Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Puma Buck glared at Smoke. “We rode on that infernal Iron Horse goin’ quicker than God ever intended man to go!” He sniffed and spit again. “I’ll tell you what, son, that’s the first time this old beaver’s been scairt in twenty years.”

  Joey laughed. “When was the last time ya was scairt, Mr. Puma?”

  Puma glanced at Joey and winked. “Back in the winter o’ fifty-three, when an injun squaw tole me she was gonna move into my lean-to, permanent!”

  André stuck his head out of the door. “Gentlemen, coffee is served.”

  The group sat around a large dining room table and helped themselves to mugs of André’s dark, rich coffee. Puma Buck took a tentative sip and made a face.

  André glared at the old mountain man. “You do not approve of my coffee, monsieur?”

  Puma took another drink and swished it around in his mouth. “Oh, it tastes jest fine, Mr. André. Right flavorful.”

  Smoke grinned. “The coffee is excellent, André, it’s just that Puma is used to mountain-man coffee. It’s a mite . . . thicker.”

  Puma nodded. “Like my old friend Preacher used to say, the secret to good cafecito is it don’t take near as much water as you think it do.”

  As the men laughed, Smoke said, “When a mountain man’s through drinking his coffee, he uses what’s left over to paint the side of his lean-to. It fills the chinks and keeps wind from whistling through the cracks.”

  Puma nodded, pursing his lips. “It does git a mite chill up in the high lonesome, boys.” His faded blue eyes twinkled and Smoke knew a tall tale was about to follow.

  “Why, jest last winter, another ol’ mountain man, Dupree, and I was sittin’ ’round the fire after a blizzard blew through, an’ it was so cold, we had to thaw our words out in a skillet ’fore we could hear what we was sayin’.”

  Cal’s eyes grew wide, “Jiminy,” he said in an awed voice.

  Puma glanced at him and smiled. “Yeah, it was so cold that winter, our piss froze ’fore it hit the ground.” He took a half-smoked cigar out of his pocket and lit the stub. “We had yeller icicles all ’round camp till the spring thaw.”

  After a few more stories of mountain lore, the men got serious. Smoke stood and said, “Thanks to our friends from Big Rock, the odds against us are a little better, but we’re still sitting ducks out here in the open. Now”—he leaned forward, both hands on the table—“here’s what I plan to do to even the odds a little more . . .”

  After he finished outlining his plans, Smoke took his visiting friends on a short tour of the ranch. He especially wanted them to become familiar with the terrain surrounding and near the ranch house itself. He led them through a small copse of trees off to the right, a pile of boulders less than a hundred yards from the house, and along a dry creek bed that ran from the left of the house out toward the barns and corrals.

  Puma looked around at what Smoke had shown them, then nodded as he recalled Smoke’s plan of defense for the ranch. “You got a tricky mind fer a young beaver, Smoke.” He lit a cigar and smiled through the smoke. “Ol’ Preacher’d be right proud of his young’un if’n he were here.”

  “Thanks, Puma,.” Smoke rode back to the ranch house but stayed on his horse as the others dismounted. “Joey, hold on a minute. Let’s you and me head on into Pueblo and have a talk with Ben to see what the latest is on Murdock’s men coming into town.”

  Louis said, “You want some company, Smoke?”

  “No, Louis. I’d just as soon not have anyone else in town see you. No need for Murdock to know we have help.”

  “Well, you ride with your guns loose, compadre. Murdock may have some men staked out in town just waiting for a chance at your back.”

  Smoke inclined his head at the short cowboy riding next to him. “Why do you think I asked Joey to ride along? Because of his good looks?”

  Joey grinned, rubbing the deep scar on his face. “Must be that, ’cause I cain’t cook worth a damn.”

  “If you all can get some of those traps and deadfalls and such ready, I’d appreciate it. There’s no telling how much time we have before Murdock gets tired of waiting.”

  Louis tipped his hat. “You got it, boss. We’ll stay out here miles from civilization and women and whiskey and cards and do all the dirty work while you go into town and have some fun.”

  Smoke just shook his head, chuckling as he and Joey rode off toward Pueblo.

