Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  York counted on his fingers, then stopped and looked at Smoke. “Do you want March as one?”

  “Damned if I know!”

  “We’ll say you do.” He once more began counting. “Yep. But that’d be eight months. So this might be August.”

  Smoke looked at him. “York . . . what in the hell are you talking about?”

  York confessed that what he knew about the process of babies growing before the birth was rather limited.

  “I think I better wire Sally and ask her,” Smoke suggested.

  “I think that’d be the wise thing to do.”

  Jim Wilde had told Smoke he would send a wire to Sally, telling her the operation was over and Smoke was all right. And he would do the same for York, advising the Arizona Ranger headquarters that York was in pursuit of those who had escaped.

  Smoke and York cut across the Sangre de Cristo range, in search of the cave Davidson and his men had used to escape.

  * * *

  Sally got the wire one day before the Boston and New York newspapers ran the front-page story of the incident, calling it: JUSTICE AT DEAD RIVER. The pictures would follow in later editions.

  John read the stories, now carried in nearly all papers in the East, and shook his head in disbelief, saying to his daughter, “Almost fifty men were hanged in one morning. Their trials took an average of three minutes per man. For God’s sake, Sally, surely you don’t agree with these kangaroo proceedings?”

  “Father,” the daughter said, knowing that the man would never understand, “it’s a hard land. We don’t have time for all the niceties you people take for granted back here.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that your husband, Smoke, is credited—if that’s the right choice of words—with killing some thirty or forty men?”

  Sally shook her head. “No. I don’t see why it should. You see, Father, you’ve taken a defense attorney’s position already. And you immediately condemned Smoke and the other lawmen and posse members, without ever saying a word about those poor people who were kidnapped, enslaved, and then hung up on hooks to die by slow torture. You haven’t said a word about the people those outlaws abused, robbed, murdered, raped, tortured, and then ran back to Dead River to hide and spend their ill-gotten gain. Even those papers there,” she pointed, “admit that every man who was hanged was a confessed murderer, many of them multiple killers. They got whatever they deserved, Father. No more, and no less.”

  The father sighed and looked at his daughter. “The West has changed you, Sally. I don’t know you anymore.”

  “Yes, I’ve changed, Father,” she admitted. “For the better.” She smiled. “It’s going to be interesting when you and Smoke meet.”

  “Yes,” John agreed. “Quite.”

  * * *

  It took Smoke and York three days after crossing the high range to find the cave opening and the little valley beneath it.

  “Slick,” York said. “If they hadn’t a knocked down the bushes growin’ in front of the mouth of that cave, we’d have had the devil’s own hard time findin’ it.”

  The men entered the cave opening, which was barely large enough to accommodate a standing man. And they knew from the smell that greeted them what they would find.

  They looked down at the bloated and maggot-covered bodies on the cave floor.

  “You know them?” Smoke asked.

  “I seen ’em in town. But I never knowed their names. And I don’t feel like goin’ through their pockets to find out who they was, do you?”

  Smoke shook his head. Both men stepped back outside, grateful to once more be out in the cool, fresh air. They breathed deeply, clearing their nostrils of the foul odor of death.

  “Let’s see if we can pick up a trail,” Smoke suggested. Old Preacher had schooled Smoke well. The man could track a snake across a flat rock. Smoke circled a couple of times, then called for York to join him.

  “North.” He pointed. “I didn’t think they’d risk getting out into the sand dunes. They’ll probably follow the timber line until they get close to the San Luis, then they’ll ride the river, trying to hide their tracks. I’ll make a bet they’ll cut through Poncha Pass, then head east to the railroad town. They might stop at the hot springs first. You game?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They picked up and lost the tracks a dozen times, but it soon became apparent that Smoke had pegged their direction accurately. At a village called Poncha Springs, past the San Luis Valley, Smoke and York stopped and resupplied and bathed in the hot waters.

  Yes, about a dozen hard-looking men had been through. Oh, five or six days back. They left here ridin’ toward Salida. They weren’t real friendly folks, neither. Looked like hardcases.

