Code of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “The shooting appears to have stopped,” Moss said, looking toward the high peaks where they believed Smoke to be holed up.

  “That’s still a good day’s ride from here,” Mills said. “Let’s get cracking.”

  * * *

  The day dragged slowly on without another shot being exchanged. The outlaws and bounty hunters built fires for cooking and for warmth and waited for the night.

  Smoke was silent for a time, deep in thought. Finally he made up his mind. He looked at his wife. “I want you gone from here, Sally, while there is good light to travel. I don’t see the point in waiting for the night. It’s a pretty good bet that nearly all of the manhunters and outlaws are right down there below us. You should have an easy ride back to Rio. Louis, take her out of here.”

  “All right,” the gambler said. “I agree with you. But first let’s load you up full and get you all the advantage we can give you.”

  They had taken all the rifles from the saddle boots of the dead outlaws and bounty hunters, as well as a dozen pistols. They were all loaded up full and placed within Smoke’s reach. It would give him a tremendous amount of firepower before having to stop and reload.

  Louis slipped out behind the rock wall to saddle up the horses and give Smoke and Sally a few moments alone.

  “I’ll make one last plea and then say no more about it,” Sally said. “Come with us.”

  Smoke shook his head. “They’d just follow us, and we’d have to deal with it some other place. They’d probably even follow us back to the Sugarloaf or into town and that would get innocent people hurt or killed. So I might as well get it over with here and now.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “See you in Rio, honey.”

  “You better get there,” she told him with a forced grin. “ ’Cause if you don’t, I’m going to be awfully angry.”

  “Let’s go,” Louis called from behind the rock wall. “We’ve got some clouds moving in.”

  Smoke shook hands with the gambler, and then they were gone, the rock wall concealing their departure from the many blood-hungry eyes below them.

  Smoke put a fresh pot of coffee on to boil and gave the long fuses leading from his position to the dynamite a visual once-over. Everything seemed in order. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, and then rolled a cigarette and drank several cups of coffee. He knew it was going to be a very long and boring afternoon. But he was going to have to stay alert for any kind of sneak attack the outlaws might decide to launch at him.

  Twice he went back to check on his horse. The animal seemed well rested and ready to go. The last time, with about an hour of daylight left, Smoke saddled him up and secured his gear.

  As the shadows began to lengthen over the land, Smoke checked all his weapons. He could see the men moving toward him. A lot of men. He checked both flanks; men were moving in and out of the sparse timber and coming toward him. Still out of range, but not for long.

  Smoke emptied the coffee pot and kicked out the fire, leaving only a few smoldering sticks. He drank his coffee and pulled his .44-.40 to his shoulder, sighting a man in and gently squeezing the trigger. The rifle fired, and the man fell to his knees, tried to get up, and then pitched forward on his face. Smoke shifted positions and emptied one rifle into the thin timber on his left flank. A scream came from the shadowy scrub. He emptied another rifle into that area and several men ran out, one limping badly, all of them heading down as fast as they dared, getting out of range.

  Lead began howling off the rocks in front of him while others slammed into the logs behind him. Men began rushing from cover to cover, panting heavily in the thin mountain air. This high up, the heart must work harder. Smoke fired and one man did not have to worry about breathing any longer. The .44-.40 slug hit him in the face and tore off most of his jaw. He rolled and bounced his way down the mountain, leaving smears of blood along the way.

  Rock splinters bloodied Smoke’s face. He wiped the blood away and shifted to the other side, firing as he went, so the others would not know he was alone on the mountain.

  On the right side of his little fort, Smoke noted with some alarm how close the manhunters were getting. He looked straight down the mountain. Men were moving in on him, working their way from sparse cover to sparse cover ... but still coming. He ended the journey for two of them, head and neck shots. Smoke grabbed up a .44 carbine and began spraying the lead below him as fast as he could work the lever. That one empty, he grabbed up another and ran to the other side. The manhunters were getting closer. Too damn close. A slug ripped through the outside upper part of his left arm, bringing a grunt of pain.

