they had lived.
Charlie Starr shook hands with Smoke and swung into the saddle. With a smile and a small salute, he rode out of Big Rock and into the annals of Western history. Smoke would see the famed gunslinger again…but that’s another story.
The
Colton Spalding remained the town’s doctor until his death in the 1920s.
Sally and Mona and Bountiful and Dana and Willow would live to “see the vote.” But, there again, that’s another story.
Judge Proctor returned and was named district judge. He lived in the area until his death in 1896.
The gold vein ran dry and all the miners left as peace finally settled over the High Lonesome.
The gold still lies in the ground on Smoke and Sally’s Sugarloaf. They never touched it.
The last store in Fontana closed its doors in 1880. The lonely winds hummed and sang their quiet Western songs throughout the empty buildings and ragged bits of tent canvas for many years; the songs sang of love and hate and violence and bloody gunfights until the last building collapsed in the 1940s. Now, nothing is left.
Danner and Signal Hill died out near the turn of the century, but the town that was once called Big Rock remains, and the descendants of Smoke and Sally Jensen, Johnny and Belle North, Pearlie, and all the others still live there…finally in peace.
But peace was a long time coming to that part of Colorado, for not all the gunslicks were killed that bloody day in Fontana. Those few that managed to escape swore they’d come back and have their revenge.
They would try.
It would be many more years before Smoke Jensen could hang up his guns for good. Many years before Smoke and Sally Jensen’s sons and daughters could live in peace. For Smoke Jensen was the West’s most famous gunfighter. And for years to come, there would be those who sought a reputation.
But before that, on a bright, sunny, warm, late-summer morning, Velvet Colby called out for her mother and for Johnny.
The newly wed man and woman ran to Velvet’s bedroom. Johnny North, one of the West’s most feared gunfighters, knelt and took the girl’s hands in his hard and calloused hands.
“Yes, baby?” he said, his voice gentle.
Velvet smiled. Her voice, husky from lack of use, was a lovely thing to hear. She had not spoken in months. “Can I go outside?” she asked. “It looks like such a beautiful day.”
And a gentle, peaceful breeze stirred the branches and the flowers and the tall lush grass of the High Lonesome…
…along the trail of the last Mountain Man.
REVENGE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
This book is pure Western fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. To the best of my knowledge, there are no towns in Colorado named Big Rock or Dead River.
Baudelaire
1
They had struck as cowards usually do, in a pack and at night. And when the man of the house was not at home. They had come skulking like thieving foot-padders; but instead of robbery on their minds, their thoughts were of a much darker nature.
Murder.
And they had tried to kill Smoke Jensen’s wife, Sally. When Smoke and Sally had married, just after Smoke almost totally wiped out the small town of Bury, Idaho, Smoke had used another name; but later, during the valley war around Big Rock and Fontana, he had once more picked up his real name, and be damned to all who didn’t like the fact that he had once been a gunfighter.
It had never been a reputation that he had sought out; rather, it had seemed to seek him out. Left alone as a boy, raised by an old mountain man called Preacher, the young man had become one of the most feared and legended gunslingers in all the West. Some say he was the fastest gun alive. Some say that Smoke Jensen had killed fifty, one hundred, two hundred men.
No one really knew for certain.
All anyone really knew was that Smoke had never been an outlaw, never ridden the hoot-owl trail, had no warrants out on him, and was a quiet sort of man. Now married, for several years he had been a farmer/rancher/horse breeder. A peaceful man who got along well with his neighbors and wished only to be left alone.
The night riders had shattered all that.
Smoke had been a hundred miles away, buying cattle, just starting the drive back to his ranch, called the Sugarloaf, when he heard the news. He had cut two horses out of his remuda and tossed a saddle on one. He would ride one, change saddles, and ride the other. They were mountain horses, tough as leather, and they stood up to the hard test.
Smoke did not ruin his horses on the long lonely ride back to the Sugarloaf, did not destroy them as some men might. But he rode steadily. He was torn inside, but above it all Smoke remained a realist, as old Preacher had taught him to be. He knew he would either make it in time, or he would not.
