Vengeance of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke shrugged and grinned. “I told you, she couldn’t wait to say hello.”

  Jessica laid the razor-sharp edge of Smoke’s knife underneath the outlaw’s testicles, and it was over in one quick upward motion.

  The killer looked down at his parts on the ground and screamed. Jessica moved to the side to avoid the stream of blood, and wiped the blade on his shirt. She handed the knife to Smoke and pulled one of the Colts he had given her out of her dress pocket.

  Without hesitating, she placed the barrel against the head of the man still tied to his horse. “I don’t recall your name, mister, but I do recall that you weren’t as brutal as the others.” She smiled down at him. “That deserves some leniency.”

  As he smiled hopefully up at her, she pulled the trigger, blowing most of his skull out over the ground.

  As the horse bucked and danced in fear, she handed the Colt to Smoke and put her arm around Aileen. “Let’s go finish that soup before it gets cold, dear.”

  Smoke looked at the bodies of the two men and thought, “God, protect me from the wrath of a woman!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sundance Morgan removed his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead. Though the air was cooler the farther north they rode, a mid-afternoon sun in a cloudless sky was brutally hot. In the last few days on the trail they hadn’t come near a town of any size and his men were getting testy and short-tempered. Three days with no whiskey or females was beginning to cause problems.

  The saloon women they had taken from the stage line station lasted only a few days. Two were killed trying to escape, the other, two days later, had taken her own life. While one of the outlaws was having his way with her, she pulled his Colt from its holster, shot him, and then put the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger, ending her torture. They left their companion to die in the dirt beside the bullet-torn body of the prostitute.

  Sundance knew if they didn’t come to a town soon, there would be trouble—blood trouble. Lightning Jack had taken to taunting some of the Mexican riders, calling them greasers and chili-eaters. It was only a matter of time before one of them, or Perro Muerte himself, stuck a knife between someone’s ribs, and that would be the end of the uneasy alliance of the desperados.

  Just when he was about to call the gang to a halt for their nooning, Sundance topped a ridge and saw a small group of buildings in the distance. He twisted in his saddle and waved his hat at his followers. “Mi compadres, a town!”

  The killers perked up and spurred their horses to a trot, anxious to sit on something that didn’t move and drink something stronger than water.

  On the outskirts of the village was a hand-lettered sign nailed to a pole: Hell’s Hole, Colorado Territory.

  The place was little better than a mining camp, with more tents than buildings. The good news was a large tent with a board front attached that had the word Saloon printed in large block letters at the top.

  Sundance held up his hand. “Okay, men, I know you’re ready for some whiskey and women, but we got to get the horses cared for first. Take ’em to the livery stable and get ’em fed and brushed down before headin’ for the dog hole.”

  His pronouncement was greeted with several hoots and groans, but he scowled them into silence. “Don’t forget who’s in charge here! We got us a ways to go yet ’fore we get to Smoke’s grounds, and I want no broncs pullin’ up lame.” He whirled his mount around and headed toward the far end of town where corral stables were visible from high ground. “We’ve got plenty of time to get alkalied, and to get laid if that’s what you’re hankerin’ for,” he added.

  They rode off the ridge at a short lope.

  After leaving their horses in the care of an elderly man at the livery, the entire group of paid gunmen walked down a dusty street to the saloon.

  The townspeople didn’t pay them much attention, since the town was full of characters not much different from Sundance’s gang. Typical of many of the small mining camps in the Colorado mountain regions, it was full of rowdy, rough miners, few ladies other than camp-town whores, and not a few outlaws and men riding the owlhoot trail looking for a place to hide until their reputations died down.

  Sundance paused before pushing through the batwings and looked at a sign, painted in bloodred paint that had dripped down the wall next to the entrance. “The Hole,” he read out loud, with a chuckle. “Then I guess it’ll be ’bout right for this group, huh, El Gato?”

  The big Mexican grunted and pushed past him into the darkness of the saloon. “Only if it has tequila.”

  Even though it was early afternoon, the place was full of hard-looking men. Sundance let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then walked to the far rear corner of the room and stood before two large tables, occupied by six men wearing denim jeans and the thick shoes common to miners. They appeared to be well on their way to being drunk.

