Read Online Blood of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone
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and shot them both”
Smoke noticed but made no comment about Van Horn’s strapping on two Remington hoglegs and tying them down. If just half of what Preacher had told him about Van Horn was true, the old man was a pure devil in a gunfight. Preacher had said that Van Horn had once faced six men in a trading post down in Colorado and when the gunsmoke had cleared, Van Horn was the only one standing, and he had four bullet holes in him.
“Fat Fosburn owns the spread north of this one,” Van Horn said as they rode. “He’s the mayor of Red Light. Biggers owns the land south. They got us boxed for a fact.”
“Fosburn? That name is familiar.”
“Used to be an outlaw. Rode with Bloody Bill back in the sixties. He’s as mean as a hydophoby skunk and will stop at nothin’ to get what he wants. He’s said that if he has to, he’ll kill Jenny to get the land.”
“Real nice fellow.”
“Yeah. Just dandy. Yonder comes Ladd. He’s been ridin’ the south fence. Good boy.”
Ladd was a man in his early twenties, stocky and with a go-to-hell look in his eyes.
“Ladd,” Van Horn said. “This here’s Miss Jenny’s uncle, Smoke Jensen.”
Ladd’s eyes widened.
“He’s gonna be with us for a time, seein’ that Miss Jenny gets her due. You go on to the house and get you some breakfast. Then you and Ford stay close to home.”
‘Yes, sir,” the young puncher said. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Smoke.”
“Now you’ve met all the hands we got,” Van Horn said. “Ladd, Ford, and Cooper. We need at least three more.”
“We’ll get them. Parcell has a cabin somewhere in these mountains.”
“Wolf Parcell?”
“That’s him.”
“Hell, Smoke, he’s older than me, and I’m near ’bout as old as God. I didn’t know he lived around here.”
“Over there,” Smoke said, looking toward the towering mountains. “I’ll find him. And there is a kid in town at the livery, Jimmy. He’ll do to take care of things around the house.”
Van Horn smiled. “Little Jimmy Hammon. His folks had a small spread west of here. Biggers and Fosburn burned them out and killed the boy’s parents ’bout seven or eight years ago. You’re right. Jimmy’s a good boy.” “We need one or two more good men.”
‘You got anything against Mexicans or Indians?” “Not as long as they do their work. Knowed some fine Mex punchers in my time.”
“There’s one in town. I saw him.”
“Pasco? He come in here as a sheepherder. No rancher will hire a sheepherder.”
“I will. I know Pasco’s cousin. He’s a gunfighter. Carbone. He spoke highly of Pasco. One more.” “There’s a half-breed Injun roams the valley. But he’s a surly one. Don’t seem to like nobody.”
“Has anybody ever given him a chance?”
“You do have a point.”
“What’s the Indian’s name?”
“Bad Dog.”
“We have a crew.”
It took Smoke two days to find the cabin of Wolf Parcell. The old mountain man was standing in the door when Smoke rode up.
“I heard you was in the area,” Wolf said. “Figured you’d be about, pesterin’ me.” The old mountain man was still rock-solid tough and had a mean look in his eyes. He wore two pistols belted outside his buckskins and a huge Bowie knife. “I’ll have to say that Preacher done well with you. What do you want?”
“Get your kit together, you worthless old coot. You’re going to work for me.”
“Work! Wagh! I ain’t worked for nobody but myself in fifty year.”
“I need you,” Smoke said simply.
“That’s good enough for me,” Wolf said. “Light and set. Coffee’s hot and strong. I’ll be a few minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two men rode out.
That afternoon, with Wolf leading the way, they rode to the camp of Bad Dog, a half-breed Cheyenne.
“Dog,” Wolf said, “this here is Smoke Jensen. His little niece is in trouble down in the valley, and I aim to help her.”
Bad Dog looked up at Smoke. “Heard of you. My people say you are a
Smoke noticed but made no comment about Van Horn’s strapping on two Remington hoglegs and tying them down. If just half of what Preacher had told him about Van Horn was true, the old man was a pure devil in a gunfight. Preacher had said that Van Horn had once faced six men in a trading post down in Colorado and when the gunsmoke had cleared, Van Horn was the only one standing, and he had four bullet holes in him.
“Fat Fosburn owns the spread north of this one,” Van Horn said as they rode. “He’s the mayor of Red Light. Biggers owns the land south. They got us boxed for a fact.”
“Fosburn? That name is familiar.”
“Used to be an outlaw. Rode with Bloody Bill back in the sixties. He’s as mean as a hydophoby skunk and will stop at nothin’ to get what he wants. He’s said that if he has to, he’ll kill Jenny to get the land.”
“Real nice fellow.”
“Yeah. Just dandy. Yonder comes Ladd. He’s been ridin’ the south fence. Good boy.”
Ladd was a man in his early twenties, stocky and with a go-to-hell look in his eyes.
“Ladd,” Van Horn said. “This here’s Miss Jenny’s uncle, Smoke Jensen.”
Ladd’s eyes widened.
“He’s gonna be with us for a time, seein’ that Miss Jenny gets her due. You go on to the house and get you some breakfast. Then you and Ford stay close to home.”
‘Yes, sir,” the young puncher said. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Smoke.”
“Now you’ve met all the hands we got,” Van Horn said. “Ladd, Ford, and Cooper. We need at least three more.”
“We’ll get them. Parcell has a cabin somewhere in these mountains.”
“Wolf Parcell?”
“That’s him.”
“Hell, Smoke, he’s older than me, and I’m near ’bout as old as God. I didn’t know he lived around here.”
“Over there,” Smoke said, looking toward the towering mountains. “I’ll find him. And there is a kid in town at the livery, Jimmy. He’ll do to take care of things around the house.”
Van Horn smiled. “Little Jimmy Hammon. His folks had a small spread west of here. Biggers and Fosburn burned them out and killed the boy’s parents ’bout seven or eight years ago. You’re right. Jimmy’s a good boy.” “We need one or two more good men.”
‘You got anything against Mexicans or Indians?” “Not as long as they do their work. Knowed some fine Mex punchers in my time.”
“There’s one in town. I saw him.”
“Pasco? He come in here as a sheepherder. No rancher will hire a sheepherder.”
“I will. I know Pasco’s cousin. He’s a gunfighter. Carbone. He spoke highly of Pasco. One more.” “There’s a half-breed Injun roams the valley. But he’s a surly one. Don’t seem to like nobody.”
“Has anybody ever given him a chance?”
“You do have a point.”
“What’s the Indian’s name?”
“Bad Dog.”
“We have a crew.”
It took Smoke two days to find the cabin of Wolf Parcell. The old mountain man was standing in the door when Smoke rode up.
“I heard you was in the area,” Wolf said. “Figured you’d be about, pesterin’ me.” The old mountain man was still rock-solid tough and had a mean look in his eyes. He wore two pistols belted outside his buckskins and a huge Bowie knife. “I’ll have to say that Preacher done well with you. What do you want?”
“Get your kit together, you worthless old coot. You’re going to work for me.”
“Work! Wagh! I ain’t worked for nobody but myself in fifty year.”
“I need you,” Smoke said simply.
“That’s good enough for me,” Wolf said. “Light and set. Coffee’s hot and strong. I’ll be a few minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two men rode out.
That afternoon, with Wolf leading the way, they rode to the camp of Bad Dog, a half-breed Cheyenne.
“Dog,” Wolf said, “this here is Smoke Jensen. His little niece is in trouble down in the valley, and I aim to help her.”
Bad Dog looked up at Smoke. “Heard of you. My people say you are a
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