  * * *

  When they reached the city limits, Smoke and Joey both reached down and loosed the rawhide thongs on their hammers. They knew they were riding into danger, for there were always cowards and back-shooters who wanted to earn reward money the easy way. Smoke intended to show them it wasn’t going to be as easy as they counted on.

  As they progressed down Main Street, both pair of eyes were constantly searching for the furtive move, the too-quickly averted face, the downcast eyes. Both also kept their eyes peeled for movement on rooftops and in darkened alleyways, favorite spots for ambushes.

  They reached Tolson’s office without incident and went inside. He was at his desk, poring over a stack of wanted posters and telegraph wires from other sheriffs in the surrounding states. He looked up quickly when they opened the door, his hand going automatically toward the short-barreled Greener on his desk.

  “Whoa there, Ben. It’s just us,” Smoke said with a smile. “Getting kinda jumpy?”

  Tolson grinned, sitting back in his chair and putting his feet up on his desk. “Grab a sit-down, boys. There’s coffee in the pot, but it might be a bit thick by now. It’s been cookin’ since noon.”

  Smoke said no thanks while Joey poured himself a cup. “Any news from our friend?” Smoke asked, sitting across from Ben in one of two straight-back chairs in front of his desk.

  Tolson nodded. “There’s been a steady stream of newcomers to town, some of ’em pretty rough-lookin’ characters. A couple, with faces I recognized on the posters here, I either sent away or run out of town. But it’s gettin’ so honest folk won’t hardly go into the saloon at all, and I stay away unless I got at least two deputies with me.”

  Joey frowned. “It gettin’ that bad, Ben?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Oh, it’s okay, I guess. The obvious gun hawks, the real ones with some experience, know not to make trouble in town. It’s the others that are gettin’ out of hand.”

  Smoke smiled, looking at Joey, who nodded. “You mean the young punks with the ivory-handled pistols with notches cut in the handles and an attitude like a dog with a sore paw?” Smoke asked.

  “Or the ones who walk around town pickin’ fights with store clerks and farmers, acting mean and nasty so everybody will know they’re tough?”

  Ben grinned. “I can see you have both had some experience with these idiots. Half the time I don’t know whether to laugh or to beat the shit out of the little snots.”

  Joey’s face grew serious. “You cain’t afford to take them too lightly, Ben. ’Member, a slug from an idiot will make you just as dead as one from an expert.” He shook his head. “Over the years, my ... notoriety has caused me to have to face down dozens of these young punks. I have tried my best not ta kill them, but they are usually too stupid to take a chance ta live if you give it to ’em.”

  Smoke looked out the window at the setting sun. “Ben, you have been working too hard. How about if Joey and I take you to the saloon for a couple of drinks, then over to the hotel for a steak about two inches thick?”

  Tolson arched an eyebrow. “You want to check out the saloon and see what riffraff is there now, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Smoke answered. “Sometimes a little show of force will save lives in the long run.”

  Tolson got his hat and Greener and walked with Smoke and Joey down the street to the saloon. As they approached, two men with unshaven faces and wrinkled, dirty clothes threw their cigarettes down and stepped into the saloon ahead of them.

  Joey said, “Uh-oh. We may have trouble.”

  Tolson asked, “Why
?”

  Smoke answered, having noticed the two men just as Joey had. “Those two men ducked into the saloon when they saw us coming. Now, they may just want a front seat for the action, or they may be getting set to hit us as we come through the front door, ’fore out eyes adjust to the lights inside.”

  Joey touched Tolson on the shoulder. “Ben, why don’t you and your Greener hurry up on ahead of us and slip in the back door to the place. Give a whistle if we need to come in with our hands full of iron.”

  He nodded and jogged on ahead of the pair of gunfighters, who continued to saunter down the street as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  At the batwings they paused, then, hearing no whistle, pushed through and in.

  The saloon was crowded, men standing elbow to elbow at the bar, and almost every seat at every table taken. The piano player was plunking his keys, looking nervously over his shoulder, sweat pouring off his forehead and staining his shirt.

  Smoke saw Tolson in the rear of the room, next to a post. He spread his arms and shrugged; he hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

  Smoke glanced at the second-story balcony, but there was no one there and all the doors he could see were shut. They would have ample warning if someone tried to step out of a door and shoot them from above.

