Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke showed Cal how to lay his ammunition out in a line on one side next to where he lay, so as to be able to grab it and reload in a minimum of time. The bundles of dynamite were similarly laid out on the other side within easy reach. The cigar was to be lit at the first sign of movement below.

  * * *

  Ozark Jack Berlin came out of his cabin and stretched, checking the sky to see what the weather was going to be.

  The storm of the night before had passed, and the sky was orange and purple with the first light of day.

  “Good, no snow,” he muttered to himself, thinking how glad he was going to be to get to Mexico, where the sun was as hot as the señoritas, and where the tequila flowed like water.

  He walked over to the fire, which was down to a few smoldering coals. He threw some fresh wood on the coals, placed a pot of water next to them, and walked toward the outhouse.

  As he walked, he glanced up at the cliffs overlooking the valley, wondering where the sentries were. They usually were the first in line for coffee after a night standing guard.

  “Lazy bastards probably sleepin’,” he muttered as he opened the door to the outhouse.

  “Goddamn!” he almost shouted, seeing the bloody mess of one of his men sitting on the board over the shit-pit.

  He whirled, reaching for his pistol, realizing something was terribly wrong. As he ran toward his cabin, he looked to the side, and saw only three horses standing near the open corral gate. The others were all gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” he yelled, pulling his pistol and firing once in the air to wake up his men.

  Within minutes the cabin doors opened and men boiled out into the early morning sun, some still in long underwear with their pants around their knees as they tried to get dressed on the run.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Blue Owl shouted, running toward Berlin with his rifle in his hands.

  Just as Berlin got next to the now-roaring fire, he saw a trail of fire burning away from the coals toward the snow.

  “What the hell?” he thought, then realized it was a fuse.

  “Hit the dirt!” he shouted, and dove facedown in the snow twenty feet from the fire.

  The dynamite went off with a loud explosion, sending logs and burning wood in all directions.

  Billy Bartlett, nearest to the fire, was blown fifteen feet in the air, a piece of burning pine log protruding from his chest and his face blown off down to the bone.

  Jack McGraw’s left arm was shredded by wooden splinters, spinning him around and throwing him against the cabin wall.

  A loud, booming explosion from Smoke’s Sharps sounded from above. Wiley Gottlieb was knocked to his knees, a hole the size of a bucket in his chest from front to back. He had time to glance down at it before his eyes clouded over and he toppled over onto his face.

  Another explosion from Bear Tooth’s Big Fifty sounded, and Jesus Santiago’s right leg was blown completely off just above the knee, causing the Mexican to begin to scream in Spanish as he thrashed around on the ground, trying to staunch the spurting stream of crimson from his stump.

  Berlin rolled to the side just as the snow where he’d been was pocked by several shots from Cal’s Winchester. Berlin scrambled to his feet, firing wildly upward without aiming as he ran full out toward one of the caves.

  Tony Cassidy ran in a low crouch toward one of the horses near the corral, firing as he ran. He vaulted up on the bronc’s back and kicked its flanks, trying to get to the head of the valley.

  Pearlie calmly aimed and fired, his bullet taking the outlaw square between his shoulder blades, throwing him over the horse’s head to tumble and roll several times. He died from a broken neck before he bled to death from the bullet hole.

  Joe Wyatt aimed his rifle at the cliff tops and fired as fast as he could lever shells into the chamber, spinning on his heels trying to get a clear shot.

  Cal ended his life by shooting him in the face, tearing his jaw off and ripping a hole in his throat. He fell into what was left of the fire and began to burn.

  The rest of the men ran back into the cabins, trying to get under cover, except for Blue Owl. He saw Berlin headed for the caves, and followed as fast as he could, running almost bent double to make a smaller target.

  Bear Tooth took a shot at him with the Sharps, but the bullet missed by inches and tore a hole in the wall of the outhouse, hitting the dead man inside and decapitating him.

  Smoke stood up where Bear and Pearlie could see him, and held a bundle of dynamite up for a second. Then he lit it from his cigar and made a long toss toward one of the cabins.

