Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  * * *

  When the funeral was over, the mourners began leaving the cemetery, walking quietly through the nearly one hundred tombstones that marked the last resting places of the late citizens of Big Rock. Like the living citizens of a town, the deceased ran the gamut from innocent children to murderers who were there because they had paid the ultimate penalty to the state. Four of the graves were so recent that the pile of dirt was still fresh over them. Those were the graves for the two would-be bank robbers, and for Richmond Flowers and Deputy Wallace.

  One by one the mourners went their own way, some on foot, others on horseback, and still others by buggy, surrey, carriage, buckboard, or wagon. The quiet cemetery echoed with the sounds of subdued conversation, the scratch of horse hooves on the ground, and the creaking roll of wheels.

  “He is still there, isn’t he?” Sally asked as she climbed into the surrey. “He’s all alone.”

  Settling into his own seat, Smoke looked back toward the three graves. Only one person remained, and that was Tom Burke, still sitting in the chair that had been put there for him by Nunley Welch, the undertaker.

  “Looks like it,” Smoke said.

  “Oh, Smoke, I feel so sorry for him. I wish there was something we could do for him.”

  “There’s nothing we can do to bring back his family,” Smoke said.

  “Do you think it was Indians?”

  “I don’t know,” Smoke said. “I do know this. If it was Indians, it had to be a band of renegades. I’m sure it wasn’t any of the regular tribes. We haven’t had any Indian trouble in years. Soon as I can get around to it, I plan to have a good, long look around over there.”

  “Then you’re going after whoever did it?”

  “I am as soon as Tom feels up to going. I don’t think he’s quite finished saying good-bye yet.”

  “I’m glad you are going with him, Smoke. I only wish I could go.”

  Smoke reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t think I don’t believe for one minute that you couldn’t handle it,” he said. “But I think I would rather you and Cal stay back to watch the ranch.”

  “Wait a minute!” Cal said sharply. “You mean you aren’t going to let me go with you?”

  “Cal,” was all Smoke said.

  Cal looked down for a moment, then nodded contritely. “Sure, I’ll stay here,” he said.

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  * * *

  As the last mourner left the cemetery, Angus Pugh, the grave digger, stuck a wad of tobacco in his mouth, then glanced over at Nunley Welch.

  “He’s still there, Mr. Welch. Still just sittin’ in that chair over there. Do you think maybe I ought to go start closing the grave anyway?”

  Welch shook his head. “We don’t let our people see the dirt thrown in on their loved ones,” he said. “It’s just too painful. Give him a little more time.”

  “How much time should I give him?”

  “As much time as he needs,” Welch answered. “He isn’t like one of our normal bereaved. He has lost his entire family.”

  “Yes, sir, I know that.”

  “Then we will give him as much time as it takes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Sam Covington went straight from the funeral to the telegraph office. The Indian attack on Tom Burke’s ranch was a tragedy of tremendous proportions. In fact, Covington could not recall any other incident in the brief history of the little town, or the even longer history of the county, that could quite compare with it. Covington was sorry it happened, but it had happened, so it just didn’t make sense not to take advantage of the situation.

  Covington was a man with political ambition, and he made no effort to hide that ambition. He wasn’t that great an admirer of Governor Cooper. In fact, when Cooper was running for election, Covington chose to support him only because Cooper was obviously losing, and if Covington could turn it around, it would put Cooper deeply in his debt. Covington did turn it around, running a brilliant campaign for Cooper which ultimately snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. And now he was still calling the shots for Cooper.

  Cooper was going to be a one-term governor, Covington would see to that. Then, after Cooper stepped down, Covington intended to run for governor. And in Covington’s grand scheme of things, he too would be a one-term governor, but would persuade the legislature to send him to the U.S. Senate. From the Senate there was only one more step up the ladder, to the office of President of the United States. And who was to say that Covington couldn’t take that step?

  Fred Dunn, the Western Union clerk, looked up as Covington went into his office. “Is the funeral over?” Fred asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it must be, when I saw all the traffic out on the road. I wish I could’ve gone to pay my respects, but the wire has to be manned twenty-four hours a day.”

  “And it’s a fine job you’re doing too,” Covington said. “Has there been any reply to the wire I sent this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, here it is,” Fred said, picking up an envelope from a small pile that was on the desk.

  Covington received the envelope, then tore it open quickly and began to read:

  YOU ARE HEREBY APPOINTED TO RANK OF FULL COLONEL IN STATE MILITIA STOP INCUMBENT WITH RANK IS AUTHORITY TO RAISE AND EQUIP ONE CAVALRY REGIMENT STOP ONCE REGIMENT IS RAISED AND READY YOU ARE TO EMBARK ON CAMPAIGN AGAINST INDIANS WHO ATTACKED TOM BURKE RANCH STOP YOU ARE FURTHER AUTHORIZED TO USE ALL FORCE REQUIRED END

  The telegram had been sent by Gerald Cooper, the governor.

  Smiling, Covington put the telegram back in its envelope, then put the envelope in his pocket.

  “So, am I to call you Colonel now?” Fred asked, reserving any comment on the contents of the telegram until after Covington read it.