  Joey looked around the room, his eyes passing over, then stopping and returning to the piano player, whose face looked like that of a man about to faint.

  Joey stepped a couple of feet to the side and said quietly, “Smoke,” and inclined his head to the piano man.

  Smoke nodded. “It doesn’t seem that hot in here to me, does it to you, Joey?”

  Joey shook his head. He pointed at the piano player and said, “Move aside, please.”

  The man dove off his bench just as two men rose up from behind the piano with guns in their hands. Before the two could pull triggers, both Joey’s and Smoke’s hands were full of iron and their Colts were exploding, spitting flame, smoke, and lead.

  The two men were both hit in the face and neck and chest, being thrown backward and up against a wall, where they slid to the floor, leaving trails of blood on the wall. Before the echoes of the shots had stopped, Smoke and Joey had holstered their guns and were taking seats at a table in a corner. The two men who were already seated at the table got hastily to their feet and walked to the bar, squeezing in among the men gathered there.

  Ben Tolson pushed through the crowd and took one of the empty seats next to Smoke. “How’d you men know they was there?” he asked.

  Smoke shrugged. “Instinct, I guess. The place was too quiet. Other than the piano playing, there wasn’t the usual talking and yelling you see when there’s a group of men getting seriously drunk.”

  Joey nodded. “They was all standing, staring, as if they was waitin’ fer somethin’ ta happen. When I saw the piano player was the only man in the place makin’ a racket, an’ he was sweatin’ to beat the band”—Joey shrugged too—“I figgered somethin’ behind the piano must be makin’ him powerful nervous.”

  Tolson shook his head. “Boys, I spent half my life on the owl hoot trail, and you two make me feel like I didn’t learn nothin’.”

  Smoke smiled a sad smile. “Well, it’s not exactly the kind of knowledge one is proud to have acquired.”

  Joey looked around at the other men in the saloon, then nudged Smoke with his elbow. “Would ya look at that, Smoke?”

  Smoke followed his gaze to a group of men at a table across the room. They were all wearing what they evidently thought rough and tough gunfighters ought to wear: fancy silk shirts in black and red, shiny boots with elaborate engraved designs in the leather, and double-holster rigs with pearl-handled or fancy carved butts on their pistols. A couple even had silver belt buckles and conchos on their hatbands.

  Smoke laughed out loud, turning to say to Joey, “They look more like San Francisco pimps than gunmen.”

  Joey cut a plug of Bull Durham and stuck it in his mouth. As he chewed, he smiled back. “You know, Smoke, over the years I met quite a few o’ the best shootists in the country.” He shook his head. “An’ ain’t one of ’em ever dressed like thet.”

  One of the men across the way, so young the mustache he was trying to grow looked like it had been chewed on by a rat, called out, “You gents see somethin’ you think is funny?”

  The saloon got suddenly quiet as everyone waited to see what would happen.

  Smoke said, “And who might you be, young man?”

  The skinny youth, acne still on his face, sat up straight and tugged at his vest. “I’m the San Francisco Kid.”

  This caused both Smoke and Joey to throw back their heads and guffaw uncontrollably.

  The San Francisco Kid stood up, hands next to nickel-plated Peacemakers in a double rig. “I don’t let nobody laugh at me, mister, especially not some old has-been gunslingers.”

  An older man sitting next to him stood up too. “And I think you owe this man an apology.”

  “And you are?” Joey asked, trying to control his grin.

  “Turkey Creek Bob Jackson.”

  Smoke sobered. He had heard of Jackson. He had a reputation as a man who enjoyed killing, especially when he could do it from behind. He was a bounty hunter, and always brought his men in across their saddles, usually shot in the back.

  Smoke and Joey got to their feet while Ben scooted his chair back out of the way. Smoke said, “I hear you should change your name to Back-shooting instead of Turkey Creek.”

  “Go for your guns, you old farts,” the Kid called, hunching his shoulders and spreading his fingers out, getting ready.

  Joey asked, “How much money ya got, Kid?”

  A puzzled expression came on his face. “Why?”

  Joey shrugged. “Just wanted to know if ya got enough on ya to pay the undertaker fer buryin’ ya.”

