Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Several of the men whistled and yelled at some of the prostitutes, many of whom were standing at the doors to their brothels, waving and showing lots of leg and chest to the men as they rode by.

  When they came abreast of what appeared to be the largest saloon, Berlin pulled his horse to a stop. He dismounted and tied the animal to a rail. As his men gathered around, he said, “We’re gonna go in here and have a few drinks to clear the trail dust outta our throats.”

  The men grinned and laughed, until Berlin held up a hand. “But,” he warned, “I’ll shoot the first man who causes any trouble or brings attention to us. Understand?”

  The men sobered and nodded and followed Berlin into the saloon. The room was a very large tent with what appeared to be handmade tables and chairs scattered around a dirt floor. The bar consisted of two twelve-inch-wide boards placed across a couple of sawhorses in front of a wooden wall holding hundreds of bottles of whiskey, most without labels on them.

  It being early in the day, about ten in the morning, the place was largely unoccupied, with only ten or twelve men sitting at various tables.

  Berlin walked to the bar, took a couple of boiled eggs out of a large jar, and slid the jar down the wooden planks toward the men with him.

  The bartender glanced around at the thirty men crowding into the space near the bar, smiling in anticipation of a very profitable morning trade.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” he asked.

  Berlin pointed to several bottles of amber-colored liquid on the wall. “Give us four bottles of your best whiskey an’ some glasses,” he said.

  The barman raised his eyebrows. “But them bottles are twenty dollars apiece,” he said, his eyes looking at Berlin’s not-too-prosperous-appearing clothing.

  Berlin reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold coins, tossing them negligently on the bar.

  “Yes, sir!” the barman said, and put the bottles and a tray of small shot glasses on the bar.

  “Let’s find some tables,” Berlin said, taking one of the bottles and a glass and walking to a table at the rear of the saloon.

  Once he was seated, at a table with Blue Owl and Sam Cook, Berlin leaned forward, speaking in a low tone of voice.

  “Have you thought about what we’re gonna do next?” he asked.

  Cook upended his glass and swallowed the whiskey in one long draught, coughed, and shook his head.

  Blue Owl let his eyes roam over their men sitting at nearby tables. “We got to make a choice, Ozark,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Once word gets out about the jailbreak, there are gonna be lawmen all over the state looking for us. Traveling with thirty men makes us stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “And just what do you think we ought’a do about it?” Berlin asked, sipping his whiskey.

  Blue Owl stared back at him. “If we want to disappear, get away clean, it’d be better if we took off on our own.”

  Berlin leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “And then what, Blue Owl? Get us a job punchin’ cattle, or digging holes in the ground lookin’ for ore?”

  Blue Owl let his eyes drop. “We could rob us some banks, or hold up some stages,” he said in a low voice.

  “Penny-ante stuff,” Berlin said. “Look at what we got here, Blue Owl.” He looked around at the men sitting nearby, slowly getting drunk on the whiskey he’d bought.

  “We got us a ready-made gang here. Thirty of the meanest, most bloodthirsty men in Utah. Ain’t nobody can stand against us. We can ride into towns, take what we want, an’ nobody can do nothin’ about it.”

  “You’re forgetting about the Army, Ozark. I figure it won’t be long before they’re on our trail.”

  Berlin grinned. “That’s where we got the real advantage, Blue Owl. The Army has to wait for orders ’fore they do anything. If we keep movin’, crossin’ state an’ territorial lines, the Army ain’t never gonna catch up to us.”

  “What if they do?” Blue Owl asked.

  Berlin shrugged. “Then we blow’em outta their saddles, just like we do anybody else who tries to cross us.”

  “If we’re gonna go up against the bluecoats, Ozark, we’re going to need more guns.”

  Berlin leaned forward again. “That brings us to my next plan. . . .”

  * * *

  After they finished off the whiskey, Berlin and his men got on their horses and rode down the street until they came to the livery stable.

  Berlin and Blue Owl went inside. An old man with a gray beard was using a pitchfork to throw hay into stalls for the animals inside.

