Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Has the judge come down yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s his room number?”

  “Two-oh-three.”

  Monte went upstairs. When he reached the second floor, he stepped over to Room 203 and knocked on the door.

  “Judge? Judge Tutwyler, you awake? Judge?” Monte knocked again, more loudly this time. “Judge, wake up!”

  When the judge still didn’t answer, Monte went back downstairs. “Do you have an extra key to the judge’s room?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the clerk said, starting back toward the registration desk. He reached up toward a large board covered with nails from which keys were hanging. His hand started toward 203, then stopped. That nail was empty. “That’s funny.”

  “What’s funny? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The extra key is gone.”

  “You sure? You sure you didn’t give two keys to the judge?”

  “I’m positive. The extra key was hanging right here,” the clerk said. “I know it was here last night because I saw it. I don’t have the slightest idea what happened to it.”

  “Damn,” Monte said. “I’m afraid I do.” Turning, Monte went back up the stairs, this time taking them two at a time, although he knew in his gut that any need for hurrying was long over.

  Puzzled by the sheriff’s strange behavior, the hotel clerk hurried up behind him.

  This time Monte made no effort to knock on the door, or even try the doorknob. Instead he backed away from it, then raised his foot and kicked hard right beside the knob.

  “Here, what are you doing!” the clerk asked in alarm.

  The door popped open, along with part of the door frame. Monte took one step into the room, then stopped.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  The bed on which the judge was lying was soaked in blood. Like Deputy Wallace, the judge’s eyes were open and opaque. And like Wallace’s eyes, these too reflected the horror of his death.

  * * *

  Jack Tatum had met Raul Sanchez six months earlier when the Mexican came to him with information about a shipment of rifles to the Mexican Army. Tatum, Sanchez, and a half-dozen others had hit the freight wagon, killed the Mexican Army guards, and taken the shipment of repeating rifles. Their initial plan had been to sell it to one of the several revolutionary groups operating in northern Sonora, but none of the groups had enough money to make the deal worthwhile. So Tatum came up with a new plan, a particularly ambitious one, which would require several more men. After breaking Tatum and Petrie out of jail, Raul Sanchez went his own way, intending to round up the men they would need to carry out Tatum’s plan. Sanchez and Tatum had agreed to meet in Risco, a tiny town in northern New Mexico Territory.

  Tatum was pulled out of his reverie by a call from Billie Petrie, who was riding behind him.

  “Jack,” Petrie called. “Jack.” His voice was strained and filled with pain.

  Twisting in his saddle, Tatum saw that Petrie had fallen from his horse. With a disgusted sigh, Tatum rode back to look down at him.

  “We ain’t makin’ no time with you fallin’ off your horse ever’ mile or so,” he said.

  “I can’t help it, Jack,” Petrie said in a pained voice. “This here leg is killin’ me. The wound has festered.”

  Tatum dismounted, then pulled a knife, knelt down by Petrie and ripped his pants leg open. The leg was swollen and blue. He put his hand on the leg near the bullet entry wound and felt its heat.

  “You’re in bad shape,” Tatum said matter-of-factly.

  “I’ll be all right soon’s I get to where I can rest a little,” Petrie insisted.

  “No, you ain’t going to get all right.”

  “Maybe a doctor could . . .”

  “There ain’t no doctor in Risco,” Tatum said. “And even if there was, ’bout the only thing he could do for you is take the leg off.”

  “No,” Petrie said, shaking his head. “I ain’t goin’ let no doctor do that.”

  Tatum turned away from Petrie and started back toward his horse. “Think you can get mounted?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Petrie said. Painfully, he got up, then reached for the saddle horn. He tried to pull himself up into the saddle, but he couldn’t do it. Then, with a mighty effort, he heaved himself up, only to fall from the other side.

  “Sorry, Billy, but I ain’t got time to take care of you,” Tatum said.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” Petrie said.

  “Oh, I ain’t worried,” Tatum said. There was something about the tone of Tatum’s voice that caused Petrie to look up at him. When he did, he saw that Petrie was holding a gun on him.

