Thunder of the Mountain Man

Book 53: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

In this pulse-pounding western from national bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone, Smoke Jensen welcomes a new rancher to the valley—whose intentions are deadly, especially when his …arrival brings a wild bunch of merciless killers in his wake . . .

Thaddeus Bolton sees himself as a cattle king. His ambitions are as big as the land and stock he just purchased near Smoke Jensen’s Sugarloaf ranch. Bolton and his family are friendly enough, although in the case of his wife Emmaline, perhaps too friendly. While her husband stakes his claim with plans to spread throughout the territory, she’s set her sights on Smoke. But fending her off is the least of Smoke’s worries when outlaws sweep across the valley on daring rustling raids—hitting every ranch except Bolton’s.

Fearing it’s only a matter of time before his cattle falls prey to the rustlers, Bolton takes the law into his own hands. Forming a band of vigilantes, he tracks down the men he believes are the thieves and hangs them, despite no evidence linking them to the crimes. Then when Bolton’s ranch is actually rustled, his vigilantes go on an even deadlier, merciless rampage.

To stop the escalating violence, Smoke forms his own posse to bring the outlaws to justice—only to discover that Bolton’s plans are sinister and downright evil.

Now Smoke will have to prove Bolton’s corruption…before the entire valley erupts in a blood-soaked range war . . .

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY.
GOOD GUNS MAKE FOR GOOD NEIGHBORS.

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

“I don’t have any interest in killing you today, son,” Smoke Jensen said. “I’d just as soon you didn’t make me do it.”

A sneer twisted the lips of the young man facing Smoke in Longmont’s, Big Rock’s finest saloon and gambling house that also happened to be one of the best restaurants between Kansas City and San Francisco.

“What you mean is that you want to weasel outta drawin’ against me, Jensen,” the youngster said. He was a lanky, rawboned redhead with a craggy, sunburned face made even uglier by the arrogant expression it wore. “I’ve heard all about you, and I never believed a blasted word of it. Fastest gun in the West, my hind foot! Just because you got fellas writin’ those yellow-back novels about you, that don’t mean a dadgum thing. I figure them drunken bums’ll write anything for money.”

The cowboy had come into Longmont’s accompanied by four somewhat older men, all of them dressed in range clothes. Smoke, who lived west of town on the Sugarloaf Ranch and knew just about everybody in this lush Colorado valley, didn’t recognize any of them.

But the redhead had recognized him somehow and stalked over to the table where Smoke was sitting peacefully having coffee with his old friend Louis Longmont, the gambler and gunman who owned this establishment. The youngster had hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, grinned unpleasantly at Smoke, and started prodding him, asking him in an overly polite, offensive drawl if he wasn’t the notorious gunslinger Smoke Jensen.

“The hero of American youth, ain’t that what them scribblers call you?” he had added.

Smoke had tried to brush him off, but the young fella was too full of himself to brush. After a minute, Smoke had stood up and said, “All right, I’m Smoke Jensen. What of it?”

“I’m faster than you, Jensen. And I’m willin’ to prove it, once and for all, right here and now.”

That was when Smoke had sighed and told the redhead he didn’t want to kill him. Smoke meant it, too. He had never been the sort of man to carve notches in his gun butts, which was a good thing because by now he’d have just about whittled them down to nothing. He didn’t keep track of the number of men he’d killed, and he didn’t lose any sleep over them, either. Every man he’d pulled the trigger on hadn’t given him any choice.

But this kid’s overbearing self-confidence wasn’t any reason for him to die. If he’d just shut his trap and go on about his business, he might grow up and amount to something someday.

Unfortunately, the chances of that happening didn’t look too good.

“How about it, Jensen?” the redheaded cowboy went on. “You willin’ to test your speed against a real fast draw?”

The four men who had come into Longmont’s with him had ambled over to the bar and ordered beers. They nursed the mugs while watching their partner confront Smoke. They didn’t show any signs of wanting to take a hand in whatever play the redhead made, but Smoke knew better than to ignore them.

