Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  Pearlie chuckled. “He’s so proud of that wound, he’s even taken to working with his shirt off so’s the other punchers kin see that ugly ol’ scar. Guess he wants ’em to know he’s a genuine pistoleer.”

  Cal, blushing furiously, said, “Shut yore mouth, Pearlie! I don’t neither!”

  Smoke grinned to himself. From the way the two cowpokes jawed at each other, you’d never guess they were best friends. Such was the way of the West and of the boys who grew to be men too fast.

  “Why,” Pearlie continued, unwilling to let the teenager off so easy. “I reckon at the next Fourth of July picnic in Big Rock he’ll be parading around bare-chested, askin’ all the young ladies if’n they wanna touch his famous scar.”

  “Pearlie, I swear to God, I’m gonna whup you if’n you don’t shut yore trap!”

  Smoke’s grin faded as he cut his eyes to the side, peering from under his hat brim. He slowed his big Palouse stallion, Horse, to a walk and without saying anything reached down and slipped rawhide thongs off the hammers of his Colt. 44s, then leaned forward to loosen his Henry repeating rifle in its saddle boot.

  Pearlie noticed Smoke’s actions and sat straighter in his saddle, pulling his Stetson down tight. “Trouble, Smoke?”

  “Maybe.” He glanced right and left, eyes searching the tree line on either side of the meadow they were riding across. “I saw a reflection off a glass in those trees to the right, and something flushed a covey of quail out of that copse of trees to our left. I hope you boys are loaded up six and six.”

  Cal and Pearlie both began to survey the nearby forest as they loosened pistols in their holsters.

  “We need to get to cover. When I give the word, spur your mounts toward that tank up ahead.” He inclined his head at a small pond used to water cattle that lay a hundred yards distant. It had been dug by hand and was surrounded by an embankment of earth several feet high on all sides. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had.

  After a moment Smoke leaned forward and shouted, “Now! Shag your mounts, boys!”

  The three men lay over their saddle horns and rode hell bent for leather just as a group of riders broke cover on either side of them, puffs of smoke and distant pops of gunfire ringing out to break the stillness of the morning air.

  As their horses strained and grunted, sweat flying from their bulging muscles, hooves throwing clods of dirt into the air, a rifle bullet whined overhead, slapping Pearlie’s hat off. “Goddamn son of a bitch,” he growled through gritted teeth, blinking his eyes against sweat running off his forehead.

  They didn’t slow as their broncs jumped the embankment, splashing into the shallow waterhole. They shucked rifles from saddle boots and dove out of their saddles to sprawl against the covering wall of dirt, Smoke on one side, Cal and Pearlie on the other. Small geysers of soil exploded as bullets slammed into the ground around them, stinging eyes and faces.

  Smoke flipped his Henry over the edge of the mound, cocking and firing so fast, the booming of the big gun sounded as one roar. As Cal and Pearlie returned fire, the air filled with billowing clouds of cordite and their ears rang from cracking explosions of their rifles.

  Six men rode hard toward Smoke’s side, firing rifles and pistols over their horses’ heads. Smoke’s first shot took the lead rider full in the chest, punching through, blowing out his spine, and catapulting him backward off his mount. Smoke’s second shot missed, but his third caught another rider in the face, exploding his head into a fine red mist, killing him instantly. As the other three bushwhackers turned their broncs to the side to escape his withering fire, Smoke blasted two of them out of their saddles to lie writhing among the wildflowers, staining them with blood and guts.

  The other two riders finally got their horses turned and were hightailing it for the cover of the trees, leaning almost flat over their saddle horns, trying to get to safety.

  Smoke, oblivious to the lead peppering the ground around him from behind, scrambled to the top of the dirt ridge and took careful aim, elevating the barrel of his long gun until its bead was a foot above one of the fleeing gunmen. Taking his time, he gently caressed the trigger and squeezed off a final shot, grunting as the big Henry slammed back into his shoulder. Three seconds later, the ambusher straightened in his saddle, flinging his arms wide before toppling to the side to lie unmoving in the dirt. The other rider glanced over his shoulder to watch his comrade hit the ground, but didn’t slow his mount as it disappeared into the tree line.