  “Jack, no!” Petrie said. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s best this way, Billy. You wouldn’t want to go through the rest of your life without a leg now, would you?”

  “Listen, Jack, no, don’t—” That was as far he got before Tatum pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Petrie in his heart, stopping it instantly.

  Tatum started to leave him there, then looking down, saw the snakeskin boots Petrie was so proud of.

  “No sense in lettin’ these go to waste,” he said. “I’ll just take ’em with me—as a keepsake, so to speak.” Kneeling at Petrie’s feet, he pulled the snakeskin boots off, one at a time. Then, taking the reins of Petrie’s horse, he rode off, even as the vultures were circling.

  5

  Tom Burke, the man who had acted as foreman for the jury that convicted Tatum and Petrie, gave a barbecue on his ranch, Timber Notch. It was a gala event, with half a steer turning on a spit over an open fire, tended to by a couple of Tom’s hired hands. He had invited everyone who served with him on the jury, as well as the sheriff, the bailiff, and all his neighboring ranchers. Sugarloaf was adjacent to Timber Notch, which meant that Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, and Cal were included in the invitation.

  The barbecue was given as a way of getting everyone together and settled back down again after the events of the recent past: the attempted bank robbery, the killing of Richmond Flowers, and more recently, the killings of Deputy Wallace and Judge Tutwyler.

  The party was supposed to help people put everything behind them, but throughout the large house there were little groups of guests all talking about the same thing: the events of the recent past. Not until one of the hands came in, carrying a large joint of beef, did the subject change.

  “Here’s the first carving, folks!” Tom said. “If you’ll get in line at the table there, when you get to the meat, I’ll serve you.”

  Although the steer had been cooked over an outdoor pit, it was a little cold outside, so the serving was inside. A long table, laden with vegetables and salads, provided the side dishes. There were at least forty people in attendance, and they were going down each side of the table, loading their plates with the salads and vegetables. Then they took their plates to another table where Tom was carving the meat. As Tom carved the meat, his wife, Jo Ellen, served.

  Jo Ellen was wearing a gold chain, from which hung a sparkling diamond. It was an anniversary gift from Tom, and she had been showing it off proudly.

  “Have you seen my new diamond?” she asked as Smoke held his plate out to be served.

  “It’s pretty, all right,” Smoke agreed. “But I’d just as soon you not be showing it off to Sally. Next thing you know, she’ll be wantin’ one.”

  “Hah! As if you wouldn’t get it for her, Smoke Jensen,” Jo Ellen said. “I know you. You’d do anything Sally asked you to do. And why wouldn’t you? She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll confess to that,” Smoke agreed with a little laugh.

  Pearlie was right behind Smoke, and he held his plate out to Jo Ellen while she put a generous portion of beef on it. When Pearlie looked a little disappointed, she smiled at him.

  “Would you like a little more?”

  Grinning broadly, Pearlie held his plate out again. “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “S
ay when.” Jo Ellen put another large slice of beef on his plate, and when he didn’t pull it back, she put another.

  “Damn, Smoke, you didn’t tell me I was going to have to butcher half my herd just to feed Pearlie,” Tom said, laughing.

  “The boy does have an appetite,” Smoke agreed.

  “Appetite? He doesn’t have an appetite, he has a bottomless pit.”

  After Tom had carved enough meat, he got his own plate, then found Smoke and joined him. Tom had recently announced that he would soon be going to Texas to buy blooded bulls, and some of the other ranchers were already making arrangements to buy stud service from him.

  “When are you leaving, and how long do you think you’ll be gone?” Smoke asked.

  “I’ll be leaving sometime in the next two weeks,” Tom replied. “It’ll take me two days to get there by train, maybe a week to find the bulls, and two days back. So, make it about two weeks that I’ll be gone.”

  Tom’s young son brought his own plate over and sat down beside them.

  “What are you doing here, Buddy? I thought all the kids were outside, playing down at the pond,” Tom said.