  “You the owner?” Berlin called.

  The man stopped, leaned on the handle of the pitchfork, and nodded. “Yep.”

  “Got any mules?”

  “I got four, but they ain’t for sale. I can rent ’em to you for a day or two though.”

  “That ain’t good enough, old-timer,” Berlin said, stepping forward. He pulled a long-bladed knife from a scabbard on his belt and in a quick motion, slashed the blade across the man’s throat.

  As the owner groaned and fell to the ground, Berlin motioned for Blue Owl to gather up the mules and lead them outside.

  They took the mules and rode back down the street toward a large general store in the middle of town.

  Berlin and Blue Owl, followed by the rest of the men, went inside. They began to pile up supplies, beans, bacon, flour, sugar, and jerked meat on the counter, waiting until the other customers had finished and left the building.

  Berlin nodded at Blue Owl, who walked to the door, pulled the shade, and turned the sign on the door around until it said CLOSED.

  “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the owner asked, coming around from behind his counter.

  Sam Cook, without saying a word, drew his pistol and slammed the barrel down on the man’s head, knocking him out cold.

  As Cook dragged him by his boots back behind the counter, the rest of the men proceeded to load all the supplies on the mules, taking additional clothing and stuffing it in their saddlebags.

  Berlin and Blue Owl walked to the back wall of the store. There were over twenty rifles, assorted handguns, and boxes of ammunition stacked there. Berlin began to hand the guns out to the men, along with the ammunition.

  “Blue Owl,” he said, “take some of those boxes of dynamite and fuses along too. We might need ’em if the Army gets too close.”

  In less than half an hour, the mules were loaded down with boxes and canvas bags of supplies, including several boxes of dynamite and two cans of gunpowder. Meanwhile, Berlin had gone to have a talk with the local assayer. Then he returned to the store.

  He was the last to leave. He shut the door, leaving the sign on it saying the store was closed for the day.

  He mounted up and waved his hand. “Let’s ride, men,” he called. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  “What about the whores?” an eighteen-year-old boy named Billy Bartlett asked.

  “There’ll be other towns, Billy,” Berlin said.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Jonathan Pike held up his hand to the forty troops riding behind him. They were in the main street of Lode, and he could see a crowd of miners and prostitutes gathered around the general store.

  Sergeant Bob Guthrie leaned to the side and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the mud of the street. “What do you make of it, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pike answered. “Keep the men here and I’ll ride up and see what all the commotion is about.”

  Guthrie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you think we could let the men get a drink or two in that saloon over there, sir?” he asked. “It’s been a long, dusty ride.”

  Pike grinned. “Yeah, Sarge, but beer only. No whiskey. If we happen to run into those escaped prisoners, I don’t want any drunk men doing my fighting for me.”

  “Yes, sir!” Guthrie said with enthusiasm.

  While Guthrie got the men organized
and into the saloon, Pike walked his horse toward the crowd up ahead.

  He dismounted and approached a man who seemed to be in control.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Pike with the Army. May I ask what’s going on here?”

  The man turned, frowning. “Howdy, Lieutenant. My name’s Wilson Smith, an’ I guess you could say I’m the mayor of this here town.” He paused and glanced at the door to the general store they were standing in front of. “ ’Bout four hours ago we had a group of twenty or thirty men ride through here. They killed the livery owner . . . slit his throat clear through, an’ they knocked out the owner of this general store. Doc’s in there stitching up his head now.”

  “Why’d they kill the livery owner?” Pike asked.

  “To get his mules, I guess. That’s ’bout the only thing we can find that’s missin’ down there.”

  “Mules? Why would they need mules?”

  “Why, to haul off the stuff they took from the store, I guess.”

  “Excuse me, Mayor. I’m gonna go inside and talk to the owner.”

  “Best be careful, Lieutenant. He ain’t in too good a mood.”

  Pike nodded and stepped through the door.

  He found an elderly man in a black coat and white shirt leaning over the counter, upon which lay another man with blood on his face and shirt.

