Vengeance of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  As Gonzalez choked on his own blood, he spasmed and kicked out with his legs. One of his boots hit a coffeepot next to the fire, sending it spinning and tumbling and clanking against a nearby tree.

  Chiva was startled awake by the sound and sat up, fumbling with his blanket to get his gun out and aim it at the ghostly figure squatting next to Gonzalez. Smoke saw the motion from the corner of his eye and looked over his shoulder as Chiva’s Colt appeared from his blanket, pointing at him. Employing lightning reflexes, Smoke leaned to the side and lashed out with his right leg. The toe of his boot caught Chiva on his temple, knocking him unconscious, sending him spinning to one side.

  Before Smoke could straighten up, a heavy weight landed on his back, driving him down in the snow. A beefy forearm wrapped around his neck, bending his head back and squeezing his throat, cutting off his air.

  With a tremendous effort, Smoke arched his back and reached over his shoulder to grab a handful of hair. As his vision began to darken, he heaved with all his might, throwing El Gato over his shoulder to land on his back in the fire.

  Smoke gasped for air, drawing in huge lungfuls with a heaving chest. El Gato rolled off the fire and stood up, shaking his head. Smoke pulled his Colt and aimed it at the outlaw’s chest.

  El Gato spread his arms and grinned insolently. “You going to shoot unarmed man? That not sound like Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke glanced at the Colt .44 he held in his hand, then back to El Gato. He grinned, teeth white against his mud-blackened face. “You’re right, outlaw. Though I don’t usually hesitate to shoot snakes or rabid dogs, killing a man who has no weapon does kinda go against my grain.” He holstered his pistol. “How about I just beat you to death? That sound better to you?”

  El Gato’s teeth glinted in the firelight. “Oh yes, gringo, that make El Gato very happy.” He flexed his arms and tightened his hands into fists, muscles bulging under his shirt. “I gonna kill you, gringo, then I will cut out your heart and carry it with me to show how you died.”

  Smoke shook his head. “All I see you doin’ is shootin’ off your mouth. Now, you gonna fight or are you gonna try an’ talk me to death?”

  With a roar, El Gato bounded over the fire and charged Smoke, his massive hands reaching for the mountain man’s throat. Smoke leaned to one side and planted the toe of his boot in his solar plexus, his boot sinking almost out of sight in El Gato’s gut.

  The bandido bent over with a loud “whoosh” and grabbed his stomach. Smoke straightened and swung his fist in a wide arc, ending behind El Gato’s ear with a sickening crunch, driving him to his knees. Smoke stepped back, rubbing his fist and wincing at the pain in his knuckles.

  He was amazed when El Gato shook his head and struggled to his feet. The outlaw’s chin was canted to the side, indicating his jaw was dislocated or broken. He looked at Smoke with hate in his eyes. “Gonna kill you, gringo,” he mumbled, spitting blood as he came at Smoke. More blood flowed from his ear, and his hands flexed with anticipation.

  Smoke stood his ground, assuming a classic boxer’s stance. El Gato swung his right hand at Smoke’s head, but he ducked and hit El Gato twice under the chest with sharp left-right jabs, crushing his lower ribs. El Gato doubled over, gasping, hands on knees. Smoke danced back, fists up, in no hurry to finish the fight. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and wanted to make El Gato suffer as much as possible.

  Suddenly, without warning, El Gato dove forward, wrapping his arms around Smoke’s back while burying his head against Smoke’s chest. He locked his hands against Smoke’s spine and grunted as he squeezed with all his might.

  Smoke groaned in pain, thinking his back was going to break under the pressure of El Gato’s arms. After a moment, getting short of breath and unable to take in air, Smoke seized one of El Gato’s ears in each hand and twisted with all of his might. El Gato shrieked as his left ear came off with a wet, ripping sound. The outlaw loosened his grip to feel his head, and Smoke took the opportunity to plant his knee squarely in El Gato’s crotch, again doubling him, a high keening sound like a gut-shot pig coming from his lips. Smoke took a deep breath and swung his right hand up in an uppercut with all of his two hundred and twenty pounds behind it. El Gato’s neck snapped back with a noise like a dry twig breaking and he did a backward dive, arms outstretched, landing spread-eagled in the fire again. This time he didn’t move, but lay there, eyes staring at eternity as his flesh sizzled and burned.

