Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Just hold it right there, fancy-pants. And keep your hands where I can see them. You get itchy, and I’ll blow your butt out of the saddle.”

  Smoke reined up. Putting fear into his voice, he called, “I mean you no harm. I am Shirley DeBeers, the artist.”

  “What you gonna be is dead if you don’t shut that goddamn mouth.”

  Smoke shut up.

  The faint sounds of mumbling voices reached him, but he could not make out the words.

  “All right, fancy-britches,” the same voice called out. “Git off that horse and stand still.”

  Smoke dismounted and stood in the roadway. Then he heard the sounds of bootsteps all around him: There was Hart, the backshooter; Gridley, who murdered his best friend and partner, and then raped and killed the man’s wife; Nappy, a killer for hire. There were others, but Smoke did not immediately recognize them, except for the fact that they were hardcases.

  “Take off that coat,” he was ordered, “and toss it to me. Frisk ’im, Nappy.”

  Smoke was searched and searched professionally; even his boots were removed and inspected. His pack ropes were untied and his belongings dumped in the middle of the road.

  “Oh, I say now! Is that necessary, gentlemen?”

  “Shut up!”

  Smoke shut up.

  His belongings were inspected, but his bag of dirty underwear was tossed to one side after only a glance. Luckily the bag landed on a pile of clean clothes and the weight of the .44 did not make a sound.

  So far, so good, Smoke thought.

  Finally, the search was over and the men stared at him for a moment. One said, “I reckon Cahoon and them others was right. He ain’t got nothing but a pocket knife. And it’s dull.”

  “Is my good friend Cahoon in town? Oh, I hope so. He’s such a nice man.”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “What about it, Hart?”

  “I reckon some of us can take silly-boy on in.”

  “I say,” Smoke looked around him at the mess in the road. “Are some of you good fellows going to help me gather up and repack my possessions?”

  The outlaws thought that was very funny. They told him in very blunt language that they were not. And to make their point better understood, one of them kicked Smoke in the butt. Smoke yelled and fell to the ground. Drifter swung his head and his yellow eyes were killer-cold. Smoke quickly crawled to the horse and grabbed a stirrup, using that to help pull himself up, all the while murmuring to Drifter, calming him.

  Rubbing his butt, Smoke faced the outlaws. “You don’t have to be so rough!”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Gridley cried, prancing about to the laughter of the others. “We hurt his feelin’s, boys. We got to stop bein’ so rough!”

  And right then and there, Smoke began to wonder if he would be able to last a week.

  He calmed himself and waved his hand at his pile of belongings. “I say, as you men can see from your trashing of my possessions, I am low on supplies. Might I be allowed to continue on to Dead River and resupply?” He had left most of his supplies at the head of the Sangre de Cristo creek.

  “Cahoon was supposed to have given you a note,” a man said. A hardcase Smoke did not know. “Lemme see the note, sissy-pants.”

  “I am not a sissy! I am merely a man of great sensibilities.”

  “Gimme the goddamn note!”

  The note was handed over and passed around.

  “That’s Cahoon’s writin’ all right. What about it, Hart, it’s up to you?”

  “Yeah, let him go on in. He can draw us all, and then we’ll have some fun with him.”

  Smoke caught the wink.

  “Yeah. That’s a good idee. And I know just the person to give him to.”

  “Who?” Nappy asked.

  “Brute!”

  That drew quite a laugh and narrowed Smoke’s eyes. He had heard of Brute Pitman. A huge man, three hundred pounds or more of savage perversions. He was wanted all over the eastern half of the nation for the most disgusting crimes against humanity. But oddly enough, Smoke had never heard of a warrant against him west of the Mississippi River. Bounty hunters had tried to take him, but Brute was hard to kill.

  It was rumored that Brute had preyed on the miners in the gold camps for years, stashing away a fortune. And he had lived in Dead River for a long time, keeping mostly to himself.

  But, Smoke thought, if these cruds think Brute is going to have his way with me, I’ll start this dance with or without the rest of the band.

  Smoke looked from outlaw to outlaw. “This Brute fellow sounds absolutely fascinating!”

