Vengeance of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes, ma’am. We got word a couple of weeks ago they was on their way up here from Texas. They’re lookin’ fer Smoke Jensen, and intend to kill him.”

  “They want to kill Mr. Jensen? But ... why?”

  Pearlie shook his head in exasperation. He knew they didn’t have much time. “It’s a long story, ma’am. I’ll tell ya’ later, when I git you two to town safe and sound.” He looked around, trying to find a suitable place to hide the buckboard and women.

  “Trouble is, if’n those men survive the fightin’ in town, they’re gonna be comin’ this way, headed up into the high country lookin’ fer Smoke.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see. You’re concerned that if they see us, they might do us some harm.”

  Pearlie nodded, lips drawn tight. “You can near ’bout count on it, ma’am. Those men are some of the low-downest, meanest God ever put on this earth.” He peered into her eyes, not wanting to frighten her, but knew he had to make her aware of the danger they were in. “If they see us,” he said quietly, “they’ll kill us sure.” He hesitated, “At least, they’ll kill me. I ’spect they’ll have other plans fer you and mamma-in-law.”

  She put her hand to her mouth, face blanching at his implication. “Oh dear God!”

  He touched her shoulder. “Not to worry, ma’am, they got to find us first.” He surveyed the area again, eyes flicking back and forth.

  They were near the boundary of the forest. Another quarter mile and they would be on the plains surrounding Big Rock, wide, sweeping expanses of short grass with no cover to conceal them.

  He pulled hard on the reins, turning the team in a wide circle, and headed back the way they had come. After a hundred yards he came to an overgrown path leading off the main trail to the east. It wasn’t much more than a mule trace, once used by miners to pack supplies from town up to their camps on the upper peaks.

  It would be a tight fit, but he thought they might just be able to squeeze through the narrow spots.

  He leaned over and whispered in Jessica’s ear, “It’s gonna git a mite bumpy. Why don’t you git in the back with your mamma and help hold her while I try to git us outta sight?”

  She nodded, and without another word scrambled into the rear of the wagon to wrap her arms around Aileen. “Mamma Aldritch, Mr. Pearlie is going to take a shortcut through the forest. Hold onto me, dear, because it may get a trifle rough.”

  Slowly, harness horses whinnying and shaking their heads in protest, he drove them up the path, holding his reins in one hand and the side of the buckboard with the other to keep from being thrown off as it tilted and rocked over rocks and mud holes along the trail. Branches scratched along the sides of the wagon, and twice he had to climb down and clear piles of brush and deadfall out of the way.

  When he had gone a half-mile deeper into the piney woods, he pulled the team to a halt. Reaching behind the seat, he grabbed his Henry repeating rifle and jumped to the ground.

  “I’m goin’ back down the road to cover our back trail.” He paused. “If’n anything happens, an’ I don’t come back . . .” He turned, pointing down the mountain, “Big Rock is ’bout three or four miles in that direction. Just unhitch the horses and ride on in.” He smiled reassuringly. “Folks there’ll take good care of you.”

  Jessica nodded. “Mr. Pearlie, don’t you worry about us. We’re miners’ wives, we can take care of ourselves. But,” she looked into his eyes, worry evident, “you be careful, you hear? We don’t want anything to happen to you on our account.”

  “Oh, I’ll be careful as a tomcat in a roomful of rockin’ chairs, Mrs. Aldritch. An’ I’ll be back for you, I promise.”

  He turned, drew his knife from its scabbard, and cut a low-hanging branch off a nearby pine tree. Using it like a broom, he backed down the path, sweeping dirt with the branch to obliterate any signs of their passage.

  When he got to a turn off the mountain trail, he piled dead branches and bushes over his wagon tracks, hiding them from sight. Finally satisfied the buckboard’s prints were erased as well as they could be in such a short time, he walked to a bald knob and looked back toward Big Rock. Shading his eyes with his hand, he could see a dark blot of men on horseback in the distance, riding hard toward the mountain and raising a sizable dust cloud.

  He moved a hundred yards farther up the trail and slipped into the forest, hiding himself behind a large bush. He worked the lever on his Henry, jacking a shell into the chamber, and loosened the thongs on his Colts. He intended to fire on the group only as a last resort, if they looked like they were about to find the road they had taken or if any of them turned toward the spot where he had hidden the Aldritch women.

