Savagery of the Mountain Man

Book 37: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Best-selling author William W. Johnstone has penned more than 200 novels, and is especially loved for his Westerns.

Smoke Jensen travels from his peaceful Sugarloaf Ranch to Santa Clara, Colorado, where he wins an auction for a pureblood Hereford bull. But this makes Pogue Quentin, the town’s leading citizen and a man accustomed to bloodshed, furious. When Smoke’s friend has a run-in with Quentin, things get pretty dicey.

Release date: July 27, 2017

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

When some of the hands tried to put the saddle on the horse’s back, it broke loose and reared up, pawing at the air with its front hooves. Then it began running around the corral, its hooves throwing up clods of dirt. Those who were sitting on the fence had to move quickly to get out of the way as the horse seemed intent on brushing them off.

Two riders waited until the horse was at the far end of the corral, then nodded for the gate to be opened. When it was open, they rode inside, swinging lariats overhead. The two cowboys threw their loops at the same time, and both managed to get ropes around the horse’s neck. They stopped the horse from running, then led him over to a pole in the center where they secured him.

One of the riders looked toward Cal with a wry grin on his face.

“There he is, Cal, all calmed down for you,” he teased.

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Cal said.

Rubbing his hands together, Cal stood there looking at the horse, which, for the moment, was relatively quiet.

“Smoke, I don’t think Cal should try to ride him,” Sally said. Sally and Smoke were both sitting on the top rail of the fence, having just returned to their positions as they had been among those who were forced to flee when the horse began its rampage.

“The horse has to be broken,” Smoke replied.

“Yes, but does it have to be Cal? Smoke, he could break his neck.”

Smoke laughed. “I see. So, what you are saying is, you would rather it be me who breaks his neck?”

“No,” Sally said. “You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just that—well, Pearlie normally did this.”

“Pearlie isn’t here now,” Smoke said. “Cal is going to have to start taking over some of Pearlie’s responsibilities.”

“I know,” Sally said. “But Pearlie is older and a little more experienced. It just frightens me to think of Cal trying to ride that horse.”

“Sally, I don’t think Cal would stop now even if I ordered him to,” Smoke said. “And I wouldn’t embarrass him by giving that order. Surely you know now that it is a matter of pride with him. You know how Cal is.”

“I know,” Sally agreed. “I just hope and pray that he doesn’t get hurt.”

Cal approached the horse, then stepped up to the horse’s head. He grabbed the horse by the ear and pulled its head down, even with his own.

“I’m going to ride you, horse,” he said. “You ain’t goin’ to like it all that much, but to tell you the truth, you ain’t got no say-so in it ’cause I’m goin’ to do it whether you like it or not. And if you think you can buck me off ’cause I ain’t Pearlie, it ain’t goin’ to gain you nothin’, ’cause I’ll just climb back on and ride you again. You got that?”

“Cal, wait,” one of the other hands called. He walked out into the corral carrying a blanket. “Let me put this over his head till you get on. Maybe it’ll calm him down a bit—at least until you are mounted.”

“All right, Jake,” Cal replied.

Jake put the blanket over the horse’s head, then looked at Cal. Cal climbed into the saddle and grabbed the hack rein.

The horse made no effort to prevent him from mounting, and Cal smiled.

“All right,” he said. “Maybe my little talk with him did some good. Untie him and let us go.”

Jake removed the blanket from the horse’s head and freed him from the hitching post at the same time. Then he moved quickly to get out of the way.

For another long moment, the horse stood absolutely still, and Cal looked over toward Smoke and Sally.

“Ha!” he shouted. “Look here! I reckon this horse knows who is boss! I had a little talk with him and—ohhhh!”

The horse exploded into energy, lifting all four hooves from the ground at the same time. When he came back down, his legs were held straight, providing no spring, so that the shock was transferred up to Cal. Then the horse started running and bucking at the same time. Cal held onto the hack rein with one hand and the night latch, which was a rope tied through the gullet of the saddle, with the other.

“Hang on, Cal!” Jake shouted.

“Ride ’im into the ground, don’t let up!” one of the other cowboys yelled.

The horse began spinning around. Then he reared up on his back legs, came back down, and kicked his back legs high into the air so that Cal was looking straight down at the ground. The horse ran toward the fence, again brushing everyone off, stopped suddenly, then kicked his back legs high into the air again. This time Cal came out of the saddle and slipped forward, managing to stop his fall only by wrapping his legs around the horse’s neck.

Finally, the horse gave up bucking and began galloping around the corral, running at full speed.