  Cal followed suit, as did Bear Tooth and Pearlie.

  Four bundles of dynamite hit at almost the same time. Bear Tooth’s fell short, and did little damage other than blowing snow and mud and dirt into the air.

  The others landed square on the cabins’ roofs, exploding and blowing them into splinters, along with some of the men inside.

  Jack McGraw had crawled away from the cabin, cradling his ruined left arm with his right. He was twenty yards away when the cabin exploded. He rolled over onto his back, thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t crawled inside, when a shadow appeared overhead. He looked up in time to see a fifteen-foot log tumbling down toward him. He barely had time to scream before it crushed him into the dirt, breaking every bone in his body.

  Spotted Dog and John Ashby were blown out of their cabin to land twenty feet away. Spotted Dog’s left ear and half his face were blown completely off, along with his left eye. He stumbled to his feet, screaming and yelling with his right hand to his face, firing his pistol blindly with his left hand.

  Cal and Pearlie both shot at the same time, blowing him onto his back, his mouth open but no sound coming from it as blood pumped from twin holes in his chest.

  Smoke, who’d seen Berlin and Blue Owl disappear into the cave, put down his Sharps and scrambled down the path on the side of the cliff to follow them.

  John Ashby, his thigh bone sticking out of his leg like a piece of alabaster china, crawled toward the head of the valley, as if he could crawl to safety.

  Bear Tooth stood up, took careful aim, and blew his spine in half. Ashby grunted once, then let his head fall as he died on his stomach.

  Moses Johnson, buried in the rubble of a cabin, lay still, figuring he’d play dead and see what happened.

  Smoke entered the cave, crouching to make a smaller target, and walked forward, his Colt in his hand, to see if he could find the two men who’d entered moments before.

  * * *

  Bear Tooth, Cal, and Pearlie made their way down the cliffs until they were on the valley floor. Dead men and pieces of dead men were scattered all over the area. A couple of the men moaned and cried weakly for help, but none looked as if they were going to survive the assault.

  The three men moved among the bodies, checking them to make sure they’d cause no more trouble.

  Bear Tooth searched the rubble of the cabins, finding the large sack of gold nuggets and dust in the main room.

  “Hey, boys, looky here,” he said, holding up the bag and grinning.

  Suddenly, from behind him, the remains of a wooden table moved and a huge black man stood up, a pistol in his hand aimed at Bear Tooth’s back.

  In an instant, Cal and Pearlie drew and fired, their shots sounding as one.

  Bear Tooth ducked as twin bullets whizzed past his head, missing him by inches.

  Moses Johnson screamed, “Jesus!” as the bullets hit him on either side of his chest, almost directly over his nipples.

  He dropped his pistol and looked down at the blood oozing from his shirt, then looked up, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “You boys done kilt me,” he said, almost in disbelief.

  Bear Tooth whirled around, whipped his long knife out, and shouted, “No, son, I did,” and threw the knife.

  It spun three times in the air and hit Johnson right between the eyes, snapping his head back and burying itself in his brain.
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br />   The big man toppled like a tree that’d been cut, falling directly onto his back.

  Bear Tooth turned back to Cal and Pearlie, a gap-toothed grin on his face. “Damn if you young beavers didn’t save ol’ Bear Tooth’s hide.”

  As Cal and Pearlie smiled, Bear Tooth threw his arm around their shoulders and said, “Thank yee kindly, boys.”

  Pearlie wrinkled his nose and said, “I’ll call it even if you’ll take that bearskin coat off and burn it.”

  Cal looked around. “Say, where’s Smoke?” he asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

  Bear Tooth pointed to the cave. “Last I saw, he was headed into that cave over yonder after two of them outlaws.”

  Cal and Pearlie drew their pistols and ran toward the cave as fast as they could, hoping they wouldn’t be too late.

  Bear Tooth followed at a slower rate. “Don’t you worry none ’bout Smoke Jensen, boys,” he drawled. “A mountain man like Smoke Jensen’s more’n a match for just two pond scum like them fellers.”