  Smoke and York pulled out the next morning.

  At Salida, they learned that Davidson and his men had stopped, bought supplies and ammunition, and left the same day they’d come.

  But one man didn’t ride out with the others.

  “He still in town?” Smoke asked.

  “Shore is. Made his camp up by the Arkansas. ’Bout three miles out of town. But he’s over to the saloon now.”

  Salida was new and raw, a railroad town built by the Denver and Rio Grande railroad. Salida was the division point of the main line and the narrow-gauge lines over what is called Marshall Pass.

  “What’s this ol’ boy look like?” York asked.

  The man described him.

  “Nappy,” Smoke said. “You got papers on him?”

  “’Deed I do,” York said, slipping the hammer thong off his .44.

  “I’ll back you up. Let’s go.”

  “You look familiar, partner,” the citizen said to Smoke. “What might be your name?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  As soon as the lawmen had left, the man hauled his ashes up and down the muddy streets, telling everyone he could find that Smoke was in town.

  “I know Nappy is wanted for rape and murder,” Smoke said. “What else did he do?”

  “Killed my older brother down between the Mogollon Plateau and the Little Colorado. Jimmy was a lawman, workin’ out of Tucson. Nappy had killed an old couple just outside of town and Jimmy had tracked him north.” York talked as they walked. “Nappy ambushed him. Gut-shot my brother and left him to die. But Jimmy wasn’t about to die ’fore he told who done him in. He crawled for miles until some punchers found him and he could tell them what happened, then he died. I was fifteen at the time. I joined the Rangers when I was eighteen. That was six years ago.”

  “I figured you for some younger than that.”

  “It’s all the clean livin’ I done,” York said with a straight face.

  Then they stepped into the saloon.

  And Nappy wasn’t alone.

  The short, barrel-chested, and extremely ugly outlaw stood at the far end of the bar, his hands at his sides. Across the room were two more hardcases, also standing, each wearing two guns tied down low. To Smoke’s extreme right, almost in the shadows, was another man, also standing.

  “Napoleon Whitman?” York spoke to the stocky outlaw.

  “That’s me, punk.”

  “I’m an Arizona Ranger. It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the murder of Tucson deputy sheriff Jimmy York.”

  “Do tell? Well, Ranger, this is Colorado. You ain’t jack-shit up here.”

  “I have also been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal, Nappy. Now how is it gonna be?”

  “Well,” Nappy drawled, as the men at the tables drifted back, out of the line of fire. And since Nappy had men posted all around the room, that meant getting clear outside, which is what most did. “I think I’m gonna finish my drink, Ranger. That’s what I think I’m gonna do. And since both you squirts is about to die, why don’t y’all order yourselves a shot?”

  Then he arrogantly turned his left side to the man and faced the bar. But both Smoke and York knew he was watching them in the mirror.

  “He’s all yours,” Smoke murmured, jus
t loud enough for York to hear. “Don’t worry about the others.”

  York nodded. “I don’t drink with scum,” he told the ugly outlaw.

  Nappy had lifted the shot glass to his mouth with his left hand. With that slur, he set the glass down on the bar and turned, facing the younger man. “What’d you say to me, punk?” The outlaw was not accustomed to be talked to in such a manner. After all, he was a famous and feared gunfighter, and punk kids respected him. They sure didn’t talk smart to him.

  “I said you’re scum, Nappy. You’re what’s found at the bottom of an outhouse pit.”

  All were conscious of many faces peering inside the dark barroom; many men pressed up against the glass from the boardwalk.

  “You can’t talk to me lak ’at!” Nappy almost screamed the words, and he could not understand the strange sensation that suddenly filled him.

  It was fear.

  Fear! The word clutched at Nappy’s innards. Fear! Afraid of this snot-nosed pup with a tin star? He tried to shrug it off but found he could not.

  “I just did, Nappy,” York said. He smiled at the man; he could practically smell the fear-stink of the outlaw.

