and placed the muzzle of the rifle on the gunhand’s left elbow. “If you think I won’t leave you permanently crippled in both arms, you’re crazy. Talk to me, punk.”

Brewer looked up into the coldest eyes he had ever seen in all his young life. They so chilled him he momentarily forgot the pain in his shattered right arm. He began talking so fast Smoke had to slow him down.

When he had finished, Smoke smashed Brewer’s guns, threw him on his saddle, and when the young man had stopped screaming after the jolting pain in his arm from the toss had lessened, Smoke gave him some advice. “If I ever see you again and you’re wearing a gun, I’ll kill you.” He slapped the horse on the rump and the pony took off at a fast canter. Brewer was still screaming when Smoke mounted up.

Smoke backtracked and once more picked up the trail. He found where they had nooned and discovered Sally had taken stones and spelled out: O K. With a smile that would have backed up the devil, Smoke swung into the saddle and rode on.

He left the obvious trail and rode up into the high lonesome, Into the east slopes of the Rockies. He dismounted and took his binoculars, carefully scanning the area below him. He scanned it once, then twice, and then a third time. He picked up the thin tentacle of smoke on the third try. He studied the area below him until he felt he had found a way in. He mounted up and headed down into the valley.

Nelson Barrett was enjoying a cup of hot coffee. His pleasure abruptly lessened when he felt the cold steel of a big Bowie knife against his throat. What made it even worse was the dark stain that suddenly appeared in the crotch of his dirty jeans.

“Talk to me, pee-pants,” Smoke whispered. “And I’d better like what you have to say. ‘Cause if I don’t, I’ll stake you out and skin you alive.”

“Your woman’s awright!” Nelson blurted. “There ain’t nobody touched her. I swear it, man!”

“You were left here to do what?”

“Kill you!”

“Well, now. Is that a fact? What do you think I ought to do with you?”