  Smoke worked his hand, making sure it wasn’t broken, then stepped over to the spot where he had left Chiva unconscious. The wiry Mexican was stirring, not fully awake yet. Smoke rolled him over onto his stomach and pulled his boots off. As Chiva began to struggle weakly, Smoke drew his knife and quickly slit the Achilles tendons of both ankles.

  Chiva screamed and rolled over, grabbing his legs, eyes wide with fright. “What you do? Why you cut me, Jensen?”

  Smoke sleeved sweat off his forehead and sheathed his knife while he stood before the writhing man. “I’m a mite tired of killin’ just now, so you’re gettin’ off lucky.”

  Chiva struggled to his feet, then fell awkwardly when he tried to walk, his ankles flopping loosely at the end of his legs. His severed tendons prevented him from being able to move at all.

  Smoke said, “I’m taking your guns, so you can’t signal your friends, but I’m gonna leave you some food so you won’t starve to death.”

  Chiva stammered, “But, I no can walk. I will freeze!”

  Smoke shrugged. “There’s that possibility, I suppose.” He glared at Chiva through narrowed eyes. “If it happens, I suspect it won’t be any great loss.”

  Chiva frowned, fear-sweat beading his forehead. “Why you not kill me?”

  “Simple. Dead, you don’t help me at all. Alive, it’ll take at least one, maybe two of your friends to take care of you and keep you from dying. That’s one or two who won’t be gunnin’ for me.”

  Smoke bent and picked up his hat off the ground. He smirked at Chiva as he prepared to leave. “I hope your friends don’t think you’re too much of a burden on them. Otherwise,” he shrugged and settled his hat low on his head, “they’re liable to kill you themselves and mess up my plans.”

  Chiva shook his fist at Smoke from where he lay on the ground, hate and pain clouding his eyes. “Chinga tu madre, gringo!”

  Smoke grinned as he disappeared in the night. “You keep warm now, you hear,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Smoke planned to cover the north part of the trail himself and to slow down or eliminate that bunch of paid assassins. He directed Cal and Pearlie farther down the mountain to harass and attack a second bunch headed up the mountain along a winding deer trail through tall timber.

  By the time Cal and Pearlie made their way down the slopes to locate the gunmen’s campfire, it was past ten o’clock at night and snow had stopped falling, dark skies beginning to clear.

  Cal and Pearlie lay just outside the circle of light from the fire and listened to the outlaws as they prepared to turn in for the night.

  One-Eye Jordan, his hand wrapped around a whiskey bottle and his speech slightly slurred, said, “Blackjack, I’ll lay a side wager that I’m the one puts lead in Smoke Jensen first.”

  Blackjack Walker looked up from checking his Colt’s loads, spun the cylinder, and answered, “You’re on, One-Eye. I’ve got two double-eagle gold pieces that say I’ll not only drill Jensen first, but that I’ll be the one who kills him.”

  The Mexican and two Anglos who were watching from the other side of the fire chuckled and shook their heads. They apparently did not think much of their leaders’ wager, or were simply tired and wanted them to quit jawing so they could turn in and get some rest.

  Finally, when One-Eye finished his bottle and tossed it in the flames, the men quit talking and rolled up in their blankets under a dusting of light snow.

  Pearlie and Cal waited until the gunnies were snoring loudly and then they stood, stretching muscles cramped from lyin
g on the snow-covered ground. Being careful not to make too much noise, they circled the camp, noting the location and number of horses, the layout of surrounding terrain. They crept up on the group of sleeping gunhawks, moving slowly while counting bedrolls to make sure all of Sundance’s men were accounted for.

  Pearlie leaned over and cupped his hand around Cal’s ear, whispering. “I count five bodies. That matches the number of horses.”

  Cal nodded, holding up five fingers to show he agreed. He took two sticks of dynamite from his pack and held them up so Pearlie could see, then he pointed to Pearlie and made a circular motion with his hand to indicate he wanted Pearlie to go around to the other side of camp and cover him.

  Pearlie nodded and slipped a twelve-gauge shotgun off his shoulder. He broke it open and made sure both chambers were loaded, then snapped it shut gently so as not to make a sound. He gave Cal a wink as he slipped quietly into the darkness.

  Cal waited five minutes to give Pearlie time to get into position. Taking a deep breath, he drew his Navy Colt with his right hand and held the dynamite in his left. He slowly made his way among sleeping outlaws, being careful not to step on anything that might cause noise. When he was near the fire, he tossed both sticks of dynamite into the dying flames and quickly stepped out of camp. He ducked behind a thick ponderosa pine just as the dynamite exploded with an earsplitting roar, blowing chunks of bark off the other side of the tree.

