Cold.
Smoke opened his eyes and for one panicky moment felt he was blind. But it was dried blood that had caked his eyes shut. He dug the blood away with as little movement as possible, not wanting to draw attention. His entire left side hurt, and the right side of his head throbbed with pain. But not his left side. Curious. He wondered how that could be?
When his vision cleared, he realized just how bad his position was.
He was lying on a ledge that jutted out a few yards from the face of the ravine. It was about a five hundred foot drop to the bottom. Smoke looked up and guessed that he’d fallen no more than fifteen or twenty feet. When he hit, the bedroll had protected his head. That was why only the bullet-creased side ached. When he hit, he had rolled against the face of the cliff, protected from eyes above by a little outcropping of rock. He was stiff and sore and bruised all over ... but he was alive.
He lay still for a moment, going over his problems, and they were many. He rolled over on his stomach and had to stifle a groan of pain as his torn and bruised body protested.
The ledge snaked around a bend. He had no idea what lay around that bend. He had no rope to aid in his climbing out. He had no idea how badly hurt he might be. He had no idea how far the ledge ran. If he stayed where he was, he would die. It was that simple. If he tried to climb out, the odds of his making it were slim to none.
But he damn sure was going to try.
Food. He had to eat. He fumbled around in his saddle bag and found some hard crackers. He ate them, drank a swallow of water left in his busted canteen, and felt better. If I felt any worse, he thought with dark humor, I’d be dead.
Smoke wriggled around on the ledge, being very careful not to get too close to the edge, for the rock looked very flaky and unstable there. On his belly, he checked his guns which had stayed in leather thanks to the hammer thongs. The guns were dirty, and he carefully cleaned them, working the action and reloading. He checked the knife on his belt and the shorter-bladed knife in his leggings. Both were still in place and both still sharp enough to shave with.
Smoke was tired, so very, very tired. He would have liked to just lay his head on his arm and go to sleep. Maybe just rest for a few moments. He shook himself like a big shaggy dog. No time for rest. He felt for his pocket watch and was not surprised to see it busted, the hands stopping at eleven-thirty-five. He judged the time to be close to four, maybe four-thirty. He didn’t have all that much daylight left him.
Taking a deep breath, he crawled forward. Wouldn’t it be interesting, he thought, to come face to face with a mountain lion on this narrow trail with a five hundred foot drop below?
He decided it would not be interesting. Just deadly for one of them.
He crawled on, smiling at what faced him a few yards around the curve in the trail. The mountain pass ended, but it did not end sheer; it ended in an upside down V. Now, if there were just sufficient handholds or jutting rocks that were stable, he could climb out. It was only about twenty feet to the top, and he could hear no sounds above him except the sighing of the mountain winds. He reached the end of the narrow ledge and rested for a time. God, he was worn out.
Smoke crawled to his knees and put one foot on the other side of the narrow gorge. He willed himself not to look down. The slight protruding of rock felt secure under his foot, and he leaned forward, gripping two outcropping, one in each hand. He lifted his left foot to a toehold about two feet off the trail, and now he was committed to the mountain.
It took him twenty minutes to climb about twenty feet, and using brute strength while dangling over a five hundred foot drop was not something he wished to repeat. Ever.
When he crawled over the top he was exhausted. If he had not been wearing leather gloves, he probably would not have made it; the rocks would have cut his hands to bloody ribbons. He belly-crawled into a copse of timber and rolled up in his blankets. He had to rest.
* * *
“Can you believe this?” Mills almost shouted the words, as he waved a court order that was hand-delivered to him that afternoon.
“Yeah, I can believe it,” Johnny said. The marshals and the deputies had returned to town after the court order had been delivered.
Judge Richards had obviously pre-signed pardons for all the outlaws in the Lee Slater gang. The order had just been found and delivered.
“I turned all the jailed outlaws loose,” Earl said. “I thought Sheriff Silva was going to have a heart attack.”
It was midnight in Rio, and the town was sleeping. The outlaws were due to ride in the next day, as soon as the reward money was stagecoached in on the afternoon stage, to collect their blood money. And outlaws being what they are, they were also going to collect the reward money that had been on the heads of their now departed friends.
