Thirty-two
He gave his name in broken English as Little Horse, then he pointed to seven young warriors standing behind him, introducing one as Dreamer, another as Sees Far, then the others, all names Jessie quickly forgot. He didn’t care what these Apaches called themselves.
“Can they shoot straight?” Jessie asked Little Horse.
Little Horse nodded once. “Many time kill white-eyes,” he said, balancing a badly worn Spencer carbine in one hand. “We kill more if you pay us money.” He carried a rusted Colt in a sash around his waist, along with a gleaming Bowie knife. This Indian in particular was always in trouble with the soldiers at Fort Stanton for running off from the reservation to steal horses and cattle, scalping white settlers in the process. Litde Horse had just gotten out of jail at the fort, along with the seven men who came with him, when no witnesses could identify them as the killers of six white farmers in the Penasco Valley last year.
“Get the ammunition you need from that store over yonder,” he told the Apache. “Then get mounted an’ follow us.” He gave Jimmy Dolan a sideways look. “That makes eight more. Ten just showed up last night from Mexico, all good pistoleros, accordin’ to Pedro Lopez. He knows most of ’em.“
Dolan frowned. “I hope they’re better than Ignacio Valdez,” he muttered. “You told me Valdez was really good.”
“That Jensen feller probably ambushed him from hidin’ some place or another. It sure as hell wasn’t no fair fight if he got Ignacio.”
“Just make damn sure you get Jensen at all costs,” Dolan said quietly, standing in the road where Jessie and more than thirty mounted men waited, all heavily armed. Townspeople were staring at the gang from all over Lincoln’s main street.
“You can bank on it,” Jessie replied.
Dolan’s expression hardened. “Jensen is a cocksure son of a bitch. He acted like he owned Lincoln County. I wasn’t carrying a gun, and yet he stuck his pistol right in my face when he came barging in the store. I want him dead. Nobody sticks a gun in my face like that.”
“I’ll bring you his head in a tow sack,” Jessie promised as the Apaches went inside the store to get cartridges. “I’ll have forty men with me, includin’ those redskins. There ain’t but seven or eight with that herd, includin’ Jensen. It’ll be over before it gets started.”
“Kill them all,” Dolan whispered, so that citizens of Lincoln standing nearby wouldn’t hear. “Don’t leave a goddamn one of them alive to tell what happened.”
“It’s as good as done,” Jessie said, resting a palm on the butt of his Colt, He grinned and aimed a thumb at Bill Pickett. “I’ve done promised Pickett he can make sure every last one of ’em is dead. He gets a kick out of killin’ with that shotgun of his. I’m sure as hell glad he’s on our payroll.”
“Just get the job done this time,” Dolan snapped. “I’m paying good money to get results, not a bunch of empty promises like the last time.”
“That was on account of Billy Barlow warned ’em. Soon as we get back, I’ll find Barlow an’ kill him myself.”
“Do whatever it takes,” Dolan said, walking away with his hands shoved in his pants pockets.
Jessie mounted his horse, waiting between Pickett and Tom Hill for the Apaches to come out of the store.
“Goddamn Injuns can’t shoot,” Pickett said with heat in his voice. “None of ’em can.”
“Maybe they’ll get lucky,” Jessie replied. “Little Horse, the one who speaks some English, is tough, an’ a dead shot when he’s up close, accordin’ to Colonel Dudley. They’ve been tryin’ to find something to pin on him so they can hang him, only he’s smart. He don’t get caught very often. They had to let him go this time because nobody would testify it was him murdered them farmers.”
“I hate Injuns,” Pickett declared. “After we get done with this Jensen feller, I’ll do the army a favor by blowin’ off that damn Apache’s skullbone.”
Jessie shrugged. “When we’re finished with Jensen, I don’t give a damn what you do. You can kill all those Apaches for all I care. That way, Dolan don’t have to pay ’em.”
“Sounds good to me,” Pickett said.
