Savagery of The Mountain Man

Chapter Three

Big Rock, Colorado

The stagecoach rolling out of Big Rock, bound for the nearby town of Mitchell, met four riders who were just coming into town. The stage diver nodded at the riders, who nodded back. The riders passed by the WELCOME TO BIG ROCK sign, which was just before the blacksmith shop, where sparks were flying from the heated iron wheel-band the smithy was working with his hammer. As they came deeper into town, they rode on by the butcher shop where the butcher, Stan Virden, was sweeping his front porch; by the feed store, where a wagon was being loaded; and the apothecary, where a painter was touching up the mortar-and-pestle sign that was suspended from the porch overhang.

Just up the street from the riders was a building with a huge sign that was an oversized boot.

BIG

ROCK

BOOTS

& SADDLES

An outside set of stairs ran up the north wall of the leather goods store, and at the top of the stairs the printed sign on the door read:

STEVE WARREN

Cattle Broker

Smoke Jensen, owner of Sugarloaf Ranch, had come to see Steve, to arrange a sales contract for his beeves.

At six feet one inch, Smoke Jensen was an impressive man. He was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, and his biceps were as thick as most men’s thighs. Though he was still a relatively young man, stories about him were legend, both true and false. The irony was that many of the true stories were even more dramatic than the myths that abounded.

Smoke had never really known his mother, and when he was barely in his teens, he went with his father into the mountains to follow the fur trade. The father and son teamed up with a legendary mountain man called Preacher. For some reason unknown even to Preacher, the mountain man took to the boy and began to teach him the ways of the mountains: how to live when others would die, how to be a man of your word, and how to fear no other living creature. On the first day they met, Preacher, whose real name was Art, gave Kirby Jensen a new name. For reasons known only to himself, Preacher began calling Kirby “Smoke.” Later, when Smoke’s father was killed by outlaws, young Kirby Jensen hunted them down and killed them. That action was the birth of the legend of Smoke Jensen.

Now, he was married and settled down as a rancher, and his Sugarloaf Ranch was known as one of the finest cattle spreads in the entire state of Colorado. And his ranch, as were many other ranches, was in the process of transition. Texas longhorns, a breed of cattle that had been the staple of Western beef production for many years now, were gradually being replaced by new breeds, such as the Angus and the Hereford.

“I hate to tell you this, Smoke, but it looks like about the best we can come up with is seven dollars a head,” the cattle broker said.

Smoke was standing at the window, looking down onto the street, watching as the four men came riding into town. There was nothing particularly unusual about them—it wasn’t even that unusual for four riders to arrive together. Nevertheless, there was something about them that triggered some deep-set instinct. He couldn’t put his finger on it—but something about them nagged at him. He turned away from the window when he heard Steve’s offer.

“Did you say seven dollars?” Smoke asked.

“That’s what it looks like.”

“That’s not very good. Last year, I got ten dollars a head,” Smoke replied. “And the year before that, I got fifteen. What’s happening to the market? Are people not eating beef anymore?”

“Oh, they’re still eating beef all right,” Steve said. “But they’ve gotten a lot more particular. Now, if we were talking Herefords instead of longhorns, I could offer you twenty-five dollars a head.”

“I have a few Herefords,” Smoke said, turning away from the window and coming back to sit across the desk from Steve. “But not enough to sell yet. I’m just beginning to build up a herd.”

“Smoke, I wish I could offer you more. As you know, I get ten percent of the contract, which means the higher the price I can get for you, the more money I make for myself. But no matter where you go—Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago—we are running into the same thing. The most any of the meatpacking houses will pay is seven dollars per head for longhorn cattle, and if they had a hard winter, they may pay as low as four or five dollars. I’ve seen your herd, your beeves are in good shape, so you’ll get top dollar. Unfortunately, top dollar is only seven dollars per head.”

“You don’t have to explain the situation. I’ve worked with you for a long time, Steve, and I know you are an honest man, doing the best you can. But these cattle cost me two dollars a head to raise, and at fifty dollars per cattle car, that means they are costing me a dollar a head to ship. That leaves four dollars a head,” Smoke said. ‘No, counting your fee, it leaves me three dollars and thirty cents a head.” He sighed. “I’ll ship twelve hundred head, and I’ll make just over four thousand dollars. Well, I won’t even make that, because that does not count the salaries I pay my men. I tell you the truth. I’ll do well to break even.”

