Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m Marcus Giles,” the heavyset man growled around a mouthful of beans and biscuit. “That there is Johnny Wyatt an’ Carlos Balboa,” he added, inclining his head toward his compatriots across the room.

  “Tell us what happened,” Smoke said.

  “Well, our capt’n sent us out to ride the mountain with this U.S. marshal named Wilkins. Seems Wilkins had been in Pueblo when this woman came in on the southbound train with a load of other women who’d been beaten up an’ raped by these men who escaped from the territorial prison over in Utah.”

  When he mentioned Sally, Smoke breathed a silent sigh of relief. Evidently she’d made it to Pueblo without any trouble.

  “Go on,” he said when the man paused to drink more coffee and take in another spoonful of beans.

  “Marshal Wilkins an’ his two deputies an’ us began to move south along the trails from Pueblo. He said he was hopin’ to flank around the outlaws an’ catch ’em ’fore they could do any more harm.”

  “And you did catch up to them?” Monte Carson asked.

  “More like they caught us,” the man named Balboa interjected.

  Giles gave him a look that shut him up, then continued his story.

  “Yeah. We was goin’ down this trail just ’fore dark, an’ all of a sudden, from outta nowhere, these men jumped outta the bushes an’ commenced to fire on us.”

  “The marshal led you into a trap?” Guthrie asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “It weren’t his fault exactly,” Giles said defensively. “The outlaws gave us no warnin’ at all, just sorta appeared.”

  “What happened to the marshal and the two deputies?” Smoke asked.

  Giles shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know ’bout the marshal. He yelled to look out just before the outlaws opened fire, an’ jumped his horse off’n the trail into the brush.” Giles hesitated, a look of sadness on his face. “The two deputies an’ two soldier friends of ours were blown outta their saddles ’fore you could spit.”

  “So, at least four men are dead, but you don’t know if the marshal survived or not?” Smoke asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t bother to go back and check on him to see if he was wounded or lying out in the snow somewhere?” Sergeant Guthrie asked, a look of extreme distaste on his face.

  “No,” Giles replied belligerently. “They was a whole lot of men out there takin’ potshots at us. We weren’t about to go back just to see if anybody was left alive. There weren’t hardly no way a man could’a survived that shootin.’”

  “Where did this shooting take place?” Smoke asked.

  “’Bout five or six miles northeast of here.”

  “Isn’t your post up near Pueblo? To the north?” Guthrie asked, an edge in his voice.

  Giles’s eyes glanced at the sergeant’s stripes on Guthrie’s uniform and he sullenly nodded his head.

  “Then why were you traveling south?” Guthrie continued.

  Giles’s face burned red. “Uh, we didn’t rightly know which way to go to get away from the outlaws. We was plannin’ on turnin’ back toward the post in the mornin’ ”

  Guthrie nodded, but it was clear from his face he didn’t believe a word the man was saying. He stood up and walked out the front door onto the porch, where he slowly built himself a cigarette and stood there smoking, looking at the stars.

  Smoke said, “Finish your food, Private Giles.”

  He walked out onto the porch to join Guthrie.

  “You think they were planning on deserting, don’t you?” he asked Guthrie.

  Guthrie nodded. “It’s plain to see they’re the bottom of the barrel. That’s probably why their captain sent them with the marshal. He was probably glad to get rid of them.”

  “You think there’s any chance this Marshal Wilkins is still alive?” Smoke asked.

  Guthrie shrugged. “Most likely not, but I’ve known a lot of marshals in my day, an’ most of ’em are damned hard to kill.”

  Smoke nodded his agreement. “We’d better ride on out to where the attack took place and see what we find. If nothing else, we can bury the deputies and soldiers who were killed and see which way the outlaws headed after the attack.”

  Guthrie looked at Smoke. “You think we should wait until daylight? I don’t rightly relish the idea of ridin’ into an ambush like the marshal did.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, we can’t afford to wait. If by some chance the marshal, or one of the other men, is still alive, they’ll freeze before morning if we leave them out there. Besides, as cold as it is, the outlaws are going to be sitting around a fire somewhere, not hiding in the bushes waiting to see if anyone returns to the scene of the ambush.”

