Torture of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Have you come to give yourself up, Joad? Is that why you are here?”

  “Give myself up?” Joad was quiet for a moment, then he nodded. “Well, now that you mention it, I reckon I am givin’ myself up. Only, that ain’t why I’m here. I’m here to warn you.”

  * * *

  “Drury Metzger,” Dalton said a few minutes later, after Joad had been put in a jail cell to await arraignment and trial. “I never did like that son of a bitch. And now we know that he’s working with Lanagan.”

  “Sounded to me like he’s more than just working with him. He’s kin,” Pearlie said.

  “Though, according to Joad, that relationship doesn’t mean all that much. Lanagan intends to kill him anyway.”

  “I’ll alert the town,” Dalton said. “Now that I have you two with me, it won’t be all that hard to raise a posse. We’ll be ready for them when they come into town, tomorrow.”

  “No,” Smoke said. “We can’t take a chance on that. Joad said the Lanagan gang plans to shoot everyone they see, women and children as well. I wouldn’t want to see that happen here.”

  “But, what else can we do?”

  “Joad told us where to find them,” Smoke said. “Pearlie and I will take the fight to them.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Dalton offered.

  “No. You’ve got Joad to take care of, and Drury Metzger.”

  “But there are four of them, and two of you.” Smoke smiled. “Yes, we don’t often get the odds this far in our favor.”

  * * *

  “The son of a bitch has turned on us,” Slater said, when he returned to the outlaw camp. Lanagan, Claymore, and McCoy were attentive listeners to his report.

  “Why would he do that, ’n turn his back on all that money?” McCoy asked.

  “There are rewards on all of us,” Lanagan said. “And if you was to add ’em all up, it would come to more ’n twenty thousand dollars. Plus he wouldn’t have to take a chance on gettin’ shot in the robbery.”

  “But hell, he was with us in Salcedo,” McCoy said. “Won’t he have to go to jail for that?”

  “They’ll more ’n likely drop that charge,” Lanagan said. “Or else they’ll give him a real light sentence ’n the reward money will still be there for him when he gets out.”

  “So, if he’s gone into town and told what we was fixin’ to do, what do we do now?” Claymore asked.

  * * *

  “There it is,” Smoke said, pointing to the little cabin that was set back from the creek by about fifty yards.

  “How are we going to take it?” Pearlie asked.

  “We’ll surround it.”

  “Surround it?” Pearlie chuckled. “Smoke, maybe you didn’t notice, but there are only two of us.”

  “Well, we will do what is known in military tactics as the ‘two man surround something’ maneuver.”

  Pearlie chuckled again. “Military tactics, huh? They teach that in West Point, do they?”

  “If they don’t, they should,” Smoke replied. “Work your way around back. Then send me a signal as soon as you are in position.”

  “How am I supposed to signal you?”

  “Use your knife to catch the sun. I’ll pick up the flash.”

  With a nod of agreement, Pearlie kept behind the tree line that bordered Turkey Creek, and hurried upstream until he found a way to move away from the stream until he was in a position that was even with the back of the cabin. A few more minutes of maneuvering put him about ten yards behind the building, with the advantage of a rock to provide both cover and concealment.

  Smoke caught the flash from behind the cabin, and using his own knife, he returned the flash.

  * * *

  “What was that?” McCoy asked.

  “What was what?” Lanagan replied.

  “I seen a flash comin’ from the crick.”

  “Sonofabitch! That fool deputy has raised hisself a posse!” Slater said.

  “No, he ain’t,” Claymore said. He was looking through the window. “There’s only one man out there.”

  “Are you sure there is only one man out there?” Lanagan asked.

  “I’m absolutely sure there’s only one.”

  “Who would be crazy enough to come out here by hisself?”

  Lanagan answered his own question, matched by Slater who spoke at the same time.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “Yeah, I seen ’im. He’s under that elm tree there.”

  “All right, ever’ one, aim at the base of the tree, ’n when I count to three, fire,” Lanagan said.

  The others pulled their pistols and aimed at the target Lanagan had pointed out to them.