  Time to go!

  He ignored the pain and ripped his shirt to see how bad it was. Not too bad. He tied a bandana around the wound, then picked up a smoldering stick and lit the fuses. Smoke ran behind the rock wall and grabbed the horse’s reins, running and leading the horse toward the narrow pass. He did not want to be in the saddle when the explosives went off. It was going to make a hell of a lot of noise, and the horse would be spooked.

  “I think we got him, boys!” a man yelled. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

  The outlaws and manhunters came screaming and yelling triumphantly up the mountain. When no shots greeted them, they began cheering and slapping each other on the back.

  The explosives blew, each charge five to ten seconds behind the other. One of Lee’s co-leaders, Horton, about seventy-five yards from the small fort, looked up in horror at the tons of rock cascading toward them. He put a hand in front of his face as if that alone would stop the deadly thunder. A watermelon-sized rock, hurtling through the air, took his hand and drove it into his head.

  His buddy, Max, seemed to be rooted to the mountain side, numbed with fear. He would forever be a part of the mountain as tons of rock buried him.

  Pecos and his gang of young punks had not advanced nearly so far as the others. Screaming in terror, they ran into the timber and were safe from the deadly cascade.

  McKay’s legs were crushed, and Ray was pinned under a boulder. Both lay screaming, watching their blood stain the ground and life slowly ebb from them.

  Lee Slater and his group, Al Martine and his pack of no-goods, and part of another team watched from below as the carnage continued high above them.

  Al lifted field glasses and grimaced as he watched through the thick dust as Sonny tried to outrun the rampaging tons of rock. He could see the man’s face was tight and white from mind-numbing fear. Sonny was swallowed by the rocks. All but one arm. It stuck out of the huge pile, the fingers working, opening and closing for a moment, a silent scream for help. The fingers suddenly stiffened into a human claw and stayed that way. As soon as the buzzards spotted it they would rip, tear, and eat it to the bone.

  Jere and Summers almost made it. They had lost their weapons and were running and falling and stumbling down the mountain. Their mouths were working in soundless screams, the pale lips vivid in their frightened faces. Several huge boulders hit a stalled rockpile and came over, seeming to gain speed as they traveled through the air.

  “Split up!” Al yelled. But his warning came too late and could not be heard over the now-gradually dying roar of the avalanche.

  The boulders landed square on the running men, squashing them against the rock surface of the mountain.

  Al Martine crossed himself and cursed the day he ever agreed to leave California.

  A bounty hunter known only as Chris turned to look behind him and tripped, falling hard, knocking the wind from him. “No!” he screamed, just seconds before the tons of rock landed on him. One boot stuck out of the now-motionless pile of stone. The boot trembled for a moment, then was still.

  Huge clouds of dust began drifting upward to join the night skies.

  “I’d a not believed no one man could have done all this,” Whit said, his voice husky from near exhaustion. He sank to his knees and put his hands to his face, trying to block from his mind all that he’d just witnessed.

  Mac came limpi
ng out of the dust, dragging one foot. Reed was behind him. He did not appear to be hurt.

  Luttie Charles, accompanied by his men, walked slowly up the slope to stand by his brother.

  “Incredible,” Luttie said, his voice small.

  They all cringed and jumped, some yelling and running away, as another dull thud cut the darkening day.

  “Musta been a pass back yonder,” Milt said. “And Jensen just blowed it.”

  Rod and Randy giggled.

  “Loco!” Lopez muttered.

  Luttie started counting. Thirty men left standing here out of nearly seventy. Maybe eight or ten bounty hunters still working the wilderness alone. He coughed as the dust from the avalanche drifted down the mountain. Luttie waved his people farther back.

  “We’ll make camp at the base down yonder,” he said, pointing. “Eat and rest and tomorrow we can take him.”

  “How you figure that?” his brother asked.

  “You’re forgetting, I know this country.” He turned to his foreman, and the man grinned.

  “I’ll take two of the boys and plug up the only hole out of that area,” the man said. “The gambler and the woman probably done made it out, but Smoke won’t try it at night – too dangerous. We got him now, boss. Pinned in like a hog for slaughter.”