  After a short wait he peered through the branches and leaves covering his hiding place to watch riders slow their mounts to a walk as they entered the forest.

  Pearlie’s heart pounded and light sweat beaded his forehead, running down his cheeks when the band stopped and several of the gunhawks dismounted a few yards from the hidden turnoff the mule path.

  He brought his Henry to his shoulder and drew a bead on a man who seemed to be the leader of the gang. As he prepared to give his life to protect the women Smoke entrusted to his care, he thought, if nothin’ else, I can blow Sundance Morgan back to hell where he came from. Maybe then the rest of his men’ll go on back to Texas and leave Smoke alone.

  * * *

  Sundance, wincing in pain, eased off his mount, holding a blood-soaked bandanna to his butt. He limped over to El Gato’s horse and jerked a bottle of tequila out of his saddlebag. Dropping his pants and longjohns to his knees, Sundance poured the fiery liquid over his wound.

  “Goddamn that hurts!” he yelled, dancing around, drawing a few grins and smirks on the dusty, sweat-rimmed faces of several of his gunhands.

  Lightning Jack helped Perro Muerte off his bronc and laid him on his back in the dirt. After a cursory examination of his thigh, Jack said, “You got lucky, Carlito. Looks like the bullet missed the bone.”

  He took Carlito’s bandanna off his neck and tied it in a knot around his leg, slowing the flow of blood to a trickle. He grinned at the Mexican, who clamped his eyes shut in pain. “Good thing there ain’t no Confederate sawbones with us, Carlito, or they’d try an’ hack that leg off real quick.”

  The bandido rasped through pain-tightened lips, “Señor Sundance, give me tequila, rapido!”

  Sundance splashed more tequila on his bandanna and poked it gingerly in his bullet wound, then handed the half-empty bottle to Carlito. “You want me to pour some on your leg?” he asked.

  “No.” Suarez raised himself on one elbow and tilted the bottle to the sky, draining the rest of the liquid in two large swallows. He gasped and sucked air in through his teeth, his face turning beet-red. “Works better from inside.”

  * * *

  As the rest of the men attended to their wounds and reloaded their weapons, Pearlie silently lowered his Henry. “Come on you bastards, git a move on,” he whispered to himself.

  Even from this distance, he could see where ruts from the buckboard wheels and his team’s hoofprints ended, just short of the path. He mouthed a silent prayer the gang wouldn’t notice how the tracks suddenly disappeared.

  After another ten minutes Sundance climbed on his horse, grunting at the pain his effort caused. “Let’s go, men. We’ll ride ’til we find a suitable place to make camp. I figure a day or so to heal up and lick our wounds, then we can plan on how to take care of Smoke Jensen.” Pearlie could hear them talking at a distance.

  One of the men cleared his throat. “Mr. Morgan, I didn’t plan on gittin’ the crap shot out of me when I joined up.” The gunslick removed his hat and wiped his forehead as he looked around at the others. “I think I’ll just mosey down the trail and look fer an easier way to make some money.”

  Sundance’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched in anger. He shifted sideways in his saddle to take his weight off his backside. “Bull,” he said, pointing his finger at the big m
an, “I want you to kill any sonofabitch who tries to leave!” He glared at his men. “You bastards took my money and agreed to do a job. Nobody quits ’til that job is done, an’ that means ’til Smoke Jensen’s been dusted, through and through. You got two choices. You can ride with me and maybe get shot later, or you can try to leave and damn sure get killed now.” He whirled his mount, eyes glittering hate. “Any arguments?”

  Bull sat rock-still, his hands on the butts of his sawed-off shotguns, watching closely as Sundance’s men nodded agreement one by one.

  “Okay,” Sundance growled, teeth bared in a solemn grin, “let’s go.”

  * * *

  Pearlie sighed with relief and mopped his face with his bandanna as the gang rode off up the trail. He let the hammer down on his Henry when the outlaws disappeared from sight. He stood and stretched cramped legs, then walked along the path toward the spot where he left the women.

