Violence of the Mountain Man. William W. Johnstone

      

VIOLENCE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

      VIOLENCE OF THE

       MOUNTAIN MAN

      William Johnstone

       with J. A. Johnstone

      PINNACLE BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-one

      Chapter Twenty-two

      Chapter One

      Sugarloaf Ranch

      “Oh, that smells so good,” Lucy Goodnature said as she watched Sally Jensen pull apple pies from the oven. “You’ll have to tell me all your secrets.”

      “Lucy, one thing you must learn is that a woman never tells,” Sally said.

      “Oh, of course, I didn’t mean all your secrets,” Lucy said. “I just meant—”

      Sally cut her off with a laugh. “I know what you meant,” she said. “I was just teasing you.”

      Lucy laughed with her. “Well, I do want to learn how to make apple pie the way you do. I know Pearlie really likes your apple pies.”

      “Honey, here’s one thing that isn’t a secret,” Sally said. “When it comes to eating, there is very little that Pearlie doesn’t like.”

      From outside there was a loud whoop, followed by laughter. Lucy walked over to look through the window. “All of the cowboys seem to be having such a good time,” she said. “It is very nice of Mr. Jensen to give them all a going-away party like this. And it was very nice of you to invite me. Thank you.”

      “Oh, you are welcome, Lucy. You have been a big help to me today. I know that Pearlie was glad to see you. And any friend of Pearlie’s is always welcome at Sugarloaf.”

      Lucy was the nineteen-year-old daughter of Ian Goodnature, the owner of a ranch that was adjacent to Smoke Jensen’s Sugarloaf Ranch. Tall and willowy, with long black hair and green eyes, she had attracted Pearlie’s attention as no other woman ever had.

      “I would like to think—” Lucy began. Then, after a pause in mid-sentence, she began again. “What I mean to say is, I would like to think that I am more than just a friend to Pearlie.”

      “I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t more than just a friend,” Sally said. “But take it from someone who is older, if not wiser. You don’t rush these things. Men always like to believe they are in charge, so you are going to have to let Pearlie take the lead.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said. “I know.”

      “Yes, ma’am?” Sally replied. She laughed. “Lucy, I said I was older, but I’m not ancient. Ma’am is something you say to old people.”

      “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry,” Lucy said. Then she covered her lips with her hand. “Oh, I said it again.” Both women laughed.

      On the large and well-kept lawn outside the house, Smoke Jensen walked over to a wood fire to check on the meat. He stood there for a moment watching as Juan Mendoza turned the spit slowly and Carlos Rodriguez applied barbeque sauce to the already glistening carcass of half a steer.

      The employer of the cowboys, and the owner of the ranch, was Kirby “Smoke” Jensen. Smoke stood just over six feet tall and had shoulders as wide as an ax handle and biceps as thick as most men’s thighs.

      “How does the beef look, Señor Smoke?” Carlos asked, a broad smile spreading across his face.

      “Amigos, I do believe that is the prettiest thing I have ever seen,” Smoke replied.

      “Oh, Señor, I think maybe you should not let Señora Sally hear you say such a thing,” Juan said. “I think she would not want to hear that you think a side of beef could be prettier than she is.”

      Smoke laughed and pointed a finger at Juan. “You’re right, Juan,” he said. “And don’t either of you dare tell her I said that, because if you do, I will be in hot water for sure.”

      The two men laughed appreciatively, then turned their attention back to the task at hand.

      The aroma of the cooking meat filled the grounds between the group of small houses where Juan, Carlos, and the other permanent hands lived, and the house where Smoke and Sally Jensen, owners of Sugarloaf Ranch, lived. The American cowboys called the ranch house the “Big House.” The Mexicans called it Casa Grande.

      The cowboys, separate from the permanent hands, lived in the bunkhouse. The bunkhouse, which was between the Big House and the barn, was a long, low building that had ten bunks—five on each side of the building, as well as private rooms at each end of the bunkhouse. The private rooms provided quarters for Pearlie and Cal, the only two cowboys who were permanent employees.

      The rest of the cowboys who rode for Sugarloaf were, as most cowboys, men who worked the ranches as temporary hands hired in the spring for the roundup and branding, then let go during the winter months. This was typical of all the ranches, and the cowboys not only accepted it, but many of them had chosen this particular line of work for the very reason that it was seasonal and temporary.

      The time of employment for the extra hands was now coming to an end and, as they did every year, Smoke and his wife, Sally, were hosting a barbeque and party for the cowboys. Juan and Carlos had started cooking the beef the evening before, taking turns watching it through the night. Their long efforts had been rewarded and now the meat was nearly done. In the meantime, many of the Mexican women had prepared their own dishes to bring to the meal, and Sally had baked pies.

      Some of the Mexicans were pretty good musicians and they had been providing music off and on during the day, but the cowboys were providing their own entertainment by way of bronco riding, steer wrestling, and target shooting.

      One of the American cowboys, Lucas Keno, was pretty good with a pistol, and in head-to-head shooting with the others, he had bested them all. Keno was a singularly unattractive man, with an oversized, hawklike nose, thin lips, bad teeth, and a weak chin.

      “Ha!” Keno said. “There ain’t a cowboy on this ranch can beat me,” he bragged. “Hell, there ain’t a cowboy in the whole county can beat me, and none in the state either, I’m bettin’.”

      Cal laughed. “Keno, you might want to think about that some. No matter how good you are, there’s always someone who is better.”

      “Yeah? Well, if there’s somebody better, I’d like to know who it could be,” Keno said. “I’ve done beat ever’body on Sugarloaf, and that’s a fact.”

      “You haven’t beat everybody,” Cal said. “I’ve seen you shoot, and I’ve seen Pearlie shoot. And I think Pearlie