“If it is any consolation to you, Smoke, this is happening everywhere and to everyone. The folks back East have gotten a taste of Hereford. Nobody wants longhorn beef anymore. But, as always, the final decision is up to you. Do you want to sell at that price?”

“No, I don’t want to,” Smoke replied resolutely. He sighed. “But it doesn’t look like I have any choice.”

“All right, I’ll get you a contract. What about the train cars? Do you want me to book them for you as well?”

“Yes,” Smoke said. “Oh, and tell Mr. Bidwell I’ll be needing the holding pens for a couple of days.”

“That’ll be thirty cents a head,” Steve said.

“Right. That means it will cost me another three hundred sixty dollars just to do business,” Smoke said. “I don’t know but what this might not work out better if I just paid somebody to take the beeves off my hands,” he added with a sarcastic laugh. “At least I wouldn’t have to be worryin’ about feeding them and taking care of them.”

“It’s good you can laugh about it,” Steve said.

“When you get right down to it, Steve, I have to laugh about it,” Smoke said. “What else can I do?”

“I guess you have a point there. All right, once I get this all set up, how soon can you get the herd in?”

“How soon can you get everything set up?” Smoke wanted to know.

“I can send wires back to Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago. I reckon I can have everything set up by tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll bring my herd in tomorrow.”

“I’ll have everything ready for you.”

The two men shook hands.

“As always, Smoke, it’s good doing business with you,” Steve said.

Emil Sinclair was one of the four horsemen Smoke had seen riding into Big Rock. He and the other three riders stopped just across the street from the biggest store in town. A huge, brightly painted sign that spread across the front of the store read:

Big Rock

MERCANTILE

Goods for all Mankind

The store was very large and exceptionally well stocked, and one wag had commented that when it said, “Goods for all mankind,” it literally referred to all mankind.

“Why, I’ll bet there’s enough socks for every man, woman, and child in Colorado,” he’d said.

The store was not only well stocked. It had a wide variety of merchandise from groceries, to clothes, to furniture, to tools. In one section of the store, it had baby cribs, and in another, coffins, eliciting the oft-repeated comment that the “Big Rock Mercantile can supply you with everything you need from the cradle to the grave.”

“Emil, you stay here with the horses,” Logan Taylor said. “Jason, Stu, you two come with me.”

Emil, Jason, and Stu Sinclair were brothers. They had been recruited by Logan Taylor a week earlier to “do a job that will make us two or three hunnert dollars each, and there ain’t goin’ to be no risk to it at all.”

“There ain’t no such thing as a job with no risk,” Emil had replied.

“There ain’t no risk to this one. We’re goin’ to rob us a store.”

“A store? You think we can rob a store and get a couple hundred dollars apiece?” Emil had asked. “I ain’t never heard of a store with that much money.”

“This one does. It’s one of the biggest stores in Colorado, and does so much business that it has purt’ near as much money as a bank. Only, there ain’t no guards, the store clerk ain’t armed, and more than likely the only customers inside will be women.”

“Sounds pretty good to me, Emil,” Jason had said.

“Yeah, me, too,” Stu had added.

Although the whole operation sounded a little fishy to him, Emil had allowed himself to be talked into it, and now he sat on his horse, holding the reins of the other three horses as Taylor, Jason, and Stu walked across the street, then went inside.

There were seven people inside: the clerk, who wasn’t armed, and six customers, all of whom, as Taylor had said, were women.

“Oh, Julia, look at this material,” one woman gushed to another as they stood by a table that was filled with brightly colored bolts of cloth. The woman pulled some of it away and held it against herself. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful color? Wouldn’t this make a lovely dress?”

“Oh, yes, it would be perfect with your—”

“Good afternoon, ladies!” Taylor shouted loudly. “I’m going to ask all of you to step back into the storeroom for a little while.”

“What?” one of the women asked.

“Here! What is the meaning of this?” the only male, the store clerk, said.

“We’re robbin’ your store,” Taylor said.