  Two more explosions rang out behind Smoke before he heard Pearlie growl, “Got ya, ya son of a bitch. That hat cost me two dollars.”

  Cal said, “That’s it for this side, Smoke. We dusted ’em all.”

  Smoke turned, eyes narrowed against the morning sun. “You boys all right?”

  “Well, goddamn!” said Pearlie, looking at Cal, who had a red stain on his left shoulder where a bullet took a chunk out of his left arm. “Cal, I swear, boy, you a regular magnet fer lead.”

  “It’s okay, it’s jest a scratch,” Cal replied as he reloaded his Colt Navy pistol.

  Pearlie stepped to his side and began to tie his bandanna around the wound. “Shit, Smoke, now we’ll never git this boy to wear a shirt!”

  Smoke punched cartridges into his Henry until it was full. He looked around at the bloody corpses surrounding them. “Pearlie, you and Cal go check those galoots and make sure they’re all dead. I’ll take this side.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  Smoke shrugged. “See if you can find out why they jumped us and who sent them.” He eared back the hammer on the Henry and climbed out of the waterhole, walking slowly toward the five men lying nearby. His eyes searched the trees, but there was no sign of the one who got away.

  Only one of the gunmen Smoke shot was still alive. He had a bubbly red froth on his lips and a gaping wound on the right side of his chest, indicating a shot lung. Smoke crouched next to him, slapping his face gently until he opened his eyes.

  “Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen,” he croaked through wet lips. “You done kilt me.”

  “Not yet, cowboy, but you’re close. Why’d you draw down on me and my men?”

  “Fer the money.” He moaned and touched his wound, then raised his hand to see the blood covering it. Turning fear-widened eyes to Smoke, he whispered, “It’s funny, Jensen. I’m hit hard, but it don’t hurt much.”

  Smoke frowned. “It will if you last long enough. What money are you talking about?”

  The gunny coughed once, grimacing as the pain began. “Jesse found a paper on you in New Mexico. Said you was worth ten thousand alive er dead.” He coughed again, said, “Oh, Jesus . . .” and died, empty eyes staring at eternity.

  Smoke reached down and fingered his eyes shut, sighed, and walked over to the first man he shot. He lay on his back, arms flung wide, dead face looking somehow surprised. Smoke pulled a folded paper from the ambusher’s shirt pocket. He wiped bloodstains off on the man’s shirt and spread it open. It was a wanted poster dated several years before. There was a drawn picture of a younger Smoke Jensen on it and the offer of a reward of ten thousand dollars for his capture, dead or alive.

  Smoke shook his head. The fools, he thought, this poster was recalled years ago. It was just after Lee Slater and his gang shot up Big Rock, the town Smoke founded, and wounded Smoke’s wife, Sally. Smoke chased them up into the piny San Juan Mountains. A judge back east, related to Slater, issued a phony warrant on Smoke, causing a passel of bounty hunters to go up into the mountains after him. Smoke came down out of those peaks alone—the bounty hunters stayed up there, where they had died. U.S. marshal Mills Walsdorf got the warrant declared null and void, and the papers were supposed to have been recalled. 2

  Smoke snorted. “I guess they missed of few of those posters. I wonder how many more are out there, drawing bountiers to me like flies to molasses.” He walked slowly across the meadow toward the waterhole, detouring slightly to make sure the other three gun hawks were d
ead. Cal and Pearlie had rounded up the men’s horses and were waiting for him when he got there.

  “Any survivors?” Smoke asked.

  “Naw,” Pearlie answered, “they’s all dead as yesterday’s news.”

  “You want us to bury ’em, Mr. Smoke?” Cal asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “No, winter storm’s coming soon. Wolves and coyotes got to eat, same as worms. Leave ’em where they lie.” He removed his hat and ran his hands through his sand-colored hair. “Far as I can see, they don’t deserve the sweat of honest men.”