  “Yes . . . for now,” Covington replied. Although he didn’t say it aloud, he thought that if things went well—and so far they had gone very well—Fred and everyone else would be calling him Governor.

  9

  After taking Sally back home, Smoke got out of his suit, put on his jeans and a shirt, then changed from the surrey to the buckboard for a drive back to town. Before he could leave on an extended campaign with Tom Burke, he would need some things from the store. Going into the hardware store, he gave his list to the clerk.

  “Whew,” the clerk whistled. “You’ve got quite a list here, Smoke. Three boxes of .44-caliber bullets, three boxes of .44-40, ten sticks of dynamite, two boxes of lucifers, a gallon of kerosene, rope . . .” There were many more items listed, but he stopped reading aloud. “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”

  “Pay for it,” Smoke joked. “That is, if you’ve got it and will get it packed for me.”

  The clerk laughed. “That’s what I get for being too nosy, I guess. Yes, sir, I’ve got it. It’ll take me a good half hour or so to get it all gathered and packed, though.”

  “I can wait. I’ll be over at Longmont’s,” Smoke said.

  Leaving the store, Smoke saw someone posting a circular, and curious, he went over to read it.

  * * *

  Attention!

  INDIAN FIGHTERS

  Having been authorized by GOVERNOR

  COOPER OF COLORADO to raise a MILITIA

  COMPANY OF CAVALRY for immediate service

  against hostile Indians, I call upon all who wish to

  engage in such service to contact me soonest for

  the purpose of enrolling your names and joining

  your friends and neighbors for this great adventure.

  Weapons and uniforms will be furnished by the

  State. Pay and rations will be the same as U.S.

  Army. Those who volunteer shall be entitled to all

  horses and other plunder as may be confiscated

  from the Indians.

  COLONEL SAMUEL B. COVINGTON

  COVINGTON’S MILITIA

  COMMANDING

  Longmont’s saloon
was more crowded than normal for this time of day. That was understandable, though, since nearly every ranch hand within fifty miles of town had been given the day off in order to attend the funeral. And, as might be expected, the conversation was about the funeral and what had happened out at Timber Notch.

  “What I don’t understand is why them fellas there at the ranch didn’t put up any more of a fight than they done,” one of the men was saying. “Hell, if I’d been there, there would’a be dead Injuns lying all over the place.”

  “We don’t know that there weren’t any Indians killed,” one of the other patrons said. “Indians tend to carry away their dead.”

  “Yeah? Well, if I had been there, I would’a killed so damn many of them redskin bastards, they couldn’t of carried them away.”

  “Dingo, you’re full of shit,” someone said, and all laughed.

  “You think I haven’t killed my share of Indians? I fought against the Apaches.”

  “Well, if you still have it in you to kill Indians, you can always join the militia cavalry,” still another suggested. “Covington is sittin’ back there at a table, signing up folks right now.”

  “By God, maybe I’ll just do that,” Dingo said.

  Seeing Smoke standing at the bar, Louis came over to see him.

  “It was a very impressive funeral, didn’t you think?” Louis asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Smoke replied.

  “Tom took it real hard,” Louis said. “Of course, under the circumstances, I can see why. Smoke, is he going to be all right? Do you think there’s anything I can do for him?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Smoke said. “He’s just got to get through this.” Smoke nodded toward a table in the back corner where half a dozen men were standing in line. Sam Covington, normally a lawyer, was sitting at the table wearing the uniform and insignia of an Army colonel. “I see Mr. Covington is busy.”

  “Oh, hell, it’s Colonel Covington now, and don’t think he isn’t quick to let you know that,” Louis replied with a little laugh. “Yesterday he was a lawyer, foreclosing on widows and orphans, and today he is their savior.”

  “How did he ever talk the governor into giving him a commission in the first place? What does he know about the military?”

  “About the military? Not a blasted thing,” Louis replied. “But he doesn’t need to know anything. Don’t forget, he was the governor’s right-hand man during the last election.”

  “If I had known the governor’s character judgment was so weak, I never would have voted for him,” Smoke said. Then he chuckled. “Hell, now that I think of it, I didn’t vote for him.”

  Louis laughed with him. “I can’t find anybody who did vote for him, or at least, who will own up to it now. But there he is, sitting up in Denver as our governor, and here is Sam Covington, colonel of militia.”

  “Well, I don’t guess it can hurt anything for them to dress up like soldiers, then ride around in the countryside for a while,” Smoke said.

  “If that’s all that happens, I agree with you,” Louis said. “But knowing Covington, there’s no telling what that dumb bastard might stir up.”

  Although he was too far away to know he was being talked about, Covington looked up from his table and saw Smoke and Louis standing together at the bar.

  “Excuse me, boys,” Covington said, getting up.

  “Wait a minute, where you a-goin’?” Dingo asked. “I aim to sign up here.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Covington replied with a wave of his hand. “There’s plenty of time and room for all of you to sign up. Don’t worry.”

  Stepping up to the bar, Covington slapped a coin down. “Mr. Longmont, another for Mr. Jensen, if you don’t mind.”

  Nodding, Louis poured another drink for Smoke.

