Code of the Mountain Man tlmm-8

by William W. Johnstone

  Jennings eased forward, his smile savage as he saw the just crushed foliage on the trail. He touched it; it was very fresh. Smoke Jensen was only minutes ahead of them. Just minutes away from being dead meat, and Jennings and Boots would be thousands of dollars richer.

  His left boot stepped over the trip" the right toe or his boot snagged it. Jennings experienced a savage blow in his belly, just below the V of the rib cage. Then the pain hit him. The most hideous pain he had ever experienced in his life. He forced his eyes to look down. He screamed at the sight A stake had been rawhided to the sapling. He had tripped a wire or something that had released the booby trap. The stake was now buried in his belly, his blood gushing out.

  “Jesus God!” Boots whispered as he crept around the dark trail and saw what Smoke Jensen had done.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Jennings wailed. “l cain’t stand the pain. Shoot me, Boots. Shoot me!”

  “Yeah,” Smoke’s voice came out of the thick vegetation beside the trail. “Shoot him, Boots.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Boots yelled, dropping to his knees on the old trail. “You ain't no decent human bein’. This ain’t fightin’ fair a-tall.”

  Smoke laughed at the protestations of the outlaw/murderer/rapist. His laughter was taunting.

  Jennings’ screaming was a frightful thing to hear. He stood in the center of the game trail, afraid to move, both hands clutching the bloody end of the stake.

  Smoke tossed a stick to his right. As soon as the stick hit the ground, Boots’s rifle barked three times, as fast as he could work the lever.

  Smoke laughed at his efforts.

  Boots cussed Smoke. Called him every ugly and profane and insulting name he could think of, anything to draw the man out where he could get a clear shot at him.

  Nothing worked.

  “You ain’t got no right to do this!” Boots yelled. “This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Jesus Christ, Boots,” Jennings moaned. “You got to help me. I cain‘t stand no more of this.”

  Boots thought hard for a moment. He knew there was nothing he could do for Jennings. He was dying before his eyes. Not even a doctor right now could save him. Blood was dripping from Jennings’ lips; that told Boots the stake had rammed right through the man’s stomach. The point of the stake was sticking out the man’s back.

  Jennings died before Boots’ eyes. The man’s legs were spread wide, and both hands held onto the end of the stake. The thick sapling kept him in an upright position.

  Boots didn’t know what the hell to do. He knew that Smoke was over yonder, just ahead and to his right . . . at least the last time he’d laughed he was. But the way the man moved, hell, he might be anywhere by now.

  Boots got down on his belly and started crawling away from the bloody scene. He was scared; he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. A thrown stick landed just a few inches from his nose, and Boots almost crapped his longhandles.

  “Wrong way, Bootsie,” Smoke called.

  “Stand up and fight me like a man, goddamn you!” Boots yelled. “Give me a chance.”

  “The same kind of chance you gave those little girls you raped and tortured and scalped and killed, Bootsie?”

  “I didn’t scalp nobody! That was Dolp what done that. And you done kilt him.”

  “I’m going to kill you, too, Bootsie.”

  “I surrender!” Boots shouted. “I give up. You got to take me in for a trial. That’s the legal way.”

  “I’m a wanted man, Bootsie,” Smoke said with a chuckle. “I’ve got murder warrants out on me. That’s why you boys are chasing me. To collect those thousands of dollars. Now how in the hell can you surrender to me?”

  Boots silently cursed. Didn't do no good to cuss out loud. Jensen wasn’t gonna be rattled by that. Boots knew he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He could shuck his guns and stand up, his hands in the air. But as sure as he done that, Jensen would probably gut—shoot him. He knew how Jensen felt about criminals.

  He was a thug and a punk and a lot of other sorry—assed things-—he knew that, wasn’t no point in makin’ excuses for what he’d done-but Boots was a realist, too. He knew damn well he was a dead man anyway it went. “I’m a gonna stand up, Jensen,” he called. “My rifle's on the ground. My gun’s in leather. We’ll fight this out man to man. I’ll . . .”

  He screamed in fright as a hard hand closed around one ankle and jerked just as he was standing up. Boots hit the ground, belly-down, knocking the breath from him. Something with the strength of a bear flipped him over and tore the gunbelt from his waist. He watched belt and guns go sailing into the woods.