Fortunately, Smoke also knew he could count on Louis to keep an eye on the men. Johnny McVey behind the bar had a sawed-off Greener handy on a shelf under the hardwood, too. Between the two of them, those four strangers wouldn’t stand a chance if they tried to horn in.

Smoke still hoped he could head off trouble. He shook his head and said, “I’m not going to draw on you.”

“Then I’ll just have to shoot you down like the dirty yellow dog you—”

One of the men set down his half-empty beer mug and stepped away from the bar. His voice cracked through the now-quiet room.

“That’s enough, Fletch.”

The redhead stiffened. With a grimace, he looked over his shoulder toward the bar and said, “You stay outta this, Coolidge. It ain’t any of your business.”

“The boss told me to keep an eye on you boys,” the man called Coolidge replied. “That makes it my business.”

“But I been waitin’ for a chance like this. A chance to prove how fast I really am!”

“A chance to die, you mean. You’re not in the same league as Jensen.”

“I killed Hank Wilton in Tascosa—”

“Hank Wilton was done as a fast gun three years ago,” Coolidge said, scorn plainly audible in his voice. “My eighty-year-old grandma could’ve beaten him to the draw that day you faced him.”

“That—that’s a blasted lie!” Fletch sputtered. “Wilton was still quick on the shoot—”

“Not quick enough.” Coolidge’s voice took on a more persuasive tone. “Come on over and have a drink with the rest of us, then we’ll head back to the herd.”

The man’s words held a note of authority. He was somewhat older than the others, Smoke noted now, in his late twenties, maybe, a dark-haired man with a lean, hard-planed face and dark, observant eyes. He was a tad below medium height, and his body was wiry. If Smoke had had to pick out the most dangerous one in the bunch, it would be Coolidge. Fletch was all bluster—although bluster could be dangerous, too, if it was reckless enough. Fletch just might fit that bill.

The mention of a herd caught Smoke’s attention, too. He wasn’t aware that any of the ranchers in the valley were putting together a herd to drive to market. It was the wrong time of year for that. It stood to reason that the cattle these newcomers handled were freshly arrived in the area, as well.

Fletch said, “There’ll be time for a drink once I’ve shown the world that I’m quicker on the draw than the famous Smoke Jensen. Then folks’ll be talkin’ about me when the subject of fast guns comes up. Gib Fletcher, he’s the fastest one of all, they’ll say. Maybe they’ll even write some o’ them dime novels about m—”

Smoke’s patience for the youngster’s yammering ran out. He wore crossed gunbelts with a Colt .45 holstered on each hip. He flicked his right hand toward the gun butt on that side.

Fletch saw that and his eyes widened. He’d been standing tensely ready to make his move, shoulders hunched, head forward a little, eyes peeled for even the smallest motion Smoke might make. When Smoke’s right hand jerked, Fletch’s right hand dived for his gun and a look of mingled fear and excitement lit up his sunburned face.

Before Fletch could clear leather, Smoke took a quick half-step forward and smashed his left fist into the middle of his face, flattening his nose and pulping his lips. Smoke wasn’t overly tall, but his shoulders were about as broad as an ax handle, and he packed an incredible amount of strength in his body. The punch hit Fletch like a piledriver.

Fletch flew backward. Coolidge let out a surprised yelp and caught him, probably out of instinct and self-preservation. If he hadn’t, Fletch would have crashed to the floor.

The young cowboy’s gun had slipped back into its holster when Smoke hit him. Smoke nodded toward the weapon and told Coolidge, “You’d best take that Colt away from him while you’ve got the chance.”

The other three strangers had stepped away from the bar and were watching with intense interest, but none of them had made a move to pull iron. More than likely, they had seen the smooth, unhurried way Louis Longmont had stood up and moved the tail of his coat aside so that his gun was clear. Menace seemed to crackle in the air around the gambler.

Coolidge kept his left arm around Fletch’s waist. Fletch’s head swung slowly, ponderously, from side to side, as if he were only half-aware of what was going on around him. With his right hand, Coolidge motioned to his other three companions, tamping down the air to tell them not to start anything.