  The lonely cry of a lobo wolf drifted to them, abruptly changing into the blood-chilling scream of a big puma.

  “Look!” the punk Peco yelled, pointing.

  At the crest of the mountain, the men could just make out the figure of a man, sitting his saddle. The scream of the puma came again.

  “It brings chills to my arms,” Pedro said. “He is calling like el gato. Daring us to come and get him.”

  Smoke screamed his panther scream again, the sound drifting and echoing around the mountains, touching all those who hunted him. A big puma answered the call, the scream fading off into the puma’s peculiar coughing sound.

  Martine and Pedro looked at each other, neither of them liking this at all.

  Smoke threw back his head and howled like a big wolf. It was so real that somewhere in the timber a big wolf replied, others joining in, lifting their voices in respect to a brother wolf.

  “I’ve had it,” Reed said. “The rest of you do what you want to, but as for me, I’m gone.”

  “You’re yeller! Jeff,” one of Peco’s punks sneered at Reed.

  Wrong thing to do.

  Reed palmed his .45 and put a hole in Jeff’s chest. The punk hit the rocky ground and died.

  “Anybody else want to call me yeller?” Reed said, jacking back the hammer of his pistol.

  No one did.

  “I’ll watch your back for you, Reed,” Dumas said. “You got a right to leave if’n’ you want to.”

  “Let me tell you all something, boys,” Reed said. “That man up yonder was born with the bark on. We’ve all hunted him, trapped him, cornered him, and he’s tooken some lead. Bet on that ...” He shivered as Smoke’s wolf howl drifted to them; it was soon joined by others. “Jesus God, I can’t stand no more of that. Makes my blood run cold. I think the man’s got some animal in him. Injuns think so.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “And he’ll probably take some more lead afore this is all over. You might get a bunch of lead in him. But you’ll all be dead, and he’ll be standin’ when it’s all over. Bet on it. And I will be too. ’Cause I’m leavin’. Goodbye.”

  Smoke howled again.

  The men looked toward the crest of the mountain.

  Smoke was gone, but his call still wavered in the air.

  “Where’d he go?” Crown asked, the question almost a cry of fear.

  No one replied. No one knew.

  Carbone lifted his hands and looked at them. They were trembling.

  Lopez noticed the trembling hands. “Si,” he spoke softly, in a voice that only Carbone could hear. “I understand. He is of the mountains, one with the animals, brother of the wolf.”

  “And us?” Carbone asked in a soft tone.

  “I think, amigo, that if we pursue the last mountain man, we are dead.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Smoke had approached the pass leading out of the valley very cautiously. He took his field glasses and squinted at the pass in the dim light the moon provided. The pass looked innocent enough, but warning bells were ringing in his head. He picketed his horse and approached the narrow pass on foot. The closer he got the more certain he became that the pass was guarded. He heard the faint whinny of a horse and stopped cold, listening. Another horse answered. Smoke began backtracking.

  He returned to his horse and removed the saddle. He took his small pack, two rifles, and his saddlebags, then turned the animal loose. There was plenty of water and good graze in the valley. If the horse never found its way out, it would live a good and uneventful life.

  Smoke returned to a spot near the mouth of the pass and rolled up in his blankets after eating a can of beans and the last of his now very stale bread. He slept soundly, awakening while the stars were still diamond-sparkling high above the mountains. He lay for half an hour, mentally preparing for the battle ahead.

  They had him trapped, but he had been trapped before. Smoke was outnumbered and outgunned. He’d been there before, too. He lay in his blankets and purged his mind of all things that did not pertain to survival. He’d had lots of practice at that. He became a huge, dangerous, predatory animal. He became one with the mountains, the trees, the animals, the rocks, and the eagles and hawks that would soon be soaring above him, looking for food.

  He came out of his blankets silently. He rolled his blankets in the ground sheet and left them. If the fight lasted more than one day, and he was forced to spend another night in the mountains, well, he’d been cold before. More than once in his life he had lain down on a blanket of leaves with only fresh-cut boughs covering him. He slung one rifle and picked up the other.