  Nappy stepped away from the bar to stand wide-legged, facing York. “Then fill your hand, you son of a bitch!”

  16

  Smoke had been standing, half turned away from York, about three feet between them, his arms folded across his lower chest. When Nappy grabbed for iron, Smoke went into a low crouch and cross-drew, cocking and firing with one blindingly fast motion. First he shot the man in the shadows with his right-hand .44, then took out the closest of the two men to Nappy’s immediate left.

  Nappy had beaten York to the draw, but as so often happens, his first slug tore up the floor in front of York’s boots. York had not missed a shot, but the stocky outlaw was soaking up the lead as fast as York could pump it into him and was still standing on his feet, tossing lead in return. He was holding onto the bar with his left hand and firing at York.

  Smoke rolled across the floor and came up on his knees, both .44s hammering lead into the one man he faced who was still standing. The .44 slugs drew the life from the man and Smoke turned on one knee, splinters from the rough wood floor digging into his knee with the move. The man in the shadows was leaning against a wall, blood all over his shirt front, trying to level his .45. Smoke shot him in the face, and the man slid down the wall to rest on his butt, dead.

  As the roaring left his ears and Smoke could once more see, Nappy was still standing, even though York had emptied his .44 into the man’s chest and belly.

  But Smoke could see he was not going to be standing much longer. The man’s eyes were glazing over, and blood was pouring out of his mouth. His guns were laying on the floor beside his scuffed and dirty boots.

  Nappy cut his eyes to Smoke. “That you, Jensen?” he managed to say.

  “It’s me, Nappy.” Smoke stood up and walked toward the dying outlaw.

  “Come closer, Jensen. I cain’t see you. Dark in here, ain’t it?”

  Death’s hand was slowly closing in on Nappy.

  “What do you want, Nappy?”

  “They’ll get you, Jensen. They’re gonna have their way with your uppity wife in front of your eyes, then they’re gonna kill you slow. You ain’t gonna find them, Jensen. They’re dug in deep. But they’ll find you. And that’s a promise, Jensen. That’s . . .”

  His knees buckled and his eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites were showing. Nappy crashed to the barroom floor and died.

  Both lawmen punched out empties and reloaded. York said, “I’ll send a wire to the Tucson office and tell them to recall the dodgers on Nappy. You hit anywhere?”

  “’Bout a dozen splinters in my knee is all.”

  “I’ll be back, and then we’ll have us a drink.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll have one while I’m waiting. Hurry up, I hate to drink alone.”

  * * *

  Smoke lost the trail. It wasn’t the first time it had happened in his life, but it irked him even more this time. Smoke and York had trailed the outlaws to just outside of Crested Butte, and there they seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.

  The lawmen backtracked and circled, but it was no use; the trail was lost.

  After five more days of fruitless and frustrating looking, they decided to give it up.

  They were camped near the banks of Roaring Fork, cooking some fish they’d caught for supper, both their mouths salivating at the good smells, when Drifter’s head and ears came up.

  “We got company,” Smoke said softly.

  “So I noticed. Injuns, you reckon?”

  “I don’t think so. Drifter acts different when it’s Indians.”

  “Hallo, the fire!” a voice called.

  “If you’re friendly,” Smoke returned the shout, “come on in. We caught plenty of fish and the coffee’s hot.”

  “Music to my ears, boys.” A man stepped into camp, leading his horses, a saddle mount and a packhorse. “Name’s McGraw, but I’m called Chaw.”

  “That’s Buddy York and I’m Smoke Jensen.”

  Chaw McGraw damn near swallered his chaw when he heard the name Smoke Jensen. He coughed and spat a couple of times, and then dug in his kit for a battered tin cup. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down, looking at Smoke.

  “Damned if it ain’t you! I figured you for some older. But there you sit, bigger ’en life. I just read about you in a paper a travelin’ drummer gimme. Lemme git it for you; it ain’t but a week old. Outta Denver.”