One of the women drew a deep breath and put her hand to her mouth. Taylor swung his pistol toward her, pulling the hammer back as he did so.

“Lady, if you scream, I’ll shoot you,” he said. “I’ll shoot anyone who screams. Now, get back into that storeroom like I said.”

This time, the women reacted and started toward the storeroom at the rear of the store.

“Jason, make sure they all get in there, then lock the door. Stu, you stand up front to take care of anyone else who comes in. Store clerk, let’s me and you do some business.”

Sally had asked Smoke to pick up an iron skillet for her while he was in town, so he tied his horse off out front of the Mercantile and started inside to carry out the errand.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped through the door. At first, he didn’t know what it was; then he realized that the store was empty. Normally, at this time of day, there would be several shoppers in the store, milling around, looking at the merchandise, or making purchases. Now there was nobody.

He stopped for a moment, every muscle in his body on the alert. Smoke was a man who had lived his life on the edge of danger—whether it be from wild animals when he was younger, renegade Indians, or desperate killers and outlaws. That lifetime of danger had given him a sixth sense, and because of his heightened awareness, he sensed, rather than heard, someone approaching him, very quietly, from behind.

Making a fist, Smoke timed his reaction perfectly, and at exactly the right moment, he whirled around, swinging as he did so. He landed a haymaker on the jaw of the armed man who was approaching him. He grabbed the man and let him down easily so that the sound of his falling wouldn’t alert anyone else. It was obvious that something was going on in the store, and this man had been posted by the door to take care of anyone who might happen in, in the middle of it.

Relieving the unconscious guard of his pistol, Smoke pulled his own gun, then started moving quietly through the store. He didn’t have to go too far before he saw, reflected in a dresser mirror, Eli Dawes, standing with his hands in the air. Dawes was the manager of the store. In the same mirror reflection, Smoke could also see two armed men, both of whom had their guns pointed at Dawes.

“I know damn well you got more money than this,” one of the armed men said angrily. He had a flat nose and a handlebar mustache. “A store this big? I been watchin’ you for a couple of days now. You do a lot of business here.”

“If you really have been watching, then you know we make a deposit in the bank every day at one o’clock,” Dawes said.

“You’re lyin’,” Flat Nose said.

“No, he isn’t lying,” Smoke said, stepping out to confront the robbers. “There have been times when, good-neighborly-like, I would make the deposit for him.” Smoke’s voice was agonizingly calm, almost as if he were having a dinner table conversation.

“Who the hell are you?” Flat Nose asked, the high-pitched, anxious tremor of his voice in stark contrast to Smoke’s unruffled tone.

“I’m the man who is going to kill you if you don’t drop your gun,” Smoke said. Again, his voice was calm and controlled.

“Stu!” Flat Nose called. When he got no response, he called out again. “Stu, where the hell are you?”

Smoke grinned. “Stu? Would that be the man you left standing guard at the front door?” Smoke had stuck Stu’s pistol down inside the waist of his pants, and now he patted it with his left hand. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to be able to help you. This is the last time I’m going to say it. Drop your gun.”

“Mister, are you crazy? There are two of us. There is only one of you.”

“That’s all right, I’ll kill you first,” Smoke said. He looked at the second robber. “That will leave just the ugly one there, and he and I will be all even at one and one.”

“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Flat Nose asked.

“Hello, Smoke,” Dawes said. “You got here at just the right time.”

“Glad I could help.”

“Fellas, meet Smoke Jensen,” Dawes said. “I know you’ve heard of him.”

“Smoke Jensen?” the second robber said. “Taylor, you—you never said nothin’ about us havin’ to go up against Smoke Jensen. I’ve heard of him. They say he is as fast as lightning.”

“For God’s sake, Jason, be a man,” Taylor said.

“It’s your play, boys. Taylor, Jason, what do you do now?” Smoke asked.

“Wait! I ain’t no part of this!” Jason said, dropping his gun and putting his hands up.

“Jason, you cowardly son of a bitch!” Taylor shouted. At the same time Taylor was shouting, he swung his pistol toward Smoke, pulling the hammer back and firing.

