Last Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  “And I say you’re a liar,” Kirby 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 sure 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 they seemed as one thunderous roar. Dust and bird’s nest 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 to 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 the draw.”

  Preacher had 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,” Kirby said, bolstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the open door.

  Kirby stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead friend.

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

  “Bury ’em.”

  “What’s that kid’s name?”

  “Smoke.”

  They camped deep in the big timber that night, beside a rushing mountain stream, with the earth for a bed and the stars for a canopy. Over a supper of fresh-caught trout, Preacher asked, “How do you feel, Smoke?”

  The young man glanced at his friend, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Why — I feel just fine, Preacher. How come you asked that?”

  “You just kilt two men back yonder, Smoke. In front of twelve-fifteen salty ol’ boys. And all they could do was a-gape at you with they mouths hangin’ open. Now I ain’t sayin’ Pike and his friend didn’t need killin’, ’cause they did. They was bullies and troublemakers and trash. Pike’s been in these mountains for years and he ain’t worth spit. But the point I’s makin’ is this: Right now the story is being told in that there camp; tomorry night it’ll be told ’round a dozen fires. This time next month, it’ll be stretched to where you kilt five men, and that’s where the salt gets spread on the cut.”

  “You mean I’ll have a reputation?”

  “Perzactly. And then ever’ two-bit kid who thinks he’s a gun-hand will be lookin’ for you, to make a name for hisself.”

  “They’ll never do it from the front.”

  “You that shore of yourself?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Preacher laid down his plate and poured a cup of coffee. “Yep, I reckon you is, at that.”

  Seven

  The Man Called Smoke

  It was obvious to even the most uninitiated in medicine that Gaultier did not have much time left on this earth — in his present form.

  “Cancer,” he told them bluntly. “That’s what the doctors say — and I believe them. Waters here help the pain, but I’m not going to make it.” He looked at Smoke. “You have your father’s eyes. And word is out that you are very good — perhaps the best — with a handgun.”

  “So I’m told,” Smoke said.

  “Well, you’d better be,” the dying man said matter-of-factly. “Two of Pike’s friends rode in yesterday afternoon. One claims to be his brother. Seems they tracked you southeast, then cut around, out of the wilderness, and came in from the south. Thompson and Haywood.”

  The young man remained calm. “I’m not worried about them. I’ll deal with them when they confront me. What about the men who killed my father?”

  Gaultier grinned. “You are a cool one, jeune homme. All right. I will tell you about your father — and your brother.”

  Smoke stepped out of Gaultier’s tent along the creek an hour before sunset. He walked down the rutted street, the sun at his back — the way he planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in the big tent at the end of the street, which served as saloon and cafe. 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 came here after him, so let the dance begin.

  The word had swept through the makeshift town, and from behind cabin walls, trees, and boulders. The people watched as Smoke stopped about fifty feet from the tent.

  “Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me? Then step out and see me.”

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

  “I am.” With instinct born into a natural fighter, Smoke knew this would be no contest. Both men carried their guns tucked behind wide leather belts; an awkward position from which to draw, for one must first pull the hand up, then over, grabbing the pistol, cocking it as it is pulled from behind the belt, then leveling it to fire. It is also a dandy way to shoot oneself in the belly or side.

  “Pike was my brother,” the heavier and uglier of the pair said. “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 is 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, almost awkwardly, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”

  Smoke, who had spent hundreds of hours practicing his deadly skills, thought that they were doing everything wrong. These men weren’t gun-hands. He could smell the fear-sweat from the men.

  “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 shots boomed over the dusty street. The .36 caliber balls struck him in the chest, one nicking his heart. Haywood dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes, and death relieved him of the shocking pain, closing her arms around him, pulling him into that 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 on the way down.

  “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. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.

  “Cool, ain’t he, Frenchy?” Preacher said.

  “Yes,” Gaultier said. “Too much so, perhaps. I wonder if killing the men who killed his father will then bring him happiness?”

  “I don’t know,” Preacher replied. “I just wish to hell he’d find him a good woman and settle down.”

  “He will never settle down,” the Frenchman said. “He might try, but he will always drift — like
smoke.”

  “This here is your show, Smoke,” Preacher said, as they rode away from the hot spring. “So you call the tune.”

  “La Plaza de los Leones. That’s the closest name on the list.”

  “I been there. Reckon it’s changed some, though.”