  The paper told the story of the big shoot-out and the hangings and the final destruction of the outlaw town of Dead River. It told all about Smoke and York and then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Smoke read about Sally being back in Keene, New Hampshire, awaiting the birth of their first child.

  “What’s wrong, partner?” York asked, looking at the strange expression on Smoke’s face.

  Not wanting to take any chances on what he said being repeated by Chaw, Smoke minutely shook his head and handed the paper to York. “Nothing.”

  York read the long article and lifted his eyes to Smoke. The men exchanged knowing glances across the fire and the broiling fish.

  “Help yourself, Chaw,” Smoke offered. “We have plenty.”

  “I wanna wash my hands ’fore I partake,” Chaw said. “Be right back. Damn, boys, but that do smell good!”

  Chaw out of earshot, Smoke said, “You ever been east of the Big Muddy, York?”

  “Never had no desire to go.” Then he added, “Until now, that is.”

  “Davidson is crazy, but like a fox. We destroyed his little kingdom, brought his evil down on his head. And now he hates you as much as he does me. And I would just imagine this story is all over the West.” He tapped the newspaper. “It would be like King Rex to gather up as many hardcases as he could buy—and he’s got the money to buy a trainload of them—and head east. What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve pegged it. Remember what Nappy said back in the bar, just before he died?”

  “Yes. But I’m betting he wants the child to be born before he does anything. It would be like him. What do you think?”

  “That you’re right, all the way down the line. Dagget was one of the men who shot your wife, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she wasn’t showin’ with child then, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Rex can count. He’ll time it so’s the baby will be born, I’m thinkin’.”

  “I think you’re right. And I’m thinking none of them would want to get back east too soon. Dagget is wanted back there, remember? You with me, York?”

  “All the way, Smoke.”

  “We’ll pull out in the morning. Here comes Chaw. We’d better fix some more fish. He looks like he could eat a skunk, and probably has.”

  * * *

  They said their good-byes to Chaw and headed east, taking their time, heading for Leadville,
once called Magic City and Cloud City, for it lies just below timberline, almost two miles above sea level. Some have described the climate as ten months winter and two months damn late in the fall. Smoke and York followed old Indian trails, trails that took Smoke back in time, when he and Preacher roamed wild and free across the land, with Preacher teaching first the boy and then the man called Smoke. It brought back memories to Smoke, memories that unashamedly wet his eyes. If York noticed—and Smoke was sure he did—the ranger said nothing about it.

  Located in the valley of the Arkansas, Leadville was once the state’s second largest city. It was first a roaring gold town, then a fabulous silver boom town, and then once more a gold-rush town. When Smoke and York rode into Leadville late one afternoon, the town was still roaring.

  Smoke and York had experienced no trouble on their way into the boom town, unlike so many other not-so-lucky travelers. Roving gangs of thugs and outlaws had erected toll booths on several of the most important roads leading into the town, and those who refused to pay were robbed at gunpoint; many were killed. Robberies, rapes, assaults, and wild shoot-outs were almost an hourly occurrence within the town’s limits.

  When Smoke and York rode into the busy city, Leadville’s population was hovering between fifty thousand and sixty thousand—no one ever really knew for sure. It was the wildest place in the state, for a time. The town’s only hospital was guarded by a hundred men, day and night, to keep it from being torn down by thugs. Churches were forced to hire armed guards to work around the clock. The handful of police officers were virtually powerless to keep any semblance of order, so that fell to various vigilante groups. It was a town where you took your life in your hands just by getting out of bed in the morning.

  “I ain’t too thrilled about no hotel, Smoke,” York commented on the way in.

  “There wouldn’t be a room anyway. We’ll stable the horses, pick up some supplies, and hit the saloons. We might be able to hear something. Let’s take off these badges.”

  The only “hotel” in town that might have had empty beds was the Mammoth Palace, a huge shed with double bunks that could easily sleep five hundred. A guest paid a dollar for an eight-hour sleeping turn.