  He looked up into the cold brown eyes of Smoke Jensen. God, the man was big.

  “Get up,” Smoke told him.

  Boots crawled to his moccasins and watched as Smoke smiled at him and lifted his hands, clenching them into big leather-gloved fists. Boots grinned. Bare-knuckle, stomp and kick fighting was something he liked. He might have a chance after all.

  “Okay, Jensen. Now you’re playin’ my game. I’m a-gonna stomp you into a greasy puddle.”

  Smoke hit him flush in the mouth and knocked him up against the bloody body of Jennings. Boots recoiled in horror and lunged at Smoke, both fists flailing the air.

  Smoke hit him a combination left and right that staggered the outlaw and pulped his already split lips. Boots shook his head and tried to clear it. But Smoke pressed him hard, not giving him a chance to do anything except try his best to cover up.

  Boots held his fists in front of his face. ‘Smoke hammered at his belly with sledgehammer blows. Boots felt ribs crack and knew that Jensen was going to beat him to death. He tried to run. Smoke grabbed him by his dirty shirt collar and threw him back onto the trail.

  “Get up and fight, you yellow bastard,” Smoke told him.

  Boots crawled to his feet, wondering if Smoke was going to kick him. That’s what he would have done if it had been Jensen on the ground. He started to raise his fists, and Smoke drove a right through his guard and flattened his nose. Blood and snot flew from his busted snout, and Boots backed up against a tree as his eyes watered and his vision turned misty.

  He heard Smoke say, “This is for those little girls back on the trail, Boots. For that poor woman and that man you sorry lumps of shit used for target practice.”

  Pain exploded in wild bursts in Boots’ chest and belly and sides as Jensen pounded him unmercifully. Ribs popped and splintered like toothpicks. The last thing Boots would remember for awhile was those terrible cold eyes of Smoke Jensen.

  He knew then why people called him the Last Mountain Man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Al Martine and his bunch came upon Jennings and Boots in the midafternoon. Several of the outlaws lost their lunch when they found them.

  Boots screamed hideously when the outlaws tried to move him.

  ‘Jensen busted all his ribs,” Al said, a coldness touching his guts. “Them ribs is probably splintered into his innards.” He looked down at Boots. “There ain’t nothin’ we can do for you, Boots.”

  “Shoot me,” Boots whispered.

  Al just looked at him. “We’ll get Jensen for you, Boots. That’s a promise.” Boots whispered something. “I can’t hear you, Boots. What’d you say?”

  “Give it up,” Boots said through his pain. “Leave the gang. Leave the mountains. Go to farmin’, or something. It you’re gonna outlaw, git a thousand miles away from Jensen. He’s a devil. Leave him alone.”

  “You don’t mean that?” Zack said. “That’s just your pain talkin’.”

  “Don’t you want revenge?” Lopez asked.

  Boots grinned a bloody curving of the lips. “Hell, boys. That ain’t gonna do me no good. I’m dead.” And he died.

  Since none of them had shovels, they wrapped Boots Pierson and Harry Jennings in their blankets and covered them with branches. None of them had a Bible, either. The outlaws just stood around and looked at each other for a time. The gang of you
ng punks rode up just as the last branch was put on the pile.

  “Taylor’s dead,” Pecos announced. “Blood poisonin’ kilt him, I reckon.” ,

  “This ain’t workin’ out like we planned, Al,” Crown said. “This was supposed to be an easy hunt. Ever’ day we’re losin’ two, three men to Jensen or Charlie Starr. Another week and there ain’t gonna be none of us left.”

  “Yeah,” Lopez said. “And Jensen could be Injunin’ up on us right now."

  All of them quickly found their mounts and hauled out of there. They rode until they came upon Ray’s group and brought them up to date.

  “A stake through his belly?” Keno said, his voice filled with horror. He shuddered. “Jesus, man, that ain’t no fair way to fight no fight.”

  Concho said, ‘Jensen ain’t playin’ by no rulebook.”

