Toothpick’s forehead wrinkled. “What? What’s that mean?”
Smoke bared his bloody teeth. “It means I’m gonna show you what it’s like to be cut up, really cut up. Then I’m gonna scalp you and leave you alive to live with the shame of it for the rest of your days.”
Toothpick’s face screwed up in rage and he screamed as he ran at Smoke, knife slashing back and forth in front of him in a windmill motion.
Smoke parried the thrust with his left hand and flicked his right arm in a lightning fast back-and-forth movement as Toothpick rushed by. The outlaw stumbled and almost fell, then turned back to face the mountain man.
Toothpick’s right wrist dangled limply, its tendons cut to the bone, his knife lying in the mud at his feet. He snarled and picked it up with his left hand and advanced on Smoke, but a bit more carefully this time.
Smoke took a quick step in and whipped his blade to and fro again, then danced lightly back. Toothpick’s eyes were wide, both his cheeks flayed open, flaps hanging down exposing his teeth. He sleeved the blood off his face with his useless right arm, growling with hate. “You sonofabitch, I’m gonna—”
Before he could finish his thought, Smoke rushed in and swung his knife again, cutting the biceps tendon on Toothpick’s left arm, leaving raw muscle edges dripping blood into the mud.
A low, mewing sound came from Toothpick’s carved face. “I give up . . . you win.” He let his knife fall to the ground.
Smoke shook his head and swung backhanded, catching Toothpick across his chin with the steel butt of his knife handle. Toothpick whirled around and fell facedown on the ground, semi-conscious, moaning and groaning in pain.
Smoke stepped over to him and knelt, putting his knee in the middle of Toothpick’s back. He reached down, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled the man’s head back. He made a quick incision along the hairline on his forehead from ear to ear. With a loud grunt, Smoke jerked back with all his might, ripping hair and scalp off Toothpick’s skull.
Toothpick screamed a bloodcurdling howl, his split cheeks flapping and blood spurting from his head, then he passed out.
Smoke held the dripping scalp in front of him as he approached a terrified George Stalking Horse. “Here,” he flipped the bloody mess to the Indian, who caught it without thinking, then he quickly dropped it to the ground, gagging.
Smoke smiled gently, asking, “Have you had enough, or do you want to finish this now?”
The man held his hands out in front of him and began to back away, saying, “No . . . no . . . please, mister.”
Smoke glanced down and noted that he wore his holster on his right hip. Without another word, Smoke drew his Colt and shot him through the right hand, blowing off his index and middle fingers at the first knuckle.
The outlaw yelled and grabbed his hand, holding it to his stomach while retching in the mud. After a moment, he looked up with tears streaming down his face. “Why’d you do that?”
“I want you out of this fight.” He shrugged. “It was that, or kill you.” Smoke pointed over his shoulder to an unconscious Toothpick. “Now, pick up your trash and get on down the mountain. If I can still see you in five minutes, I’ll change my mind and kill you both.” He hesitated, then added, “And, if I ever lay eyes on either of you again, no matter where we are, I will kill you without another thought.”
Smoke walked to his horse, stepped into the saddle, and sat there until George Stalking Horse had revived Toothpick and they were both stumbling down the mountain as fast as they could move, leaking scarlet blood to mingle with the black mud on the trail.
“Adiós, boys,” Smoke said to their backs. “Be sure to tell your friend Sundance Morgan I said hello.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bull and Moses Washburn drank coffee at their tiny campfire, leaving two remaining gunmen stationed on opposite sides of camp, standing guard.
Chiva, his ankles bandaged with bloodstained bandannas, sat rocking back and forth, mumbling “Jensen es el diablo,” over and over again. His fear-widened eyes took in every detail and he jumped, reaching for a gun when he heard the slightest noise in the surrounding forest.
Moses cut his eyes to Bull. “What’re we gonna do, Bull? We can’t just sit here all day waitin’ fer Jensen to show up.” He sighed and drained his cup. “We’re sittin’ ducks here.”
Bull shrugged, his eyes staring into his coffee as if he might find some answers there.
Johnny Larson, the outlaw guarding one side of camp next to the trail cried, “Hey Bull! We got company comin’!”
