Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s not it, Mr. Cain. The mountain men lived by a code, a code of vengeance. Once you done one of them wrong, he’d not never give up ’til he’d repaid you, double.”

  “I don’t see what—”

  “I’m just telling you this so you won’t think you’re gonna be able to ride away from this after it’s over if Jensen is still alive.”

  Blanchard took down a glass and poured himself a drink and refilled Lazarus’s.

  “Let me tell you a story ’bout what happened to the men who kilt Smoke’s dad, just after they got here to Colorado....

  “Smoke’s dad, Emmett, came back from the War Between the States in the summer of eighteen sixty-five. Smoke, who was known as Kirby then, was only about fourteen or fifteen years old. Emmett sold their scratch-dirt farm in Missouri, packed up their belongin’s, and they headed north by northwest. Long about Wichita, they met up with an old mountain man who called himself Preacher. For some reason, unknown even to the old-timer, he took them under his wing when he saw they was as green as new apples, and they traveled together for a spell.

  “Soon they was set upon by a band of Pawnee Injuns, an’ Smoke kilt his first couple of men. The story goes that Preacher couldn’t hardly believe it when he saw him draw that old Navy Colt. Says he knew right off the boy was destined to become a legend—if he lived long enough, that is. That’s when Preacher gave young Kirby Jensen his nickname—Smoke—from the smoke that came outta that Navy Colt, and from the color of his hair.

  “Right after that, Emmett told Preacher that he had set out lookin’ for three men who killed Smoke’s brother and stole some Confederate gold. Their names were Wiley Potter, Josh Richards, and Stratton—I don’t remember his first name. Emmett went on to tell Preacher that he was goin’ gunnin’ for those polecats, and if’n he didn’t come back he wanted Preacher to take care of Smoke until he was growed up enough to do it for himself. Preacher told Emmett he’d be proud to do that very thing.

  “The next day Emmett took off and left the old cougar to watch after his young’un. They didn’t hear nothin’ for a couple of years, time Preacher spent teaching the young buck the ways of the West and how to survive where most men wouldn’t. Preacher later told people that during that time, though Smoke was about as natural a fast draw and shot as he’d ever seen, the boy spent at least an hour ever day drawing and dry-firin’ those Navy Colts he wore.

  “About two years later, at Brown’s Hole in Idaho, an old mountain man found Smoke and Preacher and told Smoke his daddy was dead, and that those men he went after’d killed him. Smoke packed up, an’ he and Preacher went on the prod.

  “They got to Pagosa Springs—that’s Indian for healin’ waters—just west of the Needle Mountains, and stopped to replenish their supplies. Then they rode into Rico, a rough-an’-tumble mining camp that back then was an outlaw hangout.”

  Blanchard halted in his tale to build himself a cigarette and stick it in his mouth, then continued telling Lazarus about the legend of Smoke Jensen’s early years....

  * * *

  Smoke and Preacher dismounted in front of the combination trading post and saloon. As was his custom, Smoke slipped the thongs from the hammers of his Colts as soon as his boots hit dirt.

  They had bought their supplies and turned to leave when the hum of conversation suddenly died. Two rough-dressed and unshaven men, both wearing guns, blocked the door.

  “Who owns that horse out there?” one demanded, a snarl in his voice, trouble in his manner. “The one with the SJ brand?”

  Smoke laid his purchases on the counter. “I do,” he said quietly.

  “Which way’d you ride in from?”

  Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry, concealing the click as he thumbed it back.

  Smoke faced the men, his right hand hanging loose by his side. His left hand was just inches from his left-hand gun. “Who wants to know—and why?”

  No one in the dusty building moved or spoke.

  “Pike’s my name,” said the bigger and uglier of the pair. “And I say you came through my diggin’s yesterday and stole my dust.”

  “And I say you’re a liar,” Smoke told him.