  “I hope you know what you’re talkin’ about, Smoke,” Guthrie said, pitching his cigarette butt over the porch rail into the snow in the front yard.

  “Well, if I’m wrong and the outlaws ambush and kill us all, I’ll apologize, Bob,” Smoke said with a grin.

  Guthrie returned the smile as he walked into the house. “I’m gonna hold you to that, Smoke.”

  24

  After the ambush, Ozark Jack Berlin led his men away from the area in case someone else was following the men he’d killed.

  As they rode, Blue Owl pulled up next to him. “Say, Boss. You notice two of them men were wearing Army uniforms.”

  Berlin nodded. “I noticed.”

  “I thought by going south we’d get away from the Army,” Blue Owl said, scowling.

  “Me too,” Berlin said. “At least they didn’t send a whole company after us. I’m not too concerned ’bout five or six men.”

  “Yeah, but the Army’s got telegraphs,” Blue Owl observed. “They’re bound to notify their posts farther south to be on the lookout for us, ’specially after all the bluecoats we’ve killed lately.”

  “I know,” Berlin said. “That’s why I’ve decided not to go any farther south just yet.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think we’ll turn an’ head back up into the mountains. Long as these winter storms keep comin’, it’s gonna keep the Army from comin’ after us in force.”

  “It’s gonna be slim pickin’s up in the mountains, Boss,” Blue Owl observed, frowning. “The men are expecting to get rich robbing banks and trains and such. They aren’t gonna take kindly to being told we’re going back up into the high country.”

  Berlin glanced at him. “Don’t be too sure ’bout there bein’ slim pickin’s in the mountains. Remember, there’re more mines than you can shake a stick at, there’s ranchers with no banks to keep their money in, and best of all, there ain’t a whole lot of law up here to bother us.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Berlin nodded. “That’s why I’m leadin’ this here gang an’ not anybody else, Blue Owl. You tell the men it won’t do no good to rob a bunch of banks an’ get a bunch of money an’ then not be able to spend it ’cause the Army’s got us danglin’ from the end of a rope.”

  “You’re right, Boss. It won’t do no harm to winter over in the mountains, pick off a few mines and ranches, and then head down south next year when the heat’s off and everybody’s forgotten all about us.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Blue Owl. I’m gonna leave it up to you to convince the men to stick with us through this. The more of us there are, the less chance anybody’ll be able to stand against us when we come calling.”

  “You leave the men to me, Boss,” Blue Owl said, a hard look on his face. “Anybody don’t like the way things are being handled can argue about it with my pistol,” he said, patting the handle of his Colt.

  “That’s what I like about you, Blue Owl,” Berlin said with a grin. “You have such a way with words.”

  * * *

  Once the three soldiers had eaten and gotten their fill of coffee, and Carlos Balboa’s butt wound was properly bandaged, Smoke’s group saddled up their mounts and had the men lead them back toward where the ambush had taken pla
ce.

  The soldiers were understandably reluctant to return to the area, but Smoke finally convinced them it would be safe, that the outlaws had undoubtedly left by now.

  When they rounded a turn in the trail, Private Giles reined his horse to a halt, pointing down the path. “I think it was just up there, Smoke,” he said.

  Smoke got down off his horse. “You men stay here,” he said. “I’ll go on ahead on foot and see what I can tell from the tracks.”

  Smoke walked down the trail, his head down, reading tracks as easily as if they’d been a book telling him what had happened earlier that night. The moon was still up, so he had sufficient light to make out the marks in the snow.

  He found where the outlaws had been camped, and saw how they’d spread out into the brush alongside the trail. Something must have alerted them to the arrival of the marshal and his men, he thought. Evidently the marshal’s party had made enough noise so that the gang knew they were coming and had time to arrange an ambush. Either that, or the outlaw leader was smart enough to have men stationed along his back trail to warn him of anyone tracking them.

