Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, this is it,” Tom said. He kissed Jo Ellen and Sue Ann good-bye. Then he put his hand on Buddy’s shoulder. “Take care of them while I’m gone,” he said.

  “I will, Pop,” Buddy said.

  Tom started toward the train, but Jo Ellen called out to him. “Tom?”

  He turned.

  “Kiss me good-bye again?”

  Tom chuckled, then came back and kissed her. During the embrace she held him very hard.

  “Easy, darlin’,” Tom said gently. “I’m only going to be gone a couple of weeks.”

  “I know,” Jo Ellen said.

  Tom kissed her once more, then walked out to the train. Jo Ellen and her two children watched as Tom climbed onto the train and disappeared inside. The conductor called all aboard, and the train began to pull away from the station. Jo Ellen could no longer see him, but just in case he could see them, she wanted them to all be there when he took his last look back. For that reason they stayed right where they were until all that could be seen of the departing train was its smoke, hanging in the distant sky.

  “Mom? Mom, aren’t we going to get my sarsaparilla?” Sue Ann asked.

  “What?”

  “You promised me a sarsaparilla, remember?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jo Ellen said. “Of course.”

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Jo Ellen’s body quaked as she shivered. Sue Ann laughed. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Oh, no reason,” Jo Ellen replied.

  “Ben says when you shiver like that, it means someone just stepped on your grave,” Buddy said.

  “Don’t be saying such things,” Jo Ellen said more harshly than she intended.

  “It’s just a joke, Mom.”

  “Well, it’s not a very funny one,” Jo Ellen said. For some reason she had a strange feeling of foreboding that she couldn’t shake.

  6

  By coincidence, Smoke Jensen was in town the same afternoon that Tom Burke left for Texas. And though he had come to run a few errands, he allowed himself enough time to stop by Longmont’s to have a drink.

  The owner of the saloon, Louis Longmont, was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender, always clean hands and long fingers with nails that were carefully manicured. Louis had been Smoke’s friend for many years, and though he was sitting at his special table in the back, he got up and came over to the bar specifically to serve Smoke, pouring his drink from a special bottle he kept just for his friend.

  Louis was dressed in a black suit with white shirt and dark ascot. He wore low-heeled boots and a pistol hung in a tied-down holster on his right side. The saloon owner was an enigma to many people. On first glance, he was just another dandy. But in fact, he was worth a great deal of money, and in addition to the saloon, owned a large ranch up in Wyoming, several businesses in San Francisco, and a rather significant share of a railroad.

  “Did you hear about Billy Petrie?” Louis asked as he poured the drink.

  “No, what about him?”

  “They found his body about fifty miles south of here.”

  “His body?”

  “Yes, he’d been shot. Sheriff took the noon train down to see about it. Looks like Tatum may have shot him to keep him from slowin’ him down. So much for friendship.”

  “I’m not all that surprised,” Smoke said. “Tatum struck me as the type of person who might do something like that.”

  “You crazy bitch!” someone shouted. The shout was followed by the sound of a slap, and when Smoke looked around, he saw that a big man had just hit one of the bar girls.

  “You come back here!” the big man bellowed when the girl ran from him.

  “Who is that?” Smoke asked.

  “He gave his name as Pigiron McCord,” Longmont answered. “He’s a stranger in town, must’ve just come in today.” Louis started to pull his pistol, but Smoke put out his hand to stop him.

  “Wait, no need for that yet.”

  When the big man started toward the girl a second time, Smoke called out to him.

  “Leave the girl alone, McCord.”

  The big man looked toward Smoke in surprise. “How’d you know my name?”

  Smoke didn’t answer.

  The man chuckled. “So, you’ve heard of ole Pigiron McCord, have you? What have you heard? That I’m not someone you mess with?”

  “What makes you think I would have heard of a worthless pile of shit like you?”

  The smile left Pigiron’s face. “Well, you will have heard of me by the time I get through with you. Then I’m goin’ to settle accounts with that whore.”

