Donny Donnahue was just coming from the outhouse when he saw Will hit the dirt.
“Hey, everbody, come quick!” he yelled as he ran to help the fallen man.
When he got next to Will, Donny saw almost his entire shirt soaked with blood. “Jesus,” he muttered, having never seen anyone lose that much blood and survive.
Several cowboys burst out of the batwings of the Dog Hole and ran to stand over Will. Finally, Three-fingers Sonny Torres, who had seen and treated more gunshot wounds than most doctors, knelt next to Will and pulled out a large knife. He stuck the blade in the front of Will’s shirt and sliced it open.
After Torres peeled off the shirt, several of the men standing watching gave low whistles. There was a hole as big as a man’s fist in the front of Will’s shoulder. Most of the bleeding had stopped or at least slowed to a slow trickle, and there were no arterial spurters.
Sonny Torres rolled Will up on his side and looked at his back.
“Here’s where the bullet enter,” he said, pointing to a small hole just behind Will’s shoulder, next to his shoulder blade.
He let him roll back. “And that is where she exit,” he said, indicating the huge hole in the front of Will’s chest.
“What the hell kind’a gun did that?” asked Donny.
Torres shrugged. “A large calibre, maybe a buff ’lo gun of some sort, like a Sharps.”
Lazarus Cain came striding through the crowd of men, parting them with his hands as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he asked.
“’Pears one of our men went an’ got hisself shot,” answered Willie Bodine.
“Is that Will Calloway lyin’ there?” Lazarus asked.
“Yes sir,” answered Donny. “I’s just comin’ outta the shitter when I saw him fall off’n his horse.”
Torres glanced up from where he still kneeled next to Will. “Looks like he was shot with a long gun of some kind, Mr. Cain. Prob’ly a Sharps or somethin’ like it.”
“Damn!” Lazarus stepped back and looked around the town. “Has anyone seen any of the other sentries? Who was ridin’ with Will, anyway?”
“I believe it was Nate Bridges,” Billy Baugh drawled in his low, Southern accent. “Leastways, I seen the two of ’em ridin’ outta town together this mornin’.”
Lazarus started pointing. “I need some men to ride out and check on the sentries. Wheeler, you ride north. Gonzalez, you take the south end. Tucker, you go east, and Samuels, I want you to ride to the west.”
He hesitated. “Men, I don’t know if this means anything or not, but ride with your guns loose and watch your backsides. We may have some problems comin’ our way.”
* * *
Within two hours, Lazarus had gotten the bad news and was having a meeting with his most trusted men in the Dog Hole. They were seated at their favorite table in the corner, and several bottles of whiskey were being passed around.
Lazarus looked at his men. “We’ve got some trouble. The men I sent out found every one of our sentries dead, bodies scattered all over the countryside.”
“Were all of ’em kilt with long guns?” asked Curly Joe Ventrillo.
Lazarus shook his head. “No. It appeared as if some were shot at close range with pistols.”
“Did they find any other bodies, other than our chaps?” asked Jeremy Brett.
Lazarus shook his head slowly.
“That means whoever did this is good,” said Blackie Jackson. “Those sentries were hard men. I don’t see some pilgrims ridin’ up an’ killin’ ever one without getting a least a little shot up.”
“You’re right, Blackie. Whoever is out there is a force to be reckoned with.”
“Cain’t hardly be the army, then,” opined Pig Iron Carlton. “Them boys are so green they’d’ve probably shot one or two of their own men theyselves.”
“No, I don’t think this is the authorities,” said Lazarus, a thoughtful expression on his face as he stared out the window. “If it was the army or marshals, we’d’ve heard from them by now.”
He wagged his head. “This is something different.”
“Well then, who could it be, boss?” asked Tom “Behind the Deuces.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you suspect it could be Smoke Jensen? Maybe Joey Wells warned him, after all,” said King Johannson, absently fingering the handle of the machete hanging on his belt.
Lazarus frowned. “I doubt it. If Jensen knew we were comin’ an’ that we had over fifty men, why wouldn’t he just notify the army or the territory marshals? There’d be no need for him to even get involved.”