  “One, two, THREE!”

  * * *

  Four bullets whizzed by Smoke’s head, concurrent with the sound of gunfire. Had he not repositioned himself a second after flashing the signal back to Pearlie, he would be dead by now. He was at least ten yards distant from where he had been when he sent the signal.

  “All right, boys,” Smoke said, quietly. “I was going to wait a bit longer before I opened the game, but you’re on.”

  Smoke had snaked his Winchester .44-40 from the saddle sheath a moment earlier, and now, as another coordinated fusillade emanated from the house, he raised up to one knee, lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired four times, jacking a new shell into the chamber before the echo of the prior shot had faded.

  Smoke also heard Pearlie joining into the fight from behind the cabin.

  The little valley exploded in gunfire and black powder fumes. Back in the lean-to stable, horses screamed and bucked in fear. All the windows in front of the cabin were shot out, and there were bullet holes in the wood.

  Then all shooting from inside the cabin stopped, and there were several seconds of quiet, before a rifle barrel was poked out through one of the broken windows. A white cloth hung from the end of the barrel.

  “Jensen? This is Lanagan.”

  “What do you want, Lanagan?”

  “I want to give up. The others is all dead. You done kilt ever’one but me.”

  “All right, come on out.”

  Still holding the rifle, Smoke walked out into a clearing so he could have a good view of the house.

  A tall man with a prominent scar on his left cheek came through the door. Smoke knew that the description he had been given, that this was Lanagan, though this was the first time he had ever seen him.

  Lanagan was holding the butt of his rifle on his hip, the barrel pointing up, with the white flag still attached. Smoke didn’t like the fact that he was still holding the rifle, and, as he saw the slightest twitch of a grin, he knew that something was wrong.

  “Now!” Lanagan called, and as he brought his rifle down to bear, three more armed men came rushing through the cabin door.

  Smoke had to made a quick decision. If he used the rifle, he would have to jack the lever up and down between every shot. And to be honest, he wasn’t certain how many bullets he had left.

  Throwing the rifle aside, Smoke made a lightning grab of his pistol, and he was firing as quickly as the four men were. The sudden and intense battle lasted no more than five seconds and was over even before Pearlie, who came running to the front of the cabin with his own gun in hand, had been able to join the fight. When the noise and the gun smoke cleared, four men lay in front of the cabin, two of them already dead, two more dying from their wounds.

  “Son of a bitch,” Lanagan gasped. “Son of a bitch, how did you do that?”

  EPILOGUE

  From the Audubon Eagle:

  JUSTICE HAS PREVAILED.

  Publius Horatius Cocles was an officer in the army of the ancient Roman Republic who stood alone at the Pons Sublicius defending the bridge from an attacking army.

  In a feat that would pay homage to Horatio at the bridge, the gallant Smoke Jensen fought and single-handedly defeated the iniquitous outlaws Clete Lanagan, Dingus Claymore, Edward Slater, and Seth McCoy.


  Having been told of the evil plans of the brigands by Vernon Joad, himself a recent member of the nefarious band of villains, Smoke Jensen knew where to find them, and in the ensuing engagement, made quick work of the four outlaws.

  From this same source of information it was learned that Drury Metzger, a banker in our fair city, was in league with Lanagan and the others, with the intent of relieving the bank of the rather substantial amount of money recently entrusted to its keeping by the Texas and Pacific Railroad. Metzger will soon be sent to that infamous Huntsville residence to serve a term of imprisonment which, no doubt, will be greater than that of Vernon Joad, for whom all expect will be treated with lenience, due to his conversion from iniquity to altruism.

  As a happy coda to the story, Dalton Conyers, but late a deputy sheriff here in Audubon, took as his bride Martha Jane Peabody in a gala wedding ceremony. Miss Tamara Conyers, who by recent adoption became Mr. Conyers’ sister, acted as bridesmaid. Mr. Calvin Wood, of Smoke Jensen’s entourage, stood in as best man.