  Sundance smiled, looked over his shoulder at his men, then back to the seated miners. “Sorry, gents, it appears we’re gonna need these tables.”

  One of the men looked up, too deep in his whiskey to see the menace in Sundance’s eyes. “That’s too bad, mister. These here seats’re taken,” he slurred, and reached for a liquor bottle in front of him.

  Sundance spoke softly, “Carlito.”

  Suarez pushed through the crowd to stand next to his boss and slowly slipped his knife out of its scabbard and stood there, caressing the blade. His brass tooth gleamed in the meager light from a kerosene lantern overhead.

  Sundance leaned down, placing his hands on the table with his face near the miner’s nose. “Do you speak Mexican, mister?”

  Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes looked up at Suarez. “Yeah, a little. Why?”

  “Do you know what they call my friend here?”

  “No, what?”

  “Perro Muerte.”

  The man thought for a moment, then his eyebrows raised. “Dead dog? What kind of name is that?”

  In spite of himself, Sundance had to laugh, causing Suarez to take a step toward the drunk. Sundance held him back with a gesture. “No, no. It means ‘Hound of Death.’ Now, how do you suppose he got that name?”

  The man snorted, a sarcastic expression on his face. “By killin’ dogs?”

  Before the miner could laugh at his own joke, Suarez stepped forward and buried his blade in soft flesh, slitting the drunk’s throat so deeply that his neck was almost severed.

  As his head flopped back and blood spurted, the other men at the table jumped back. Sundance planted a boot in the dead man’s chest and kicked him over backwards. He called to the bartender, “Get this trash outta here and bring us some drinks.”

  By the time the gang was seated at the recently vacated tables, the barman had dragged the body out the door and brought several bottles of liquor to set before them.

  “Will there be any thin’ else?” he stammered.

  El Gato took a swig of the whiskey, then leaned over to spit it on the floor, where it mixed with the pool of coagulating blood. He looked up, eyebrows knitted together in anger. “Sí! Tequila and womens.”

  “We only got two whores, and they’s busy in the rooms out back.”

  El Gato shrugged. “Make them less busy, pronto, or El Gato do it.”

  “Uh . . . yes sir. I’ll go git ’em myself. And I don’t have no tequila, but I got some mescal. That do?”

  Lightning Jack asked, “You got any limes?”

  “Limes?”

  “Never mind,” interrupted Sundance, “just get the girls and get the mescal and come back real soon.”

  “Yes sir!”

  As the barkeep scurried back to the bar, a tall, rangy man walked into the saloon, a Greener cradled in his arms and a Colt slung low on his hip. “All right, everybody just stay calm! Now,” he said, pushing back his hat, “I want to know who’s been killin’ people and leavin’ ’em layin’ on my street, bleedin’ all over the place.”

  Sundance stood, and his men, all thirty-two of them, swung in their chairs,
clearing their gun sides for action and letting their hands rest on wooden butts worn smooth by use. Even in the semi-darkness, the cowboy with the shotgun could be seen to pale. He glanced at the men, then down at his two-shot Greener, apparently realizing it would bring him nothing but a short ride to Boot Hill if he tried to use it.

  “Are you the sheriff of this town?” asked Sundance.

  “Name’s Jake,” he said uneasily.

  “Well, Jake, I guess I’m the one you got to blame for that body out there. Seems he insulted my man here,” he inclined his head at Suarez. “Called him a dirty name.”

  “Well, I—”

  Sundance spread his arms. “We don’t want no more trouble, Sheriff. If there’s a fine for littering, or anything like that, I’d be glad to pay it.”

  Sweat beaded the lawman’s forehead. “Yeah . . . okay. Fine for litterin’s two dollars.”

  “Two dollars?” Sundance frowned.

  “Uh, yeah, but since you’re new to town, I’ll overlook it this time. How’s that?”

  Sundance stepped up to the cowboy and slapped him on the back. “Jake, I knew when you walked in you was a reasonable man. How about havin’ a drink with us?”

  “Sure, why not?” he replied, his voice thin, a bit shaky.