  Smoke walked around the scene, seeing just how it’d come down. He found the dead bodies sprawled just where they’d fallen. One of the men had a bullet wound to the head surrounded by powder burns, indicating he’d been still alive after the assault and someone had put a bullet in his head at close range.

  Twenty yards farther up the trail, he found disturbed snow alongside the road where the marshal had jumped his horse down the slope. There was no blood alongside the marshal’s horse’s tracks, so perhaps he hadn’t been hit.

  Smoke pursed his lips and gave a shrill whistle, indicating for his men to come on up.

  When they arrived, he pointed down the slope. “Here’s where Marshal Wilkins took off,” he said.

  Pearlie leaned over his saddle horn. “That’s a mighty steep slope, Smoke. I don’t see how his horse could’a stayed on his feet, ’specially in the dark.”

  “Speaking of horses,” Smoke said. “Why don’t you and Cal ride around and see if you can round up the dead men’s mounts. We’re going to need them to carry the bodies when we’re done.”

  Pearlie nodded, and motioned for Cal to follow as he rode off up the trail.

  “What’re you gonna do, Smoke?” Guthrie asked.

  “I’m going down that slope and see if the marshal is still alive,” Smoke answered.

  “That’s a helluva drop-off,” Jed said, shaking his head doubtfully at the idea of riding a horse down the slope.

  Smoke swung up into the saddle. “Don’t worry, boys,” he said. “This is a mountain pony I’m riding. He’s used to much worse.”

  With that, Smoke spurred the horse forward over the hill and down the slope, taking it slow and easy and letting his mount pick the best way down.

  At the bottom of the hill, Smoke found the marshal’s horse, lying dead, its legs twisted under it and several bullet holes in it.

  Smoke eyed the tracks around the horse, and noted the saddlebags were missing and the rifle boot was empty.

  “Well, well, well,” he said to himself. “It looks like the marshal survived the trip down. Now let’s see if he’s survived the cold.”

  Smoke got down off his horse and led it by its reins as he followed the marshal’s tracks in the snow. He saw no other tracks, so he knew the outlaws hadn’t bothered to track the marshal, which meant he had a good chance of still being alive.

  After he’d gone two hundred yards, Smoke saw the tracks heading out of the clear and into the brush. The marshal was looking for cover to hole up until dawn, Smoke thought.

  He didn’t want to walk up on the man and perhaps get shot for an outlaw, so Smoke cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Marshal Wilkins!” several times as loud as he could.

  From twenty yards off to the right, Smoke heard the unmistakable sound of the lever action of a rifle.

  “Marshal, we’ve come to help you,” Smoke called. “We’re friends . . . don’t shoot.”

  A weak voice called back from the darkness of the undergrowth, “How do I know you’re friends?”

  “How else would I know your name, Marshal?” Smoke called back. “Some of your men escaped and brought us back here. Come on out and I’ll keep my hands in the air.”

  “I can’t,” the voice said, becoming weaker by the moment. “My damn feet are near frozen.”

  “I’m coming in,” Smoke said, and walked into the bushes.

  He found the marshal burrowed down in the snow, pine boughs and limbs pulled over him to keep the cold out, his rifle barrel pointing out through the cover at Smoke.

  “If you’ll point that rifle somewhere else, I’ll help you outta there,” Smoke said.

  “Come on, mister,” the marshal replied, lowering the rifle. “I’m in no shape to fight back if you’re not who you say you are anyway.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Smoke had the marshal back up the slope, having put him on his horse and led the horse back the way they’d come.

  “Pearlie, Cal, build a fire, quick,” Smoke said as he clambered over the crest of the hill.

  While Cal and Pearlie got a fire going, the other men helped the marshal off the horse and laid him on a ground blanket next to the flames.

  “Thank God you came,” he rasped through swollen, chapped lips. “I managed to get my saddlebags off my horse, but my matches were wet and I didn’t have no way to start a fire.”

  “Another couple of hours an’ you’d’ve froze to death,” Guthrie said as he pulled the marshal’s boots off and began to rub his feet.