  As articles and stories of the deeds of derring-do by Smoke Jensen continue to enlarge his already larger-than-life persona, it is hoped that this editor’s account of his heroics will but add another saga that can but increase his luster.

  Turn the page for an exciting preview!

  JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. PATRIOTS WELCOME.

  In this thrilling frontier saga, bestselling authors

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE and J. A. JOHNSTONE celebrate an

  unsung hero of the American West: a humble chuckwagon cook

  searching for justice—and fighting for his life . . .

  DIE BY THE GUN. LIVE BY THE GUN.

  With one successful cattle drive under his belt, Dewey

  “Mac” McKenzie is on a first-name basis with danger.

  Marked for death for a crime he didn’t commit and

  eager to get far away from the territory, he’s signed on as

  cattle drive chuckwagon cook to save his own skin—and

  learned how to serve up a tasty hot stew. Turns out Mac

  has a talent for fixing good vittles. He’s also pretty handy

  with a gun. But Mac’s enemy is hungry for more—and

  he’s hired a gang of ruthless killers to turn up the heat . . .

  Mac knows he’s a dead man. His only hope is to join

  another cattle drive on the Goodnight-Loving Trail, deep

  in New Mexico Territory. The journey ahead is even

  deadlier than the hired guns behind him. His trail boss is

  an ornery cuss. His crew mate is the owner’s spoiled son.

  And the route is overrun with kill-crazy rustlers and

  bloodthirsty Comanche. To make matters worse,

  Mac’s would-be killers are closing in fast.

  But when the cattle owner’s owner’s son is kidnapped,

  the courageous young cook has no choice

  but to jump out of the frying pan—and into the fire . . .

  NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  William W. Johnstone

  and J. A. Johnstone

  DIE BY THE GUN

  A CHUCKWAGON TRAIL WESTERN

  On sale now, wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dewey Mackenzie spun away from the bar, the finger of whiskey in his shot glass sloshing as he avoided a body flying through the air. He winced as a gun discharged not five feet away from his head. He hastily knocked back what remained of his drink, tossed the glass over his shoulder to land with a clatter on the bar, and reached for the Smith & Wesson Model 3 he carried thrust into his belt.

  A heavy hand gripped his shoulder with painful intensity. The bartender rasped, “Don’t go pullin’ that smoke wagon, boy. You do and things will get rough.”

  Mac tried to shrug off the apron’s grip and couldn’t. Powerful fingers crushed into his shoulder so hard that his right arm began to go numb. He looked across the barroom and wondered why the hell he had ever come to Fort Worth, much less venturing into Hell’s Half Acre, where anything, no matter how immoral or unhealthy, could be bought for two bits or a lying promise.

  Two different fights were going on in this saloon, and they threatened to involve more than just the drunken cowboys swapping wild blows. The man with the six-gun in his hand continued to ventilate the ceiling with one bullet after another.

  Blood spattered Mac’s boots as one of the fistfights came tumbling in his direction. He lifted his left foot to keep it from getting stomped on by the brawlers. A steer had already done that a month earlier when he had been chuckwagon cook on a cattle drive from Waco up to Abilene.

  He had taken his revenge on the annoying mountain of meat, singling it out for a week of meals for the Rolling J crew. Not only had the steer been clumsy where it stepped, it had been tough, and more than one cowboy had complained. Try as he might to tenderize the steaks, by beating, by marinating, by cursing, Mac had failed.

  That hadn’t been the only steer he had come to curse. The entire drive had been fraught with danger, and more than one of the crew had died.

  “That’s why,” he said out loud.

  “What’s that?” The barkeep eased his grip and let Mac turn from the fight.

  “After the drive, after the cattle got sold off and sent on their way to Chicago from the Abilene railroad yards, I decided to come back to Texas to pay tribute to a friend who died.”

  The bartender’s expression said it all. He was in no mood to hear maudlin stories any more than he was to break up the fights or prevent a disgruntled cowboy from plugging a gambler he thought was cheating him at stud poker.

  “Then you need another drink, in his memory.” When Mac didn’t argue the point, the barkeep poured an inch of rye in a new glass and made the two-bit coin Mac put down vanish. A nickel in change rolled across the bar.