  He did not think of Sally or his children. He had no thoughts of friends or family. He forced everything except survival from his mind. He had told Louis where he had cached supplies and his horses. If he died in this valley, Louis would see to his stock.

  Just as dawn was streaking the sky with lances of silver and gold, Smoke Jensen, the last mountain man, threw back his head and screamed like an enraged panther.

  The chirping of awakening birds and chattering of playing squirrels ceased as the terrible scream cut through the forest and echoed around the mountains.

  Smoke was telling his enemies to come on; he was ready to meet them.

  * * *

  “My God!” Mills said, standing at the base of the mountain where so many men had died of gunshots and the avalanche. The sunlight was bright on the side of the slope, the rays reflecting off of dark splotches of dried blood.

  “The rumbling we heard yesterday,” Larry said.

  “Yes,” Moss replied, looking at the hands and arms and legs sticking out from under tons of rock. His eyes touched upon what was left of two men who’d been crushed under huge boulders, the boulders rolling on after doing their damage.

  “I can say in all honesty, I have never seen anything like this,” Winston said.

  “Do you suppose the fight is over?” Sharp asked.

  “No,” Albert called, squatting down off the rock face. “A group of men rode out of here. Heading that way.” He pointed.

  Mills consulted a map he’d purchased at the assayer’s office. “If Smoke is still behind this death mountain, he’s probably trapped. According to this, there is only one way in and one way out of that little valley. And you can bet the outlaws and bounty hunters know it and have sealed off the entrance.”

  “How far are we from the mouth of that pass?” Larry asked.

  “I’m not sure, but – ”

  The sounds of a shot echoed to them.

  “It’s started,” Hugh said.

  * * *

  Smoke opened the dance. His .44-.40 barked, the slug taking Dumas in the throat. The outlaw gasped and gurgled hor
ribly and died as he watched his life’s blood gush from the gaping wound.

  Smoke lay about seventy-five yards from the mouth of the pass and watched and waited with all the patience of a great puma sunning itself.

  “We got ourselves an em-pass-see goin’ here,” Tom Post said.

  “A what?” Lee asked.

  “We can’t go in, and he can’t come out.”

  Rod and Randy giggled.

  One-Eye looked at Morris Pattin and shook his head in disgust. Morris nodded his head in complete agreement.

  “We got to go in,” Luttie said. “We got to get him. It’s a matter of honor, now. We’re finished in this country. No matter what, we’re done here.”

  Ed and Curt exchanged glances and began crawling toward the mouth of the pass. They passed the bloody body of Dumas and tried not to look at it. Slowly, one by one, the others followed them, staying low on their bellies, offering Smoke no target. They knew that some of them were going to die breeching the mouth of that narrow pass. They also knew that once inside, they could track Smoke Jensen down and kill him. The money was unimportant now. Not even a secondary thought. Their honor was at stake. One man, Smoke Jensen, with a little help, had nearly destroyed a huge gang. He had to pay. That was their code.

  They understood it, and Smoke Jensen understood it.

  Bobby Jackson jumped up and ran toward the rocky mouth of the pass, firing as fast as he could work the lever of his rifle. Smoke put a slug into his belly, and the man folded up on the ground, his rifle clattering on the rocks.

  But four outlaws had worked a dozen yards closer to the entrance.

  A bounty hunter called Booker ran into the clearing and jumped for cover. He almost made it through unscathed. Smoke’s .44-.40 barked, and the slug hit Booker in the hip, turning him in the air. He hit the ground hollering in pain. But he was inside the valley and still holding onto his rifle.

  “Come on!” Booker shouted, and began laying down a withering fire, forcing Smoke to keep his head down.

  Tom Post, Martine, and Mac made it inside the valley and fanned out. Smoke saw them and backed up, crawling on his belly into a thick stand of timber. The other manhunters poured into the valley, sensing victory. That was very premature thinking on their part.