Cal took his hat off and began waving it. “Yahoo!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Cal stayed with him for the entire time until the horse stopped running, started trotting, then slowed to a walk. Finally, the horse came to a complete stop and just stood there, in the middle of the corral.

Cal swung down from the horse, took off the breaking saddle and harness, then resaddled and bridled him. The animal remained as docile as a plow horse. Remounting, Cal rode around the corral, acknowledging the applause of all the ranch hands. He stopped in front of Smoke and Sally, then doffed his hat and bowed.

“Bravo, Cal, bravo,” Sally said. “That was wonderful.”

“I wish Pearlie had been here to see it,” Cal said.

Los Brazos, New Mexico Territory

It had been over a month since Pearlie left Sugarloaf. In that time, he had maintained a southern drift with no particular destination in mind—only a need to continue to put distance and time between himself and the events that had led to Lucy being killed.

During his six-week-long sojourn, he had stayed no longer in any one town than he needed to—sometimes taking a part-time job for a couple of days or so just to earn enough money to keep going. Over the last month he had worked in a livery, had loaded and unloaded freight wagons, and had even stood in for a week as a bartender. At one ranch, he had spent a day breaking horses, getting five dollars for each horse he broke. Then, in the little town of Jasper, Colorado, he built on an extra room for a widow who earned her keep by making pies. The widow, whose name was Diane, suggested, both by word and action, that if Pearlie wanted to stay on, she would more than welcome his company. But Pearlie declined the offer as tactfully as he could.

“That’s all right, cowboy,” Diane, who was no more than a year or two older than Pearlie, replied. “If you ever get tired of seeing what’s just over the next hill, you can always come back.”

As Pearlie rode off, he wondered if he made a mistake in not taking up the widow’s offer. It wasn’t as if he would have been cheating on Lucy, and the diversion might have helped in the healing process. But even as he considered that, he knew that it would not have been the right thing to do—not for him, and not for Diane.

After another week of riding, he happened across the little town of Los Brazos, which lay flyblown and dying as it baked in the hot New Mexico sun. The first building he passed was a railroad depot, though there was no railroad serving the town. The age and condition of the depot indicated that it was the past expression of a misplaced optimism—rather than the sign of something to come.

Feeling the need of a beer to cut the trail dust, Pearlie dismounted in front of the Casa de la Suerte Cantina, which was the only saloon in the small town. Instead of the batwing doors with which Pearlie was more familiar, long strips of rawhide, upon which several wooden beads had been strung, hung down to cover the entrance. The beads clacked as he pushed his way through to the inside.

The inside was more pleasant than the outside had promised, with a chandelier and a long, polished bar. The bartender was Mexican, and he stood at the far end of the bar, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and a small piece of rawhide dangling from his lips. Seeing Pearlie come in, he reached up, took the rawhide from his mouth, then walked down to stand in front of Pearlie.

“Tequila, Señor?” he asked.

“Beer.”

“Beer, sí.” The bartender drew a mug, then set it in front of Pearlie. Pearlie blew the foam off, then took a deep drink for thirst. The next swallow was to enjoy the taste.

“Hey!” a loud angry voice yelled. “How come you serve that stranger and you don’t serve me?”

“Because, Señor Dempster, already, you are drunk I think,” the bartender replied. “And the more borracho—the drunker you get, the meaner you get. Besides, you lied to me when you said you didn’t have to work today. Señor Ben had to make the run to Chama without you.”

“Since when is it any of your business whether or not I go to work?” the belligerent customer replied.

“It is none of my business if you do not go to work. But it is my business if I make Señor Montgomery enfadado. This is his place, and he could fire me.”

“Ha! He ain’t goin’ to fire you for sellin’ me another drink. Hell, that’s what saloons do, ain’t it? Sell drinks to their customers?”

“Dempster, why don’t you settle down?” one of the other saloon patrons said. “You been a burr under ever’body’s saddle ever since you come in here.”

Pearlie continued to stand there with his back to the bar, watching the exchange as he drank his beer.

“What the hell are you lookin’ at, you pie-faced weasel?” Dempster said to Pearlie.

Pearlie finished his beer before he replied.

“Mister, don’t try to draw me into all this. I just stopped in for a beer.”

“Yeah? Well, you finished it, so get.”

“Señor Dempster, to my customers like that, you no can talk,” the bartender said.

“I’ll talk to anyone any damn way I want,” Dempster replied belligerently.

“Dempster!” a new voice called out angrily.

Turning toward the door of the saloon, Pearlie saw a gray-haired, gray-bearded man, short, stocky, and angry.

“What do you want?”

“Where were you when the stage left this morning?” the gray-haired man asked.