  Pike walked up and introduced himself, then said, “Could you tell me what they took?”

  The owner of the store glanced at him, an angry look on his face. “Damned near everything that wasn’t nailed down, Lieutenant, that’s what. Clothes, food, rifles and pistols, ammunition, and even some dynamite and gunpowder.”

  “Damn!” Pike exclaimed. He knew having the escaped prisoners thus armed was going to make his job that much harder.

  “About how long ago did they leave?”

  “How the hell do I know?” the man asked angrily. “I was stretched out dead to the world.”

  The doctor glanced over his shoulder at Pike. “Best we can tell, it was about four hours ago.”

  Pike glanced at his watch. It was now almost three-thirty in the afternoon. It would be dark long before they could catch up to the escapees, and he didn’t relish coming upon them in the dark.

  “Is there anyplace in town I can billet my men until tomorrow?” he asked.

  “You going after those bastards?” the store owner asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pike answered. “But I want to track them in daylight, not at night.”

  As the doctor leaned back, finished with his sewing, the owner sat up. “I’m Josh Collins. I own one of the houses down the street. It’s got a sign on the front that reads Pleasure Palace. Now, it ain’t really no palace, but it’s got enough beds and couches in it so’s your men can get outta the weather.”

  Pike nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Collins. I’ll give you a voucher so you can send your bill to the Army.”

  “Don’t need no voucher,” Collins said. “Long as you get the sons of bitches that did this to me, I’ll call it square.”

  “That’s what the Army’s paying us to do, Mr. Collins,” Pike said, though he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, not now when the men were as heavily armed as his own troops.

  5

  Cal glanced at Pearlie as they rode back with Smoke toward the Sugarloaf. He raised his eyebrows, wondering if he should say anything. Smoke had been uncharacteristically quiet on the return trip, not laughing and joking as he usually did on these excursions to town.

  Pearlie returned Cal’s look, shrugging. He too was unused to Smoke’s quiet mood.

  Cal considered his options. He’d been more than an employee of Smoke’s for several years—in fact, both Smoke and his wife Sally looked upon Cal as more a son than a hired hand. Cal had come to work at the Sugarloaf while just a boy in his teens. He’d been on his own, penniless and starving, and had actually tried to hold up Sally one morning while she was on her way into town to buy supplies.

  After he drew down on Sally and asked her for some food, she got the drop on him with the snub-nosed. 36-caliber pistol she carried in her purse. Cal laughed and showed her that the ancient pistol he was pointing at her was unloaded anyway.

  Realizing the boy was starving, Sally took him to the Sugarloaf and offered him a job. He’d been part of the family ever since.

  “Smoke,” Cal said hesitantly.

  “Yeah?” Smoke answered, his eyes fixed on the trail ahead and his jaw clenched.

  “You been awfully quiet this trip. Anything wrong?”

  Smoke glanced at Cal, and his eyes softened. “So, you noticed?”

  Both Cal and Pearlie laughed. “Hell, yes,” Cal said.

  Smoke took a deep breath. “It’s just that I’m not used to relying on someone else to pull my fat outta the fire.”

  “What do you mean?” Pearlie asked.

  Smoke patted his hip where his pistols usually lay. “I feel naked without my Colts. After more years than I care to remember with them at my sides, it just doesn’t feel right not to be wearing them.”

  Cal nodded. “Why don’t you try talkin’ to Sally about it, Smoke? She’s usually reasonable about these things.”

  Smoke looked at Cal, a small grin on his face. “You ever try talking a woman outta something when she’s got her mind set on it, Cal?”

  Cal shook his head. “No. Matter of fact, I ain’t had a whole lot of experience with women at all, Smoke.”

  “Keep it that way, Cal, and you’ll have a whole lot less gray hair when you get to be my age,” Smoke observed.

  “You could just put the guns back on and tell Sally that’s the way it’s gonna be,” Pearlie observed.

  Smoke nodded. “I could, but the problem with that is it would make Sally very unhappy. And since I love her, her unhappiness would make me unhappy too.”