  “Thanks,” Smoke said, holding his glass up.

  “Mr. Jensen, I hope you have no hard feelings about the things I said during the trial,” Covington said. “I was just trying to win the case.”

  “You lost,” Smoke said simply.

  “Yes, I did,” Covington admitted. “And though I hate to lose anything, I must confess that I’m glad Tatum isn’t free because of me. Who would’ve thought he would do something like kill Deputy Wallace and the judge? That was a terrible thing, absolutely terrible.”

  “Yeah,” Smoke said, indicating by the tone of his voice that he wasn’t buying what Covington was trying to sell.

  “Well, enough about Mr. Tatum. He’ll wind up in custody again somewhere. His kind always does. And I won’t be defending him next time.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so,” Smoke replied.

  “Anyway, right now, we have an even bigger problem on our hands.”

  “What problem would that be?” Smoke asked.

  Covington looked at Smoke with a surprised expression on his face. “What do you mean, what problem? Why, Indians of course,” he replied. “My God, man, you know what happened out at Timber Notch.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Smoke replied.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Covington replied, the expression on his face growing even more confused. “You were at the funeral. I saw you there.”

  “Yes, I was. Tom Burke is a close, personal friend of mine.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why do you say you don’t know what happened out there?”

  “Because I don’t know. At this point, I don’t think anyone knows.”

  “Of course we know. Everyone knows. The ranch was attacked by Indians.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Of course it is. Everyone knows that it was Indians who murdered Tom Burke’s family and hands.”

  “Covington, do you have any idea how long it has been since we’ve had any Indian trouble in these parts?”

  “Quite a while, I’m sure. Do you know anything about volcanoes, Mr. Jensen? Sometimes they remain dormant for hundreds of years before they erupt.”

  Smoke chuckled. “And you are suggesting that the Indians are what? Like a volcano?”

  “The comparison isn’t strained,” Covington said. “We all know what the Indians are capable of. And don’t think for one minute that they aren’t living out there in their reservation villages envious of the life we lead and seething inside with hate and resentment. I’ve always known they could break out of the reservation someday. Well, they have. And now it’s our duty to punish them severely enough that they will think long and hard before they ever try anything like that again. So, what do you say, Mr. Jensen?”

  “What do I say about what?”

  “I’m asking you to join my militia as a scout. The rank of major comes with it. That would put you second in command.”

  “And allow me a share of the booty?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Covington said, smiling broadly in the belief that he was winning Smoke over.

  Smoke finished his drink and looked at Covington. He stared at him for such a long time that Covington’s smile faded. He got nervous and began to fidget under Smoke’s gaze. Finally, Smoke wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  “What?” Covington asked in surprise. “Jensen, do you realize that by your action, you are showing that you don’t care about what happened to poor Tom Burke?”

  Smoke sighed in disgust. “You do have a way with words, don’t you, Covington? You don’t let truth bother you. I suppose that’s what makes you a good lawyer.”

  “It’s just that I am surprised that you don’t want to help your friend.”

  “I am going to help him,” Smoke said. “But I’m going to do it in my own way.”

  “What does that mean? In your own way?” Covington asked.

  “It means I have no intention of running around with a bunch of fools in pretend-Army uniforms who’ll probably get lost before they get more than ten miles out of town.”

  “You need have no fear about that,” Covington said, sputtering. “I’ll be leading them.”

&nbs
p; Smoke laughed. “My point exactly. Using both hands and a compass, you couldn’t find your own ass.”

  Covington’s face became purple, and the vein in his temple began to pulsate. “We’ll just see about that,” he said. “After we make a couple of successful scouts and kill us a few Indians, we’ll bring this uprising to a halt.”

  “Uprising? There is no uprising,” Smoke said.

  “No? How do you explain what happened out at Tom Burke’s ranch?”

  “If it was Indians, it was a party of renegades at best,” Smoke said. “I hardly think we have an Indian war on our hands.”

  “An Indian is an Indian. And you might remember that a famous general once said, ‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian,’” Covington said. He paused for a moment, then smiled and held his hand out, offering to shake with Smoke. “Anyway, we shouldn’t be arguing about this, you and I,” he said in a conciliatory voice. “After all, we are the natural leaders of this community. We should be allies in this noble endeavor. So, what do you say, man? Will you join us?”

  Instead of taking Covington’s proffered hand, Smoke reached for his glass and took another drink, staring over the rim at Covington. “I thank you for the drink,” he said, and there was such a finality to his voice that it stopped all further conversation between the two men.

  Covington stared at Smoke for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to his table.

  “You think he finally got the message?” Louis asked.

  “Maybe. But it takes a while for anything to get through a head as thick as his is.”

  All right, men!” Covington called out to the others in the saloon. “I’m still signing up volunteers for the cavalry. Who’s next?”

  “I am,” Dingo said.

  “Your full name?” Covington asked.

  “Marcus W. Dingo.”

  “Do you have any military experience, Mr. Dingo?”

  “Yes, sir. I was a sergeant with General Miles when we fought the Apache.”

  Covington looked up from the paper he was writing on. “You were a sergeant, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you leave the Army?”