  “This is for you, Flagg. I just hope it’s not too hot wherever you are.” Mac lifted the glass and looked past it to the dirty mirror behind the bar. A medium-sized hombre with longish dark hair and a deeply tanned face gazed back at him. The man he saw reflected wasn’t the boy who had been hired as a cook by a crusty old trail boss. He had Patrick Flagg to thank for making him grow up.

  A quick toss emptied the glass.

  The fiery liquor burned a path to his belly and kindled a blaze there. He belched and knew he had reached his limit. Mac had no idea why he had come to this particular gin mill, other than he was footloose and drifting after being paid off for the trail drive. The money burned a hole in his pocket, but Dewey Mackenzie had never been much of a spendthrift. Growing up on a farm in Missouri hadn’t given him the chance to have two nickels to rub together, much less important money to waste.

  With deft instinct, he stepped to the side as two brawling men crashed into the bar beside him, lost their footing, and sprawled on the sawdust-littered floor. Mac looked down at them, then let out a growl. He reached out and grabbed the man on top by the back of his coat. A hard heave lifted the fighter into the air until the fabric began to tear. Mac swung the man around, deposited him on his feet, and looked him squarely in the eye.

  “What mess have you gotten yourself into now, Rattler?”

  “Hey, as I live and breathe!” the cowboy exclaimed. “Howdy, Mac. Never thought our paths would cross again after Abilene.”

  Rattler ducked as his opponent surged to his feet and launched a wild swing. Mac leaned to one side, the bony fist passing harmlessly past his head. He batted the arm down to the bar and pounced on it, pinning the man.

  “Whatever quarrel you’ve got with my friend, consider it settled,” Mac told the man sternly.

  “Ain’t got a quarrel. I got a bone to pick!” The drunk wrenched free, reared back, and lost his balance, sitting hard amid the sawdust and vomit on the barroom floor.

  “Come on, Rattler. Let’s find somewhere else to do some drinking.” Mac grabbed the front of the wiry man’s vest and pulled him along into the street.

&nb
sp; Mayhem filled Hell’s Half Acre tonight. In either direction along Calhoun Street, saloons belched customers out to continue the battles that had begun inside. Others, done with their recreation outside, crowded to get back in for more liquor.

  Mac brushed dirt off his threadbare clothes. Spending some of his pay on a new coat made sense. He whipped off his black, broad-brimmed hat and smacked it a couple times against his leg. Dust clouds rose. His hair had been plastered back by sweat. The lack of any wind down the Fort Worth street kept it glued down as if he had used bear grease. He wiped tears from his cat-green eyes and knew he had to get away from the dust and filth of the city. It was dangerous on the trail, tending a herd of cattle, but it was cleaner on the wide-open prairie. He might get stomped on by a steer but never had to worry about being shot in the back.

  He knew better than to ask Rattler what the fight had been over. Likely, it had started for no reason other than to blow off steam.

  “I thought you were going to find a gunsmith and get some work there,” Mac said to his companion. “You’re a better tinkerer than most of them in this town.”

  Mac touched the Model 3 in his belt. Rattler had worked on it from Waco to Abilene during the drive and had turned his pappy’s old sidearm into a deadly weapon that shot straight and true every time the trigger was pulled. For that, Mac thanked Rattler.

  For teaching him how to draw fast and aim straight, he gave another silent nod to Patrick Flagg. More than teaching him how to draw faster than just about anyone, Flagg had also taught him when not to draw at all.

  Rattler said, “And I thought you was headin’ back to New Orleans to woo that filly of yours. What was her name? Evie?”

  “Evangeline,” Mac said.

  “Yeah, you went on and on, even callin’ out her name in your sleep. With enough money, you shoulda been able to win her over.”

  Mac knew better. He loved Evangeline Holdstock, and she had loved him until Pierre Leclerc had set his cap for her. Leclerc’s plans included taking over Evie’s father’s bank after marrying her—probably inheriting it when he murdered Micah Holdstock.