Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “You think six men will be enough?” Berlin asked Blue Owl.

  “Sure,” the Indian said. “We’re only going up against two old men and a woman.”

  “You thought the trip to Big Rock was going to be easy too,” Berlin said with a sneer. “An’ look what happened.”

  Blue Owl’s red face got even redder. “That was different, Boss,” he said. “They was expecting us. That old rancher don’t know nothing about us, so it ought to be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.”

  * * *

  Smoke, Cal, and Pearlie were riding cross-country through snow almost up to their mounts’ chests.

  “That was a damn good idea of yours, Smoke,” Pearlie said, “puttin’ burlap around the horses’ legs so’s they wouldn’t get too cold in this snow.”

  “Just another trick I learned from Preacher,” Smoke said, referring to the man who’d taught him all he knew of living in the high lonesome.

  “He learn you ’bout usin’ this bootblack under our eyes too?” Cal asked, referring to the smears of black boot polish Smoke had put on their cheeks just under their eyes.

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “It helps to ward off snow blindness from the glare of the sun off the snow.”

  “Sure feels foolish, though,” Pearlie said, glancing at Cal, who had black polish smeared all over his face.

  “Better to feel foolish than to go blind out in the open,” Smoke said. “I’ve seen pilgrims who didn’t know what they were doing wander around, blind as bats, until they froze to death in their saddles.”

  Pearlie pointed at a rise in front of them. “If Johnny was right about the Morrows’ place, it ought’a be just over that next hill,” he said.

  Smoke was about to reply, when the sound of a gunshot echoed across the hills.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I hope we’re not too late.”

  The three men spurred their horses forward until they crested the hill in front of them.

  Almost a thousand yards below, they could see a group of men sitting on horses in front of the Morrow ranch house.

  Smoke jumped down off his horse and pulled his Sharps fifty-caliber rifle out of his saddle boot in one swift motion.

  Pearlie grabbed his binoculars out of his saddlebag and put them to his eyes. “Looks like they got the drop on the Morrows, Smoke,” he said.

  He could see five men with guns drawn, covering a man and a woman on the porch, who stood with their hands in the air. Lying flat on his face on the porch was another man, who looked like he’d been shot.

  Smoke eared back the hammer on the Sharps and flopped down on his stomach in the snow.

  He took careful aim, remembering what Preacher had taught him about shooting at a distance when the targets were downhill.

  He raised the vernier sight on top of the rifle and adjusted the range to a thousand yards, raising his head to feel which way the wind was blowing before sighting in on the man in the front of the group.

  While he was doing that, Cal and Pearlie, who’d remained in their saddles, pulled Winchester rifles out of their saddle boots and jacked shells into the chambers.

  “I’m going to take out the lead man,” Smoke said. “As soon as I fire, you two hightail it down toward the ranch house. I may be able to get another one or two before you get in range. As soon as you start firing, I’ll get up on Joker and join you.”

  “You think you can get them ’fore they kill the Morrows?” Pearlie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Smoke said, “but it’s their only chance, so here goes. . . .”

  He gently squeezed the trigger. The big fifty-caliber rifle exploded, kicking back and turning Smoke halfway around as flame and smoke erupted from the barrel.

  As soon as he fired, Cal and Pearlie leaned over their saddle horns and kicked their mounts forward. They rode as Smoke had taught them, reins in their mouths, steering their horses with their knees as they brought their rifles up to their shoulders.

  With Smoke’s shot, the man in the front of the group was knocked off his horse as if he’d been hit by a cannonball, arms flailing, hat flying.

  The other men on horseback looked wildly around to see where the shot had come from as Smoke, without waiting, jacked another shell into the Sharps and took aim again.

  When the outlaw was blown off his horse, Jim Morrow whirled around and shoved his wife through the door of their cabin, diving after her as fast as he could.

  One of the outlaws snapped a shot at him, hitting him in the back of his left shoulder and driving him to the floor just inside the door.

  Bess Morrow reached down and grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him inside and slamming the door just as more bullets pocked the wood of the door frame.