  Pike grinned nastily, his right hand hovering near the butt of his pistol. “Why . . . you little pup. I think I’ll shoot your ears off.”

  “Why don’t you try? I’m tired of hearing you shoot your mouth off.”

  Pike looked puzzled for a few seconds; bewilderment crossed his features. No one had ever talked to him in this manner. Pike was big, strong, and a bully. “I think I’ll just kill you for that.”

  Pike and his partner reached for their guns.

  Four shots boomed in the low-ceilinged room, four shots so closely spaced that they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and bird droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and his friend were slammed out the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support pole, his eyes still open, unbelieving. Neither had managed to pull a pistol more than halfway out of leather.

  All eyes in the black, powder-filled and dusty, smoky room moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand. “Good God!” a man whispered in awe. “I never even seen him draw.”

  Preacher moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating he wanted no trouble.

  “We’ll be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door slowly.

  Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead partner in the shooting.

  “What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.

  “Bury ’em.”

  “What’s the kid’s name?”

  “Smoke.”

  A few days later, in a nearby town, a friend of Preacher’s told Smoke that two men, Haywood and Thompson, who claimed to be Pike’s brother, had tracked him and Preacher and were in town waiting for Smoke.

  Smoke walked down the rutted street an hour before sunset, the sun at his back—the way he had planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in a big tent at the end of the street, which served as saloon and café. Preacher had pointed them out earlier and asked if Smoke needed his help. Smoke said no. The refusal came as no surprise.

  As he walked down the street a man glanced up, spotted him, then hurried quickly inside.

  Smoke felt no animosity toward the men in the tent saloon—no anger, no hatred—but they’d come here after him. So let the dance begin, he thought.

  Smoke stopped fifty feet from the tent. “Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me?”

  The two men pushed back the tent flap and stepped out, both angling to get a better look at the man they had tracked. “You the kid called Smoke?” one said.

  “I am.”

  “Pike was my brother,” said the heavier of the pair. “And Shorty was my pal.”

  “You should choose your friends more carefully,” Smoke told him.

  “They was just a-funnin’ with you,” Thompson said.

  “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

  “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “If that’s the way you want to take it.”

  Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back, or make your play.”

  “There is no need for this,” Smoke said.

  The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold, and then kilt ’em.”

  “I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.

  “The kid’s yellow!” Haywood yelled. Then he grabbed for his gun.

  Haywood touched the butt of his gun just as two loud gun-shots blasted in the dusty street. The .36 caliber balls struck Haywood in the chest, one nic
king his heart. He dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes and death relieved him of the shocking pain by pulling him into a long sleep, two more shots thundered. He had a dark vision of Thompson spinning in the street. Then Haywood died.

  Thompson was on one knee, his left hand holding his shattered right elbow. His leg was bloody. Smoke had knocked his gun from his hand, then shot him in the leg.

  “Pike was your brother,” Smoke told the man. “So I can understand why you came after me. But you were wrong. I’ll let you live. But stay with mining. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  The young man turned, putting his back to the dead and bloody pair. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.12

  27

  Lazarus stopped Blanchard’s story long enough to pull a cigar out of his pocket, light it, and get his glass refilled.

  “How old was Jensen when this happened?” he asked the bartender.

  “I don’t know exactly. ’Bout eighteen or so, I guess.”

  Lazarus nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Go on, Bob.”

  “After Smoke shot and killed Pike, his friend, and Haywood, and then wounded Pike’s brother, Thompson, he and Preacher went after the other men who kilt Smoke’s brother and stole the Confederates’ gold. They rode on over to La Plaza de los Leones, the plaza of the lions. It was there that they trapped a man named Casey in a line shack with some of his compadres. Smoke and Preacher burnt ’em out and captured Casey. Smoke took him to the outskirts of the town and hanged him.”

  Lazarus’s eyebrows shot up. “Just hanged him? Without a trial or notifying the authorities?”