  As he made a bend in the trail, he saw Jessica lying on her stomach in the buckboard, aiming a Colt over the side at him. He raised grinning. “It’s okay, ma’am, it’s jest me.”

  * * *

  It took him almost an hour, sweating and fighting his team, to get the wagon turned around in the narrow passage. While on their way down the mountain, he had Jessica keep an eye on their back trail in case the outlaws returned. After another hour and a half, they drove up at the outskirts of town.

  When Pearlie pulled his team into Big Rock, he found Monte Carson and Louis Longmont standing before a collection of bodies, lined up like cordwood on the boardwalk for viewing. Monte had his left arm in a sling, and Louis had his coat off, wearing a white shirt with a deep red stain in front.

  Pearlie introduced Jessica and Aileen Aldritch to the men, and explained briefly what had happened to them in the mountains and how Smoke had sent them down to Big Rock for medical attention.

  Louis removed his hat and bowed deeply. “Ladies, Doctor Spalding is busy now—he’s removing some bullets from citizens injured in our little fracas. If you’ll permit me, I’ll escort you to my establishment and have my chef prepare you some nourishment. By the time you finish your meal, I’m sure the doctor will be able to see you.”

  Louis extended his hand to help the ladies off the wagon. Once they were down, he turned to Pearlie. “Monte can fill you in on what happened here. I’ll take the ladies with me and see that they’re cared for properly, then I’ll arrange for them to stay at the boardinghouse.” As he turned to go, he winked at Pearlie and said, “I’ll also have André throw a couple of beefsteaks and some potatoes on the fire for you. You look like you could use some food.”

  He walked off, saying to Jessica, “Do you ladies care for French cuisine, by any chance?”

  Pearlie eyed the corpses of the gunslicks. “’Pears y’all had a little excitement here.”

  Monte pulled his pipe out of his sling where he had stashed it and put it in his mouth. After he got it going to his satisfaction, clouds of smoke swirling around his head, he grunted, “Yep. These ole boys never knew what hit ’em.” He cut his eyes to Pearlie. “I figure we softened ’em up a little for Smoke.”

  Pearlie nodded. “That you did, and he’s gonna need it. I ran into the gang after you got through with them, and they look like some of the hardest lookin’ men I ever see’d.”

  Monte’s lips curled in a smirk. “As hard as Smoke?”

  “Ain’t nobody alive as hard as Smoke Jensen.”

  “What’re you gonna do now, Pearlie?”

  “I’m gonna eat those steaks Louis offered, then I’m headin’ back up the mountain to see if I can be of any assistance to Smoke.”

  Monte’s eyebrows raised. “You be careful, son. Try not to find Sundance ’fore you locate Smoke.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take the back way up—Puma told me how to git up there without goin’ by a clear trail.”

  “Well, you take care anyway. An’ let Smoke know the whole town’s prayin’ for him.”

  Pearlie grinned wickedly as he turned toward Louis’s place. “Y’all’d do better prayin’ fer them outlaws. I’ve got a feelin’ Smoke’s gonna be doin’ some fall planting, an’ the crop’s gonna be dead Texicans!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Smoke and Cal rode side by side through a ponderosa pine forest, their mounts at an easy walk, discussing the upcoming battle. “Just how much do you know about Indians, Cal?” Smoke asked.

  “I know they’s dangerous, sneaky, and unpredictable as hell. One time they can be friendly and neighborly, and the next time you meet up with ’em, they’ll try an’ take your scalp.”

  Smoke remembered his past. “Yeah, they can be real changable. Preacher used to call it being ‘notionable.’” He reined his mount to a stop and fished in his pocket for tobacco. As he began to build a cigarette, Cal coughed lightly and said, “Do ya’ think I could have one of those myself?”

  Smoke turned his head and regarded the teenager with raised eyebrows. “When did you take up smoking?”

  “On the trail up here with Pearlie. He allowed as how if’n I was old enough to fight bandits and outlaws and carry firearms, I was old enough to smoke if’n I had a mind to.”