  The Kid looked around, eyes flicking over the crowd. “I ain’t gonna need buryin’, you are.”

  “How about you, Bob?” Smoke asked. “You earned any money by shooting someone in the back this week?”

  Bob began to sweat, realizing he had backed himself into a corner. “Wait . . . wait a minute.” He held out his hands, palms out. “This ain’t no affair of mine.”

  Smoke said, “Then you shouldn’t have bought chips if you didn’t want dealt into this hand. Now, slap leather, or drop your guns and crawl out of here on your yellow belly.”

  That was too much even for the coward named Bob. Both he and the Kid grabbed iron. Smoke and Joey fired their Colts at almost the same time, Joey’s shot hitting the Kid in the stomach and doubling him over, to sprawl facedown on the table. Smoke’s bullet hit Bob in the base of his throat, punching through and blowing out his spine, almost decapitating him. Neither of the men had cleared leather. Both their pistols were still in their holsters.

  Joey walked over and gently lowered the Kid to the floor. “What’s yore real name, Kid?” Joey asked as his eyes fluttered open.

  “Jesus, it hurts . . . it hurts so bad.”

  “Not for long, Kid, it’ll be over soon,” Joey whispered.

  “My name’s Sammy, Sammy Beaufort.” He reached up and grabbed Joey’s shirt. “Will you have someone wire my ma? She lives in Denver. Let her know . . . tell her . . .” The Kid’s eyes glazed over, staring at eternity.

  “Damn that Murdock,” Joey growled. He looked up at Smoke and Ben and his eyes were wet. “I thought when I settled with Vasquez, it’d be enough.” He shook his head. “Now he’s done made me kill this boy, all ’cause o’ that reward he put on our heads.”

  Joey stood and faced the crowd. “I tell all of ya, git the word ta Murdock. The next time I see him, I’m gonna dust him through and through, whether he’s heeled or not. There won’t be any talkin’ or jawin’, but the lead is damn shore gonna fly. Let him know!”

  Chapter 16

  On the way back to the Rocking C ranch, Joey and Smoke rode with their guns loose. They knew it was even money whether Murdock would have m
en posted on the trail back to Smoke’s ranch. Ben had offered to send some men with them, but they declined.

  “No need of putting your men in danger, Ben. We’re in this until it’s over and we can’t hide behind your deputies all the time.”

  “’Sides,” Joey said, sticking a plug of tobacco in his mouth, “Smoke and me can take care o’ ourselves pretty good.”

  Tolson grinned. “Damned if you can’t.” He stuck out his hand. “Ride easy, men, and watch your rear.”

  “Onliest way ta ride nowadays,” Joey answered.

  They stepped into their saddles and rode out of town at an easy canter, in no great hurry.

  As they rode, Smoke cut his eyes over at Red, Joey’s big roan stallion. “That Red is some animal, Joey.”

  Joey reached up and patted his mount’s neck. “Yeah, he is. He ain’t never let me down, an’ we been in some pretty tough spots together. He’s outrun an’ outlasted ever kinda animal from Indian ponies to Thoroughbred Morgans from England.” He grinned at Smoke, his teeth white under a full moon. “Long as he gits his grain, he’ll run till I tell ’im ta stop or his heart bursts, whichever comes first.”

  Smoke nodded. “Same with Horse here. He’s bred out of an old Palouse Preacher gave me name of Seven, but he’s got more bottom than most Palouse ponies and an easier gait for long riding.”

  Joey glanced at Horse. “Yeah, he looks ta be a mighty fine piece o’ horseflesh.”

  “When this is over, if we’re still upright, how about you letting me breed a couple of Palouse mares I’ve got back at Sugarloaf to Red? Might make some interesting colts.”

  “Only if you let me take one or two back to Texas with me.”

  “Deal,” Smoke said, “if you go back to Texas.”

  Joey’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed ta mean?”

  “Well, I thought when Betty and Tom are healed enough to travel, we might just bring them on up here and let them take a look at Colorado.” Smoke shrugged. “After all, I already have one ranch, and someone’s going to have to run the Rocking C after I leave.” He looked at Joey. “I figure you’d be the logical one for that job, if you’re interested.”