Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hold on a minute, Bill!” Pete Woods cried, pointing down the river. “Listen to Floyd yonder. He’s hurt real bad, an’ he needs somebody to go an’ fetch him outta that water.”

  Bill aimed a hard-eyed look at Pete. “You go fetch him out, if you want,” he said. “I ain’t gonna make no target out of myself. Floyd can figure his own way out.”

  “He’s just shot in the leg!” Pete protested.

  Bill had grown tired of the useless banter. “You could get shot in the head if you run down there, Pete. This was a chance every one of us took when we decided to rob them banks. Men get bullet holes in ’em sometimes when they take what ain’t theirs. But if you’re so damn softhearted, you ride right on down to that river an’ lend Floyd a hand.”

  “Sure seems hard,” Pete said, quieter.

  “Robbin’ folks of their money ain’t no church picnic,” Bill said.

  Pete lowered his head, unwilling to challenge Bill over it any longer.

  Bill rode off in the lead, and beyond the lip of the riverbank he could hear Floyd crying out for help. It reminded him of the war, when no one had been there to save all the brave soldiers from Missouri or Tennessee when they begged for assistance.

  Someone near the loaded pack animals began to gag, and Bill knew it was the kid, Stormy Sommers. He ignored the sound, and spoke to Buster. “High time some of the little boys learned a thing or two about robbery. If it was easy, every son of a bitch who owned a gun would take up the profession.”

  Buster sounded a touch worried. “Don’t leave us with but nine men, Bill.”

  “Nine?” Bill asked, his voice rising. “You don’t think nine men stack up right?”

  “Whoever’s doin’ the shootin’ at us has been real good, or real lucky, today,” Buster answered.

  “Luck is all it is,” Bill said.

  Another rifle shot boomed from across the river, and Bill pulled his horse to a stop, turning his head to listen. He heard another painful cry coming from the Cimarron.

  “Damn! Damn!”

  It was Pete Woods’s voice.

  “Pete was dumb to ride down there so soon,” Buster said with his head turned toward the sound. “He shoulda waited for a spell to see if things was clear.”

  “We don’t need no careless men,” Bill announced to the men around him. “Pete wasn’t thinkin’ straight, or he’d’ve knowed to wait, like Buster said.”

  Stormy continued to gag, gripping his sides. Bill’s nerves were on edge, and he had to do something to calm them. “Shut the hell up, Stormy, or I’ll kill you myself. If you ain’t got the stomach for robbin’ banks, then ride the hell away from here—an’ do it now!” Bill’s right hand was on the grips of one revolver when he said it.

  “We’re all gonna die,” Stormy whimpered. “That feller who’s followin’ us ain’t no ordinary man.”

  Bill didn’t want Stormy’s fear to infect the others. He took out his Colt .44, cocked it, and fired directly at Stormy’s head.

  Stormy’s horse bolted away from the banging noise as he went off one side of it. He landed with a grunt, falling on his back, staring up at the stars.

  “Anybody else don’t like the way I’m runnin’ things?” Bill asked defiantly.

  When not another word was said, he reined his horse to ride east, spurring his horse to a trot. He hadn’t wanted to kill any more of his own men, like he’d had to do when Lee Wollard pulled that damn fool stunt inside the bank, hitting the banker so hard it knocked him out. But there were important things for men to learn if they aimed to stay outside the law, and one was when to take orders and follow them to the letter. A leader couldn’t run a military outfit any other way.

  Keeping his men and their precious cargo well out of rifle range from the far side of the Cimarron, Bill led his men east at a gallop, determined to make a crossing into the Nations as soon as he felt it was safe. . . .4

  * * *

  “What happened next, Floyd?” Lazarus asked.

  “Well, when I saw Pete Woods hit whilst tryin’ to get me outta the water, an’ then Bill an’ the others ride off into the darkness, I knew I was done for. I managed to crawl an’ swim to the bank, and put my leg up on a rock so’s the bleedin’ would slow down.”

  He paused to refill his whiskey glass, his voice hoarse from all the talking.

  “After about ten minutes or so, this real tall galoot ridin’ with another, younger man, ’bout my age, comes crossin’ the Cimarron as cool an’ unconcerned as if he were out for a ride to enjoy the evenin’ air. He says his name’s Smoke Jensen, an’ he proceeds to take his bandanna off and wrap it around my leg, tyin’ it down real tight.”