Jeremy Brett removed the Colt pistol from his shoulder holster and flipped open the loading gate as he began to check his loads. “I fear you may have underestimated this Jensen gentleman. From what I have heard and read, he is a man who does not suffer tribulation well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Jeremy?” asked Lazarus. “Speak English, will you?”
Jeremy smiled. “I believe we were on Mr. Jensen’s ranch the day we arrived here.”
“So?”
“Do you remember what happened that day?”
Lazarus thought a minute, then looked slowly up at Jeremy. “We shot some young ranchhand.”
“It is merely my supposition that perhaps Mr. Smoke Jensen did not take kindly to us killing one of his men. Perhaps this is his way of telling us that.”
“Do you really think a man of Jensen’s reputation would go to war over losing one of his hired hands?” asked Lazarus.
“From what I’ve heard, though the stories are admittedly exaggerated, Jensen would go to war if you scuffed his boots.”
Lazarus rubbed his chin whiskers as he thought. “If this is Jensen an’ his men, it won’t be so bad. As a matter of fact, it’s probably better if he comes to us rather than us fightin’ him on his own ground.”
“What do you mean?” asked Curly Joe.
“This way there won’t be no chance of us ridin’ into no traps or ambushes.”
“Wonder how many men he’s got ridin’ with him,” said Blackie Jackson.
“It really doesn’t matter, old chap,” said Jeremy Brett. “Once they ride into town, they’re all as good as dead.”
“I want you men to get the boys scattered out all over town,” ordered Lazarus. “Have ’em get ready for an attack. Post some on roofs, some in high placed rooms where they have a good line of fire. You know the drill. Tell ’em to get ready. Smoke Jensen’s coming to town, and we’re gonna throw him a party.”
30
Smoke and Joey circled around Fontana until they found where their friends were waiting. They’d made a campfire and were cooking some beans and fatback and heating up some biscuits Sally had sent along in a paper sack.
Louis Longmont looked up from his coffee cup and smiled. “I see the sentries were no match for the team of Jensen and Wells.”
“Not even close,” Joey said. “Them boys just thought they knew how to fight ’til they ran into a twister called Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke inclined his head at Pearlie, who was sitting on his haunches next to the fire, a plate piled high with food on his knees. “I might’a known you boys would be eating, since Pearlie’s riding with you.”
“Golly, Smoke,” Pearlie mumbled around a mouthful of food, “ya just never know when you’re gonna next git a chance to eat when you’re fightin’ outlaws an’ such. I figgered it’d be best to eat while there weren’t nothin’ goin’ on.”
Smoke walked over to the kettle on the trestle over the fire and scooped out a helping for himself. “Don’t worry, Pearlie, I was just funning with you. It is always a good idea to eat before a fight. You’re right. There’s no telling just how long we’re going to be tied up in this little fracas.”
Joey built himself a cigarette and stuck it in the side of his mouth, then proceeded to drink coffee without disturbing the butt.
“We may have a little t
rouble, boys,” he said.
“How’s that, Joey?” Sheriff Monte Carson asked.
“One of the sentries got away. He was carryin’ some of my lead in him, but we figure he might’ve made it back to Fontana to warn the others we’re comin’.”
“Damn!” said Louis Carbone. “Es muy malo!”
Longmont shrugged. “It’s not all that bad, Louis. In fact, it really won’t make a hell of a lot of difference. Even if they suspect someone has targeted them, they won’t know who or how many, nor will they have much time to make preparations for our arrival.”
Smoke nodded. “That’s the way I figure it, Louis. In fact, it might be better if they have a little time to worry about just who’s on their trail.”
“Yeah,” Monte Carson agreed. “Worried men don’t always think as good as men without a lot on their mind.” He smiled a grim smile. “I’d a lot rather trail a man who knows he’s bein’ trailed an’ is spendin’ a lot of his time lookin’ back over his shoulder instead of thinkin’ ’bout how he can get the drop on me.”