“The end of an era,” Larry said, soaking his feet in a bucket of lukewarm water. “I would have liked to have met Mr. Smoke Jensen, to shake his hand and tell him how wrong I was about him.”
“Don’t sell Smoke short,” Louis said. “I’ll not believe he’s dead until I see the body.”
“But he fell off a mountain!” Mills said. “Or rather down into a deep chasm.”
“Yes,” the gambler said. “And chasms and ravines have outcroppings that are not always visible from above. I don’t believe he’s dead.”
“Neither do I,” Johnny said. “Hurt, yes. Dead?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Sally?” Earl asked.
“I don’t think she believes it either.”
“I aim to be in the street when them outlaws ride in tomorrow,” Johnny said.
“Me, too,” Cotton said.
“I’ll be with you boys,” Earl made three.
“I shall certainly be there,” Louis said, standing up.
“Count me in,” Larry surprised them all. “I owe this much to his memory. I certainly maligned the man while he was alive.”
Six U.S. Marshals’ badges hit the desk. “And we shall be standing with you,” Mills said.
“Gonna be a hell of a party,” Cotton summed it up with a wicked grin.
* * *
Smoke awakened at midnight. He was aching and sore, but feeling a lot better. His clothes were stiff with dried blood and mud and sweat, but his hands opened and closed easily. He rolled his blankets and started walking. Less than an hour later, he found a riderless horse, still saddled and bridled. Probably had belonged to one of the dead outlaws or bounty hunters. He stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and let it graze and roll while he went through the saddlebags and poke-sack and found food, coffee, frying pan, and coffee pot.
He checked out the rifle in the boot; it was loaded full with .44s. He led the horse back behind some boulders and picketed the animal. Then he built a fire and fried bacon and potatoes and made a pot of coffee. Being a coffee-loving man, he drank the coffee right out of the pot while his food was cooking, then he settled down and ate leisurely and drank more coffee out of a cup.
An hour later, he had carefully put out the fire and was in the saddle, riding for the pass. The pass was deserted when he rode through it. On the other side of the pass, however, he could see where it looked like hundreds of people had held a wild party. Empty beer kegs and empty whiskey bottles lay all over the place.
“I wonder if they were celebrating the news of my death?” he muttered, then rode on.
He came upon what appeared to be a dead man lying by the side of the road that led to Rio. He dismounted and knelt down beside him, rolling him over. Not dead, just dead drunk. Smoke slapped him awake.
The man opened his eyes and started to scream when he recognized the man standing over him. Smoke put a hand on the man’s mouth, shushing him.
“Don’t yell,” he told him. “You understand?”
“But you’re dead!” the man said, after Smoke removed his hand.
“I’m a long way from being dead,” Smoke corrected him. “Do I look dead to you?”
“No. But you shore look s
ome terrible tore up.”
“Tell me what went on back by the pass.”
The man brought Smoke up to date, still convinced he was conversing with a ghost.
“I see,” Smoke said, when the man had finished. “You’re going to freeze to death if you lay out here the rest of the night.”
“It don’t seem to have bothered you none! ’Sides, I got me a claim about a mile from here. I can make it, providin’ I don’t run into no more ghosts.”
Chuckling, Smoke left the man and rode on. Just about ten miles outside of town, Smoke found a good place to camp and bedded down for the rest of the night. He slept deeply and awakened well after dawn, feeling at least part of his enormous strength once more returning to him. He did a few exercises, copied after a great cat’s stretchings, to get the kinks out of his muscles, then cooked the last of the dead outlaw’s food and boiled the last of the coffee.
He pulled out his makin’s sack and rolled a cigarette, enjoying that with the last cup of coffee. He found a spare sixgun in the saddle bags and dug out the two extra he had in his pack. He checked them all out and loaded them up full, then checked the rifle again.
He talked to the horse for a moment before saddling up, and the horse seemed eager to ride. He wondered if Louis had gone back and gotten his horses. He would soon know.