  “We’ll soon see.”

  “Wanna answer me a question, Smoke?”

  “Have I ever held back from you?”

  “Reckon not. But you know I helt you back from doin’ this for two years, don’t you?”

  “You didn’t hold me back, you just didn’t encourage me.”

  “All right. Have it your way. How come you made up your mind sudden like?”

  “Because it was time, Preacher.”

  That hard flash of precognition again swept over the mountain man. “Son, have you taken a real close look at the names on that paper? Now, I can’t read airy one, but Frenchy read ’em to me. Them people is scattered over three states and territories. Chances of you finding them all is slim, at best.”

  “I’ll find them.”

  Preacher nodded. “Well, I’ll just tag along — keep you away from bad whiskey and bad wimmin. Both of ’em’ll kill a body.”

  “Preacher? I’ve never known a woman — the way a man should know one.”

  “Well, your time’ll come, Smoke. You’ll fall in love one of these days — it happens to the best of us. Then you’ll be walkin’ into boulders and pickin’ flowers and fallin’ off your horse.”

  Smoke grinned. “Did you do that, Preacher?”

  “Yep. For a squaw once. I guess I were in love — don’t rightly know much ’bout it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died. And I just don’t wanna say no more ’bout it.”

  La Plaza de los Leones, Square of the Lions, was only a few years away from being renamed Walsenburg. Built on the banks of the Cuchara River, the town, by 1869, was already a ranching and farming community with a city government. It was a hundred and fifty miles from the springs to La Plaza, but Smoke’s reputation had preceded him.

  The city marshal met them just outside of town, having been warned they were on their way.

  “Just pull ’em up right there, boys,” he told them. “I’m Marshal Crowell. If you boys are lookin’ for trouble, then just keep on ridin’.”

  “There won’t be any trouble in your town,” Smoke assured. “I’m looking for a man named Casey.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “That’s my business,” Smoke said quietly.

  “I’m the law.” Crowell met the young man’s eyes. “And I’m sayin’ it’s my business.”

  “Right,” Preacher cut in. “You be the city marshal, shore ’nuff. But you ain’t the sheriff. Matter of fact, you ain’t nothin’ outside of the town limits.”

  Crowell kept his temper. He knew the old man was right. Crowell was western born and reared, and he knew that here, unlike the East he had only read about, a man killed his own snakes, broke his own horses, and settled his affairs his way, without much interference from the law — to date.

  “Start trouble in this town, young man,” he warned Smoke, “and you’ll answer to me.”

  “Casey,” Smoke repeated. “Where is he?”

  Crowell hesitated for a few seconds. “His ranch is southeast of here, on the flats. You’ll cross a little creek ’fore you see the house. He’s got eight hands. They all look like gunnies.”

  “You got an undertaker in this town?” Smoke asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Tell him to dust off his boxes — he’s about to get some business.”

  Crowell sat his horse and watched the pair until they were out of sight. He knew about Preacher, for Preacher was a living legend in Colorado when Crowell was still a boy. As much a legend as Carson, Purcell, Williams, or Charbonneau, son of Sacagawea. The young man with him — or was Preacher with the young man? — was rumored to be the fastest gun anywhere in the state.

  A horse coming behind him broke the marshal’s thoughts. “Tom?” A man’s voice.

  Crowell turned to look at the shopkeeper.

  “You were deep in thought. Trouble?”

  “Not for us, I hope.”

  “Who were those men?”

  “One was the old curly wolf, Preacher. The other was the young gun-hand, Smoke.”

  “Here! Lord, Tom, who are they after?”

  “He asked for Casey.”

  “Lord! Casey owes me sixty-five dollars.”

  Ten miles out of town, the pair met two hands riding easy, heading into town. Smoke and Preacher sat their saddles in the middle of the range and waited.

  “You boys is on TC range,” one of the riders informed them, his voice holding none of the famed western hospitality. “So get the hell off. The boss don’t like strangers and neither do I.”

  Smoke smiled. “You boys been ridin’ for the brand long?” he asked congenially.

  “You deef?” the second rider asked. “We just told you to get!”

  “You answer my question and then maybe we’ll leave.”

  “Since ’66, when we pushed the cattle up here from Texas — if it’s any of your damned business. Now git!”

  “Who owns the TC?”

  “Ted Casey. Boy, are you crazy or just stupid?”

