Rage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Nick diMenfi had fixed on one phrase. “Jeez, you got that right. This is the lonesomest place I’ve ever been.”

  “No one will even find your grave.”

  Nervously, Nick cut his eyes to the pair thrashing in the bush, then back to Smoke Jensen. “Okay, you made me a believer. I’m on my way back to Mulberry Street. See ya around, Mr. Jensen.”

  “You’d better hope you don’t,” Smoke growled at the departing young gangster.

  Smoke Jensen had picked his spot well. Monte Carson, on the other side of the trail, waved to show he had gotten into position. They had trailed this small band for half of the next morning, then swung wide to get ahead of them. The narrow, unnamed pass in the Medicine Bow range of the Rockies didn’t allow for much deviation. Unless these flatlanders turned back, they could go nowhere else but into the ambush.

  He would need two well-placed shots, in rapid succession, to activate the key to that ambush. Smoke had planned a diversion that would effectively seal off any retreat. Nestled down behind a fallen forest giant, the barrel of his Winchester .45-70-500 Express rifle resting across the trunk, Smoke sighted in on the knot that held the weighted gunnysack in place. The trill of a wood warbler, produced by Monte Carson, alerted Smoke to the appearance of the first two members of the gang. Smoke broke his sight picture a moment to study the approaching eastern hard cases.

  Two hats—derbies of course—appeared over the drop in the trail. Under them were heads with outlandish hairstyles, the eyes locked straight ahead, ignoring the terrain to either side. The nodding heads of the mounts showed next. The birdcalls continued numbering the enemy party as they came on. Smoke returned his attention to sighting in on the knot.

  When the spurious birdsong ended, Smoke took a final deep breath, let out half, and squeezed the trigger of his rifle. The Winchester bucked against his shoulder and he swiftly cycled the lever action to chamber another cartridge. His second round severed the rope that held their diversion out of sight among the branches of the alder.

  When the huge hornets’ nest cracked open on the trail, an angry roar rose in the morning quiet as the winged insects swarmed out to seek vengeance on whoever had disturbed them. They quickly found the greenhorn gunmen, who had reacted to the twin rapid shots by halting and looking around themselves in confusion.

  “What th—ow! Ouch! Get ’em off me, get ’em off!” Toby Yellen shrieked, as a dozen angry hornets descended on his exposed flesh and repeatedly sank their venom-dripping stingers into his face and arms.

  Yellen began slapping at the vicious insects, his reins forgotten. When others of the swarm settled their rage on the horse, it exploded into a frenzy. Lashing out with impotent hind hooves, it jolted and bounced until its gyrations dislodged Toby Yellen. He sprawled in the dirt, mercifully spared the attention of the hornets, though his right shoulder had been dislocated and his left collarbone cracked.

  From his position on the far side, Monte Carson put a bullet through the shoulder of one Eastern thug who had drawn his sixgun. Smoke Jensen took the hat off another with his Winchester. Acting as one, the five intruders who remained mounted jumped their horses forward in an attempt to escape the gunfire and the hornets.

  Smoke led them as they approached his position so that his slug cracked past inches in front of the face of the man in the lead. He reined in so violently that his mount went to its rear haunches. That spilled the inexperienced rider out of his saddle. They’d had enough time to change their outlook, Smoke considered.

  He stood up, Winchester covering them, and sealed their fate. “Rein up and put your hands in the air.” The four who were still mounted did as told. “All right, slowly,” Smoke commanded. “Drop all your weapons. Every one, or you die right here.”

  Monte Carson appeared from his concealed position and ambled down the slope toward the roadway. He appeared relaxed. But to his practiced eye, Smoke could see that Monte efficiently covered the more distant pair that faced him. When the lawman reached a spot where the greenhorns could see him, they began to obey by shucking their assortment of arms.

  When that had been completed, Smoke admonished them to turn around and ride like hell out of the high country, all the way back to where they’d come from. Grumbling like the self-centered brats they were, they complied, speeded along by several shots over their heads. They paused only long enough to retrieve Toby Yellen, and skirted widely around the still disturbed hornets. After the last disappeared down the trail, Monte turned to Smoke.