  “Oh, shit! That hurts,” the marshal cried.

  “You got the beginnings of frostbite here, Marshal. You’re gonna be lucky if you don’t lose some toes.”

  “Better my toes than the whole foot,” the marshal grunted through gritted teeth.

  Smoke grinned. He liked this man. Not one to whine and complain about his hard luck.

  “What about the other bodies?” Smoke asked Jed, who was busy fixing a pot of coffee to boil on the fire.

  “They looked like they’d been stripped. Their boots and most of their belongings were gone, including their guns and ammunition.”

  Smoke looked around and noted three new horses tied up next to his men’s. “I see you found some mounts,” he said to Pearlie.

  “Only three, Smoke. The other one either ran off or was taken by the outlaws.”

  “Would you see about getting the dead men on two of them? We’re gonna need one for the marshal here.”

  “You mean we’re not going to bury them here?” Jed asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “No. Seeing as how we’re going to have to take the marshal back to Pueblo, might as well save time by sending the bodies back too.”

  “But I thought we were going after the outlaws,” Guthrie protested.

  Smoke glanced at the outlaws’ tracks. “They’ve turned and headed back up into the mountains,” Smoke said. “There’s no hurry.”

  “But Smoke, what if we lose their tracks under new snow?” Guthrie said.

  “We won’t. Cal and Pearlie and I will go on tracking them. You and Jed can take the marshal and bodies and other soldiers back to Pueblo,” Smoke said, accepting a cup of coffee from Jed.

  “No! I want to go with you,” Guthrie said, anger in his voice. “Those bastards killed my men!”

  “Bob, be reasonable,” Smoke said in a low voice. “I don’t trust those other soldiers to go back to Pueblo. The marshal is in no shape to travel by himself, and Jed would only be one against three if the soldiers decided to hightail it south instead of north.” Smoke put his hand on Guthrie’s shoulder. “I think it’d be safer all around if you went back with them and explained things to the Army captain up there.”

  “But . . .”

  “With any luck, you’ll be able to convince him of the need to send another squad up into the mountains to go after the outlaws. Remember, there are
lots of miners and ranchers up there who are going to need our protection.”

  “Damn it, Smoke,” Guthrie argued with feeling, “I want revenge for what they did to my men.”

  “You’ll get it, Bob. Just be mighty convincing when you talk to that Army captain.”

  Monte Carson stepped forward. “You want me to help you track these bastards, Smoke?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, Monte. This figures to be a long campaign . . . hell, it might take weeks before we manage to catch up to them. Your place is back at Big Rock.”

  “But, hellfire, Smoke,” the sheriff protested. “It’ll just be the three of you goin’ up against more’n thirty of those outlaws.”

  “Like I said, Monte, that’s liable to be weeks from now. The people of Big Rock elected you to take care of the town, not traipse all over the mountains looking for escaped convicts. Besides, what if the outlaws turn south again and decide to hit Big Rock? You need to be there to make sure the town’s ready . . . just in case.”

  Monte ducked his head, turning his hat over in his hands. “I guess you’re right, Smoke, but that don’t mean I like it.”

  “I don’t particularly like it either, Monte, but sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want to do.”

  Monte turned to his horse and climbed in the saddle. “Remember, Smoke. I’ll be in Big Rock if you need me.”

  Smoke nodded. “I know, Monte. You take care on the ride back to town, you hear?”

  Monte grinned fiercely. “I just hope those sons of bitches do try to tree Big Rock. They’ll be in for the surprise of their lives.”

  25

  Ozark Jack Berlin led his men in a wide circle back to the west, edging upward into the mountain range just above Big Rock, Colorado.

  “Why’re we going this way?” Blue Owl asked. “Aren’t we heading back toward the men who’re trailing us?”

  “Yeah,” Berlin replied, grinning. “It’s something they’ll never suspect.”

  “There someplace special you’re heading to?” Blue Owl asked as he unfolded the map Berlin had been following and laid it across his saddle horn. “I don’t see nothing but mountains on this here map. No towns or nothing.”