The bullet whizzed by Smoke’s head and plunged into a large sack of cornmeal that was part of a high stack of cornmeal sacks behind him. Smoke returned fire, hitting Taylor in the chest. Taylor’s pistol twirled around his trigger finger, pointing toward the floor, then dropped. The outlaw clutched his hand over the entry wound of the bullet, staggered back a few steps, and fell.

Smoke swung his pistol toward the one called Jason, but it wasn’t necessary. Since he’d dropped his pistol and put his hands in the air, Jason hadn’t made a move.

For a moment, it was very quiet in the store, the only sound being the rushing sound made by the cornmeal as it oozed out of the bullet hole and poured onto the floor.

“Are you all right, Eli?” Smoke asked.

“I’m fine, but there are some lady customers locked back in the storeroom.”

“You had better let them out. I expect they are all a little nervous about now.”

Dawes chuckled. “I expect you are right,” he said.

“Take a look at your friend,” Smoke said to Jason. “Is he dead?”

Jason bent over to look down at the body of Logan Taylor, then shook his head. “Looks to me like you killed him.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t have time not to.”

Dawes went to the storeroom, unlocked the door, and opened it. “It’s all right, ladies, you can come out now,” he said. “It’s all over.”

“Oh, thank God,” one of the lady customers said. “We heard the shots and were afraid you had been killed.”

“I might have been if Smoke hadn’t come along when he did,” Dawes said.

Stu, the robber Smoke had knocked out, was just getting to his feet then. When he saw Taylor dead and Jason with his hands up, he reached toward his empty holster.

“Are you looking for this?” Smoke asked.

Like his brother, Stu put his hands up.

“What are you going to do with us?” Jason asked.

“It’s up to you, mister,” Smoke replied.

“Up to us? How?”

“I’m either going to kill you, or take you down to the jail. It’s your choice.”

“You got no right to arrest us. Only a sheriff can do that.”

“Or a deputy,” another voice said as a new person came into the store. “I made Smoke my deputy a long time ago.”

Sheriff Monte Carson, having heard the shooting, had come into the store to see what was going on. When he saw that Smoke had everything in hand, he relaxed.

“You want to take charge of these fellas, Monte?” Smoke asked. “Sally asked me to pick up an iron skillet for her and if I forget, I’m going to be in trouble.”

Sheriff Carson chuckled. “Then by all means, you had better find that skillet. You don’t want to be in trouble with Sally.”

“Pick out any skillet you want, Smoke, it’s free,” Dawes said in gratitude.

“Well, I appreciate that, Eli,” Smoke said.

Looking back toward the two would-be robbers, Sheriff Carson made a motion with his pistol. “Come along, boys,” he said. “I’ve got a nice jail cell just waiting for you.”

“Wait a minute. Where is the other one?” Smoke asked.

“The other one? What other one?” Dawes answered. “Only three of them came in.”

“Yes, but I saw four of them riding into town,” Smoke said. “There’s another one somewhere.”

Across the street from the Mercantile, Emil Sinclair had seen Smoke go in, though he had no idea who he was. Then, hearing the shots fired, he waited no more than a couple of seconds for Taylor and his two brothers to come running out. When they didn’t, he tied off the three horses, then rode on up the street a little way so as not to be obvious. By the time the sheriff went into the store, Emil was all the way back to the blacksmith shop. He was watching when the sheriff came out of the store with Stu and Jason in front of him, both holding their arms in the air.

Emil noticed that Taylor wasn’t with them, and he had a pretty good idea what happened to Taylor.

Stu and Jason were actually Emil’s half brothers, all three of them sharing the same mother. Because their mother was a prostitute, not one of the three knew who their fathers were. Their mother, who was called Big Nose Mary by everyone, was actually Millie Sinclair, and she had given her last name to all three of her sons.

Emil and his brothers had met Logan Taylor while all four were in the Colorado State Prison. Taylor got out three months before the Sinclair brothers did, and it was he who set up this job.

Emil waited until the sheriff and his brothers were off the street; then he returned to the horses, untied them, and led them away. The sight of a single rider leading three horses wasn’t all that unusual, except that these three horses were saddled. Emil was sure that must be a very curious sight, but he rode slowly and kept his eyes straight ahead as if there was nothing at all unusual about what he was doing.