Smoke walked over to the wagon and began to peer inside it. “What’ve we got here?”
Longmont stepped over to lean on the edge of the buckboard. “Looks like Cain was planning on going to war with you and the town of Big Rock, Smoke. He’s got enough ammunition and gunpowder and dynamite in this wagon to cause quite a ruckus.”
Cal added, “If he’d managed to get it, that is.”
“You boys did a good job,” Smoke said approvingly. “If Cain had been able to acquire this wagon we’d’ve had our hands full, all right.”
“Now, our only problem,” Monte said, “is to figure out how we can make the best use of this stuff ourselves.”
Smoke’s lips curled up in a wide grin. “Oh, I think I have some ideas on that subject, Monte.”
He took his sketch of Fontana out of his saddlebag and spread it on top of the boxes in the buckboard. With a pencil, he pointed to various areas of the town as he talked, dividing up his forces as commanders had been doing before upcoming battles for centuries.
“Louis,” he said, addressing Carbone, “you and Al are used to working as a team. I want you two to approach the town from the south. Take as much dynamite as you can carry, tied together two sticks at a time. When you begin your approach, light a cigar and keep it in your mouth to set the fuses off when you’re ready to toss the dynamite.”
“Cal, I want you and Pearlie to stay together. You’re still not up to full strength, so I don’t want you to try anything too strenuous. I’m gonna station you on the road out of town, in case some of the outlaws decide it’s getting too hot in Fontana and try to make tracks for someplace cooler.”
Cal’s face fell. “You mean you’re gonna keep me outta the action so I won’t get shot again, don’t ya?”
Pearlie turned to face Cal. “That’s not it at all, Cal. Smoke’s got to put each man where he can do the best for the team, ’cause we’re so outnumbered.”
“Pearlie’s right, Cal. Your job is just as important as anyone else’s. If any of the gunnys get away, they’re liable to come back later and do us damage. Your job, and Pearlie’s, is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Smoke turned to the remainder of the men. “Louis, I’d like you and Monte to attack from the north, and Johnny and George to come in from the east.”
He hesitated. “Joey and I will go in first from the west, from the back of town.”
“What do you mean, go in first?” Monte asked.
Smoke pointed to the tins of gunpowder lying in the buckboard. “We’re gonna sneak in and plant a few of those where they’ll do the most good. Your signal to attack will be when you see them go off.”
“What if Cain’s men manage to get you before that happens?” Johnny North asked.
Joey shrugged. “Then, you’ll hear the gunshots. Either way, it’ll be time for you to do your best to blow those bastards to hell and gone.”
31
Smoke took a tin of bootblack out of his saddlebag and scooped some out on his fingers before handing the can to Joey.
“Put some of that on your face, Joey. It’ll help keep us from being seen while we skulk around tonight.”
Smoke smeared boot polish around his eyes and mouth until his face was as black as the night. “If things go well,” he said to the others, “Joey and I should have the gunpowder set up within about thirty minutes. Give us ten minutes more, just in case. If you haven’t heard from us by then, come in with your guns blazing.”
Joey finished applying the bootblack and looked up. “Just be careful. If’n you see a couple’a fellows with black faces, make sure you don’t blast ’em ’til you see who they are.”
Smoke turned to his saddle boot and removed his Greener 10-gauge sawed-off shotgun. He slipped the rawhide strap over his neck so that the gun hung down just under his right arm. He took out a box of shells and filled his buckskin jacket pockets.
While he was doing this, Joey did the same thing with his Winchester rifle, filling his pockets with shells, as well.
Finally, Smoke took two black dusters from his saddlebag. He threw one to Joey and put the other one on. As the two men stepped into their saddles, Pearlie touched the brim of his hat. “Luck, Smoke, Joey.”
Joey smiled sarcastically. “Son, luck don’t have nothin’ to do with it . . . it’s who’s the meanest gonna survive. The others gonna be buzzard bait.”