  “They’ll go right back to Lathrop.”

  “I expect them to, Monte. I’d like to see his face when they tell him what happened.” Smoke grew serious and a furrow formed between his full brows. “I’d like to see his face. It galls me not to know what my enemy looks like.” “You’ll get that chance soon, I reckon.”

  Smoke Jensen began gathering up the discarded firearms and knives. “No, this chasing could go on forever. What I need is a way to smoke out Lathrop and his partners.” He paused, considering his options. “I think the thing to do is go back to the Sugarloaf. Then let it get around that I’m there, ready for a showdown.”

  * * *

  Wade Tanner found Phineas Lathrop and Victor Middleton seated in a sunny area of the city park. The thin, cool air of Denver apparently didn’t agree with them, he reckoned. They had their noses buried in pages of the Denver Sentinel, and continued to read for a couple of minutes, ignoring him. Recalling the information he had for them assuaged the anger building in Tanner.

  At last, when he could contain it no longer, Tanner interrupted. “Mr. Lathrop. It’s something important.”

  Phineas Lathrop looked up with an expression of boredom painted on his sardonic features. “What is, Tanner?”

  “I got the word on Smoke Jensen. He's holed up on that ranch of his, the Sugarloaf. What’s goin’ around is, he’s makin’ a fort of the place. Says he’ll lock horns with anyone who tries to move in on the place.”

  Lathrop considered it frowningly, his fleshy lips working as though forming words. “He needs a lesson in cooperation,” he said at last.

  “Now, Phin, I’d advise against that. Never attack a man in his position of strength.”

  “That how you got so far in the business world, Victor?” Victor Middleton ignored the barb behind the thrust. “As a matter of fact, yes. Far enough that you came to me for financing, remember?”

  “Let’s cut this crap,” Lathrop snapped hotly. “So far, it’s one against one. We’ll decide what to do after we talk with Arney Cabbott.”

  At eleven that morning, Lathrop, Middleton, and Cabbott gathered around a table piled high with juicy roasted pork, potatoes, and applesauce in a small eaterie on Pike Street. Fuming, Wade Tanner waited outside while his stomach rumbled.

  They attacked the food first. Then, over coffee, they discussed alternatives based on Tanner’s intelligence. Middleton remained adamant. Cabbott swayed in his direction at first, then abstained from agreeing with either of his partners.

  “We’re back to one-to-one,” Lathrop summed up. “In which case, I’m going ahead. Get Tanner in here, and we’ll send him to round up all of our guns. We’re going to take this fight to Smoke Jensen.”

  Newly dug rifle pits dotted the sloping meadows of the Sugarloaf. They had been positioned to guard all approaches to the ranch, their flanks protected by trees or boulders. Their zigzag arrangement also allowed a covered route from one to the other, so that as few as three men could blanket the area with gunfire. Smoke Jensen looked on them approvingly from where he stood before his gathered hands. Their soft conversation ended when he raised a gloved hand.

  “You’ve done a fine job, but there’s more to do. I’ll leave the rest, sandbags along the inside walls of the bunkhouse, filling water barrels, and of course, tending the stock to Line and the day crew. Four of you will come with me. I'm going to set up some nasty surprises for whoever takes our invitation to the dance.”

  Enthusiastic, meaningful nods went amon
g the hands as they broke up the meeting to attend to their tasks. Smoke went to the four men he had selected, Dandy walking obediently at his side. He swung into the saddle, a signal for the four to do the same, and nodded for them to move out.

  Smoke’s first stop was half a mile inside the ranch property, on the main road to Big Rock. When the men had dismounted, he issued his instructions.

  “We’re going to dig a pit here, clear across the road. I want it at least five feet deep.” Smoke lamented inside over the image of the horses that would suffer because of this. Then he drew a pickax from the latigo ties on the skirt of his saddle, stripped off his shirt, and joined his men in their labors.

  When the pit had been completed to Smoke’s satisfaction, he studied the area a while. “We’ll have to carry away the dirt. Then cut saplings to cover the pit with a light framework. The tarps you brought along go over that, then enough dirt to make the trail look normal.”