  “Why didn’t he just finish you off right then?” Blackie Jackson asked, his head cocked to the side.

  Floyd shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. It’s sure what Bill woulda done. Anyways, he tells me to get on over to Dodge City and give myself up to Marshal Wyatt Earp, ’cause he’s gonna go on after Bill an’ the others.”

  “And he expected you to do that?” Lazarus asked.

  Floyd nodded. “Yep. He said if’n he got back to Dodge an’ I wasn’t there, he’d hunt me down an’ kill me.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Damn straight! That’s why I agreed to join this little party of yours. I’ve been lookin’ over my back ever since I broke outta jail, just knowin’ he was gonna be standin’ there some day, lookin’ down at me over the sights of his Colt.”

  Floyd shook his head. “I gotta finish this with Jensen, one way or another, so I can quit watchin’ my backtail.

  “I can’t believe you just waltzed on back to Dodge City and asked Marshal Earp to put you in jail ’cause you was afraid of Jensen,” Blackie said

  Floyd gave the big man a look. “Just wait, big mouth. Soon you’ll be facing Jensen, with those eyes that look like they’re made of ice, an’ we’ll see how big you talk then.”

  8

  When Smoke walked into the hotel room where Cal was being nursed back to health, he found Pearlie standing next to the bed with his hands on his hips, arguing.

  “Dammit, Cal! Doc says you got to eat or you ain’t gonna make up for all that blood you lost. Now I’m tellin’ you for the last time, either eat that stew or I’m gonna get a tube and stick it down your gullet and pour it in there myself.”

  Cal cast worried eyes over Pearlie’s shoulder to stare at Smoke, as if asking for some help dealing with this mother hen he was facing.

  “Take it easy, Pearlie,” Smoke said as he walked over to the bed. “Just because Cal can’t shovel grub in like you do doesn’t mean he’s not eating enough. Doc says he’s doing just fine.”

  “Well, he needs to eat more. That boy don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

  Cal grimaced with pain as he pushed himself up to a sitting position against a pile of pillows. “Now, if Miz Sally would cook up some bearsign, then I’d probably feel a whole lot better about eatin’. Might perk up my flaggin’ spirits a mite, too.”

  Smoke laughed. “Cal, I can see you’re learning real fast how to take full advantage of being wounded.”

  “Trouble is, if Miz Sally did make those bearsign,” Cal said mournfully, glancing at Pearlie out of the corner of his eye, “I have a feelin’ somebody else’d eat ’em up ’fore they got here.”

  Pearlie’s eyes got big and he looked astonished that Cal would say such a thing. “Well that’s a fine howdy do. I sit up here day an’ night for two weeks spoonfeedin’ this young’un so he can get well, an’ he accuses me of eatin’ his bearsign.”

  “Seems to me Sally did bring a platter of donuts up here last week. Didn’t Cal get any of those?” Smoke asked.

  Pearlie blushed a bright red. “Uh . . . not exactly. At the time Miz Sally brought those, Doc still had Cal on liquids only, so naturally—”

  “See! I tole you he’d eat ’em up ’fore I got any,” Cal said, pointing his finger at Pearlie. He turned his head to look at Smoke. “From now on, if
you don’t mind, Smoke, would you ask Miz Sally if’n she’d bring me those bearsign personally? That’s the only way I’m ever gonna get any.”

  “All right, Cal, I’ll tell her myself to cook up a fresh batch for tomorrow. Now, we need to talk about what happened out there the day you got shot. Doc said you’re feeling up to discussing it now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pearlie walked to the corner of the room and pulled two chairs over for him and Smoke to sit on while Cal told his story.

  After Cal finished telling them about Lazarus Cain and about the two men he’d shot before they got him, Smoke nodded his head.

  “That’s about how we had it figured, only we didn’t know how many men you were facing that day. You say there were about fifteen or twenty?”

  “Yes sir, minus the two I shot.”

  “And this man told you his name was Lazarus Cain?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Sheriff Carson has some paper on him, but it didn’t say anything about him being headed this way.”