  El Gato moved his chair to make room for Jake to sit, and Lightning Jack poured him a tumbler full of whiskey.

  “Just what do you folks do in this town for fun, Sheriff?” asked Bull.

  Jake raised an eyebrow at Bull’s high voice and slight lisp, but wisely decided not to mention it. “There’s only two things to do around here after dark. You’re already doin’ one of ’em, an’ that’s drinkin’.”

  As the sheriff spoke, two women, dressed in well-worn, once brightly colored but now faded and shabby dresses, emerged from the back of the tent.

  Jake nodded in their direction. “And there’s the other.” He leaned forward and whispered, “’Ceptin’ drinkin’s more fun than those two. They’re mighty well used, if you git my drift.”

  Lightning Jack laughed and slapped the man on the shoulder, Jack’s big arm almost knocking the man off his chair. “After a week on the back of a bronc with nothin’ better to look at than the butt of the horse in front of ya’, I don’t ’spect we’ll be too choosy, my friend.”

  The women walked toward Sundance’s men, stopping when they got within range of the smell of the group. One turned to the other and wrinkled her nose, rolling her eyes. Sundance noticed the look and grunted. He took a leather pouch out of his pocket and threw a handful of double-eagles on the table. “We might not smell too good, ladies, but I’ll bet the odor of this gold’ll take your minds off that right quick.”

  The whores smiled, showing teeth that would have made a horse trader wince, and joined right in, throwing arms around any man they could reach. “Mescal for everybody, Roy,” one called to the bartender. “Let’s get this party going!”

  Bull stood and swept the heavier of the two women up in his arms. He glared at the others. “I’m goin’ first this time. Any objections?”

  “Not as long as you don’t take too long. I got me a powerful thirst for woman-flesh, and I don’t aim to wait ’til tomorrow,” yelled Lightning Jack, with a grin.

  Toothpick smiled. “Don’t you worry none, Lightnin’. Bull’s a lot faster on the draw with a woman than he is with those two cannons he carries.”

  “His load’s a mite smaller with that weapon, too,” chimed in one of Jack’s Southerners.

  As Bull went through the door into a back room, he could be heard to say, “Yeah, but this one’s good fer more’n two shots at a time.”

  While his men proceeded to get drunk and manhandle the remaining whore, Sundance drew the sheriff to a quieter corner of the room for a private talk.

  “What’s your full name, Sheriff?”

  “Jake Best.”

  “Well, Jake Best, I’m pleased to meet you. My men and me’re on the way up north. I got me a score to settle with a town, and a feller up there.” He poured Jake another slug of whiskey. “I was wonderin’ if you got any men in this town who might like to make a little money. I need men that don’t mind gettin’ shot at, nor shootin’ back when it comes right down to it.”

  Jake rubbed his chin whiskers, downed his drink in one quick swallow, then nodded. “There might be a few who’d be interested in a deal like that. We got a few hereabouts that’re meaner than a polecat.” He smirked and motioned for a refill. “Only not so smart.”

  Sundance tilted the bottle over his glass. “Brains ain’t exactly what I’m lookin’ for, Jake. I got enough brains for all of us. What I need is mean hombres.”

  “Oh, they’re plenty mean all right. Some of these boys’d shoot their mamma if she burnt their supper. Trouble is, they might be a mite hard to control.”

  Sundance’s teeth flashed in the shadows. “That’s not a problem. If’n money don’t make ’em mind, then Mr. Colt will.”

  Jake’s eyes shifted to the pistol tied down low on Sundance’s hip. “Then I’ll spread the word you’re lookin’ to hire some men. I’ll tell ’em to meet you here in the saloon tomorrow after lunch.” He looked around at the amount of whiskey the men were drinking. “I don’t ’spect you’ll be up and about much ’fore then.”

  Sundance glanced at the whore sitting on Lightning Jack’s lap. El Gato was standing between her legs with his hand stuck down her bodice. “No, Jake,” Sundance mused, his lips curling in a slight smile. “We’ve all got some catchin’ up to do, too.”