  Fists on hips, Hank Bowers studied it. “Gosh, that’s a nasty thing, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Wait until you see what I’m going to do while you get rid of the dirt.”

  Smoke set about selecting wrist-thick limbs of several nearby pines. These he cut with an ax and drove into the bottom and leading side of the gravelike excavation. Then he shaped the protruding ends into fine points. Bowers swallowed hard when he returned from the last load of rocks and soil.

  After the narrow roadway had been restored to normal, Smoke led the way to the west, where a logged-off section on the mountainside allowed easy passage for anyone invading the ranch. There he pointed to the new growth above.

  “Cut saplings from up there and bring them down here. Once we get them like I want them, we’ll form them into big caltrops with rawhide strips.”

  By noontime, ranks of star-shaped obstacles extended between tall stumps, closing off all access but a straight line that provided a clear field of fire from the rifle pits beyond. With a nod of satisfaction, Smoke Jensen pulled off his thin leather gloves and delved into his saddlebag for whatever treasures Sally had sent along for his nooning. He wasn’t disappointed. A fat ham sandwich on freshly baked bread was rounded out with a boiled egg and cold beans, and she had even included a slab of apricot pie.

  Attended to by Cynthia Patterson and the bunkhouse cook, the others fared equally well. They settled down to eat. Between bites, Hank Bowers asked about the afternoon’s plans.

  “The high pass is what bothers me,” Smoke informed the hands, referring to the seven-thousand-foot pass behind Sugarloaf Mountain. “If we hurry up with our noonin’, we can ride there in time to rig some deadfalls and swing traps.”

  “Are you expectin’ an army?” Bowers asked.

  “At least fifty men.” The flat tone of Smoke’s voice convinced the wrangler.

  “Think they’ll all come the same way?”

  “No, Hank. Not even an eastern dandy is that stupid. I expect this Lathrop to split his force in half, at least, and come at us from several directions at once.”

  Bowers shook his head in sad wonder. “It’s gonna be one hell of a fight.”

  His words stuck with Smoke Jensen through the rest of the day. By the time they returned to the ranch, a hair short of twilight, they had worked their way deep into his conscience. After tending to their horses, Smoke walked with his hands to the bunkhouse, where a line had formed for evening chow.

  “Listen up, men,” Smoke addressed his crews. “This ain’t your fight. You’ve no reason to risk your lives in it. I’ve provoked a powerful man, with a lot of guns backing him, so I’ve no call to expect you to take extraordinary chances. What I’m getting at is, you’re free to go. Ride on out, with no prejudice. You’ll remain on the payroll and will be welcome back when the battle’s over.”

  Buttermilk Simms, the cook, screwed up his pink cherub’s lips and spat a stream of tobacco juice. “If you ride for the brand, you fight for the brand,” he summed up everyone’s feelings on the subject.

  “Damned right,” a chorus of voices answered.

  “I’d be growin’ myself a beard if I ran out on you,” Line Patterson drawled. “Couldn’t look myself in the mirror t’shave.”

  Smoke still had a large lump of uneasy conscience to calm down. “Five of us could hold the place against all the men Lathrop could throw at us. Three would do in a pinch.”

  “Ain’t gonna be that way, Mr. Jensen,” Hank Bowers offered. “I seed what we done today. I reckon the next few days are gonna be full of makin’ more dirty surprises for them eastern so-called gunfighters. I aim to be in on that. An’ I want to see what those things do to them.”

  “You know how I feel. You men didn’t sign on to be gunfighters. Hell, I’ll bet that half of you can’t find your butt with a bullfiddle, let alone hit what you shoot at.”

  “That ain’t fair!” half a dozen shouted back. Hank Bowers explained their pique. “We may not be up to standin’ in the middle of the street, trading slugs with five or six randy sons, but we can, by God, hit what we aim at. You done seen to that, Mr. Jensen.”

  Trapped by his own penchant for excellence, Smoke could only chuckle. “Thanks for the reminder, Hank. And for the duration of this fandango, you can all call me Smoke.”

  “All right, Smoke,” Hank bantered back. “An’ another thing . . . there ain’t a man-jack of us can’t outshoot them New York queers.”