  The outlaws laughed.

  “Oh, he is, sweetie,” Hart told him. “You two gonna get along just fine, I’m thinkin’.”

  Uh-huh, Smoke thought. We’ll get along until I stick a .44 down his throat and doctor his innards with lead.

  “Oh, I’m so excited!” Smoke cried. “May we proceed onward?”

  “Son of a bitch shore talks funny!” Gridley grumbled.

  * * *

  Smoke had killed his first man back on the plains, back when he was fifteen or sixteen; he wasn’t quite sure. And he had killed many times since then. But as accustomed as he was to the sights of brutality, he had to struggle to keep his lunch down when they passed by a line of poles and platforms and wooden crosses sunk into the ground. Men and women in various stages of death and dying were nailed to the crosses; some were hung from chains by their ankles and left to rot; some had been horsewhipped until their flesh hung in strips, and they had been left to slowly die under the sun.

  Smoke had never seen anything like it in his life. He did not have to force the gasp of horror that escaped from his lips. He turned his face away from the sight.

  The outlaws thought it was funny, Hart saying, “That’s what happens to people who try to cross the boss, Shirley. Or to people who come in here pretendin’ to be something they ain’t.”

  Gridley pointed to a woman, blackened in rotting death, hanging by chains. “She was a slave who tried to escape. Keep that in mind, sissy-boy.”

  “How hideous!” Smoke found his voice. “What kind of place is this?”

  “He really don’t know,” Nappy said with a laugh. “The silly sod really don’t know. Boy, are we gonna have some fun with this dude.”

  “I don’t wish to stay here!” Smoke said, putting fear and panic in his voice. “This place is disgusting!” He tried to turn Drifter.

  The outlaws escorting him boxed him in, none of them noticing the firm grip Smoke held on Drifter’s reins, steadying the killer horse, preventing him from rearing up and crushing a skull or breaking a back with his steel-shod hooves.

  The bonnet had worked in disguising Drifter for what he really was. Worked, so far.

  “You just hold on, fancy-pants,” Hart told him. “You wanted to come in here, remember?”

  “But now I want to leave! I want to leave right this instant!”

  “Sorry, sweets. You’re here to stay.”

  * * *

  Jim Wilde looked at the late afternoon sunlight outside his office window. He sighed and returned to his chair. “He ought to be in there by now. God have mercy on his soul; I guess I got to say it.”

  “Yeah,” Sheriff Mike Larsen agreed. “He’s got more guts than I got, and I’ll stand out in the middle of the damn street and admit that.”

  Jim sipped his coffee. “You told your boys not a word about this to anybody, right?”

  “Damn well bet I did. I told ’em if they even thought hard on it, I’d catch the vibrations and lock ’em up.”

  And the marshal knew the sheriff would do just that. Mike ran a good solid straight office in a tough town.

  “You got the final tally sheet of all that’s goin’ in, Mike?”

  “Yep. The boys is gearin’ up now. Quietly. Three sheriffs, including myself. Twenty regular deputies. Twenty volunteers—all of them top riders and good with short gun and rifle—and you and ten marshals.”

/>   “The other marshals will be comin’ in by train two at a time, staring tomorrow at noon. They’re goin’ to stay low. I just wish we had some way of findin’ out how many hardcases we’re gonna be up against.”

  “I think that’s impossible, Jim. But if I had to make a guess on it . . . I’d say two hundred at the low end. We all gonna tie a white handkerchief on our left arm so’s the Injuns won’t mistake us for outlaws . . . that is still the plan, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah. Best I can come up with. I’ve already contracted for horses to be stashed along the way. So when we start ridin’, we ain’t gonna stop until it’s over and done with. One way or the other,” he added grimly.

  Mike Larsen chose not to elaborate on that last bit. He would tell his wife only at the last moment, just before he stepped into the saddle. It was not a job he looked forward to doing, but he knew it was a job that had to be done. “Where you got the horses?”

  “We’ll switch to fresh at Spanish Peaks, then again at La Veta Pass. The last stop will be at Red Davis’s place. I ain’t gonna kill no good horse on that final run. Most of that is gonna be uphill.”