  Smoke’s second shot was low, missing the man he aimed at but hitting his horse in the chest, knocking it to its knees as blood spurted from its hide.

  By then, Cal and Pearlie were in range, and began to fire and load and fire again as fast as they could, peppering the group of outlaws with .44-caliber slugs.

  Two more men were hit, flying off their mounts to lie dying in the snow.

  In the barn, Blue Owl was busily loading sacks of supplies and sides of beef on the back of a packhorse when he heard the booming explosion of the Sharps.

  “Goddamnit!” he exclaimed. “What now?”

  He ran to the door of the barn and saw three of his men down, the others trying to stay in their saddles as their mounts crow-hopped and jumped around, frightened by the gunfire.

  “Shit!” Blue Owl said, running back into the barn and jumping into his saddle, grabbing the dally rope of the packhorse and galloping off toward the mountain, trying to keep the barn between him and the attackers as he raced for their camp.

  Smoke swung onto Joker’s back, stuffing the Sharps into his saddle boot as he urged the big stud down the hill.

  The lone remaining outlaw on horseback leaned over his saddle horn and made tracks away from the cabin, while the man on the downed horse struggled to his feet and began to fire his pistol at Cal and Pearlie as they rode toward him.

  The cabin door opened and Bess Morrow stepped out on the porch, a long-barreled shotgun cradled in her arms.

  She leveled the scattergun at the outlaw’s back and let go with both barrels.

  He was thrown facedown in the snow, cut almost in two by the buckshot in her loads, dead in his boots.

  Pearlie slowed Cold to a stop, took careful aim with his Winchester, and fired.

  The man on horseback straightened, flung his arms out to the side, and toppled off his mount onto the ground, a hole in the middle of his back.

  By the time Smoke got to the house, it was all over. Five men lay dead or dying in the snow in front of the ranch house.

  He looked up in time to see a distant figure, trailing a packhorse, disappear into the pine trees on the mountain slope north of the house.

  Cal whirled around, breathing heavily from his ride. “You want me to go after him, Smoke?” he asked, inclining his head toward the man riding off.

  Smoke shook his head. “No, he’s got too big a lead, Cal. Besides, we can use his tracks to lead us to the gang’s hideout.”

  Bess Morrow, seeing all the outlaws down, turned and went back inside the house.

  Smoke and Cal and Pearlie followed her in. On the way, Pearlie knelt by the man on the porch to check him.

  He glanced up as Smoke walked by. “He’s had it, Smoke.”

  Smoke nodded and opened the door. Bess was kneeling next to her husband, wrapping her apron around his bleeding shoulder.

  She glanced up. “Smoke Jensen,” she said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  “Howdy, Mrs. Morrow,” he said, stepping to her side. “Is Jim going to be all right?”

  Jim Morrow groaned and rolled on his side, sticking his right hand out toward Smoke. “I want to thank you for what you did, Smoke,” he said. “If you and your men hadn’t showed up, we’d’ve been goners for sure.”

  Smo
ke tilted his head toward the front porch. “I’m sorry about your man. He’s dead,” Smoke said.

  Bess shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Good ol’ Hank,” she said. “He tried to draw on them men, never mind the odds.”

  Smoke bent and examined the wound on Jim’s shoulder. “You’re lucky, Jim. Looks like the bullet passed through clean without hitting the bone.

  “Cal, Pearlie, help me get him onto the bed,” Smoke said.

  Once Jim Morrow was situated on the bed, his head propped up by pillows, Bess wiped her hands on her skirt.

  “You boys gonna go after that galoot?” she asked.

  “Not tonight,” Smoke said. “It’d be too easy for him to ambush us in the dark by the time we got up onto the mountain. I’d rather give him time to get to the outlaws’ camp and think he’s safe.”

  He glanced out the window. “Besides, we need to help you bury Hank, and clean up that mess in your front yard.”

  She nodded. “I’d appreciate the help with Hank,” she said. Then her voice got hard. “As far as that other trash, you can just haul their bodies up the hill a ways and let the wolves and coyotes have ’em.”