  A rousing cheer signaled general agreement with those sentiments. A warm glow spread through the chest of Smoke Jensen. These were men to ride the river with. They all had sand, and plenty of it. He raised both hands for quiet.

  “We’re going to make certain that Lathrop’s hard cases come to grief any way they chose to come at us. First thing after supper, Line and I will be passing out boxes of extra ammunition to each of you. You’ll wear your sidearms at all times and keep a rifle or shotgun close at hand. I’ll have a watch list drawn up and posted by nine o’clock tonight.” “I thought you’d already have one,” Line Patterson said with a wink.

  Smoke Jensen made a mock expression of hurt feelings. “I had to know who’d be here first. But from here on out, we’ve got only one thing to do: bring a world of grief to Phineas Lathrop.”

  Twenty-one

  Fifty-three men left Georgetown, Colorado, at the northern base of Gray’s Peak and rode north through Berthold Pass, on the way to Big Rock. Phineas Lathrop took the lead. He had been told that they had a more than a day and a half ride to the small town, nestled in the folds of the Rockies. Almost at once the flatlanders began to complain.

  Everywhere they went, the terrain seemed to be up or down. The steep trails put a strain on them that few had ever experienced. By the time they reached their first goal, all of the eastern crime elite agreed that what they needed were a long soak in a hot tub, a soft bed, and a real chair to sit in.

  So many hard-faced strangers banded together and riding into the small town roused a lot of curiosity, and more fear, in the residents of Big Rock. Monte Carson stood on the stoop of the sheriffs office and watched the cavalcade walk their mounts silently down the main drag. When the last had gone out of sight, he reached down a hand and put it on the spindly shoulder of the Seegers boy, who stood at his side.

  “Jamie, I don’t reckon those fellers would suspect a tadpole like yerself of carryin’ a message to Smoke Jensen. Are you up to it?”

  Red-haired and freckled, Jamie Seegers turned his big, brown eyes up to the sheriff. “Yes, sir. What is it?”

  “You take yer pony and skirt around them hard cases, ride lickety-split for the Sugarloaf. Mind, you stop before you get half a mile inside the gate. If I know Smoke, there’ll be someone on watch. And you might run into something unpleasant on your own. Tell Smoke that they’re on their way, Lathrop’s bunch. Tell him, too, that as soon as I can put together a posse, we’ll be on the way to pick up the leavin’s. Can you remember all that, boy?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’ll go tell my Paw, then get right on my way.”

  “You
leave that to me. It’s important you get to Smoke Jensen well before those bushwhackers do.”

  Smoke Jensen found Bobby Harris exactly where Sally had told him the boy would be. Bobby sat on a large stump behind the sprawling house that had started as a simple log cabin, his feet dangling, hunched over with elbows on thighs, his chin in the palm of his upturned right hand. He had shoved his lower lip out in a pink pout. Smoke strolled up and rounded the stump to face the boy.

  “I hear you’re vexed about something.”

  Bobby looked up at Smoke and telegraphed his misery from cobalt eyes. “You should know.”

  “Sorry. I don’t. What is it, Bobby?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Come on, son, tell me. If you don’t talk things out once in a while, they just fester inside.”

  “It’s done festered, all right,” Bobby agreed. “I—I— ah—” He began stumblingly, took a deep breath and tried again. “I ain’t no use to the Sugarloaf anymore.” “Meaning you’re no use to me?” Smoke probed.

  “If that’s the way you feel.”

  “C’mon, Bobby, you can’t hide behind an attitude.” Suddenly large tears welled in Bobby’s eyes. He gulped and swallowed and fought them back. “I know I can’t be any use to you. You cut me out of this fight that’s cornin’ up. I do a man’s job, I can fight like a man, too.”

  “Bobby, you can’t fight like a man. For all of your abilities with horses, you’re still an eleven-year-old boy. I care a good deal for you. I want you to be safe. So does Sally.”

  The pout grew larger, until Bobby exploded. “You said the other hands could stay and fight when they brought up that they could hit what they shoot at. Well . . . I can hit what I shoot at, too.”