  Both men knew the fastest way to tire a horse was riding uphill.

  “Red is givin’ us the best of his line and wanted to go in with us. I thanked him but told him no. Told him he was doin’ enough by loanin’ us fresh horses.”

  “He’s a tough old man. But you was right in refusin’ him. You think he took offense?”

  “No. He understands. White Wolf says he’ll have at least thirty braves around that town when Jensen opens the dance. And Jensen is goin’ to start the music as soon as White Wolf signals him that we’ve left the trail and entered the pass. White Wolf says the guards along the road will be taken care of. Them Utes ain’t got no use for anybody in Dead River. And I told the boys that volunteered that the reward money will be split up amongst ’em.”

  “That’s good, but I don’t like Smoke openin’ the show by hisself.” Larsen frowned. “We’re gonna be a good forty-five minutes of hard ridin’ away from the town when he starts draggin’ iron and lettin’ it bang.”

  “I know it. But he was by hisself when he met them ol’ boys up there on the Uncompahgre. And he killed ever’ damn one of them.”

  “Yep,” the sheriff agreed. “He damn shore did that, didn’t he?”

  * * *

  “Unhand me, you beast!” Smoke shrilled his protest, struggling against the hands that held him in front of the saloon.

  “My, my.” A man stepped out of the Bloody Bucket and onto the boardwalk. “What manner of creature do we have here, boys?”*

  “It’s that sissy-boy that draws them pitchers, Mr. Davidson. The one that Cahoon told us about.”

  “Where is my friend, Cahoon?” Smoke asked.

  No one from the gathering crowd of thugs and hardcases replied.

  “Well, well,” Davidson said with a smile, his eyes taking in Smoke’s outlandish dress. “So it is. And how do you like our little town, Mr. DeBeers?”

  “I think it is appalling and disgusting and most offensive. And I do not like being manhandled by thugs. Tell your henchmen to unhand me this instant!”

  Rex Davidson stepped from the boardwalk, faced Smoke and then backhanded him viciously across the face. He slapped him again. Smoke allowed his knees to buckle and he slumped to the ground, whimpering.

  “You, silly boy,” Rex said, standing over Smoke, “do not give me orders. Around here, I give the orders, and you obey. I say who lives and dies, and who comes and goes. Do you understand that, Shirley?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smoke gasped. The blows from Davidson had hurt. The man was no lightweight; he was big and muscled. Smoke decided to remain on the ground, on his hands and knees, until ordered to rise.

  “Here, silly-boy,” Rex continued, “I am king. You are nothing. However, if I decide you may live—and that is a big if—I might elect to make you my court jester. Would you like that, silly-boy?”

  “Yes, sir.” Until I shed this costume and put lead in you, you overbearing jackass!

  King Rex kicked Smoke in the belly, knocking him flat on the ground. “When you address me, silly-boy, you will address me as Your Majesty. Now, say it, you foppish-looking fool!”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” and Smoke knew it was going to take a miracle for him to last out the entire seven days. Maybe two or three miracles.

  “That’s better, Jester. Some of you men get this fool on his feet and drag him inside the saloon. I wish to talk with him about doing my portrait.”

  Smoke started to tell him that he didn’t do portraits, then decided it would be best if he’d just keep his mouth shut for the moment. He let the hardcases drag him to his feet and shove him up the steps, onto the boardwalk, and through the batwings. And it was all done with a lot of unnecessary roughness and very crude language.

  What the hell did you expect, Jensen? Smoke silently questioned. A tea party?

  The saloon—and from what Smoke had been able to glean, the only one in town—was a huge affair, capable of seating several hundred people. There was a large stage on one end of the building. The stage had red velvet curtains. Smoke wondered who did the acting and singing.

  He was shoved roughly into a chair and then, looking up, got his first good look at Rex Davidson.

  The man was a handsome rascal, no doubt about that. And a big man, in his mid-forties, Smoke guessed, solid, with heavily muscled arms and shoulders, thick wrists. Big hands. His eyes were cruel but not tinged with any sign of madness that Smoke could readily detect.