  “My Pa knew a Ted Casey. Fought in the war with him, for the Gray.”

  “Oh? What be your name?”

  “Some people call me Smoke.” He smiled. “Jensen.”

  Recognition flared in the eyes of the riders. They grabbed for their guns but they were far too slow. Smoke’s left-hand .36 belched flame and black smoke as Preacher fired his Henry one-handed. Horses reared and screamed and bucked at the noise, and the TC riders were dropped from their saddles, dead and dying.

  The one TC rider alive pulled himself up on one elbow. Blood poured through two chest wounds, the blood pink and frothy, one .36 ball passing through both lungs, taking the rider as he turned in the saddle.

  “Heard you was comin’,” he gasped. “You quick, no doubt ’bout that. Your brother was easy.” He smiled a bloody smile. “Potter shot him low in the back; took him a long time to die.” The rider closed his eyes and fell back to the ground.

  “Let’s go clean out the rest of nest of snakes,” Smoke said.

  “There may be men at the ranch didn’t have nothin’ to do with your Pa and your brother dyin’.”

  “Yes. I have thought about that. I would say they have a small problem.”

  “Figured you’d say that, too.”

  “He that lies with the dogs, riseth with fleas,” Smoke said with a smile.

  “Huh?”

  “It was in one of those books I read at the cabin on the Fork.”

  “Shoulda burned them gawddamned things. I knowed it all along.”

  Stopping in a stand of timber a couple of hundred yards from the ranch house, Preacher said, “There she is. Got any plans?”

  “Start shooting.”

  “The house and out-buildin’s?”

  “Burn them to the ground.”

  “You a hard youngun, Smoke.”

  “I suppose I am.” He smiled at Preacher. “But I had a good teacher, didn’t I?”

  “The best around,” the mountain man replied.

  The house and bunkhouse were built of logs, with sod roofs. Burn easy, Smoke thought. He yelled, “Casey! Get out here.”

  “Who are you?” a shout came from the house.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  A rifle bullet wanged through the trees. High.

  “Lousy shot,” Preacher muttered.

  The rifle cracked again, the slug humming closer.

  “They might git lucky and hit one of the horses,” Preacher said.

  “You tuck them in that ravine over there,” Smoke said, dismounting. “I think I’ll ease around to the back.”

  Preacher slid off his mustang. “I’ll stay here and worry ’em some. You be careful now.”<
br />
  “Don’t worry.”

  “’Course not,” the old man replied sarcastically. “Why in the world would I do that?” He glanced up at the sky. “Seven, maybe eight hours till dark.”

  “We’ll be through before then.” Smoke slipped into an arroyo that half circled the house, ending at the rear of the ranch house.

  Fifty yards behind the house, he found cover in a small clump of trees and settled down to pick his targets.

  A man got careless inside the house and offered part of his forearm on a sill. Smoke shattered it with one round from his Henry. In front of the house, Preacher found a target and cut loose with his Henry. From the screams of pain drifting to Smoke, someone had been hard hit.

  “You hands!” Smoke called. “You sure you want to die for Casey? A couple of your buddies already bought it a few miles back. One of them wearing a black shirt.”

  Silence for a few seconds. “Your Daddy ride with Mosby?” a voice yelled from the house.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your brother named Luke?”

  “Yeah. He was shot in the back and the gold he was guarding stolen.”

  “Potter shot him — not me! You got no call to do this. Ride on out and forgit it.”

  Smoke’s reply to that was to put several rounds of .44s through the windows of the house.

  Wild cursing came from the house.

  “Jensen? The name is Barry. I come from Nevada. Dint have nothin’ to do with no war. Never been no further east than the Ladder in Kansas. Nuther feller here is the same as me. We herd cattle; don’t git no fightin’ wages. You let us ride out?”

  “Get your horses and ride on out!” Smoke called.

  Barry and his partner made it to the center of the backyard before they were shot in the back by someone in the ranch house. One of them died hard, screaming his life away in the dust of southeast Colorado.

  “Nice folks in there,” Preacher muttered.

  Smoke followed the arroyo until the bunkhouse was between him and the main house. In a pile behind the bunkhouse, he found sticks and rags; in the bunkhouse, a jar of coal oil. He tied the rags around a stake, soaked it in coal oil, lighted it, then tossed it onto the roof of the ranch house. He waited, Henry at the ready, watching the house slowly catch on fire.