“There didn’t nobody come to wake me up. If someone had come to wake me up in time, I wouldn’t have missed the stage.”

“It ain’t nobody else’s job to wake you up in the mornin’,” the gray-haired man said. “If you hadn’t been hungover, you would’ve been able to wake yourself up. And look at you. You’re drunk now.”

“Come on, Ben, I ain’t that drunk. I’ll be at work tomorrow mornin’, just you wait and see.”

“No, you won’t be there tomorrow or any other day. You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. You’re just a stagecoach driver.”

“I didn’t fire you, I’m just tellin’ you you’re fired. Mr. Montgomery is the one who fired you,” Ben said.

“Yeah? Well, who are you goin’ to get to ride shotgun with you?”

“We’ll find somebody before the stage leaves,” Ben said.

“You’re the one that talked him into firin’ me, aren’t you?”

“What if I am? You’re supposed to be riding shotgun guard with me. You think I want a drunk sitting beside me?”

“Montgomery is going to have to find a new shotgun guard and a new driver,” Dempster said. “’Cause I aim to shoot you right between the eyes.”

“No, Dempster, Ben ain’t armed!” one of the other customers shouted.

Glancing toward the driver, Pearlie saw that he wasn’t armed. Looking back toward Dempster, he saw that the angry man was drawing his pistol.

Acting instinctively, Pearlie threw his beer mug at Dempster. The mug hit Dempster on the side of his head, and Dempster dropped like a poleaxed steer.

“Damn, mister, I reckon you just saved my life,” Ben said.

“I reckon I did,” Pearlie replied.

Ben sighed. “Now I’m going to have to find someone to ride shotgun with me tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t,” Pearlie said.

“What do you mean, I won’t?”

“You just found someone,” Pearlie said.

“You?”

“Me.”

“All right, I tell you what. I’ll tell Mr. Montgomery about you. You come on down to the depot before the stage leaves tomorrow, and you talk to him. If he’s willing to hire you, it’s fine with me.”

“What time does the stage leave?”

“It leaves at eight in the morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

Pearlie spent the night on the ground, just outside of town. When he rode back in the next morning, he saw the stagecoach sitting out in front of the depot. The team had not yet been connected, but hostlers were over in front of the barn, putting the team into harness.

The words on the side of the coach, painted in red and outlined in gold, read, SUNSET STAGE COACH LINE. Pearlie glanced around for the driver, but didn’t see him. For a moment, he considered waiting until he did see the driver; then he decided it would be best to just go on into the depot.

Inside, he saw a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man.

“Are you Mr. Montgomery?” Pearlie asked.

“I am.”

“Mr. Montgomery, last night I met a fella by the name of Ben. He suggested I come see you, to ask about working as a shotgun guard.”

“Oh, yeah, Ben talked to me about you. You’re the one called Pearlie?”

“Yes, sir.”

Montgomery chuckled. “Ben said you laid ole Dempster out with a beer mug. I sure wish I could have seen that.”

“At the time, it seemed the thing to do,” Pearlie said.

Montgomery whooped with laughter. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you,” Montgomery said. “How long have you lived in Los Brazos?”

“I’ll tell you that as soon as I find a place to live,” Pearlie replied.

Montgomery looked surprised for a moment; then he laughed again.

“Well, that’s a straight answer. Are you married?”

“No, I—” Pearlie paused. “I was married, but my wife died.”

“Oh, I’m real sorry to hear that, son. But, and don’t get me wrong but I have to ask this. Have you ever been in trouble with the law?”

“I’m not a wanted man,” Pearlie said.

“You’re not a wanted man?”

“No, sir, I am not.”

“All right,” he said. “I guess that’s a pretty straight answer, too. And because you gave me a straight answer, I won’t go any further into it. Ben tells me you were in the saloon when he told Dempster that he was fired.”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“I don’t reckon it was any mystery to you why we fired him. He is a drunk. Now, let me ask you this. What were you doing in the saloon? You aren’t a drunk, are you?”

“I had a long ride, and for most of that ride, I was looking forward to a beer. When I rode into town last night, that was the first thing I did.”

“One beer?”

“One beer,” Pearlie said. “Well, that is, part of one beer. There was still some left when I threw it at Dempster.”

Montgomery laughed again. “All right, I reckon that’s good enough for me. Tell me this. If I hire you, how soon can you go to work?”

“When does the coach leave?”

“In about ten minutes.”

“If you hire me, I’ll be on it.”

Montgomery pointed to a cabinet. “There’s a twelve-gauge double-barrel and a .44-.40 Winchester in there. Take one or both.”