  “Smoke, that man is plumb crazy,” Cal said, his face paling a little as he thought back on the shooting incident.

  “What do you mean, Cal?”

  “Well, I seem to remember, after he shot me an’ I was lyin’ there, feelin’ my life sorta ebbin’ away, he stood over me and began to pray for my soul.”

  “Pray? Like to Jesus an’ everthing?” Pearlie asked, astonishment on his face.

  “Yeah. He even had this old raggedy Bible with a bullet stuck right in the middle of it.”

  Smoke nodded but didn’t say anything, seeing that thinking about it was making Cal feel bad.

  “Has anybody reported any problems or seein’ these galoots since they shot Cal, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.

  Smoke wagged his head. “No, and that’s the strange thing. You’d think with a group that big someone would have run into them, or they’d have robbed or shot someone else by now. They don’t exactly seem the kind of men to move quietly through an area without attracting any notice.”

  “Maybe some of the outlying ranchers have seen ’em an’ just haven’t been to town to tell anybody yet,” Cal said.

  “That’s a good thought, Cal.” Smoke stood up and grabbed his hat off the dresser. “I think I’ll ride on a little circuit around the area and see if anyone’s heard or seen anything. It might be good to warn them to stay away from this gang if they can, so no one else will get hurt,” Smoke said.

  “I think I’ll come with you, Smoke, if it’s all right. I’m gettin’ cabin fever cooped up here with this ungrateful pup,” Pearlie said, casting a hurt look at Cal.

  Cal laughed. “You know I’m grateful to you, Pearlie. You’re about the best friend a man could ever have, long as they ain’t no bearsign to come betwixt us.”

  Pearlie smiled. “Since you put it that way, I’ll make sure to bring those bearsign out to you myself, first thing in the mornin’.”

  “Try an’ leave at least one or two out of the whole bunch, Pearlie,” Cal said, a grin on his face.

  * * *

  Smoke and Pearlie began to ride a wide circuit around Big Rock. The first ranch they came to belonged to Johnny and Belle North. Johnny North was an ex-gunfighter who’d come to town a few years back to settle an old score with Monte Carson. Seems they’d both loved the same woman for a time. Instead of fighting, the two men had sat down and eaten a meal together, and found neither one could much remember what they were supposed to be mad at each other about.

  Later on, Johnny decided to settle down when Belle Colby’s husband got himself shot to death in a gunfight with the men who’d raped their daughter and killed their son. Johnny moved in to help her with their ranch and teenage daughter, and before long they were married. He’d hung up his guns for good that day.

  As Smoke and Pearlie approached the North ranch, Belle appeared on the porch, cradling a shotgun in her arms.

  Smoke raised his hands as he walked Joker closer to the cabin. “Don’t shoot, Belle. It’s me, Smoke Jensen.”

  “I know who you are, Smoke. I’m not so old I can’t see. At least, not yet. How are you doing, boys?”

  Smoke crossed his arms on his saddle horn and leaned forward. “We’re doing fine, Belle. Where’s Johnny?”

  She inclined her head. “He’s off with the hands, brandin’ some of the new calves. By the way, thanks for those Hereford bulls. They sure do make a good cross with our shorthorns.”

  Smoke nodded. “They sure do. By the way, Belle, where is George Hampton? Doesn’t he work for you anymore?”

  Belle smiled. “Not exactly. Johnny and I gave him a hundred acres up to the north. He and my daughter Velvet are plannin’ to get hitched this spring, so we figgered we’d make him a rancher ’stead of a hired hand.”

  Smoke and Pearlie both smiled. “Congratulations, Belle. And give Velvet my best wishes. George is a good man.”

  Belle pointed to the east. “Johnny’s just over that rise there, ’bout four or five miles, if you need to see him.”

  Smoke and Pearlie tipped their hats and reined their horses around and headed east.

  “I can’t hardly believe Velvet’s gettin’ married,” Pearlie said.

  Smoke glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “That’s right. Didn’t I see you dancing with her quite a bit at the last Fourth of July picnic?”

  Pearlie blushed a bright red. “Well, maybe one or two dances, is all. She is a right smart lookin’ woman, though.”

  “About your age, I believe?”