Taylor’s horse had a fancy saddle with some brass trim. As soon as he could, Emil planned to transfer that saddle to his own horse. After all, Taylor wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He could take the saddle and sell the horse.

He wondered how much the horse would bring. For that matter, how much would the fancy saddle bring? Then, as he thought about it, he decided he would sell not only the horse, but the saddle as well.

The closest town was Mitchell, which was about fifteen miles away. He made it there in an hour and a half.

Tumbling Q Ranch

“Wait a minute,” Peters asked. “You sold all the longhorns and bought Herefords?”

“Yes. That was our arrangement, wasn’t it?”

“How much did you get per head?”

“Two dollars.”

“Two dollars? I could have gotten five dollars! I thought the whole purpose of us putting our herds together was to control the market and get more money?”

“Yes, well, we actually did six dollars per head, but we paid our broker two dollars per head, and our board voted to keep two dollars per head back for capital improvement.”

“The board voted? When did the board vote? I don’t remember any board meeting.”

“As I represent eighty-seven percent of the vote, we didn’t really need a board meeting,” Quentin explained. “I also bought Herefords.”

“How many head of Herefords did you buy?”

“I bought a thousand head at twenty-five dollars per head. In addition, I updated the feeder pens and the barn, and I put in a series of sluices and canals to give us a more dependable water supply,” Quentin said.

“What do you mean, give us a more dependable water supply? Hell, the creek coming through my ranch has all dried up.”

“It isn’t your ranch anymore, remember? You used your ranch to buy into the corporation.”

“Yeah? Well, I want my ranch back. I want out of this corporation.”

“All right. As soon as you pay your share of the debt we have accrued, I’ll sign your ranch back over to you.”

“My share of the debt?” Peters asked, his voice strained. “What is my share of the debt?”

“Mr. Gilmore?” Quentin said. “Would you like to answer Mr. Peters’ question?”

Gilmore consulted his ledger for a moment, did some figuring, then cleared his throat.

“The gross income from the sale of thirty-five hundred longhorns came to twenty thousand, nine hundred and sixteen dollars.”

“All right,” Peters said with a broad smile.

“The cost of shipping came to three thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars. The holding pen cost was one thousand, forty dollars and eighty cents. The broker fee was six thousand, nine hundred and seventy-two dollars. Likewise, capital improvement for Tumbling Q Ranch incorporated was also six thousand, nine hundred and seventy-two dollars. That leaves a net profit of one thousand, five hundred twenty-nine dollars and twenty cents. At six percent, your share of that comes to ninety-one dollars and seventy-five cents.”

The smile left Peters’s face and he staggered back a few feet, then sat down, hard, in a chair.

“You mean, all I made from this deal we did was ninety-one dollars?”

“Actually, you have a net loss. Your share of the money we borrowed to buy the Herefords comes to fifteen hundred dollars. Minus the ninety-one dollars and seventy-five cents, that leaves you with an obligation of one thousand, four hundred and eight dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you came over, Mr. Peters,” Quentin said. “How soon can I expect that money?”

“I—I don’t have fourteen hundred dollars,” Peters said.

Quentin stared at him for a long, hard moment.

“Well, now,” he said. “That does present you with a problem, doesn’t it? I mean, we all agreed, when we entered into this arrangement, to share in the profit, and to be responsible for the debt, in accordance with our ownership percentage.”

“But there is no profit.”

“Not yet. We are in the process of building now,” Quentin said.

“All right, it looks as if I have no choice but to remain in the corporation,” Peters said.

“Good, good, I was hoping you would decide that. How soon can I expect the money?”

“How soon? How soon does the loan have to be paid back?”

“It was a short-term loan,” Quentin said. “It’s due by the end of the week.”

“By the end of the week?” Peters gasped. “That’s impossible.”

“It was the only way we could get that much money that quickly,” Quentin said.

Peters shook his head. “I would have never agreed to anything like that.”

“Like I said, Mr. Peters, as eighty-seven-percent owner, I didn’t need your agreement. Now, when can I expect the money?”

“I don’t have that much money. Can’t you, personally, carry me for a little while?”