  He slipped his Henry into its saddle boot. “Put dally ropes on those broncs and we’ll take them back to the ranch house.“ He looked at the horses as he swung into his saddle. ”They’re a sorry lot, but they’ll do as spares in the remuda.” He pointed at the bodies. ”Cal, while Pearlie’s getting the horses ready, why don’t you round up those outlaws’ pistols and rifles and ammunition. No need letting them lay out here to rust.”

  * * *

  It was almost dusk when they arrived at Smoke’s cabin. Cal and Pearlie saw to the horses and guns and Smoke went into the house. His wife, Sally, wiped her hands on her apron and threw her arms around Smoke’s neck, hugging him tightly. She stiffened, stepped back, and wrinkled her nose. “You stink of gunpowder. Did you have some trouble?”

  He unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on a peg next to the door. “A little.” He handed her the wanted poster with his picture on it. “A few bounty hunters thought they’d get rich the easy way.” He grinned at her when she looked up from reading the paper. “They found out it wasn’t so easy after all.”

  Sally’s eyes turned toward the bunkhouse. “Are Cal and Pearlie all right?”

  “Cal got a minor wound in his shoulder. Pearlie says it’ll give him another scar to brag about.”

  She frowned. “Smoke Jensen, you go get that boy right now and bring him back over here. I’ll boil some water and dress his wound so it doesn’t get infected.” She turned, saying to herself, “If I know you men, you just wrapped a dirty old bandanna around it.”

  Smoke turned quickly to hide his smile. “Yes, ma’am.” He walked out the door to fetch Cal. Over the years, Sally had patched up more bullet wounds than most doctors, a good many of which had been on Smoke himself.

  * * *

  That night, as they got ready for bed, Sally asked, “What are you going to do about those men who died?”

  “I’ll ride into Big Rock in the morning and report it to Monte Carson. I need to have him wire New Mexico and see if any more of those posters are still out there.”

  Chapter 3

  It was a typical fall Saturday in Big Rock, Colorado. The town was full of cowboys from nearby ranches come to spend their wages and raise hell. Louis Longmont sat at his usual table in the saloon he owned, playing solitaire and drinking coffee. A piano player with garters on his sleeves was plinking in a corner, and two tables had stud poker games going, with stakes too small to interest Louis. Several hung-over cowpokes were trying to force down steak and eggs without much enthusiasm, faces haggard and eyes bloodshot from too much whiskey the night before. Cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air like morning fog, giving the room a gloomy atmosphere in spite of the bright sunshine outside.

  Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man with strong, slender hands and long fingers. His nails were carefully manicured, and his hands clean. His hair was jet black, and he sported a pencil-thin mustache. He was dressed as usual in a black suit, with a white shirt and dark ascot—the ascot something he’d picked up on a trip to England a few years back. He wore low-heeled boots, shined until they glistened, and carried a pistol hung low in a tied-down holster on his right thigh; it was not for show alone, for Louis was snake quick with a short gun. A feared, deadly gunman when pushed, he preferred to make his living teaching would-be gamblers how to lose their money at poker when they failed to correctly figure the odds.

  He reached an impasse in his game and threw his cards down in disgust, looking up as the batwings were flung wide. A man entered slowly, stepping to the side when he got inside, so his back was to a wall. He stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the saloon. Louis recognized the actions of an experienced pistoleer: how the man’s eyes scanned the room, flicking back and forth before he proceeded to the bar. The cowboy was short, about five feet nine inches, Louis figured, and was covered with a fine coat of trail dust. He had a nasty-looking scar on his right cheek, running from the corner of his eye to disappear in the edge of his handlebar mustache. The scar had contracted as it healed, shortening and drawing his lip up in a perpetual sneer. His small gray eyes were as cold and deadly as a snake’s, and he wore a brace of Colt. 44s on his hips, tied down low, and carried a Colt Navy. 36 in a shoulder holster. Louis, an experienced gunfighter himself, speculated he had never seen a more dangerous hombre in all his years. He looks as tough as a just-woke grizzly, he thought.

  As hair on the back of his neck prickled and stirred, Louis shifted slightly in his seat, straightening his right leg and reaching down to loosen the rawhide thong on his Colt, just in case.