  32

  After Dan Gilbert and Blue Owl took their men and left the camp to go and get Jim Morrow’s supplies, Ozark Jack Berlin joined his men around the campfire for some coffee mixed with whiskey to ward off the chill.

  Berlin glanced around the group sitting or standing near the fire. There were fourteen, counting himself, left in camp. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, thinking the loss of Sam Cook and his men and the four Blue Owl lost in Big Rock was whittling down his gang from more than thirty to less than twenty.

  He smiled to himself grimly. If this keeps up, he thought, we won’t need near so much grub to get through the winter, and the gold we steal will go a lot further.

  Wiley Gottlieb walked over to stand next to Berlin. “Jack,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at a group of men huddled near the fire.

  “Yeah?”

  “The men are gettin’ kind’a restless, just sitting around here trying to keep their fingers from freezing off. What say we make a little run around the area today and see if we can find something to do?”

  Berlin looked up at him. “Something to do? You mean, somebody to rob an’ kill?”

  Gottlieb grinned slyly. “The men need a little excitement, Jack. Otherwise, ’fore too long, they’re gonna be at each other’s throats.”

  Berlin thought about it for a few minutes. Gottlieb was right. These were not the sort of men to stay idle too long before their natural aggressiveness began to cause trouble in the camp.

  “You’re right, Wiley,” Berlin said, getting to his feet and dusting the seat of his pants off. “Tell the men to saddle up. We’re goin’ huntin’.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, after following winding mountain trails that cut back and forth across the side of the mountain, Berlin raised his hand to bring his band to a halt.

  Down the trail in front of them were three small cabins made of logs and chalked with mud in the chinks between the logs.

  The cabins were by the side of a small, bubbling stream that ran down the side of the mountain. About a quarter mile up the slope, a hole could be seen cut in the rock of the mountain, with some wooden steps arranged on the steepest part of the slope.

  Berlin pointed at the cabins, then at the hole in the rock. “Looks like we found us a mine, boys.” He grinned as he looked from one to the other. “Let’s hope these miners have had a good run of luck this year . . . ’cause their luck is gonna take a sudden turn for the worse.

  “Get down off your mounts an’ spread out. We’ll go in on foot. These miners have been known to not take kindly to somebody takin’ their gold,” Berlin ordered as he stepped out of his saddle.

  Berlin took a Henry rifle from his saddle boot and levered a shell into the chamber, then, crouching, began to walk down the trail toward the cabins.

  Behind him, his men spread out and filtered into the piney woods on either side of the trail, guns drawn, grinning at the prospect of both action and gold.

  When Berlin was fifty yards from the first cabin, the door opened and a man with a bushy, black beard walked out and moved toward the stream, a coffeepot in his hands. He was dressed in the canvas pants favored by miners who spend a lot of time on their knees, and when he got to the stream, he squatted next to the water. As he bent over and began to fill the coffeepot, Tony Cassidy stepped from behind a pine tree and shot him in the face.

  When Cassidy’s gun exploded, four more men ran from the cabins, and three came out of the mine on the mountainside.

  The outlaws opened fire, dropping the men before they had time to get off more than a couple of wild shots.

  As the smoke, which hung in the air like ground fog, began to clear, Berlin reloaded his Henry and walked toward the cabins.

  “Get their guns an’ ammunition, men. Then we’ll check out the cabins to see where they hid their gold.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Berlin and his men stepped from the cabins. They’d found six pounds of gold dust and nuggets hidden beneath the bunk beds in the houses. Another ten ounces was still in the mine where it’d just been dug up.

  Berlin bounced a canvas sack of dust in his hand, grinning. “Not a bad mornin’s work, huh, boys?” he asked, looking around at his men.

  As he looked, he noticed a figure sitting on a horse on top of a ridge above the mine, several hundred yards away.

  Berlin quickly shielded his eyes and glared up the slope at the man. The man appeared to be dressed in buckskins, and was sitting on a paint pony, a long rifle cradled in his arms. He had some sort of fur hat on his head, and he was glaring down at the outlaws.

  Berlin pointed at the man and hollered, “Hey, you!”