  Pearlie looked at Smoke. “Now, don’t you go gettin’ no ideas. I ain’t near old enough to be thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ hitched.”

  “You aren’t getting any younger, Pearlie, and there aren’t that many eligible women around.”

  “Smoke, you heard Miss Belle. Velvet’s engaged to George Hampton, an’ he’s a good man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Smoke said with a grin, thinking back to the day he’d first met George Hampton. He and Pearlie and Cal had been out in the forest cutting wood for the upcoming winter. Smoke had gone to take a nap while the younger men finished loading the buckboard with their morning’s work....

  * * *

  The sound of a gunshot brought Smoke instantly awake and alert. Years in the mountains with the first mountain man, Preacher, had taught Smoke many things. Two of the most important were how to sleep with one ear listening, and never to be without one of his big Colt .44s nearby. The gun was in his hand with the hammer drawn back before echoes from the shot had died.

  “Sh-h-h, Horse,” he whispered, not wanting the big Appaloosa to nicker and give away his position. He buckled his gun belt on, holstered his .44, and slipped a sawed-off 10-gauge American Arms shotgun out of his saddle scabbard. Glancing at the sun, he figured he had been asleep about two hours. Cal and Pearlie were nowhere in sight.

  Raising his nose, Smoke sniffed the breeze. The faint smell of gunpowder came from upwind. He turned and began to trot through the dense undergrowth of the mountain woods, not making a sound.

  Smoke peered around a pine tree and saw Cal bending over Pearlie, trying to stanch the blood running down his left arm. Four men on horseback were arrayed in front of them, one still holding a smoking pistol in his right hand. “Okay, now I’m not gonna ask you boys again. Where is Smoke Jensen’s spread? We know it’s up in these hills somewheres.”

  Cal looked up, and if looks could kill the men would have been blown out of their saddles. “You didn’t have to shoot him. We’re not even armed.”

  “You going to talk, boy? Or do you want the same as your friend there?” The man pointed the gun at Cal, scowling in anger.

  Cal squared his shoulders and faced the man full on, fists balled at his sides. “Get off that horse, mister, and I’ll show you who’s a boy!”

  The man’s scowl turned to a grin. His lips pulled back from crooked teeth as he cocked the hammer of his weapon. “Say good-bye, banty rooster.”

  Smoke stepped into the clea
ring and fired one barrel of the shotgun, blowing the man’s hand and forearm off up to the elbow, to the accompaniment of a deafening roar.

  The men’s horses reared and shied as the big gun boomed, while the riders clawed at their guns. Smoke flipped Cal one of his Colts with his left hand as he drew the other with his right.

  Cal cocked, aimed, and fired the .44 almost simultaneously with Smoke. Smoke’s bullet hit one rider in the middle of his chest, blowing a fist-sized hole clear through to his back. Cal’s shot took the top of another man’s head off down to his ears. The remaining gunman dropped his weapon and held his hands high, sweating and cursing as his horse whirled and stomped and crow-hopped in fear.

  Smoke nodded at Cal, indicating he should keep the man covered. Then he walked over to Pearlie. He bent down and examined the wound, which had stopped bleeding. “You okay, cowboy?”

  Pearlie smiled a lopsided grin. “Yeah, boss. No problem.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a plug of Bull Durham, biting off a large chunk. “I’ll just wet me some of this here tabaccy and stuff it in the hole. That’ll take care of it until I can get Doc Spalding to look at it.”

  Smoke nodded. He remembered Preacher had used tobacco in one form or another to treat almost all of the many injuries he endured living in the mountains. And Preacher had to be in his eighties, if he was still alive, that is.

  With Pearlie’s wound seen to, Smoke turned his attention to the man Cal held at bay. He walked over to stand before him. “Get off that horse, scum.”

  The man dismounted, casting an eye toward his friend writhing on the ground and trying to stop the bleeding from his stump.

  “Ain’t ya gonna hep Larry? He’s might near bled to death over there.”

  Smoke walked over to the moaning man, stood over him, and casually spat in his face as he took his last breath and died, open eyes staring at eternity. With eyes that had turned ice-gray, Smoke turned to look at the only one of the men still alive. “What’s your name, skunk-breath?”

  “George. George Hampton.”

  “Who are you, and what’re you doin’ here looking for me?”