  Rex leaned against the polished bar and smiled at Smoke; but the smile did not reach the man’s eyes. “Talk to me, Jester.”

  “About what, Your Majesty?” Smoke promptly responded as instructed.

  “Good, good!” Rex shouted to the hardcases gathered in the saloon. “You all see how quickly he learns? I think this one will do just fine. Oh, my, yes. Where are you from, Jester?”

  “I am originally from Pennsylvania, Your Majesty.”

  “What city?”

  “I am not from a city, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh? You certainly don’t speak like a hick.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” You royal pain in the ass! “I was born on a small farm. Both my mother and father were highly educated people. They taught us at home.” And I’m going to teach you a thing or two, King Jackass! “There were no schools nearby.”

  “Thank you, Jester. And where did you learn to draw, Jester?”

  “I suppose I was born with the talent, Your Majesty.” Just like I was born good with a gun, which you shall certainly get the chance to see . . . briefly. “My brother, Maurice, has the ability to write quite eloquently.”

  “Ah, yes, Maurice. Did you tell Cahoon that this Maurice person had stopped by here?”

  “That is what he wrote and told me. But I have no way of knowing if he did stop or not. Maurice, ah, tends to story a bit.”

  “I see. In other words, he’s nothing more than a goddamned liar?”

  “Ah, yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Where is he now, Jester?”

  “I have no idea, Your Majesty.”

  “I see. Does he look like you, Jester?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Maurice was adopted, you see. While my hair is—”

  Rex waved him silent as a man carrying a tray of drinks stumbled and went crashing to the floor. The glasses shattered and the smell of raw whiskey and beer filled the huge room.

  “Incompetent fool!” Rex yelled at the fallen man.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”

  “Your services will no longer be needed here, idiot.” The man tried to crawl to his feet just as Rex pulled out a .44. “I cannot tolerate clumsiness.” He eased back the hammer and shot the man in the chest, knocking him back to the floor. The man began screaming in pain. Rex calmly shot him in the head. The screaming stopped.

  Smoke watched it all, then remembered to put a shocked look on his fac
e. Just in time, for Rex had cut his eyes and was watching Smoke carefully.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Smoke gasped, putting a hand over his mouth. “That poor fellow.”

  “Drag him out of here and sprinkle some sawdust over the blood spots,” Rex ordered. He punched out the empty brass in the cylinder and replaced the spent cartridges, then cut his eyes to Smoke. “Life is the cheapest commodity on the market around here, Jester. Bear that in mind at all times. Now then, how long were you planning on staying in my town?”

  “My original plans were to spend about a week, sketching the scenery, which I was told was lovely. Then I was going to resupply and move on.”

  “A week, hey?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Give me all your money.”

  “Sir?”

  King Rex slapped Smoke out of the chair. And as he hit the floor, Smoke was really beginning to question his own sanity for getting himself into this snakepit. And wondering if he were going to get out of it alive.

  Smoke was jerked up from the floor and slammed into his chair. The side of his face ached and he tasted blood in his mouth. And if Rex, king of Dead River, could just read Smoke’s thoughts . . .

  “Never, never question me, Jester,” Rex told him. “You will obey instantly, or you will die. Very slowly and very painfully. Do you understand me, Jester?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Just don’t hurt me. I can’t stand pain. It makes me ill.”

  “Stop your goddamned babblings, you fool. Give me your money!”

  Smoke dug in his trousers and handed the man his slim roll of greenbacks.

  Rex counted the money. “Sixty dollars. I charge ten dollars a day to stay here, Jester, unless you work for me, which you don’t. What are you going to do at the end of six days, Jester?”

  A woman began screaming from one of the rooms upstairs. Then the sounds of a whip striking flesh overrode the screaming. A man’s ugly laughter followed the sounds of the lashing.

  “A slave being punished, Jester,” Rex told him. “We have many slaves in this town. Some live a long, long time. Others last only a few weeks. How long do you think you would last, Jester?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

  “An honest answer. Now answer my original question, Jester.”