  Pigiron started toward Smoke, but he was stopped when Smoke snapped a quick, slashing left into Pigiron’s face. It was a good, well-placed blow, but Pigiron just flinched once, then laughed, a low, evil laugh.

  “Fight!” someone shouted across the batwing doors of the saloon. “Smoke Jensen and some big bastard are havin’ a fight in the saloon!”

  Within a few seconds, there were twice as many people in the saloon as there had been when Smoke came in, and though Smoke was concentrating on the task at hand, in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but wonder where all the people had come from. It wasn’t as if they were out on the street, and yet here everyone was, gathered in a large circle to watch Smoke Jensen and the stranger going against each other.

  “Ole Smoke may of bit off more’n he can chew this time,” someone said.

  “I know. Did you see a moment ago when Smoke hit him? Hell, it would’a laid just about anyone in here out, but that big bastard hardly blinked.”

  Pigiron rushed Smoke, and Smoke stepped to one side, causing Pigiron to slam into the bar. With a roar like an angry bull, Pigiron ran his arm down the bar, clearing it of a half-dozen glasses or more. Then he turned to face Smoke a second time.

  “Why don’t you stay in one place, you yellow-bellied bastard?” Pigiron asked, his words a low growl.

  “I haven’t gone anywhere,” Smoke said. He held his left hand out, palm up, curling his fingers in invitation. “Come on, if you want me, come get me. I’m right here.”

  Again Pigiron lunged, and again he missed. Finally, he gave that up as a fruitless tactic and, panting heavily now, raised his fists in front of his face. For the next few minutes, the two men circled each other, holding their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other.

  Pigiron swung, a clublike swing that Smoke leaned away from. Smoke counterpunched, and scored, but again, Pigiron laughed it off. As the fight went on Smoke continued to score, and though Pigiron had laughed off his early blows, he was beginning to show some effect from the punches. His eyes began to puff up, and there was a nasty cut on his lip. Then Smoke landed a punch that broke Pigiorn’s nose, causing blood to flow.

  So far Pigiron hadn’t landed a single blow, and Smoke was glad. He had a feeling that if just one of Pigiron’s blows landed, it would be like getting kicked by a mule.

  Then Smoke saw an opening, and took it. He timed it just right, and landed a solid right on Pigiron’s already smashed nose. He hit it perfectly, and had the satisfaction of hearing a bellow of pain from Pigiron for the first time.

  Then, when Pigiron put both hands over his nose, Smoke drove his fist hard into Pigiron’s solar plexus. As Pigiron bent over, stunned by the blow, Smoke finished it with a roundhouse right to the jaw. Pigiron went down and out.

  Pearlie was standing in the crowd with the others, watching the fight as he ate boiled eggs he had scooped from the jar on the bar. When Smoke scored his telling blow, Pearlie started to cheer along with the others. His cheer was interrupted when he saw a man in front of him slip his pistol from his holster, aiming it at Smoke.

  Dropping his eggs, Pearlie pulled his own pistol, then brought it down hard on the man’s head. The would-be shooter fell forward across Pigiron’s prostrate form, the pistol in his hand clattering to the floor.

  “Damn!” Pearlie said. “The son of a bitch made me drop my boiled eggs.”

>   Smoke and the others laughed. “Come on home,” Smoke said to his friend. “I’ll have Sally boil you up a dozen. I reckon you’ve earned them.”

  “Smoke,” Louis called. “What do you think we should do about these two? Monte’s gone.”

  “Ah, throw a bucket of water over ’em and let ’em go,” Smoke said. “I don’t think they’ll bother anyone else. I seem to be the one that pissed them off.”

  “What about me?” the bar girl asked.

  “Yeah,” Smoke said. “Well, maybe you’d better stay out of sight until they’re both gone.”

  When Smoke and Pearlie stepped out in front of the saloon, Smoke saw that Pearlie had picked up three of the dropped boiled eggs. He was blowing on them, brushing them against his shirt.

  “I thought you dropped those.”

  “Yeah, I did, but the floor wasn’t that dirty.”

  Smoke laughed. “Tobacco quids, ground-out cigarette and cigar butts, spilt beer, whiskey, and other things I don’t even want to know about, and you say it isn’t that dirty?”