Jessie noticed Tom Hill’s color wasn’t quite right after he heard what Pickett meant to do to the Indians. Glancing over his shoulder, Jessie took another look at the ten Mexicans who’d ridden in at Bosque Redondo the night before. All were bearded, hard-faced men with crisscrossed cartridge bandoliers over each shoulder. The pistolero who led this bunch was named Jose Vasquez, and he had a certain look about him showing confidence. Pedro said Jose was a bandido, and a killer who took great pride in his work.
Jessie thought about Smoke Jensen. For a man he’d never met, this Colorado rancher was sure as hell causing a lot of trouble in New Mexico Territory, a condition that was about to end tonight, or whenever they caught up to him and his cow herd. With the odds being over four to one against Jensen, he would be dead by the time the sun went down tomorrow. Jessie was certain of it, as Little Horse and his Apaches came out of the store to climb aboard their scrawny ponies.
“Let’s ride,” he said to the men around him, wheeling his horse to the east.
“We can’t get there soon enough to suit me,” Pickett said as they struck a trot out of Lincoln.
Forty-three gunmen followed Jessie into the hills east of Lincoln Township. The rattle of curb chains, spur rowels, and armament accompanied their departure. Dust curled away from their horses’ heels.
Jessie noticed Jimmy Dolan standing on the porch of his store watching them ride off. Jessie promised himself Mr. Dolan wouldn’t be disappointed this time when he heard what had happened somewhere along the Pecos River.
Thirty-three
Bob and Cletus and Johnny rode slow circles around the herd as the cattle bedded down for the night. The day had passed uneventfully, but when Smoke scouted for a place to hold the herd for the night, he selected it carefully, with defense from an all-out attack in mind, deciding upon the middle of a flat, grassy prairie with no trees or brush nearby where a rifleman would be in range. He knew, once the shooting started, the longhorns would scatter in every direction, making for a difficult time rounding them up, even in daylight. Under the present circumstances, it was the best he could do, to stay out in the open so Evans would have to charge them without benefit of cover. Defenders lying in tall bunch grass would have an advantage over men charging across the flat meadow toward the herd.
Pearlie handed Smoke a tin plate full of beans and fried fatback. He had been watching Smoke use a whetstone across the iron blade of a Ute tomahawk he always carried in his saddlebags. “You figure they’re comin’ tonight, don’t you?” he asked.
Smoke began eating, his face more deeply etched by lines in the light of their campfire. “Hard to say, Pearlie. Best thing to do is be ready for ’em anytime:”
“They’ll come from the west, from the direction of Lincoln., I reckon.”
“Most likely.” He chewed thoughtfully a moment. “That’s why I’m headed that way, as soon as I’ve eaten. Those trees way over yonder will give me some cover. I’ll go on foot, so I can move around quiet. They may come at us from the south if they’ve been following our tracks. I want you and the rest to spread out around the herd with rifles and plenty of ammunition. Find a spot in that tall grass where you’ll be harder to see when you shoot. They’ll have to cross a bunch of open ground to get to us, and that’ll cost ’em. Those longhorns are gonna run like mad as soon as the first shot gets fired. I’ll try to drop as many of Jessie’s boys as I can before they get too close. Main thing is to stay down. I don’t want anybody to take chances.”
“You’ll be the one takin’ chances,” Pearlie observed.
Smoke continued eating. “I’m accustomed to it, Pearlie. I reckon I’ve been taking chances all my life, so I’ve had plenty of practice. The most important thing is that none of you take a bullet, and if you can, protect those Herefords. We can buy more long-horns if we lose a few, but those w
hite-faced bulls can’t be replaced very easy. Save as many as you can.”
Pearlie glanced across the dark prairie. “Evans would have to be a fool to charge us out in the open like this, even if he done it at night, ’less he’s got a helluva lot of men with him.”
“I expect him to bring a sizable bunch this time. I’ll kill as many as I can before they rush you.”
-“I noticed you’s wearin’ your moccasins ’stead of your boots tonight.”
“Quieter,” Smoke said.
Cal had been listening closely while he ate. “I reckon I’m about to git another chance to kill somebody. It sure does a job on my nerves.”
“It ain’t affected yer appetite any,” Pearlie said.