“I’ll take ’em both,” Pearlie said. He started toward the cabinet, then stopped and looked back toward Montgomery. “Mr. Montgomery, I think I need to tell you—I don’t plan to be here for a very long time.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“After my wife was—uh, after she died, I felt like I needed to get away. Everything back there reminded me of her and the hurt was just too much. But the time is going to come when I want to get back and be around my own friends and people.”

“I understand. Pearlie, is it?”

“Yes, sir, folks call me Pearlie.”

“Do you have a last name, Pearlie?”

“Do I need one?”

Montgomery paused for a moment; then he chuckled. “No, I guess not. All right, Pearlie, you can work for me as long as you want, as long as you keep your nose clean, and as long as Ben is comfortable with you. When the time comes that you feel like you want to go back home, tell me. There will be no hard feelings.”

“Thanks, Mr. Montgomery, I appreciate your understanding,” Pearlie replied.

Montgomery stepped up to the door, then called outside. “Ben?”

“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?” Ben’s voice floated in from the stable area.

“Come in here and meet your new shotgun guard.” “I already met him,” Ben replied. “If he’s been hired, tell him to get his ass out here and climb aboard.”

Montgomery turned toward Pearlie. “Oh, uh, I didn’t tell you. Ben is pretty much of what I think you would call a curmudgeon.”

“A what?”

“A grouch.”

Pearlie laughed. “That’s all right, I like grouches. You always know where you stand with a grouch.”

Pearlie grabbed the two weapons, then walked outside. The coach had been pulled into position and Pearlie put the two guns on the seat, then climbed up. Once up on the seat, he laid the guns down in the foot well, then scooted over to the left side.

“Hrmmph,” Ben said. He spit out a quid of tobacco. “At least you got enough sense to know which side of the seat to sit on.”

When all of the passengers were on board, Ben clambered up onto the driver’s seat, spit out another quid of tobacco, then snapped the long whip over the head of his team. The pop of the whip was as loud as a pistol shot, and the coach started forward.

They had been on the road for about fifteen minutes without either of them saying a word.

“How come you ain’t asked me?” Ben asked.

“Asked you what?”

“Asked me how long it’s goin’ to be before we get to where we’re goin’.”

“You’re the one drivin’,” Pearlie replied. “All I have to do is just sit here. I figure we’ll get there when we get there.”

Ben chuckled, and it was the first time since they had met that Pearlie had seen anything other than a frown on his face.

“You figure we’ll get there when we get there,” Ben repeated. “Yes, sir, Pearlie, I think you may just work out all right.”

Santa Clara, Colorado

One hundred and seventy-five miles southeast of Sugarloaf, at a ranch called the Tumbling Q, near the small railroad town of Santa Clara, a meeting was being held. Attending the meeting were all the ranchers whose own spreads lay within a twenty-mile radius of the Tumbling Q. The breed of choice for the ranchers was the Texas longhorn. Most had been running the longhorn ever since they started ranching. The longhorn was a hardy breed, a breed that could survive drought and find something to eat where little forage seemed available.

Today, the ranchers were complaining bitterly over the fact that the market for longhorns was dropping. The meeting had been called by Pogue Quentin, the biggest rancher in the county and owner of the Tumbling Q.

“It’s these damn Herefords,” Peters said. Peters owned a neighboring ranch. “That’s all the slaughterhouses is wantin’ now, and they ain’t willin’ to pay enough for our cows for us to make any money at all. In fact, at the way this is goin’, by the time it’s all said and done, we’ll be lucky to hang on to our ranches.”

Gillespie held up his hands to quiet the group; then he nodded toward Quentin, who had been watching and listening to the whole thing. So far, Quentin had said nothing.

“Quentin, you called this here meeting,” Gillespie said. “So I figure that means you must have an idea or two.”

“Yeah, Quentin, you said you had a way we could beat this. What have you got in mind?”

Quentin, who had been sitting quietly in a chair near the window, stood up. A very heavyset man, he was clean shaven, and had a ring of white hair that circled his head and left the top bald and shining.

“Gentlemen, the time of the longhorn has gone,” he said. “We may as well face facts.”

“What do you mean by face facts?” Peters asked.

“I mean, you may as well face facts that if you are running a herd of longhorns, you ain’t goin’ to be makin’ any money from ’em. So your best bet is to get rid of ’em.”

“Get rid of ’em how? If nobody wants them, what are we goin’ to do, shoot ’em?”

“Oh, the market for longhorns is dwindling to be sure, but there is still some market there, so it is going to become a matter of su. . .