* * *
Smoke and Joey slipped off their horses and left them ground-reined fifty yards from the first buildings on the outskirts of Fontana. Smoke glanced at the sky. Luckily, though there was a half moon the fall weather had brought storm clouds scudding in from over the mountaintops which kept the moonlight to a minimum.
Smoke handed Joey one of the canvas bags full of tins of gunpowder, and he threw another over his shoulder. Stepping lightly and crouching over to minimize their outline against the horizon, they walked quickly into town. With their dark faces and the black dusters flaring out behind them, they looked like strange, malevolent shadows moving in the night.
Slipping down an alleyway, Smoke peered around a corner of the building he was behind and looked toward the Dog Hole Saloon.
“Uh oh,” he whispered.
“What is it?” Joey asked.
“It’s just past seven o’clock, and I don’t see any activity at the saloon.”
He could just make out Joey’s head in the semi-darkness when he nodded. “That means they’re expectin’ us,” Joey said. “Otherwise they’d all be in there gettin’ liquored up.”
Smoke took one of the tins of gunpowder out of his sack and placed it next to the corner of the building. While getting ready for this evening, he’d had Pearlie and Cal put blasting caps and fuses into the cans, and Louis Longmont had tied white strips of cloth to the tops of the cans so they’d be easily visible from a distance.
Easing out of the alley, keeping close to the buildings, Smoke and Joey went in separate directions, each planting tins of the black powder along the way.
* * *
Bobby Barlow turned to Christopher Tucker. “Hey, Chris. You got any tobaccy?”
The two men had been riding together since Manassas, and Bobby had been smoking Chris’s tobacco since before then.
“You know we ain’t supposed to smoke whilst we’re on guard duty, Bobby.”
“Guard duty, hell! There ain’t nobody comin’ tonight. It’s all in Cain’s head.”
Chris passed over a small sack with his Bull Durham in it. The two were sitting in a darkened room that used to be the town doctor’s office, watching out the front window. They’d been placed there by Blackie Jackson to keep an eye on the main street of Fontana.
Bobby struck a lucifer on his pants leg and lighted his cigarette. As he blew smoke out of his nostrils, he squinted and tapped Chris on the shoulder.
“Looky there, Chris. There goes one of those darkies, walkin’ down the boardwalk as bold as brass.”
&nb
sp; Chris shrugged. “So?”
“So? Didn’t Blackie Jackson tell us everbody was gonna be under cover tonight, waitin’ fer the attack?”
“Yeah, he did.”
Bobby got to his feet. “I’d better tell that dumb ass to get off’n the street, then.”
He stepped to the door and called softly, “Hey, Bartholomew, it that you?” He figured it had to be Bartholomew Winter, who was the shortest of the three black men riding with them.
The black-faced figure turned his head and took two quick steps toward Bobby, muttering something the man couldn’t understand.
“What’d you say?”
Bobby saw something flash in the meager moonlight and then felt a horrible burning pain in his chest as twelve inches of Arkansas steel pierced his heart.
When Bobby grunted in surprise and pain, Chris called, “Anything wrong, Bobby?”
The short man stepped back from Bobby and let him fall to the floor. Before he hit the ground, Joey’s Arkansas Toothpick was slicing across Christopher Tucker’s throat, killing him without a sound.
He walked to the window and placed one of the tins of powder on the windowsill, where it could be seen from the street. Then he vanished silently into the darkness.
* * *
As Smoke straightened from placing his last tin of gunpowder next to a wall, a harsh voice came from the blackness behind him.
“What do you think you’re doin’, nigger?” asked Riley Samuels, smiling as he stood there next to Donny Donnahue in the doorway to the old dry goods store.
“Yeah,” added Donnahue, “you boys too ignorant to know we supposed to be off the streets tonight?”
The two ex-Confederate soldiers were grinning, their teeth glowing white in the scant moonlight as they took out some of their frustration on what appeared to be one of the black men riding with Cain.
When the figure stood up, Riley’s mouth dropped open. None of the Negro troops were this big. This man had to be well over six feet tall.
Donny pointed to the figure’s midsection. “What you got there, boy?” he asked.
Guns of the Mountain Man Page 21