“I’m eatin’ because I’m nervous.”
“Hell, you eat all the time anyways…”
Smoke got up as Duke was corning to the fire after tying his horse to the picket rope. He saw the tomahawk in Smoke’s hand.
“I sure hope they don’t get that close, Mr. Jensen,” he said as Smoke tucked the handle under his cartridge belt.
“That’s why I’m headed for those trees yonder,” Smoke replied, inclining his head to the west, “so I can keep some of ’ern from getting close.” He looked over his shoulder at Pearlie and Cal. I’ll see you boys at daybreak if nothing happens tonight. Put out that fire soon as everyone’s eaten.“
Pearlie nodded. “We’s all wishin’ you good luck, boss.”
Smoke picked up his rifle. “You should know by now I never depend on luck, Pearlie.” He strode softly into the darkness, his moccasins making no sound.
False dawn came to the eastern sky, making shadows that played tricks on a man’s eyes… unless he knew a thing or two about shadows in early light. The night had passed without incident, although Smoke continued to circle the herd from a distance, moving from tree to tree, pausing to listen and study the forest before moving on again.
A sound came from an unexpected place, the unmistakable plop of an unshod horse’s hoof. He hadn’t been expecting Indians, not when Jessie Evans was the enemy. But few white men rode unshod horses in rough country, and the sound of a hoof without an iron shoe was distinctive, easy to recognize.
He hurried toward the sound, dodging from pine trunk to pine trunk, until he crept close to a small clearing, where the outlines of two Apache warriors on wiry ponies moved slowly in the direction of the prairie where the herd was bedded down.
Apache scouts, he thought, by the way they wore their hair under a headband. Smoke continued forward, pulling his tomahawk with his right hand, a pistol with his left.
The element of surprise would be with him if he moved quickly. He crept up behind the pair of Indians, and when the distance was right, he broke into a soundless headlong run.
His first blow with the razor-sharp tomahawk sliced across the back of an Apache’s neck, severing muscle and ligaments and tissue all the way down to bone. Jerking his weapon free, he swung at the other Indian just as he was turning to see what had made the wet, chopping noise, then the dull thud of a falling body.
The tomahawk’s blade struck the Apache full in the face, entering his cheek and eye socket, splitting bones with a sharp crack. A muffled cry came from the warrior’s throat as his pony lunged forward, sending him toppling to the ground with Smoke’s Ute tomahawk buried in his brain.
Again jerking the weapon free, Smoke whirled around to dash back into the forest with blood dripping from the ax blade onto his leggings. Where there were two scouts, there could be more. He was certain these were not wandering renegades on the lookout for easy pickings—they worked for Evans, leading his gang to Smoke and his friends. A full-fledged attack was only moments away, coming at dawn, when cowboys who had been vigilant all night would be tired, sleepy, not as watchful.
Smoke knew he had precious little time to reduce the odds against them before Evans led his men charging toward the herd.
The young Apache never heard Smoke’s stealthy approach up to his hiding place behind a tree, and when the tomahawk hit the back of his head, splitting it in half like a ripe melon, he did not utter a word or make a sound, crumpling to the forest floor in a growing pool of blood. Smoke knew there were two more Indians watching the herd somewhere… he’d found three ponies in a thicket, tied to low tree limbs.
Racing away from his third kill, Smoke saw a shadow move at the base of another oak tree at the edge of the prairie.
“They’re makin’ it easy for me, spreadin’ out like this,” he said in a feathery whisper.
Practicing the stalking art he’d learned from Preacher, Smoke came up behind an Apache cradling a Spencer rifle, peering around the oak to see the distant cattle herd. But this Indian somehow sensed something near him as Smoke leaped forward… he turned, just in time to see the flash of steel coming at him in a high arc above his head.
The pop of breaking bone ended a total silence in the forest when Smoke’s tomahawk cleaved open the Apache’s forehead, driving him back against the tree briefly. Then he sank to his knees as Smoke pulled the blade free amid a torrent of blood coming from a wound eight inches deep between the Indian’s eyes.