  Blanchard flicked ash off his cigarette without taking it out of his mouth. “Yes sir. Smoke likes to take care of his enemies himself. Why, I’ll bet that even if he knows you and your men are coming after him, he won’t ask nobody else for any help.”

  Blanchard hesitated. Then, remembering where he left off, he continued. “Anyway, Jensen knew that town would never of hanged one of their own just on the word of Smoke Jensen.”

  Blanchard snorted. “Like as not they’d of hanged Smoke and Preacher instead. Anyway, after that the sheriff of that town put out a flyer on Smoke, accusing him of murder. Had a ten thousand dollar reward on it, too.”

  “Did Smoke and Preacher go into hiding?” Lazarus asked, figuring that’s what he would have done.

  “Nope. Seems Preacher advised it, but Smoke said he had one more call to make. They rode on over to Ore-odelphia, lookin’ for a man named Ackerman. They didn’t go after him right at first. Smoke and Preacher sat around doin’ a whole lot of nothin’ for two or three days. Smoke wanted Ackerman to get plenty nervous. He did, and finally came gunnin’ for Smoke with a bunch of men who rode for his brand. . . .”

  * * *

  At the edge of town, Ackerman, a bull of a man with small, mean eyes and a cruel slit for a mouth, slowed his horse to a walk. Ackerman and his hands rode down the street, six abreast.

  Preacher and Smoke were on their feet. Preacher stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. Both men had slipped the thongs from the hammers of their Colts. Preacher wore two Colt .44’s—one in a holster, the other stuck behind his belt. Mountain man and the young gunfighter stood six feet apart on the boardwalk.

  The sheriff closed his office door and walked into the empty cell area. He sat down and began a game of checkers with his deputy.

  Ackerman and his men wheeled their horses to face the men on the boardwalk. “I hear tell you boys is lookin’ for me. If so, here I am.”

  “News to me,” Smoke said. “What’s your name?”

  “You know who I am, kid. Ackerman.”

  “Oh yeah!” Smoke grinned. “You’re the man who helped kill my brother by shooting him in the back. Then you stole the gold he was guarding.”

  Inside the hotel, pressed against the wall, the desk clerk listened intently, his mouth open in anticipation of gunfire.

  “You’re a liar. I didn’t shoot your brother. That was Potter and his bunch.”

  “You stood and watched it. Then you stole the gold.”

  “It was war, kid.”

  “But you were on the same side,” Smoke said. “So that not only makes you a killer, it makes you a traitor and a coward.”

  “I’ll kill you for sayin’ that!”

  “You’ll burn in hell a long time before I’m dead,” Smoke told him.

  Ackerman grabbed for his pistol. The street exploded in gunfire and black powder fumes. Horses screamed and bucked in fear. One rider was thrown to the dust by his lunging mustang. Smoke took the men on the left, Preacher the men on the right side. The battle lasted no more than ten to twelve seconds. When the noise and the gunsmoke cleared, five men lay in the street, two of them dead. Two more would die from their wounds. One was shot in the side—he would live. Ackerman had been shot three times: once in the belly, once in the chest, and one ball had taken him in the side of the face as the muzzle of the .36 had lifted with each blast. Still Ackerman sat in his saddle, dead. The big man finally leaned to one side and toppled from his horse, one boot hung in the stirrup. The horse shied, then began waking down the dusty street, dragging Ackerman, leaving a bloody trail.

  Preacher spat into the street. “Damn near swallowed my chaw.”

  “I never seen a draw that fast,” a man spoke from his storefront. “It was a blur.”

  The editor of the paper walked up to stand by the sheriff. He watched the old man and the young gunfighter walk down the street. He truly had seen it all. The old man had killed one man, wounded another. The young man had killed four men, as calmly as if picking his teeth.

  “What’s that young man’s name?”

  “Smoke Jensen. He’s a devil.”

  * * *

  “What did they do next, Bob?” Lazarus asked, sipping his whiskey slowly, considering what he was learning about the character of Smoke Jensen.