  Smoke frowned for a moment, then grinned and shook his head. “Hell, I guess Pearlie’s right. You’re a man full grown in this country, Cal, and that means you got a right to make up your own mind how you’re gonna live your life.” He handed him his tobacco pouch and papers. As Smoke struck a lucifer and lit his cigarette, he said, “Course, that don’t mean you’re always gonna make the right decisions, but you sure as hell have the right to make your own mistakes.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The trick, my young friend, is to learn from mistakes and try never to make the same one twice.”

  Cal stuck a rumpled cigarette in his mouth and handed Smoke back his makings. “Yes sir, Smoke, that’s what Pearlie said when he was drinkin’ whiskey the other night.”

  Smoke broke into a laugh. “I can see I need to have a talk with Pearlie. Sometimes a good idea can be taken too far.” He raised his canteen, pulled the cork, and took a long draught of cool water before passing it to Cal. “Sorry it ain’t whiskey, but from now on, water and coffee are all we’re gonna be drinking. Liquor and altitude don’t mix. Here in the up-high, one drink is like two or three in flatlands, an’ we keep our senses sharp and our minds clear if we’re to stand a chance against Sundance Morgan and his gang.”

  Smoke sat his horse, palms on his saddle horn, looking out over the high lonesome. “Cal, this country is perfect for the type of fighting Indians showed us.”

  A puzzled expression flitted across Cal’s features. “What do ya’ mean, Smoke? I thought Injuns fought just like everybody else, ’ceptin’ they used bows an’ arrows ’fore they had rifles.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, Cal, that’s where you’re wrong. Indians and white men have completely different ideas about how to wage a war. The white man has always put his faith in superior numbers and better weapons to defeat an enemy.” He took his cigarette from his mouth, pinched out the fire, and scattered remnants of tobacco and paper into the wind. “An Indian, on the other hand, uses stealth and fear, and knowledge of the countryside to make up for fewer numbers and more primitive weapons.”

  Cal frowned. “But isn’t our way better? After all, we’ve managed to beat the Injun tribes and damn near wipe ’em out.”

  Smoke smiled, a sad expression on his face. “You’re right, Cal. In the long run, larger numbers of soldiers and better guns and rifles will eventually win out. But, in the short run, the Indians’ tactics of hit-and-run sneak attacks at night, avoiding pitched battles, exacts a horrible toll on the winners.” He took a deep breath, thinking back to his early days in the mountains, when he and Preacher fought Indians on what seemed like a daily basis. “That’s why, long ago, mountain men adopted the Indians’ way of fighting. It was the only way to survive against them.” He paused, then continued. “Hell, when you think on it, I’ll bet red men have killed te
n or more whites for every brave they lost in battle. If we didn’t have a steady stream of settlers coming here from back East, the Indians would’ve run us off years ago.”

  Cal thought for a moment. “So, what you’re sayin’ is that to beat Sundance and his gang, we’re gonna have to fight him like we was Injuns?”

  Smoke’s lips curled, teeth gleaming and eyes glittering in a fierce smile. “That’s exactly what I mean, Cal. There’s simply no way two or three of us stand a chance in a battle with thirty or forty experienced gunhands if we play by their rules. So, we fight this war like an Apache.”

  Cal interrupted. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s something an old Indian taught me last time I was up here fighting a bunch of bounty hunters who had us outmanned and outgunned. Me and Louis Longmont took them on, one by one and two by two, and managed to kill or run every one of them off. We fought smart and cautious and used these mountains and forests of the high lonesome to help us whip them.”

  “But Smoke, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout fightin’ like some Injun.”

  “You’ll learn, Cal, ’cause I’m going to teach you, just like the best Indian fighter who ever lived—Preacher, who taught me.”

  “When do we start?”

  “We’ve already started. Did you notice what I did with my cigarette butt?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “I did that for two reasons. One, we don’t want any fires up here, they might trap us and leave us with nowhere to run, and second, we leave no traces of our passage. When we move through an area, no one can know we’ve been there, unless we want them to know.”

  “Oh, I see. You mean, like coverin’ our tracks and such.”

  “Yeah, but it’s more than just that. It’s making sure that we don’t break branches or twigs, we walk our mounts around boggy or muddy spots so we don’t leave prints, and we never camp where we make our fires.” He thought a moment, “Matter of fact, when the going gets hot and heavy, we’ll probably be eating cold food more often than not and doing without fires.”