  “Did we ever?” Pedro asked softly in an accented voice. “Unlike the rules set forth in lawbooks and courts of formal law, Jensen is giving us what we have given so many other people over the years. The way I see it, there is only two things we can do: continue the hunt until we kill Jensen or he kills us, or turn tail and run away.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ from Jensen,” the young punk Concho said, swelling out his chest. “I think I can take him in a stand-up shoot-out.”

  “You are a fool,” Lopez told him bluntly. “I have seen Jensen work. He is smooth, my young friend, and very, very quick. His draw is a blur that the eyes cannot catch.”

  “I’m faster,” Concho said.

  Lopez shook his head and said no more. Let the young punk find out for himself, he thought. When he challenges Smoke Jensen, he will have a few seconds of life left him to ponder his mistakes as the gunsmoke clears, and he rides to Hell.

  “It’ll be dark in a few hours,” Al said, looking up at the sky. “And it’s gonna rain. Let’s get back to the base camp and tell Lee what happened.”

  Smoke sat in his lean-to and drank his coffee and ate his early supper. He felt that outlaws being what they were, he would be reasonably safe from search in the cold, pouring rain. They would be too busy staying dry to look for him.

  But he still carefully put out his fire before he rolled up in his blankets and closed his eyes.

  Since Mills and his marshals were going to stay a spell where they were, they made. their camp a secure and snug one, using canvas "and limbs. The quarters were close together, with a cooking area just in front, easily accessible to all.

  “This should bring the killing to a halt for a time,” Mills said, looking out at the driving rain. “Maybe,” he added. “I don’t approve of what Smoke is doing, but I understand why he’s doing it.”

  “There is a strange code out here,” Albert said. “One that I’m sure our fathers swore to —at least to some degree.”

  “Or swore at,” Sharp said.

  “Probably a little of both.” Harold poured a cup of coffee and stared out at the silver-streaked gloom of late afternoon.

  “Even after all this is said and done,” Winston said. “We’re still going to have to enforce the law once the warrants you requested on all those outlaws arrive.”

  “Yes,” Mills said. “The San Francisco office is supposed to be getting them to Denver by train, then stagecoach to Rio. I requested them to be posted to the local marshal’s office. I’ll ride into town in a few days and check. By that time, I hope all this .. . nonsense concerning Smoke will be over.”

  The deputy U.S. Marshals looked at each other. They hoped the same thing. None of them wanted to confront Smoke Jensen with an arrest warrant. None of them knew if they would even try to do that. Aside from the fact that he was the most famous gunslinger in the West, they all genuinely liked the man.

  Most of the miners within a forty-mile radius of the fight had left the mountains and descended on Rio. They didn’t want to be caught up in the middle when the lead started flying. As it was, many of them had been close enough to hear the shots from Smoke and Charlie’s guns. And from the guns of the outlaws.

  Made a man plumb edgy.

  Louis’ saloon and gambling hall had been erected —due in no small part to the fact that Louis paid three times what others did for workmen. A smaller building had been built in the rear; this housed the kitchen, living quarters, and a privy attached to the building for maximum comfort and privacy. Cotton was on duty on the streets, and Louis and Johnny sat in the rear of the big wood and canvas saloon and talked in as low tones as the drumming of the rain overhead would permit. Earl was out of town.

  “You heard that miner over yonder, Louis,” Johnny said, cutting his eyes to a miner who had just come into town and was now sucking on a mug of beer. “What’d you think?”

  “As near as I can figure —discounting the inevitable exaggeration—Smoke and Charlie have killed seven or eight of Slater’s gang, and a couple of bounty hunters. This storm will probably blow out of here sometime tonight—it’s raining too hard to keep this up long—so the hunt will resume tomorrow. Slater has to be getting frustrated, and frustration leads to desperate and careless acts. Smoke is fighting several fronts, and using varying tactics, including guerrilla warfare. Guerrilla warfare is a nasty business. It’s demoralizing for those on the receiving end of it. Slater’s people and the bounty hunters will be shooting at shadows from now on. And it’s going to be just as dangerous in those mountains for Smoke and Charlie as it is for the outlaws and bounty hunters. Smoke will take some lead in this fight, my friend. I don't see how he can avoid it, and I would imagine he has already mentally prepared himself for it.”