  The screaming began before echoes from the explosion stopped reverberating off the mountainside, while flaming pieces of wood spiraled through the darkness, hissing when they fell into drifts of snow.

  Cal swung around his tree, both hands full of iron. One of the outlaws, his hair and shirt on fire, ran toward him. He was yelling and shooting his pistol wildly.

  Cal fired both Colts, thumbing back hammers, pulling triggers so quickly the roaring gunshots seemed like a single blast. Pistols jumped and bucked in his hands, belching flame and smoke toward the running gunnie.

  The bandit, shot in his chest and stomach, was thrown backward to land like a discarded rag doll on his back, smoke curling lazily from his flaming scalp.

  One-Eye Jordan threw his smoldering blanket aside and stood, dazed and confused. His eyepatch had been blown off, along with most of the left side of his face. He staggered a few steps, then pulled his pistol and aimed it at Cal, moving slowly as if in slow motion.

  Twin explosions erupted from Pearlie’s scattergun, taking Jordan low in the back, splitting his torso with molten pieces of lead. His lifeless body flew across the clearing where it landed atop another outlaw who had been killed in the dynamite blast.

  One of the Mexican bandidos, shrieking curses in Spanish, crawled away from the fire on hands and knees. Scrabbling like a wounded crab toward the shelter of darkness, he looked over his shoulder to find Pearlie staring at him across the sights of a Colt .44.

  “Aiyee . . . no . . .” he yelled, holding his hands in front of him as if they could stop the inevitable bullets. Pearlie shot him, the hot lead passing through his hand and entering the bandit’s left eye, exploding his skull and sending brains and blood spurting into the air.

  Blackjack Walker, who was thrown twenty feet in the air into a deep snowdrift, struggled to his feet. As be drew his pistol, he saw Pearlie shoot his compadre. Pearlie was turned away from Walker and did not see the stunned outlaw creep slowly toward him, drawing a bead on his back with a hogleg.

  Cal glanced up, checking on bodies for signs of life. He saw Walker with his arm extended, about to shoot Pearlie in the back.

  With no thought for his own safety, Cal yelled as he stood up, drawing his Navy Colt, triggering off a hasty shot.

  Walker heard the shout and whirled, catching a bullet in his neck as he wheeled around. A death spasm curled his triggerfinger and his pistol fired as he fell.

  Cal felt like a mule had kicked him in the chest as he was thrown backward. He lay in the snow, gasping for breath, staring at stars. In shock, he felt little pain—that would come much later. He knew he was hit hard and wondered briefly if he was going to die. His right arm was numb and wouldn’t move, and his vision began to dim, as if snow clouds were again covering the stars.

  Suddenly, Pearlie’s face appeared above him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Hey pardner, you saved my life,” he said with worry pinching his forehead.

  Cal gasped, trying to breathe. He felt as if the mule that had kicked him was now sitting on his chest. “Pearlie,” he said in a hoarse whisper rasping through parched lips, “how’re you doin’?”

  Pearlie pulled Cal’s shirt open and examined a blood-splattered hole in the right side of his ribs. He choked back a sob, then he muttered, “I’m fine, cowboy. How about you? You havin’ much pain?”

  Cal winced when suddenly, his wound began to throb. “I feel like someone’s tryin’ to put a brand on my chest, an’ it hurts like hell.”

  Pearlie rolled him to the side, looking for an exit wound. The bullet had struck his fourth rib, shattering it, and traveled around the chest just underneath the skin, causing a deep, bloody furrow, then exited from the side, just under Cal’s right arm. The wound was oozing blood, but there was none of the spurting that would signify artery damage, and it looked as if the slug had not entered his chest cavity.

  Cal groaned, coughed, and passed out. Pearlie tore his own shirt off and wrapped it around Cal, tying it as tightly as he could to stanch the flow of blood from the bullet hole. He sat back on his haunches, trying to think of something else he could do to help his friend. “Goddammit kid,” he whispered, sweat beading his forehead, “it shoulda been me lyin’ there instead of you.”

  The sound of a twig snapping not far away caught Pearlie’s attention and he jerked his Colt, thumbing back the hammer.

  “Hold on there, young’un,” a voice called from the darkness, “it’s jest me, ole Puma, come to see what all this commotion’s about.”