  37

  Smoke made his way cautiously through the cave, finally seeing a square of light ahead in the darkness.

  Slowly, carefully, he squeezed out of the opening and got to his feet.

  Twenty yards away, he saw Ozark Jack Berlin and Blue Owl getting their supplies together and getting ready to get on two horses they had tied to a tree.

  Smoke stepped out into the open, his right hand near the butt of his Colt .45 Peacemaker on his right hip.

  “You boys thinking of leaving this little party?” he asked in a low, hard voice.

  The two men whirled around, their eyes wide with surprise.

  Berlin smiled slowly and turned to square off facing Smoke. “You must be the famous Smoke Jensen I’ve been hearin’ so much about,” he growled.

  Smoke smiled lazily back at him. “One and the same.”

  “You as fast with that six-killer as they say you are?” Berlin asked, his hand moving toward the pistol on his hip.

  “You’re about to find out, Mr. Berlin,” he answered.

  Berlin’s hand moved and he slapped the butt of his gun, his teeth bared in a grimace of hatred.

  Smoke waited a second, then drew in a movement so fast, Berlin’s pistol was still in the leather when he fired. His bullet took Ozark Jack Berlin in the middle of his forehead, snapping his head back and blowing brains and hair and blood all over the horse behind him.

  The outlaw’s eyes widened in surprise before they clouded over and stared the long stare into eternity.

  Blue Owl jumped to the side and raised his hands. “I don’t have a gun, Jensen,” he said, a pleading whine in his voice. “You’ll have to arrest me and take me to jail.”

  Smoke slowly shook his head. “I’m not an officer of the law,” he said in a hard voice. “And you’re not going anywhere.”

  “But . . . but . . . you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” Blue Owl pleaded.

  Just then, Cal, Pearlie, and Bear Tooth crawled out of the cave behind Smoke.

  Smoke nodded at the knife in Blue Owl’s belt. “That the knife you used on those women?” he asked.

  A strange light gleamed in Blue Owl’s eyes. “Yeah, it is. You want a taste of my blade, white eyes?” he asked scornfully.

  Smoke took a deep breath. “I think it only fitting you die the way you killed so many others, breed.”

  “I’m not a breed!” Blue Owl said heatedly. “I’m a full-blooded Modoc.”

  Smoke unbuckled his belt and let his guns fall to the ground, pulling out his Bowie knife in the same motion.

  “Then you know what I’m going to do to you, Indian. I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to cut your eyes out so you’ll wander the afterlife blind for all eternity.”

  “We’ll see, Jensen, we’ll see,” the Modoc said, pulling his knife and spreading his arms in the classic knife-fighter’s stance.

  “Smoke,” Cal called fearfully.

  “Hush, boy,” Bear Tooth said, grinning. “Watch, an’ learn.”

  * * *

  The two men circled each other warily, Blue Owl occasionally sweeping his knife before him to keep Smoke away as he looked for an opening.

  Suddenly, he yelled and jumped forward, slashing viciously in a wide arc.

  Smoke didn’t retreat as the Indian thought he would, but merely leaned back, letting the point of the attacker’s knife graze his chest, slicing his buckskin shirt and drawing a thin line of blood across his chest.

  While Blue Owl was off balance and leaning forward, Smoke’s knife moved so fast it was a blur, back and forth across Blue Owl’s face, laying both his cheeks open to the bone.

  Blue Owl staggered back, lowering his knife. “I’ve had enough,” he said, as if defeated. “You win.”

  “No,” Smoke said calmly. “It won’t be over until one of us is dead, like all those women you killed.”

  “Bastard!” Blue Owl screamed and lunged forward, his knife outstretched.

  Smoke leaned to the side and let the knife pass harmlessly by his face, bringing his blade up with all his strength.

  The blade impaled Blue Owl just below his belly button, and he hung there, his eyes bulging in pain and terror as Smoke stared into his face, inches away.

  With a grunt, Smoke lifted his knife with all his might, bringing the blade slicing upward through Blue Owl’s belly all the way up to his chest.