“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Jensen,” he said, then used the same hand to pluck the undrawn and unfired revolver from Fletch’s holster. He shoved it into the waistband of his trousers and added, “I’m obliged to you for not killin’ this young jackass.”

“Too many young men have died from being jackasses.” A faint smile curved Smoke’s lips for a second. “Came close to it myself a time or two. But it’s not a very good reason for dying.”

“No, sir, it ain’t.” Coolidge turned the groggy Fletch and gave him a shove that sent him stumbling toward the other three cowboys, who grabbed him and kept him from tripping and falling. Coolidge turned back to Smoke and extended his hand. “Matt Coolidge.”

“Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said as he returned the other man’s firm handclasp. “But I reckon you probably figured that out.”

Coolidge chuckled. “Fletch is the one who recognized you, but I’ve heard of you, sure enough.”

Smoke wondered what had brought Coolidge and the other men to Big Rock, but out here on the frontier, that wasn’t the sort of thing a man asked another man.

Coolidge satisfied Smoke’s curiosity anyway by continuing, “I’m the ramrod of the Triangle B outfit. We just threw our herd onto a bedground north of town, and we’ve been on the trail long enough I figured the boys deserved some time off. They’ll be takin’ turns comin’ into town, four or five at a time so there won’t be enough of ’em at one time to get too rambunctious.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Smoke said with a nod. “You might want to check in with our local sheriff, Monte Carson, though, and let him know what you’re doing.”

“The sheriff’s office was gonna be my next stop.”

“No need for that,” Louis said as he nodded toward the entrance. “Here’s Monte now.”

The lawman wasn’t running as he came into the room, but he wasn’t wasting any time, either, and he had a double-barreled shotgun held firmly in his capable hands. He slowed as he saw that no trouble was going on at the moment.

By way of explanation, Louis added to Smoke, “I gave the high sign to one of the girls to slip out and fetch Monte when it appeared as if that young firebrand wasn’t going to be dissuaded from drawing on you.”

Monte came up and nodded to Smoke and Louis. All three men were old friends and had been part of the violent ruckus when Big Rock was founded to replace the outlaw town of Fontana a few years earlier. Smoke and Monte had been on opposite sides in that fight at first, but that hadn’t lasted long once Monte realized he’d backed the wrong play.

“Heard there was about to be a shootout,” Monte drawled, “so I figured you’d be right in the big middle of it, Smoke.”

“I didn’t think you knew I was even in town today,” Smoke said.

Monte shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Guns start going off, I figure Smoke Jensen has to be around somewhere close by. But it looks like the trouble is all over.”

“There wasn’t much trouble,” Louis said. “Nobody even died.”

“Well, that’s a welcome change.”

Coolidge had been taking in the conversation. He said, “You fellas are joshing with each other, right?”

“Oh, mostly,” Monte admitted. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Monte Carson, sheriff of Big Rock.”

“I’m Matt Coolidge, the foreman of the Triangle B crew.”

The two men shook hands, and then Louis said, “We weren’t formally introduced. I’m Louis Longmont. This is my establishment.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Longmont,” Coolidge said as they shook hands. “Mighty nice place you’ve got here.”

“Triangle B, Triangle B,” Monte mused. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that spread.”

“We just pulled in today,” Coolidge explained. “Drove eight hundred head up here from the Panhandle, down in Texas.”

“Eight hundred head?” Monte repeated. “Where do you plan on putting them?”

“Right now, they’re grazing just north of town. Reckon we should’ve asked you first if that was all right, Sheriff. My apologies.”

Monte waved that off. “That’s fine, shouldn’t cause a problem. But you can’t leave them there.”

“Never planned to. First thing in the morning, we’ll drive ’em on out to the spread the boss bought. I wasn’t sure exactly how long it’d take to get there, so I thought we’d play it safe and lay over one more night before finishin’ the drive.”

Smoke said, “You’re talking about the old Hunsacker place.”

Coolidge nodded. “It does seem like I’ve heard that name. That’s what’s gonna be known as the Triangle B from now on.”

Smoke looked at Monte and Louis and said, “I’d heard rumors that Linus Hunsacker’s widow sold out to somebody from back east. Never bothered checking it out with the county clerk because I knew we’d find out sooner or later.”