  Johnny listened to the rain beat against the canvas for a moment. “Seems like trouble has been on Smoke’s backtrail nearabouts all his life. Ever since I’ve known him—and years before that—all Smoke wanted was to be left alone to run his ranch, love his wife and kids, and live in peace. He changed his name and hung up his guns for several years, but no man should have to do that. That just isn’t right. He never wanted the reputation of gunfighter. Never got a dime out of any of them Penny Dreadful books or plays about him. He didn’t want the money. But he’s a man that won’t take no pushin’. Man pushes Smoke, Smoke’ll push back twice as hard as he got. Them mountains best be cleaned good by this rain, ’cause come the mornin’, they’re gonna run red with outlaw blood.”

  The terrible storm raged over the mountains and then trekked east. Before dawn, Smoke was wide awake and looking at a star—filled sky. It was still dark when he broke camp, picked up his heavy pack, and headed down out of the high lonesome to face the ever—growing numbers of bounty hunters and the Lee Slater gang.

  “Come on, boys,” he muttered to the chattering squirrels and the singing birds. “Let’s get this over with. I want to get back to Sally and the Sugarloaf.”

  A rifle cracked and bark stung the side of his face. Smoke hit the ground, struggled out of his pack, and wormed his way forward, the .44-.40 cradled in his arms.

  “I seen him go down!” a man yelled.

  “Down is one thing,” another voice was added. “Out is another. Jensen’s hard to kill.”

  “Move out,” a third voice ordered. “But watch it. He’s tricky as a snake.”

  Three men, Smoke thought. Bounty hunters or outlaws? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. Man comes after another man for no valid reason, that first man better be ready to understand that death is walking right along beside him.

  “Where is the bastard?” the shout echoed through the lushness of timber.

  Smoke saw a flash of color from a red and white checkered shirt, and put a .44-.40 slug in it. The man screamed and went down, kicking and clawing. Lead sang around Smoke’s position, whining and howling as fast as the hunters could work the levers on their rifles. Smoke stayed low, and the lead sailed harmlessly over his head.

  “Oh, God!” the wounded man moaned. “My shoulder’s broke. I can’t move my arm.”

  Smoke watched as a hand reached up and shook a bush, trying to draw his fire. He waited. The hand rea
ched up again and exposed a forearm. Smoke shattered the arm. The man screamed in pain. Smoke fired again, and the man’s screaming choked down to silence.

  “Back off, john,” a voice called. “He’s got the upper hand now.”

  “What about Ned?” a pain—filled voice called.

  “Ned’s luck ran out.”

  Ned, Smoke thought. Ned Mallory, probably. A bounty hunter from down New Mexico way. He lay still and listened to the two men back off and move through the brush. After a few minutes, he heard their horses’ hooves fade away. He made his way to Ned and stood over the dead man. His first slug had broken the man’s forearm; the second slug had taken him in the throat. It had not been a very pleasant way to die. But what way is?

  Smoke refilled his .44 loops with the dead man’s cartridges and left him where he lay. He was not being unnecessarily callous; this was war, and war is not nice any way one chooses to cut it up.

  He figured the shots would draw a crowd, and he headed away from that location, but every direction he walked, he saw riders coming before they saw him.

  Smoke cussed under his breath. “All right,” he muttered. “If this is the way it’s going to be, all bets are off. I can’t fight any other way.”

  He lifted his .44-.40 and blew a man out of the saddle, the slug taking him in the center of his chest.

  “Over yonder!” another man yelled, pointing, and Smoke sighted him in. The man moved just as he squeezed the trigger, and that saved his life, the slug hitting his shoulder instead of his chest. The rider managed to stay in the saddle, but he was out of this hunt, his arms dangling uselessly by his side.

  A round stung Smoke’s shoulder, drawing blood, and another just missed his head. Smoke emptied another saddle, the rider pitched forward, his boot hanging in the stirrup. The horse ran off, dragging the manhunter.

  Smoke slipped back into the timber and jogged for several hundred yards before he was forced to stop to catch his breath. He chose a spot where his back and his left flank would be protected and rested. He could hear the sounds of horses laboring up the grade.