  Smoke stepped back and let the Indian sink to his knees, his bowels flopping out of the long hole in his abdomen to writhe like purple snakes on the ground in front of Blue Owl.

  As the Indian sat there, helpless, Smoke stepped forward and with a quick double slash, took his eyes.

  Blue Owl screamed and let go of his intestines to grab his face.

  Smoke turned his back and walked away, leaving Blue Owl screaming in pain.

  “Aren’t you gonna finish him off, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “Let’s go home, boys. Let him suffer for a while, like all the women he cut up did. With any luck, he’ll last a couple of days before the wolves find him.”

  Bear Tooth put his arms around Cal and Pearlie’s shoulders again as they turned to go.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, boys. Don’t never make a mountain man mad.”

  “Uh, Bear,” Pearlie said, “about that coat . . .”

  WARPATH OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  1

  Smoke Jensen was in front of the hardware store, looping the reins of his horse around the hitching rail, when he heard the gunshot. Sometimes, in drunken play, shots were fired into the floor or in the air. Most of the citizens of Big Rock had learned to tell the difference between the sound of a shot fired in play and one fired in anger.

  This shot, fired at ten-fifteen A.M. on a Tuesday morning in October, was fired in anger.

  Suddenly, a man burst from the front door of the bank, which was located about two blocks west of the hardware store. It was Rich Flowers, one of the bank tellers.

  “They’re robbing the bank! They’re robbing the bank!” Flowers shouted. “Help, somebody, they’re . . .”

  That was as far he got before a masked man appeared in the doorway of the bank, clutching a bag in one hand and a pistol in the other. The masked man raised his pistol and fired at Flowers, hitting him in the back. Flowers fell facedown in the dirt.

  Up and down the street there were screams and shouts of fear and alarm. Citizens of the town scrambled to get out of the way: running into nearby doorways, ducking behind watering troughs or around the corners of buildings. Three more masked men appeared in the bank door, firing their weapons indiscriminately. There was a scream from inside Mrs. Pynchon’s dress shop. The crash of glass followed as a woman tumbled through the window and fell onto the boardwalk, bleeding from her wound.

  “Clear the street, clear the street!” one of the bank robbers shouted, waving his pistol. “Everybody get off the street!” He punctuated his demand with more pistol shots.

  Alth
ough most of the citizens obeyed the bank robbers’ orders, Smoke Jensen did not. Instead he strolled, almost casually, to his horse, and pulled his rifle from its saddle holster. Then, jacking a shell into the chamber, he stepped out into the middle of the street, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and fired at one of the bank robbers. The bank robber went down.

  “What the hell!” one of the other robbers shouted. “Where did that come from?”

  “Down there!” another said, pointing to Smoke.

  The robber aimed at Smoke and fired, but he was using a pistol, and he missed. Smoke returned fire, and didn’t miss.

  Now there were only two of the robbers left.

  “Get the money and let’s get out of here!” one of the two shouted. The other robber tried to retrieve the money bag from the hands of one of the two robbers Smoke had killed, but Smoke put a bullet in his leg and he went down.

  The last robber, now seeing that he was alone and outgunned by the man with the rifle, threw his pistol down and put his hands up.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I quit!”

  Keeping the robber covered, Smoke walked toward him. By now, most of the townspeople realized that Smoke had everything under control. They started coming back into the street, heading toward the bank and the two robbers who were left alive: one standing with his hands up, the other, groaning and bleeding, lying in the dirt.

  “Who are you, mister?” the one who was still standing asked.

  “Why do you need to know?” Smoke replied. “It’s not like we’re going to be friends, or anything.”

  Some of the citizens of the town, now close enough to hear the exchange, laughed.

  “Mister, you just been brought down by Smoke Jensen,” someone said. “And if it’s any consolation to you, he’s beaten many a man better than you.”

  By now, Sheriff Monte Carson was also on the scene, and he took the two robbers into custody.

  “What about my leg?” the wounded robber asked. “I got me a bullet in my leg. I need a doctor. I’m your prisoner, and the law says you got to get me a doctor.”