“That’d be my boss,” Coolidge said. “Mr. Thaddeus Bolton. He bought the ranch from the old lady and the eight hundred head from one of those big outfits in the Panhandle to stock it with. From what I understand, there wasn’t much left of the herd that had been on the place.”

“No,” Smoke said, “Linus let it dwindle down more and more the worse his health got. He had a good crew, but he was one of those fellas who couldn’t stand for anybody else to be out working on his spread if he wasn’t right there with them, doing his part. He probably didn’t have more than seventy or eighty head left when he passed.” He recalled something else his wife, Sally, had told him. “I think Mrs. Hunsacker was moving back to Kansas City to live with her sister.”

Coolidge said, “You sound like you know the place well, Mr. Jensen.”

“I ought to. Linus Hunsacker was my neighbor for several years. Part of his range adjoined mine.”

“Is that so?” Coolidge glanced toward the bar, where Fletch was hunched over the hardwood with a shot of whiskey in front of him. The other cowboys were standing around him, almost like they were trying to make sure he didn’t start any more trouble.

Coolidge went on, “I reckon we’ll be neighbors, then, which makes me even happier that you didn’t put a bullet through ol’ Fletch there. That wouldn’t have been a very good foot to start out on.”

“I take it that’s the near gunfight I heard about,” Monte said.

Louis chuckled. “Yes, another young, would-be pistoleer full of himself and flushed with self-confidence because he hadn’t managed to get himself killed yet.”

“The same sort you’ve had to deal with over and over again,” Monte said to Smoke.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Smoke agreed. “But I was able to bust him in the snoot instead of drilling him.”

“I appreciate that. Less paperwork for me. The undertaker might not be too happy about it if this peaceful trend keeps up, though.”

“That’s one thing I don’t believe we’ll have to worry about,” Louis said dryly. “As you pointed out, Monte, things never stay peaceful around Smoke for very long.”

Smoke frowned—but he couldn’t exactly argue with the sentiment his old friend had just expressed, either.

Gib Fletcher’s nose was swollen almost twice its normal size already. His lips were bruised and bloody, and every time he took a sip of whiskey it stung so much he winced. By morning, both eyes probably would be so blackened that he’d look like a raccoon.

Fletch still believed he could hold his own with Jensen when it came to gun-handling, but he had to admit the fella hit like the kick of a mule.

“You’re lucky Jensen just hauled off and walloped you one, Fletch,” stocky, dark-haired Bart Hudson said quietly as he stood to Fletch’s right at the bar. “More than likely he’d have killed you if he drew on you, just like he said.”

Hudson was one of Fletch’s best friends, but he liked to pick at a man and rile him up. Thought it was funny. Fletch didn’t see anything funny about what had happened here.

“Findin’ out who’s faster will just have to wait,” Fletch said. His voice sounded funny in his own ears as it came painfully through his thick lips. “But that day’s gonna come. You can bet a hat on that, Bart.”

“No thanks.” Bart grinned. “If I’m gonna buy a new hat, I’d just as soon it was for myself, not you.” He chuckled. “But I don’t figure I’d have to worry about that. And since you’d be dead, you couldn’t buy me a new hat to pay off the bet. No, sir, that sounds like a losin’ proposition all the way around to me.”

“You think you’re so blasted hilarious,” Fletch muttered.

He threw back the whiskey that was left in his glass and thumped the empty down on the bar. A glance over his shoulder showed him that Matt Coolidge was still talking to Jensen and those other two fellas.

“Matt’s supposed to be on our side,” he went on. “We ride for the same brand. Just look at him over there, suckin’ up to Jensen like that. It’s plumb disgustin’, that’s what it is.”

Phil Armentrout leaned in on Fletch’s left and said, “You’d best watch what you’re sayin’, kid. You don’t want to get Coolidge mad at you. He’s got a mean streak. He don’t show it very often, but when he does—well, it’s devil take the hindmost then.”

“I ain’t scared of Coolidge, neither.”

“I’m not sayin’ to be scared of him. Just be careful, that’s all.”