He had traveled about three miles, he reckoned, when the sounds of galloping horses reached him, coming up fast behind him. He pulled off into timber and waited.
The Lee Slater gang, Luttie with them, along with One-Eyed Jake and his bounty hunters. Smoke wanted them to get into town and have one good drink of whiskey before he threw down the challenge.
He stopped to water his horse, and as he knelt down to drink, he was shocked at the reflection staring back at him. His face was bloody and cut and swollen. His hair was matted with dried blood from where the slug had grazed him – on both sides. He looked like something out of Hell.
Which was fine with him. The gunhands better get used to Hell, ’cause that’s where Smoke intended to send them.
Chapter Twenty-two
Smoke reined up and dismounted at the edge of town. He looked up at the sun. Directly overhead. High noon. He pulled saddle and bridle off the horse and turned it loose to water and roll and graze.
Smoke loosened his guns in leather, then stuck the extra .44s behind his gun belt, the fifth .44 jammed down into his legging, right side. He waved a burly, bearded man over to him.
“Yeah?” the man asked, walking over to him. He took a long second look, his mouth dropping open. “Holy Christ!” the man whispered.
“Clear the streets,” Smoke told him.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke. Ever’body said you was dead!”
“Well, I’m not. I just look it. Move.”
The miner ran toward the marshal’s office and threw open the door, and almost got himself shot for that rash act. “Whoa!” he cried, as Johnny, Louis, Earl, and Cotton jerked iron. “I ain’t even carryin’ no sidearm. Smoke Jensen just rode into town. He’s up yonder.” He pointed. “He looks like death warmed over. But he said to clear the streets. He’s all muddy and bloody and mean clear through. Got guns a-hangin’ all over him.”
“Hot damn!” Earl said.
“I’ll run tell Charlie!” Mills said. “Sharp, take the men and clear the streets of people and horses.”
Louis pointed a finger at Cotton. “Go to Sally. Tell her the news.”
“I’m gone!” Cotton ran from the office.
“This is Smoke’s fight,” Louis said. “But we can keep a eye out for ambushers and back-shooters.”
The men took down sawed-off shotguns, stuffed their pockets with shells and stepped out of the office. The main street was already deserted.
Luttie was lifting his second glass of rye to his lips when the wild scream of an enraged panther cut the still, hot air. He spilled half his drink down his shirt-front.
“Jesus Christ!” Tom said.
“It can’t be!” Pecos shouted, frantically brushing at his crotch where he’d dropped his cigarette. “He fell off a damn mountain.”
Rod and Randy giggled.
Dan Diamond looked at One-Eyed Jake, disbelief in his eyes.
Frankie Deevers loaded up his guns full.
Martine’s fingers were trembling as the cry of a panther changed to the howling of a lobo wolf. He crossed himself and stood up.
Charlie Starr chuckled in his bed and propped a couple of pillows behind him, then lifted the canvas and tied it back. He pulled out his long-barreled six-guns and checked them.
Sally smiled and put on a pot of coffee. Smoke would want a good strong cup of coffee when this was over. She knew her man well.
Larry Tibbson loaded up a sawed-off express gun and took a position near the center of the boom town.
The stage rolled in, the driver and guard taking a quick look at the deserted street. “Oh, my God!” the driver said, his eyes touching on the tall bloody man standing at the end of the long street. He threw the strongbox and mail pouch to the ground and yelled at his horses to get gone.
Mills tore open the mail pouch and jerked out a letter, quickly scanning it. With a yell of excitement, he jumped up and said, “Here it is! The warrants against Smoke Jensen have been dropped. It’s signed by the President of the United States!”
“Damn that President Arthur!” Luttie said.
Morris Pattin stepped out of the barber shop where he’d just had a haircut and a bath. He brushed back his new coat, freeing his guns, and walked up the street toward Smoke Jensen. He was shocked at the man’s appearance. Jensen looked like something out of hell.
“I’ll take you now, Jensen,” he called.
“You’ll kiss the devil’s behind before you do,” Smoke told him, then lifted his rifle in his left hand and drilled the bounty hunter from a hundred yards out.