  Pearlie was about to take a bite of one of the refurbished eggs, but he got a funny expression on his face, and pulled the egg away from his mouth.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right. They’re probably pretty dirty, aren’t they?”

  “I’d say they were.”

  Seeing a stray dog under the porch, Pearlie tossed the eggs to the animal. “You’ll have Sally cook me a dozen eggs, you say?”

  “An even dozen,” Smoke promised as he mounted his horse.

  “Those will probably be better anyway.”

  Smoke laughed. “I’m sure she will be flattered that you think so.”

  Smoke and Pearlie rode out of town as an unsteady Pigiron McCord and his equally groggy partner were tossed out of the saloon.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time Pigiron and Jason reached the mesa where Tatum had told them he would meet them.

  “You sure this is the place?” Jason asked, looking around. “I don’t see no one here.”

  “You think they’re going to put up a sign or something?” Pigiron replied. He put his hand on his jaw and worked it back and forth a couple of times. “That son of a bitch nearly broke my jaw.”

  Jason rubbed the top of his head. “Yeah, and whoever hit me nearly broke my head,” he said. “What the hell did you start that fight for in the first place?”

  “I didn’t start it. That fella Jensen did. All I was doing was having a little fun with one of the whores. Next thing I know he was comin’ after me, like I’d stepped on his boots, or somethin’.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the quiet hooting of an owl.

  “Did you hear that?” Pigiron asked.

  “What, that owl?”

  “That ain’t no owl,” Pigiron said. “Like as not, it’s one of Tatum’s half-breeds.”

  The owl sounded again.

  “That’s an owl,” Jason insisted.

  Looking back at him, Pigiron smiled, then raised his hands to his lips. He made an owl call that almost perfectly duplicated the one they had just heard. A moment later, a man appeared out of the darkness. He was obviously an Indian, and his appearance startled Jason, who jumped—but Pigiron held his hand out to stop him.

  “This is Russell Swift Bear,” Pigiron said. Then Pigiron asked the Indian, “Where’s Tatum?”

  “Come,” was all Swift Bear said in reply.

  Pigiron and Tatum followed Swift Bear for a short distance until they came to a little draw. There, several shadowy figures sat around a flickering campfire. Tatum came over to greet the two men.

  “Did you find out what I wanted to know?” he asked Pigiron.

  “About Tom Burke? Yeah, I found his ranch. It’s about seven miles northwest of Big Rock. Burke ain’t there, though.”

  “Burke ain’t there? What do you mean, he ain’t there? Where is he?”

  “He went down into Texas.”

  “Damn! He’s moved?”

  “No, he ain’t moved. He just went to Texas to get some bulls, they was sayin’. His family is still there at the ranch. It’s a placed called Timber Notch.”

  “His family? Who’s he got in his family?”

  “Don’t know, didn’t get all that. Just heard that his wife and kids were staying back at the ranch.”

  “How many hands working at the ranch?”

  “Didn’t find that out,” Pigiron said.

  “How do you expect me to plan anything if you don’t get all the information I need to . . .” Tatum stopped and looked more closely at Pigiron’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?” Pigiron asked, self-consciously putting his hand to his nose.

  “I mean, you’ve always been an ugly son of a bitch, but damn if you ain’t uglier now than you was last time I saw you.” Tatum put his hand out and touched the puffed up bruise on Pigiron’s jaw. “You been beat up.”

  “He got into a fight with Smoke Jensen,” Jason said.

  Tatum laughed. “You let him whip you like that?”

  “He got in a lucky punch,” Pigiron said.

  “Yeah, well now we both got a case against Smoke Jensen,” Tatum said. “He’s the one killed Fuller and Howard. He killed Billy too.”

  “You ask me, he’s the one we should go after, instead of Tom Burke.”

  “Not yet. I’ll get around to taking care of him when the time comes, but that time ain’t here yet. Did you boys eat any supper?”

  “No.”

  “They’s prob’ly some beans left in the pot.”