Hudson asked, “You want another shot o’ whiskey?”

Fletch could have used one, but to tell the truth, it hurt like blazes the way the stuff burned his split lips. He was starting to have trouble breathing through his nose. It made funny sounds when he did. The thing was broken, he was sure of it.

“Let’s just go back out to the herd,” he said disgustedly. “Some of the other boys will be wantin’ to come into town. They oughta have their turn.”

Nate Kyle, standing on the other side of Armentrout, protested, “We’ve only had one drink! Haven’t played any cards nor found any gals willin’ to have a good time with us. What kind of visit to town is that?”

“That ranch where we’re goin’ ain’t so far away we can’t ride into town once a week or so,” Hudson pointed out. “It ain’t like this will be our only chance to cut loose our wolves.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Fletch is right. Come on, let’s go.”

Kyle continued to grumble about it, but the four young cowboys turned away from the bar. Coolidge saw what they were doing and called, “Headed back to the herd?”

“That’s right, Matt,” Hudson said.

Coolidge nodded. “Send the next bunch in when you get there.”

Hudson smiled and said, “Sure will.”

Fletch watched the little group from the corner of his eye as he shuffled out with the others. Jensen was just standing there, smiling a little, acting like nothing had happened. Like he had already forgotten all about Fletch.

But Fletch hadn’t forgotten. No, sir, he hadn’t, and he never would. Jensen might think he was the big skookum he-wolf of these parts, but it wouldn’t always be that way.

One of these days there would be a reckoning, Fletch promised himself, and he would kill Smoke Jensen.

“That young fella still looks pretty resentful,” Smoke commented as he watched the four cowboys leave Longmont’s.

“Don’t worry about him,” Coolidge said. “He’s a hothead, but I’ll keep a tight rein on him until he cools down a mite.”

“I’d be obliged,” Smoke said. He smiled at Monte and Louis. “Despite what these two make it sound like, I’m a peaceable man. And I like to stay on good terms with my neighbors.”

Monte said to Coolidge, “This fella Bolton you ride for, did you say he comes from Texas?”

Coolidge shook his head. “I said he bought that eight hundred head in Texas. Mr. Bolton is from Nashville, Tennessee. He had himself a handful of successful businesses back there. He owned a hotel, a bank, a freight company, several mercantile stores, and a plantation where he and his family lived. But he sold ’em all to move out here, once he found a spread he wanted and some cattle to stock it with.”

“Why in the world would he do that?” Monte asked with a frown. “It sounds to me like he had a mighty good life back there in Tennessee.”

“I can’t argue with that. But you see, Mr. Bolton always had it in his head he wanted to be a rancher, ever since he was a little boy. Once he had enough money, he made that dream come true.” Coolidge smiled. “I reckon if you have enough money, you can make just about anything come true.”

That wasn’t right, Smoke mused. Years earlier, he and the old mountain man Preacher had found gold on what eventually became the Sugarloaf Ranch. They could have been rich men—but all the gold in the world wouldn’t have been enough to bring back his wife, Nicole, murdered by hired killers working for some of Smoke’s enemies, nor their son Arthur, slain by the same men. Smoke had evened that score, at least the way most folks would see it, but it wasn’t really even at all. Nicole and Arthur were still dead.

But while he was avenging his wife and son, he had met Sally Reynolds and she had taught him how to love again and move ahead in life, and because of that he considered himself the luckiest man in the world. Bad memories faded and good memories lingered, and Smoke really was, as he said, a peaceable man.

When people would allow him to be.

Matt Coolidge had continued the story. “Mr. Bolton came down to the Panhandle to settle the deal for the cows, and while he was there, he put together a crew to bring the critters up here to Colorado.”

“Then you haven’t been working for him for a long time?” Monte asked.

“Nope. Just a couple of months. It took us a little while to road-brand all that stock, and then when we had the Triangle B iron on ’em, we headed ’em north, through Injun Territory, and then west.”

“An easier route than cutting through New Mexico Territory and over Raton Pass,” Smoke commented. “You can take cattle through there, but it’s quite a climb.”