  “Well, they both had some minor wounds, and there was a price on Smoke’s head, so they took off to the mountains to lay up for a while and lick their wounds and let the heat die down.”

  Blanchard stubbed out his cigarette. “Except it didn’t work out exactly that way. They chanced upon the remains of a wagon train that’d been burned out by Indians, and rescued a young woman. Nicole was her name. She was the lone survivor of the attack. There wasn’t nothin’ else they could do, so they took her up into the mountains with them, where they planned to winter.

  “Smoke built them a cabin out of adobe and logs, and they spent two winters and a summer in that place, up in the high lonesome. After the first year, Smoke and Nicole had a kind of unofficial marrying, and by the second winter she had Smoke a son.”

  “I didn’t know Jensen had a son.”

  Blanchard shook his head. “He doesn’t, now. When the boy was about a year old, Smoke had to go lookin’ for their milk cow that wandered off. When he came back, he found some bounty hunters had tracked him to the cabin and were in there with Nicole and the baby. . . .”

  * * *

  Some primitive sense of warning caused Smoke to pull up short of his home. He made a wide circle, staying in the timber back of the creek, and slipped up to the cabin.

  Nicole was dead. The acts of the men had grown perverted, and in their haste her throat had been crushed.

  Felter sat by the lean-to and watched the valley in front of him. He wondered where Smoke had hidden the gold.

  Inside, Canning drew his skinning knife and scalped Nicole, tying her bloody hair to his belt. He then skinned a part of her, thinking he would tan the hide and make himself a nice tobacco pouch.

  Kid Austin got sick to his stomach watching Canning’s callousness, and went out the back door to puke on the ground. That moment of sickness saved his life—for the time being.

  Grissom walked out the front door of the cabin. Smoke’s tracks had indicated he had ridden off south, so he should probably return from that direction,
but Grissom felt something was wrong. He sensed something, his years on the owlhoot back trails surfacing.

  “Felter?” he called.

  “Yeah?” He stepped from the lean-to.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “I feel it. But what?”

  “I don’t know.” Grissom spun as he sensed movement behind him. His right hand dipped for his pistol. Felter had stepped back into the lean-to. Grissom’s palm touched the smooth wooden butt of his gun as his eyes saw the tall young man standing by the corner of the cabin, a Colt .36 in each hand. Lead from the .36s hit him in the center of the chest with numbing force. Just before his heart exploded, the outlaw said, “Smoke!” Then he fell to the ground.

  Smoke jerked the gun belt and pistols from the dead man. Remington Army .44s.

  A bounty hunter ran from the cabin, firing at the corner of the building. But Smoke was gone.

  “Behind the house!” Felter yelled, running from the lean-to, his fists full of Colts. He slid to a halt and raced back to the water trough, diving behind it for protection.

  A bounty hunter who had been dumping his bowels in the outhouse struggled to pull up his pants, at the same time pushing open the door with his shoulder. Smoke shot him twice in the belly and left him to scream on the outhouse floor.

  Kid Austin, caught in the open behind the cabin, ran for the banks of the creek, panic driving his legs. He leaped for the protection of a sandy embankment, twisting in the air, just as Smoke took aim and fired. The ball hit Austin’s right buttock and traveled through the left cheek of his butt, tearing out a sizable hunk of flesh. Kid Austin, the dreaming gun-hand, screamed and fainted from the pain in his ass.

  Smoke ran for the protection of the woodpile and crouched there, recharging his Colts and checking the. 44s. He listened to the sounds of men in panic, firing in all directions and hitting nothing.

  Moments ticked past, the sound of silence finally overpowering gunfire. Smoke flicked away sweat from his face. He waited.

  Something came sailing out the back door to bounce on the grass. Smoke felt hot bile build in his stomach. Someone had thrown his dead son outside. The boy had been dead for some time. Smoke fought back sickness.