  Getting their kits from their saddlebags, Pigiron and Jason went over to the little black pot that was suspended over the fire and helped themselves.

  Tatum climbed up on a rock and looked toward the distant horizon, approximately where he thought Burke’s ranch might be.

  Tomorrow, he would put his plan into operation. It was a good plan, and the beauty of it was, it didn’t matter whether Burke was there or not. In fact, this might even be better.

  7

  The morning sun, a bright red orb just beginning to gather warmth and brilliance, rose in the east. A dark gray haze was still hanging in the notches, though it was already beginning to dissipate, like drifting smoke. Timbered foothills, covered with blue pine and golden aspen, marched down from the higher elevations. One of the mountains, scarred by some ancient cataclysmic event of geology, shone blue-green in the early morning light.

  On Timber Notch, a cock crowed. In the barn of the neatly laid-out ranch, a horse whickered. A cow, anxious to be milked, moved nervously in her stall. The morning air was perfumed by the smell of coffee, frying bacon, and baking biscuits.

  “Buddy, don’t forget, you need to get that cow milked,” a woman’s voice called.

  “I’m going to do it, Mom, soon as I’m dressed,” Buddy answered.

  “And put on a coat. It’s cold this morning.”

  From a bunkhouse adjacent to the big house, a cowhand came outside carrying a handful of paper with him, his breath creating puffs of vapor in the brisk morning air. The door to the outhouse creaked as he opened it. He stepped inside, then slammed the door shut behind him.

  In the corral a windmill answered a slight freshening and turned into the breeze, its fan blades spinning. The actuating piston rattled as water spewed from the pump’s wide mouth and splashed into a big, wooden trough.

  Unnoticed by any of the residents of the ranch, ten riders sloped down the side of a nearby hill, their appearance making an ugly scar on this idyllic scene. The leader of the group was Jack Tatum.

  Raul Sanchez was riding directly behind Tatum. Although he wasn’t technically second in command, because Tatum knew that some of his men wouldn’t accept a Mexican as second in command, he was probably the one Tatum depended on more than any other.

  Behind Sanchez rode Pigiron McCord. Pigiron’s face still showed signs of the beating he had taken the day before. One eye was swollen shut, his
nose was flattened, his lips were puffy and deformed, and there were scars on his chin and jaw.

  The next three in the line of riders who were coming single file down the side of the mountain were Jason Harding, Orville Clinton, and Dirk Wheeler. They were petty outlaws who had been in and out of jail several times over the years, but even though all three were wanted men, the government didn’t consider any of them important enough to go to the expense of having reward posters printed for them.

  Like Pigiron, Jason had been in town the day before, and also, like Pigiron, he was showing the effects. He had a large knot on top of his head, the result of a pistol being brought down hard on his cranium.

  In addition to Raul Sanchez, there was another Mexican in the group, Paco Arino. Perry Blue Horses and Russell Swift Bear rode just behind Raul Sanchez. Blue Horses and Swift Bear were half-breed Indians who were equally unwelcome in both Indian and white society. The last rider in the group was a man known simply as Jim. Jim was completely alone, not only within this group, but in most of the territory he roamed, for he was black. Jim was a big, muscular man who seldom spoke, but whose eyes and demeanor did little to hide the hatred that smoldered within him.

  When they reached a rock outcropping that was no more than one hundred yards from the house and outbuildings, Tatum gave silent hand signals to put his men in place.

  “All right, boys, get ready,” he said once they were in position.

  All but Blue Horses and Swift Bear raised rifles to their shoulders, waiting for an order from Tatum. Blue Horses and Swift Bear also had rifles, though for this particular operation they were using bows and arrows.

  The door to the outhouse opened, and the man who had entered it a few moments earlier now exited, hooking his suspenders over his shoulders as he did so.

  “Now,” Tatum shouted, and everyone opened fire.

  Blue Horses aimed for the man at the outhouse, and had the satisfaction of following his arrow in its swift flight, all the way across the open space between them, until it buried itself in the man’s chest. Swift Bear’s arrow plunked into the wall beside the door of the outhouse.