  The stranger flipped a gold double eagle on the bar, took possession of a bottle of whiskey, and spoke a few words in a low tone to the bartender. After a moment the barman inclined his head toward Louis, then busied himself wiping the counter with a rag, casting worried glances at Louis out of the corner of his eye.

  The newcomer turned, leaning his back against the bar, and stared at Louis. His eyes flicked up and down, noting the way Louis had shifted his position and how his right hand was resting on his thigh near the handle of his Colt. His expression softened and his lips moved slightly, turning up in what might have been a smile in any other face. He evidently recognized Louis as a man of his own kind, a brother predator in a world of prey.

  Louis watched the gunman’s eyes, thinking to himself, this man has stared death in the face on many occasions and has never known fear. With a slow, deliberate motion, his gaze never straying, Louis picked up his china coffee cup with his left hand and drained it to moisten his suddenly dry mouth, wondering just what the stranger had in mind, and whether he had finally met the man who was going to beat him to the draw and put him in the ground.

  The pistoleer grabbed his whiskey with his left hand and began to saunter toward Louis, his right hand hanging at his side. As he passed one of the poker tables, a puncher threw his playing cards down and jumped up from the table with a snort of anger. “Goddamned cards just won’t fall for me today,” he said as he turned abruptly toward the bar, colliding with the stranger.

  The cowboy, too much into his whiskey to recognize his danger, peered at the newcomer through bleary, red-rimmed eyes, spoiling for a fight. “Why don’t you watch where yer goin’, shorty?” he growled.

  The gunman’s expression never changed, though Louis thought he detected a kind of weary acceptance in his eyes, as if he had been there many times before. In a voice smooth with soft consonants of the South in it, he replied, “I believe ya need a lesson in manners, sir.”

  The drunken cowboy sneered. “And you think yore man enough to give me that lesson?”

  In less time than it took Louis to blink, the pistoleer’s Colt was drawn, cocked, and the barrel was pressed under the puncher’s chin, pushing his head back. “Unless ya want yore brains decoratin’ the ceiling, I’d suggest ya apologize to the people here fer yore poor upbringin’ and fer yore mama not never teachin’ ya any better than to jaw at yore betters.”

  The room became deathly quiet. One of the other men at the table moved slightly, and the stranger said without looking at him, “Friend, ’less ya want that arm blown plumb off, I’d haul in yore horns till I’m through with this’n.”

  Fear-sweat poured off the cowboy’s face, and his eyes rolled, trying to see the gun stuck in his throat. “I’m . . . I’m right sorry, sir. It was my fault and I—I apologize fer my remarks.”

  The gunman stepped back, holstered his Colt, and glanc
ed at a wet spot on the front of the drunk’s trousers. “Apology accepted, sir.” His eyes cut to the man at the table, who had frozen in position, afraid to move a muscle. “Ya made a wise choice not ta buy chips in this game, friend. It’s a hard life ta go through with only one hand.” Without another word he ambled over to stand next to Louis’s table, his back to the wall, where he could observe the room as he talked.

  “Ya be Mr. Longmont?”

  Louis nodded, eyebrows raised. “Yes, sir, I am. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “I be Joseph Wells, ’though most calls me Joey.”

  At the mention of his name, the men at the poker table got hastily to their feet and grabbed their friend by his arm and hustled him out the door, looking back over their shoulders at the living legend who almost curled him up.

  Louis didn’t offer his hand, but smiled at Wells. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wells.” He nodded at an empty chair across the table from him. “Would you care to take a seat and have some food?”

  Wells scanned the room again with his snake eyes before he pulled a chair around and sat, his back still to a wall. “Don’t mind if’n I do, thank ye kindly.”

  Louis waved a hand, and a young black waiter came to his table. “Jeremiah, Mr. Wells would like to order.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied as he looked inquiringly at Wells.

  “I’ll have a beefsteak cooked jest long enough ta keep it from crawling off’n my plate, four hen’s eggs scrambled, an’ some tomaters if’n ya have any.”

  The boy nodded rapidly and turned to leave.

  “An’ some cafecito, hot, black, and strong enough to float a horseshoe,” Wells added.