Smoke didn’t wait to see the Apache fall. He was running to the south when he heard a muted plop behind him.
He found the last Indian relieving himself behind a bush with his rifle leaning against a pinon pine. There wasn’t time to allow the Apache to empty his bladder before he died from a sweeping slash across the side of his throat from a tomahawk severing his head.
Smoke darted behind a tree, listening. Farther to the south he heard the clank of a metal spur rowel.
“Here comes the rest of the army,” he told himself. It was unlikely there could be any more killing without gunfire, and the commencement of all-out war.
Smoke trotted back to the fork of a tree where he’d hidden his rifle, passing five lifeless bodies in the soft light of a coming sunrise, the air already thick with the scent of blood.
A lone Mexican squatting behind a thick tangle of thorny brush gave Smoke one more chance to kill soundlessly. A blow to the head by a tomahawk snuffed out the Mexican’s life before he realized someone was behind him. He went over on his face in the briars with blood pumping from his skull, oblivious to the scratches on his bearded cheeks and chin where sharp thorns tore into his flesh.
Smoke paused and took a deep breath. His killing instincts had once again overtaken him, pushing everything else from his mind. But just once, before he took off looking for more victims in the forest, he thought about the promise he’d made to Sally to steer clear of a fight, if he could.
“She’d understand,” he whispered. He’d done everything he could to warn Jessie Evans and Jimmy Dolan what would happen if they pushed him.
He moved more slowly now, with light beaming over eastern hills that would reveal his presence. Carrying the Winchester in one hand, a pistol in the other, he’d belted the tomahawk, for it had done all the damage it could before sunrise.
Smoke stepped among the trees, halting often to sweep the forest for any sign of the enemy. When it was safe to continue, he moved south, wondering if Evans had split his forces so that some were already surrounding the herd.
Can’t be two places at once, he thought, trotting wherever he could, walking where there was less cover.
Then he saw what he’d been expecting all along, a bunch of mounted men waiting in a draw surrounded by slender oaks. He froze behind a tree to count them.
“A baker’s dozen,” he whispered. Thirteen men would be hard to tackle single-handed. Smoke knew he had no choice.
Thirty-four
A pistol in each hand, his Winchester lying between his feet within easy reach, Smoke straightened up behind a bush at the lip of the ravine—as with the five Apaches, these men would get no warning before they died—this was open war now.
He began firing methodically, one pistol, then the other, sending a stream of lead into the gully while the roar of exploding gunpowder
filled his ears. Bullets tore through flesh in a steady stream, snapping bone and gristle, piercing organs and muscle. Frightened horses whickered and reared, plunging to be free of the pull of reins as riders toppled down into a mass of churning hooves.
Cries of pain, screams of agony accompanied the gun blasts and the sounds of terrified horses. Taken completely by surprise, the gunmen merely sought an escape from the deadly hail of hot slugs pouring down on them, but as each one made a dash toward freedom, he was cut down, knocked from his saddle by a bullet. Not a shot was fired back at Smoke until both his pistols were empty, and as he seized his rifle, only two unharmed members of Evans’s gang remained aboard their horses. One was able to ride into the trees before Smoke could get off a rifle shot, but the second, a heavy Mexican, met his end as he was spurring his horse behind the first to flee. A rifle slug caught him in the ribs, cracking when it penetrated bone while passing into his chest. He fell sideways, with his right boot caught in a stirrup, so that as his horse galloped out of sight he was dragged along in its wake, leaving a trail of blood through the forest.
Smoke was moving before the echo of his rifle shot faded away, hurrying away from the scene, a ravine filled with writhing bodies and motionless corpses.
He raced back among the trees toward the herd, certain that now Evans would order a full charge toward the cattle. As he was running, he reloaded his Colts, cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm.
And as he expected, he heard the rumble of pounding hooves coming from the south and east. Men came pouring from the pines in every direction, spurring their mounts into a hard gallop, and even a quick count revealed there were far more of them than Smoke had anticipated. It appeared that twenty or more riders were rushing onto the prairie, and now the crackle of guns went back and forth almost in unison.
Battle of the Mountain Man Page 17