Quentin shook his head. “You do understand, don’t you, that I am obligated for eighty-seven percent of the debt? How much is that, Mr. Gilmore?”

“That is twenty-one thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars,” Gilmore said.

“I’m sure that you realize that twenty-one thousand dollars is an enormous amount of money. And I have to come up with it by tomorrow. I can’t carry you beyond tomorrow.”

“But what am I going to do?”

“You could sign over your interest in the ranch to me.”

“You mean, just give it to you?”

“You wouldn’t be giving it to me, you would be selling it to me for fifteen hundred dollars. And I will even let you keep the ninety-one dollars that was your share from the sale of the cattle.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Peters, that you have no choice,” Gilmore said.

“What about the others?”

“Baker and Gillespie? Unfortunately, they found themselves in the same boat as you,” Gilmore said. “They have already sold their interest back to Mr. Quentin. I suggest you do the same.”

“This isn’t right,” Peters said.

“It’s business, Mr. Peters. Business is a risk. Sign here.”

Peters stared at the piece of paper Gilmore pushed in front of him, then, after a long moment, affixed his signature.

“I will get your ninety-one dollars,” Gilmore said.

“No,” Quentin said, holding up his hand. “Mr. Peters has been a good neighbor. I hate it that this has happened to him. Give him one hundred dollars.”

“That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Quentin,” Gilmore said.

“I just wish it could be more,” Quentin replied.

Peters took the one hundred dollars, then left the house without saying another word.

Quentin stepped out onto the front porch to see Peters off. When he went back inside, Gilmore was putting all his papers away. “How do you think it went?” Quentin asked.

“That was the last of them. All the land they pledged to the corporation has now accrued to you, and that means that you own everything but Colby’s land. And, with the redirection of the water that has left him only one small creek, Colby won’t be able to hang on to that much longer.”

Quentin laughed. “I have to hand it to you, Gilmore. Only a lawyer could make stealin’ legal.”

“Oh, but it isn’t stealing, Mr. Quentin,” Gilmore replied. “It is all quite legal. That’s how I earn my fifteen percent.”

Quentin stood at the front window and watched as Gilmore drove away in his surrey. Turning away from the window, Quentin walked back over to the table where Gilmore had left the papers that turned all the other ranches in the valley over to the Tumbling Q Ranch and Cattle Company.

Gilmore had made a point to tell him that it wasn’t stealing. Quentin chuckled at the lawyer’s insistence upon legality. Quentin didn’t mind stealing if that was the only way he could get something. That’s how he got enough money to buy this ranch in the first place.

Ten years earlier, down in Texas, Pogue Quentin and three other men, Emil, Jason, and Stu Sinclair, had robbed a train. They waited alongside a water tower until the train stopped, then got the drop on the engineer and fireman. After that, they decoupled the express car from the passenger cars, and forced the engineer to take the express car a mile up the track before they let him stop. When the express agent tried to resist them, Pogue shot and killed him.

Killing the express agent wasn’t that hard to do. Pogue had ridden with Doc Jennison and the Kansas Jayhawkers during the Civil War. There were some who said that Jennison made Quantrill and his Bushwhackers look like Sunday school teachers. When the war ended, Quentin continued his raids, only now they were for personal gain. The train robbery in Texas was an example.

The train robbery netted five hundred dollars in cash. But because Quentin had set up the plan, he kept two hundred for himself, and gave one hundred to each of the other three.

The other three understood that the money would be divided that way and made no protest over the allocation of the proceeds. What they did not know, however, was the real reason Quentin had held up this particular train. Quentin knew that this train was carrying a bank draft worth fifteen thousand dollars, and that the draft could be negotiated by the bearer.

The Sinclair brothers also did not know Quentin’s name, since he identified himself only as “Joe.”

When Quentin went to Colorado, he cashed the draft, bought a ranch, then sent back to Wichita for his wife and eleven-year-old son. His wife died in the first year, leaving him with the responsibility of raising his son. It was not a responsibility he handled well. Billy Ray Quentin grew up almost like one of the feral cats on the ranch. Without the ameliorating influence of a mother or the concerned discipline of a father, Billy Ray was, as Quentin’s ranch foreman, Cole Mathers, once said, “as wild as an unbroken colt.”