  “They’re running around putting frogs down the girls’ dresses,” Buddy said disgustedly. “I don’t have time for that kid stuff.”

  Tom laughed. “You’re twelve years old. If you don’t have time for it now, when will you have time for it?”

  “Never,” Buddy said. “Anyway, you’re talkin’ about goin’ to Texas to get the bulls, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s more interesting than playing with frogs.”

  “Buddy, would you please come take this plate over to Mrs. Pynchon?” Jo Ellen Burke called.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Buddy replied, putting his own plate down and going over to do his mother’s bidding.

  Pearlie pointed to him as he walked away. “That kid acts older’n you do, Cal,” he teased.

  “Jo Ellen and I are convinced that Buddy’s not really a kid,” Tom said, laughing. “We think he’s a full-grown man, passing himself off as a kid.”

  “Well, look at it this way. If he keeps up his interest in the ranch, you’ll have a home-grown foreman in no time at all,” Smoke suggested.

  “Did you read that letter in the paper from Judge Tutwyler’s wife, thankin’ the town for the flowers it sent to his funeral?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. It was a nice letter,” Smoke said.

  “It’s a shame, what happened to him and the deputy.”

  “You should’ve killed both those sons of bitches while you had the chance,” Pearlie said.

  “It would’ve been better if I had,” Smoke agreed.

  “Where do you think they are now?” Cal asked.

  “If I were them, I’d be in California,” Tom said. “Or Washington State maybe. Anywhere, as long as it’s somewhere far away from here.”

  * * *

  It was after midnight when Tatum rode into the tiny town of Risco, in northern New Mexico Territory. It had been six days since he escaped, and four days since he left Billy Petrie dead on the desert floor. Using some of the money he had stolen from the deputy and the judge, he bought a bottle of tequila at the cantina, then picked up a Mexican whore, taking her as much for her bed as for any of the special services she could provide for him.

  Risco was a scattering of flyblown, crumbling adobe buildings laid out around a dusty plaza. What made it attractive to people like Tatum was the fact that it had neither constable nor sheriff, and visitations by law officers from elsewhere in the territory were strongly discouraged. In fact, there was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as “Lawman’s Plot.” There, two deputy sheriffs, one deputy U.S. marshal, and an Arizona Ranger—all uninvited visitors to the town—lay buried.

  Tatum woke up the next morning with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The puta was still asleep beside him. The covers were askew, exposing one enormous, pillow-sized, blue-veined breast and a fat leg that dangled over the edge of the bed. She was snoring loudly, and a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Tatum crawled over her to get out of bed and get dressed.

  There was an outhouse twenty feet behind the little adobe crib, but Tatum chose not to go inside, peeing against the outside wall instead.

  Finished, Tatum went back in to get dressed. He looked at the snakeskin boots, then smiled as he pulled them on. They were every bit as comfortable as Petrie had said they were. “Hell, if I’d known the boots felt this good, I’d’a shot you a long time ago,” Tatum said quietly, laughing at his little joke. Dressed now, he walked over to the table where he had seen the woman put the money last night. He took his money back, then let himself out and went downstairs.

  Tatum was sitting at a table in the back of the cantina, having a breakfast of beans, tortillas, and beer, when Pigiron McCord came in. Pigiron wasn’t very tall, but he was a powerfully built man, bald, with a prominent brow ridge, thick lips, and heavily muscled arms that seemed too long for his body. Seeing Tatum, Pigiron came back to join him.

  “Sanchez told me you would be here,” he said.

  “Did he tell you what I’ve got in mind?”

  “He said you were going to sell guns to the Indians.”

  “That’s right.”

  Pigiron shook his head. “You ain’t going to make no money that way. The Indians have gone straight. They’ve got their own money; they can buy guns anytime they want. Hell, they can even order them from a catalogue.”

  Tatum shook his head. “The treaty allows them to buy guns for hunting purposes only, and there is a limit to how many they can buy.”

  “Why would they want any more than they can buy?”