“Yes, sir,” Coolidge agreed.

“Is your employer with you?” Louis asked.

“Yeah, Mr. Bolton went back to Tennessee from the Panhandle to fetch his wife and daughter, then they took the train to Cheyenne and traveled on from there by wagon. As a matter of fact, they caught up to us just yesterday. They were comin’ into town this afternoon, too.” Coolidge chuckled. “Miz Bolton, she’s got a hankerin’ to spend the night in a soft bed under a roof, I think. You’ve got a hotel here in Big Rock, don’t you?”

Monte said, “We have a couple of good ones. The Big Rock Hotel is probably the best.”

“That’s what she’d want,” Coolidge said with a nod. “Nothin’ but the best for Miz Bolton.”

Smoke thought a faint hint of coolness had come into the foreman’s voice as if he didn’t fully approve of Mrs. Bolton’s fondness for the finest. That was none of Smoke’s business, though, so he put it aside and didn’t worry about it.

“I hope they enjoy living here,” Louis said. “As new arrivals to the area, I’d be happy to welcome them with a meal here, on the house.”

Coolidge glanced around and said, “In a, uh, saloon?”

“Don’t let that fool you,” Monte said. “Louis has the best cook you’ll find in these parts. Folks in Big Rock and the rest of the valley know this is where you get the best eats.”

“Well, I’ll pass that along. Don’t be offended, though, if Miz Bolton decides she wants to dine somewhere a mite fancier.”

“No offense,” Louis assured him, “and the offer stands.” He took a silver dollar from his pocket and extended it. “If you’d be so kind as to pay your men back for those beers they bought, I’d like to buy a round for all the Triangle B men the first time they come in here.”

“Mighty nice of you.” Coolidge shrugged and took the coin with his left hand. “The boys’ll appreciate that. I’ll let the rest of the crew know.” He slipped the dollar in his pocket and then reached up with the same hand to pinch the brim of his hat. “I’d best be movin’ on. I wouldn’t say the camp can’t get along without me, but I like to keep an eye on things. It was a pleasure to meet you fellas.”

“Same here,” Smoke said.

“And again, I’m sorry Fletch had to go on the prod like that.”

Smoke shrugged. “It happens with young men. To be honest, when a man rides for me, I like for him to have a little vinegar in him.”

“It comes in handy in times of trouble,” Coolidge agreed. “So long.”

Smoke, Monte, and Louis watched him leave. Monte said, “Seems like a nice enough fella.”

“He’s a killer,” Smoke said.

Monte frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve lived in town too long,” Louis said. “You’ve lost a little of your edge.”

“We’ve lived in Big Rock the same amount of time,” Monte pointed out.

“Yes, but you didn’t notice that Coolidge’s right hand never strayed very far from his gun.”

“He shook hands with all of us,” Monte objected. Then he said, “Which, come to think of it, means that our right hands were occupied, too. I guess he was ready for trouble if any cropped up, but I’m not sure that makes him a killer.”

Smoke said, “That was in his eyes. But I have to agree, he was perfectly pleasant to talk to. I don’t think he’d ever go hunting a showdown like that kid did, but he wouldn’t back away from one, either.”

“You’re right, dang it. Both of you. I have lost my edge. That’s a dangerous thing for a lawman to have happen. Maybe I ought to turn in my badge.”

“Now, don’t be hasty,” Louis urged. “You’ve done a fine job as sheriff, Monte, and I’m sure you’ll continue to do so. I’d rather have you siding me in a fight than anybody else I can think of.”

Monte grunted. “Well, almost anybody else, if you’re telling the truth.” He glanced at Smoke. “We all know who’s the best hombre to have beside you when the bullets start to fly.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Louis replied with a sly smile. “Remember, Smoke attracts more of that hot lead than anyone else.”

“That’s true,” Monte agreed solemnly.

“There you two go again,” Smoke said. He picked up the cup of coffee he had been working on when the four cowboys from the Triangle B had come in. There was a little of the strong black brew left in the cup. Smoke drank it and went on, “I’d better head back to the ranch.”

“You never did say what brought you int. . .