  Pearlie released the hammer and holstered his gun with a sigh of relief. “Puma! Boy, am I glad to see you!”

  Puma sauntered into the light, then he saw Cal lying wounded at Pearlie’s feet. He squatted down, laying his Sharps Big Fifty rifle near his feet, and bent over the kid. He lifted Pearlie’s improvised dressing and examined Cal’s wound. Pursing his lips, he whistled softly. “Whew . . . this child’s got him some hurt.”

  He pulled a large bowie knife from his scabbard and held it out to Pearlie. “Here. Put this in that fire and get me some fatback and lard out’n my saddlebag.”

  When Pearlie just stared at him, Puma’s voice turned harsh. “Hurry, son, we don’t have a lot of time if’n we want to save this’n.”

  Pearlie snatched the knife from Puma and hurried to carry out his request.

  Puma took his bandanna and began wiping sweat from Cal’s forehead, speaking to him in a low, soothing voice. “You just rest easy, young beaver, ole Puma’s here now an’ you’re gonna be jest fine.”

  When Pearlie returned carrying a sack of fatback and a small tin of lard, Puma asked him if he had any whiskey.

  “Some, in my saddlebags, but . . .”

  “Git it, and don’t dawdle now, you hear?”

  After Pearlie handed Puma the whiskey, the old mountain man cradled Cal’s head in his arms and slowly poured half the bottle down his throat, stopped to let him cough and gag, then gave him the rest of the liquor.

  Without looking up, he said, “Git my blade outta the fire, it oughta be ’bout ready by now.”

  Pearlie fished the knife out of the coals, its blade glowing red-hot and steaming in the chilly air. He carried it to Puma and gave it to him, dreading what was to come next.

  “Pearlie, you sit on the young’un’s legs and try an’ keep him from moving too much. I’ll sit on his left arm and hold down his right.”

  When they were in position, Puma pulled a two-inch cartridge from his pocket and placed it between Cal’s teeth. “Bite down on this, boy, an’ don’t worry none if’n you have to yell
every now’n then. There ain’t nobody left alive to hear you.”

  Cal nodded, fear in his eyes, jaws clenched around the bullet.

  Puma laid the glowing knife blade sideways on Cal’s wound and dragged it along his skin, cauterizing the flesh. It hissed and steamed, and the smell of burning meat caused Pearlie to turn his head and empty his stomach in the snow.

  Cal’s face turned blotchy red and every muscle in his body tensed, but he made no sound while the knife did its work.

  When he was through, Puma stuck his blade in the snow to cool it, sleeving sweat off his forehead. He looked down at Cal, who was breathing hard through his nose, bullet sticking out of his lips like an unlit cigarette. “Smoke was right, Cal,” Puma whispered. “You’re one hairy little son of a bitch. You were born with the bark on, all right.”

  Cal spit the bullet out and mumbled, “Do you think you could move, Pearlie? You’re about to break my legs.”

  Pearlie laughed. “Sure, Cal. I wouldn’t want to cause you no extra amount of pain.”

  Cal chuckled, then he winced and moaned. “Oh. It hurts so bad when I laugh.”

  While they were talking, Puma gently washed the wound with snow, then packed the furrow with crushed chewing tobacco.”

  “What’s that for?” Pearlie asked.

  “Tabaccy will heal just about anything,” Puma answered, as he dipped his fingers in the lard and spread a thin layer over the tobacco-covered wound.

  Cal looked down at his chest, then up at Pearlie. “Would you build me a cigarette, Pearlie? I think I’d rather burn a twist of tobacco than wear it.”

  Puma sliced a hunk of fatback off a larger piece, laid it over Cal’s chest, and tied it down with Pearlie’s shirt. “There, that oughta keep you from bleedin’ to death ’til you git down to Big Rock an’ the doctor.”

  Pearlie handed Cal a cigarette and lit it for him. “How are we gonna git him down to town, Puma? I don’t think he can sit a horse.”

  Puma stood up and walked off into the darkness, fetching two geldings back, leading them into the light. He tied a dallyrope from one to the other and then turned to the two younger men. “We’ll sit Cal in the saddle, and you’ll ride double behind him, with your arms around him holdin’ the reins. That way, if’n he faints or passes out, you can hold him in the saddle. ’Bout halfway down, change horses when this’n gets tired.” He glanced up at the stars. “I figure you’ll make it to town about daylight.”