  “Because they are going to be in a war,” Tatum said. “And you can’t fight a war if you don’t have enough guns.”

  “Hell, Tatum, you been in jail too long,” Pigiron said with a snort. “Except for a few Sioux and their Ghost Dancers, there ain’t no Indians nowhere that’s on the warpath.”

  “That’s the way it is now,” Tatum said. “But it don’t have to stay that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Soon’s we get through causing trouble, there will be Indians on the warpath. I guarantee it.” Tatum concluded his comment by shoving half a bean-loaded tortilla into his mouth. When bean juice ran down his chin, he wiped it off with his shirt cuff, then licked the juice from the accumulation of filth that was on his sleeve.

  “What are we going to do?” Pigiron asked.

  “You let me worry about that. In the meantime we’re going to need some men. Think you can round a few up?”

  “Sure, if they don’t all have to be white Anglos.”

  “They don’t. In fact, I already got me a couple of half-breed Injuns goin’ to throw in with us. We need them to make the plan work.”

  “How soon you want me to get ’em?”

  “Soon as you can. Is there any paper out on you up in Colorado?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “Good. Soon as you get a few men rounded up, I want you to take one of them with you and go on up to Big Rock to have a look around. Wait for me up there. I’ll join you soon as everything’s ready.”

  “All right.” Pigiron was silent for a moment. “You said take a look around. What am I lookin’ for?” he asked.

  “The man who was the foreman on the jury that convicted me is named Tom Burke. I understand he has a ranch somewhere near to Big Rock. I want you to find out where it is and how many men he’s got workin’ for him. ’Cause the first thing I aim to do after I get back up there is pay that son of a bitch a little visit.”

  * * *

  When Pigiron McCord and Jason Harding rode into Big Rock some days later, they rode right past Tom Burke, though, never having seen him, they didn’t realize it. Pigiron and Harding headed straight for Longmont’s Saloon, while the buckboard they had just passed, containing Tom Burke and his family, continued on toward th
e railroad station. Tom had driven in from Timber Notch so he could catch the afternoon train.

  Tom’s ten-year-old daughter, Sue Ann, had been bribed by the promise of a sarsaparilla, but Buddy had needed no inducement. He’d come willingly. When they reached the depot, Tom stopped the team and set the brakes on the buckboard. He left for a few minutes to check his suitcase and buy his ticket, then came back to sit on the buckboard and wait for the train with his family.

  Because trains were the town’s contact with the rest of the world, nearly every arrival and departure were major events. Therefore, the depot platform was crowded with men, women, and children. There was nearly always someone there to take advantage of the crowd: a musician, an artist, or even a public speaker looking for an audience. Today a juggler was entertaining the crowd by keeping brightly colored balls in the air, in exchange for whatever coins might be tossed in his hat. Getting permission, Sue Ann got down from the buckboard and went over for a closer look. She’d asked Buddy to come with her, but he’d declined, concentrating instead on the purpose of his father’s visit to Texas.

  “Pop, I know bulls near ’bout as good as you do. You sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  “Not this time, Buddy,” Tom said. “Maybe next year.”

  “All right, next year,” Buddy said, pleased by the concession. “You think I won’t remember that, but I will.”

  Tom chuckled. “Oh, I’ve no doubt but that you will remember.”

  In the distance they heard a whistle and looking north, saw smoke in the sky.

  “Well, here it comes,” someone called, though as everyone had heard the whistle and seen the smoke in the sky, no such announcement was necessary.

  Tom stepped down from the buckboard, stretched, then reached for a small valise. He saw his suitcase, along with a dozen other bags, on the little steel-wheeled cart that was being rolled out to the track, where it would be loaded onto the baggage car.

  Tom stood alongside the buckboard as the train arrived. When it drew even with him, he could feel the pounding of the big driver wheels rolling against the track as wisps of spent steam spewed out of the actuating cylinder. The train slowed, then stopped, with the cars alongside the platform while the engine, venting steam and popping and snapping as the metal cooled, sat on the far side of the depot.