  * * *

  The sun was directly overhead the next day when Sundance slouched into the saloon. His forehead was wrinkled and his eyes squinted against the power of the headache sending lightning bolts through his skull. His groin was sore and had begun to itch, adding worry about the health of his private parts to the agony of his hangover.

  “Roy,” he croaked, throat raw from whiskey and cigars he had consumed through the night, “bring me some coffee. As strong as you got.”

  “You want me to fetch some eggs or steak from the boardin’ house across the street, Mr. Sundance?”

  Stomach rolling at the thought of putting anything solid in it, Sundance shook his head and moaned as the motion caused pain to awaken behind his eyes. “No, just coffee, and water, if you got any worth drinkin’. My mouth’s dry as Correo County back home in Texas.”

  After three cups of boiled bellywash, with pieces of eggshells used to settle the grounds still floating in it, Sundance was feeling more alive. His two trips to the outhouse out back had relieved his gut some and eased his poor disposition a little.

  It wasn’t long before some of the roughest looking men he had ever seen began to drift into the room. They all wore pistols tied down low, and several carried rifles or shotguns slung over their shoulders.

  When seven men were seated at his table, Sundance ordered beer all around, more to settle his stomach than to be sociable.

  He rolled a cigarette and stuck it carelessly between his lips. Striking a lucifer on the hammer of his Colt, he lit his cigarillo and peered at the men through a cloud of smoke.

  “Okay gents, here’s the deal. My men and me are headed up into the mountains to a town name of Big Rock. I intend to tree that town and kill a man up there who did me dirt.”

  One of the cowboys, with eyes as old and hard as coal, raised his eyebrows. “Big Rock? Ain’t that the town where Smoke Jensen hangs his hat?”

  Sundance’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be, mister?”

  “Name’s Evans.” He had one Colt in a low-slung holster, another stuck behind his belt, and an American Arms ten-gauge scattergun across his back on a rawhide sling.

  “And I’ll bet you be Sundance Morgan,” he continued, the right side of his mouth curling in a sneer.

  “What makes you say that?”

  Evans picked up his mug of beer and drank, using his left hand. His right lay on his thigh, inches from his pistol. He sat the glass down and sleeved the
foam off his moustache with his left forearm.

  “I was down in Mexico last year, near Chihuahua, and ran into a Mex named Carbone. He told me ’bout an hombre who fancied himself a gunhawk, and how Smoke Jensen shot off his ear to teach him a lesson.” Evans reached for his beer and took another swig, his eyes never leaving Sundance’s. “He also said not to never turn my back on this particular gunslick—’cause he’s a back-shooter.”

  “Why you . . .” Sundance grabbed for iron, only to find himself looking down the barrel of Evans’s Colt before he could clear leather. He forced a sickly grin and put his hands flat on the table. “You got it wrong, mister. Smoke Jensen bushwhacked me when I wasn’t lookin’. It weren’t no fair fight.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it, pilgrim, and I heard it from more’n one person.” He grinned insolently. “You’re more famous than you realize, Sundance. Folks’re laughing at you and your one ear from Mexico to the Canadian border.”

  Evans stepped out of his chair, his gun barrel never wavering an inch. As he backed toward the door, he said, “I don’t know ’bout you other fellers, but this is one galoot who’d rather go to bed with a grizzly than trust Sundance Morgan.”

  Sundance’s face turned blotchy red as Evans backed through the batwings and disappeared into the sunlight. He slammed his fist on the table and asked. “Who was that asshole?”

  The man sitting next to him said, “That there was Jessie Evans. Made himself quite a name in the Lincoln County war a few years back.” The cowboy cut himself a chunk of tobacco from his plug and stuffed it in his mouth, then took a long drink of his beer. “Said to have killed more men than he has fingers and toes.”

  One of the others added, “He supposedly backed down Billy Bonney, but, since he’s been dead, most everybody claims that nowadays.”

  Sundance took a deep breath, trying to calm his anger. “Hell, I don’t need him anyway.” He raised his eyebrows and looked around the table. “You men interested in makin’ some money, and havin’ some fun along the way?”

  The man with the chewing tobacco leaned to the side and spit on the floor. “How much money we talkin’ about?”