  As the outlaw gang all turned to look, the man shook his head and slowly rode out of sight without looking back.

  “What the hell?” Moses Johnson asked, his eyes wide. “You think that was a spook, Boss?”

  Berlin shook his head, a curious look on his face. “Naw. Probably an old mountain man. I’ve heard there are still some of ’em up in these parts.”

  “You think we ought’a go after him?” Billy Bartlett asked, his hand dropping to the butt of his pistol.

  Berlin shook his head. “No. From what I hear, those old coots tend to mind their own business. It’s a wonder we even seen him.”

  Spotted Dog looked worried. “If we saw him, Jack, it is because he wanted us to see him. My people say the mountain men can become invisible if they wish.”

  “What?” Moses asked, his mouth open.

  “It is true,” Spotted Dog persisted. “I have been in camp with my people when a mountain man walked right past our fires without anyone seeing him. We only knew he’d been there by his tracks the next morning.”

  “That’s bullshit, Dog,” Berlin said. “He’s just an old man who’s outlived his usefulness. He won’t give us any trouble.”

  Spotted Dog shook his head, his face a mask of fear. “I hope not, Jack. The sort of trouble a mountain man gives you is usually fatal.”

  “Come on, boys,” Berlin said, trying to lighten the mood. “Let’s get on back to camp with our gold. Blue Owl and the others ought to be there soon, so we can put on the feed bag and have ourselves a little party tonight.”

  The men walked back up the trail to their horses. As they climbed in the saddle, Spotted Dog looked over his shoulder up the mountain where the strange man had been seen. He shivered as he thought he saw a shadow moving among the trees and bushes there, as if it were following them.

  33

  Once Hank was buried, the outlaws’ bodies were moved away from the Morrows’ ranch house, and Jim’s wound was treated, Bess Morrow insisted on fixing some fresh food for Smoke and the boys to take on their quest after the gang.

  She handed a large sack of fresh-fried chicken to Pearlie with a wink. “I’ve seen the way you ea
t, son, so I know you’ll take good care of this little snack.”

  Pearlie opened the sack, took a deep sniff, and rolled his eyes as if he were in heaven. “Yes, ma’am, you can be sure of that,” Pearlie said, carefully rolling the top of the sack over to keep the chicken fresh and putting it reverently in his saddlebags.

  Cal looked at Pearlie, “You know, Pearlie, that there chicken is for all of us, not just for you.”

  Pearlie gave him a look. “Of course, Cal, an’ if you’re a good lad, I may share the neck and wings with you.”

  Smoke took Bess’s hand. “Are you sure you and Jim will be all right if we leave?”

  “Smoke, you don’t live on a ranch twenty miles from nowhere without learning how to care for a little old bullet wound. We’ll be fine.” She narrowed her eyes. “You just find those . . . outlaws and give them what they got coming for what they did to Hank. I know he’ll rest easier knowing they ain’t gonna get away with what they done.”

  “You can count on that, Bess,” Smoke said, climbing up on Joker. He tipped his hat. “Give my best to Jim. We’ll check back in on you on our way back to the Sugarloaf.”

  “Good luck, boys,” Bess said, waving as they rode off up the slope of the mountainside, following the tracks Blue Owl had left when he’d hightailed it away from the ranch the day before.

  * * *

  Four hours later, when they were well within the thick pine and maple forest of the mountain, Smoke slowed Joker and said, “I guess it’s about time we took our nooning.”

  “I thought you’d never say that,” Pearlie said. “That chicken’s been callin’ to me for the past five miles.”

  Smoke ground-reined the horses and walked over into a small copse of maple trees, where the branches had kept the snowfall to a minimum.

  “Gather up some wood for the fire, Pearlie. No need to eat a cold lunch when we’ve got plenty of time.”

  After the fire was going, using dry wood at Smoke’s suggestion so it wouldn’t smoke so much as to give their position away, Smoke melted some snow for the coffee and heated up some beans in a skillet to go with the chicken. Cal found a sack of day-old biscuits and put them in a pan to steam them soft.