  Pearlie shook his head. “Love is a bitch, ain’t it?” he said to no one in particular.

  “It sure can be sometimes,” Smoke said. “Other times, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.”

  * * *

  Sally Jensen walked out on the porch of their cabin when she heard Smoke’s and the boys’ horses arrive.

  As he dismounted, Smoke said in a low tone, “Not a word about what happened in town.”

  “Are you men hungry?” Sally asked, wiping flour off her hands onto her apron.

  Pearlie grinned. “Now, Miss Sally, what kind of a question is that?” he asked.

  “You ever know Pearlie to admit he wasn’t hungry?” asked Cal. “The man’s stomach is a bottomless pit.”

  “We had breakfast at Louis’s,” Smoke said as he stepped up on the porch and gave her a hug and a kiss.

  “Then I guess you didn’t leave room for any bear sign,” Sally said, smiling.

  “Bear sign?” Pearlie asked, licking his lips.

  Bear sign, the sugary doughnuts that men were known to ride dozens of miles to sample, were one of his favorite foods.

  “I made a couple of dozen, but since you’ve already eaten . . .” Sally began.

  Pearlie took a few quick steps toward the porch. “Outta my way, Smoke. I can hear them bear sign callin’ my name,” he said as he pushed by Smoke and Sally.

  Cal, slightly more deliberate, tipped his hat at Sally. “If you don’t mind, Miss Sally, I’d kind’a like a few of them too. That is, if Pearlie ain’t already eaten ’em all ’fore I get through the door.”

  “I might have room for one or two also,” Smoke said, walking into the kitchen with his arm around Sally.

  As the boys sat down to eat, Sally poured them all mugs of rich, dark coffee. When she leaned down to put the mugs on the table, she sniffed loudly.

  “You boys smell like gunpowder,” she observed, standing back from the table with her hands on her hips. “Anything happen in town I ought to know about?” she asked.

  Cal and Pearlie glanced at each other, then at Smoke, waiting for him to answer.

  Smoke paused, a bear sign halfway to hi
s mouth. He pursed his lips, as if considering how he should respond.

  Sally nodded, looking in turn at each of the men sitting at her table. “Uh-huh, I know when all of you get lockjaw at the same time that something must have happened while you were in town.”

  Smoke laid the bear sign down, took a sip of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair, staring at Sally. “You’re right, as usual, dear.”

  “Come on,” she said impatiently, “give.”

  “While we were eating breakfast at Louis’s, we were braced by three young gunnies looking to make a reputation for themselves,” Smoke said evenly.

  “Didn’t they see you weren’t wearing any weapons?” Sally asked, a look of alarm on her face.

  “Didn’t make no difference to that kind’a men, Miss Sally,” Pearlie said. “Once they knew who Smoke was, they was bound and determined to egg him into a gunfight.”

  Sally arched an eyebrow. “And what did you do, Smoke?” she asked.

  Smoke shrugged. “What could I do, Sally? I wasn’t wearing any guns, at your request.”

  “So why do I smell gunpowder on you all?”

  Smoke’s face got dark. “Because, when those gunslicks drew on me, Cal and Pearlie saved my bacon by drawing and shooting them before they could kill me.”

  Sally sighed and stepped over to the table, putting her hands on Cal and Pearlie’s shoulders. “Thanks, boys,” she said.

  Smoke threw his napkin down on the table and stood up, his face angry. “And I’ll tell you something else, Sally,” he said. “It’s gonna happen again, sooner or later, long as you insist on me not wearing any guns.”

  He turned and walked rapidly out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “I’m gonna ride out and take a look at the herd.”

  Cal and Pearlie, embarrassed to be present at this scene of domestic disturbance, kept their heads down as they ate bear sign and tried to pretend they hadn’t heard anything.

  Sally walked around the table and sat down at Smoke’s seat. She stared at Cal and Pearlie. “You boys think I’m wrong in asking Smoke not to wear his Colts?”