The slug hit the manhunter in the center of his chest, and Morris was down and dying without ever having a chance to pull iron – not that it would have done him a bit of good at that distance.
Sally moved the coffee pot off the griddle and decided she would wait a few minutes before dumping in the coffee. She wanted Smoke to have a good hot fresh cup of coffee.
Charlie caught movement by the edge of a building and jacked back the hammer on his old six-gun. It would be a good shot for him, but he figured he could do it. He smiled as he recognized the gunfighter from down Yuma way. Couldn’t think of his name. Didn’t make no difference; the gravedigger could just carve “Yuma” on the marker.
Yuma lifted his rifle and sighted Smoke in. Charlie took him out with a neck shot at seventy-five yards.
“Damn good shootin’,” Charlie complimented himself, as Yuma slumped to the dirt. “I’d a not done ’er with one of them new short-barreled things.”
Photographers had quickly set up their boxy equipment, filled the flash-trays, and were ready to record it all for posterity.
Smoke stepped out of the street and ducked into an alley.
Tom Post looked up and down and all around. “Where’d he go?” He asked Lopez. The men were in the general store, pricing new suits of clothes they planned to buy with the reward money. Or steal them, now that the shopkeeper and his woman had locked themselves in the storeroom.
“Right behind you,” Smoke said calmly.
Tom and Lopez turned, jerking iron.
They were far too slow.
Smoke had leaned the rifle up against a counter and stood with both hands filled with Colts, the Colts spitting lead and belching fire and gunsmoke.
Lopez took two rounds in the chest, dropped his guns, staggered backward, and fell out one of the big storefront windows. He crashed to the boardwalk and lay amid the broken glass, kicking and cursing his life away.
Tom was doubled over with two slugs in his belly. He fell to the floor and lay moaning. Smoke kicked the man’s gun away and reloaded his own. He took a sawed-off shotgun from the rack and broke it open, shoving in she
lls and filling his pockets from the open box.
“You a no good sorry son!” Post groaned.
“Don’t lose any sleep over it,” Smoke told him, then stepped out to the back of the store.
The young punk Bull, from Pecos’ gang, was running up the alley, wild-eyed, cussing, and both hands full of guns. Smoke let him have both barrels of the sawed-off twelve gauge. The buckshot lifted the punk off his boots and sent him crashing into an open-doored outhouse. The punk died sitting on the hole, crapping into his pants.
Smoke punched fresh rounds into the Greener and walked on, pausing when he heard the sounds of someone running.
Curt Holt rounded a corner, running as hard as he could, his hands full of six-guns. He slid to a halt and lifted them. Smoke blew what was left of him – after the man took two rounds of buckshot at pointblank range in the guts – through a window of someone’s living quarters behind a saddleshop.
“Good Jesus Christ!” he heard someone shout from inside. “What a mess.”
“I believe Mr. Jensen is very upset,” Larry muttered to Sharp, who had joined him.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” the U.S. Marshal said.
In the saloon, Rod and Randy giggled insanely, Rod saying, “Come, brother. We’ll put an end to this nonsense.”
Johnny North was waiting on the boardwalk. As soon as the brothers stepped through the batwings, Johnny started shooting, cocking and firing in one long continuous roar of thunder and smoke. The Karl Brothers did a macabre dance of the dying on the boardwalk as they soaked up lead. Randy fell into a horsetrough and died with both arms hanging over the sides. Rod lay draped over a hitchrail. He giggled as he died.
Dewey and Gooden, freshly released from jail, stepped out into the street and yelled at Johnny, knowing his guns were probably empty.
Louis stepped out of his gambling hall, his eyes hard. He emptied his guns into the pair. They lay in the dust, their outlawing days over.
Reporters were scribbling and photographers’ flashpans were puffing as they recorded it all for their readers back East.
The foreman of the Seven Slash stepped into the alley and faced Smoke, both hands hovering over the butts of his guns. “You ain’t got the balls to drop that Greener and drag iron with me, Jensen.”
Code of the Mountain Man Page 22