Bull drew his sawed-off shotgun and got to his feet, followed by Washburn, who shucked a shell into his rifle. They hurried over to a spot where Larson stood, hidden behind a pine tree, aiming his rifle upslope.
Two men could be seen, lurching, stumbling down the middle of the path, their arms around each other’s shoulders for support. As they drew nearer, they were easy to identify as George Stalking Horse and Toothpick.
Bull cursed softly under his breath at the sight of both bloody men. “Goddamn, will ya’ look at that?”
Toothpick’s bare skull was covered with dark, crusted blood, shining blackly in the mid-morning sun. Scarlet liquid trailed from gashes in his flayed cheeks, running down his chin to soak his shirt all the way to his waist. His eyes were wide and he had a haunted look, as if he had danced with the devil and hadn’t much enjoyed the experience.
George wore a bloody bandanna wrapped around his right hand, tucked tight against his stomach, and he hunched over in obvious pain.
Larson let the hammer down on his rifle and walked slowly to greet his comrades, motioning them back to camp.
As soon as they were settled in front of the fire, Toothpick whined, “Whiskey, give me whiskey.”
Bull took a bottle out of his saddlebags and passed it to Toothpick, wincing over the gruesome sight of his scalped head and the flayed edges of his slashed cheeks dripping blood.
Toothpick grabbed the bottle, his only good hand trembling, and upended it, gulping, swallowing fiery liquid convulsively until the container was empty. He sucked air through broken stubs of teeth and gaping holes in his face, then pitched the bottle into the flames, choking and coughing up more blood.
Bull put his hand on Toothpick’s shoulder, causing him to flinch and pull away. “What happened up there, Toothpick?” he asked gently in his high voice.
Toothpick shook his head and stared into the fire, unable to answer.
George Stalking Horse looked up through pain-slitted eyes. “Jensen ambushed us as we was ridin’ up the trail. He kilt the others, then came after Toothpick an’ me.” He moaned, cradling his mutilated right hand. “Ya’ got any more whiskey? Bastard shot two of my fingers off an’ it’s hurtin’ like hell.”
After Moses handed him another bottle and he gulped most of it down, George continued with his story. He told them about the deadly knife fight and how Jensen tortured Toothpick, inflicting terrible wounds before finally scalping him as he lay dazed on the ground.
“Jesus,” whispered Moses as he listened to George’s tale. “I never heard anything like that.” He glanced at Chiva, then back to the men who’d tangled with Smoke. “The son of a bitch is worse than Apaches back home.”
George Stalking Horse looked over his shoulder at Washburn, nodding his head. “Yeah, only I’d rather face ten Apaches than one Smoke Jensen. At least Apaches kill ya’ ’fore they scalp ya’.”
The sound of horses approaching caused the outlaws to grab their guns and jump to their feet. All except Chiva, who covered his head with his arms and lay on the ground, whispering, “Este el diablo . . . aiyee . . . este el diablo!”
“Hello, the camp! It’s me, Sundance, so hold your fire!”
Bull and Moses holstered their weapons as Sundance and his men rode into the clearing. Coffee had been brewed and while beans and tortillas were passed around, the outlaws wolfed food down as if they hadn’t eaten for days. As they ate, Sundance told them how he and
his men had been fired on and forced to stay under cover for several hours by an old mountain man with a large-bore rifle. He’d finally grown tired of making them cower behind trees and logs and disappeared into thick forest.
After they were sure he was gone, they got their horses and rode upslope, hoping to meet with remnants of Sundance’s band.
Sundance looked around at the wounded, beaten men sitting with Bull and Washburn. “I guess the time for sneakin’ around is over. I think we’ll do better ridin’ together. Maybe a large bunch of riders will have better luck against Jensen and his friends.”
Bull frowned. “We sure as hell ain’t done too good so far.” He inclined his head toward Chiva, Toothpick, and George Stalking Horse. Lowering his voice, he told Sundance and Lightning Jack what had happened to the three of them, pausing now and then to emphasize a point.
Sundance nodded. “Yeah, Jensen’s a mean bastard, all right. But there’s no way he can stand agin’ all of us at once.” He got to his feet and approached the wounded men. “You boys gonna be able to fight, or are ya’ gonna lay here lickin’ your wounds like whipped dogs?”
Chiva didn’t answer or bother to look up. Toothpick and George glanced at each other, then lowered their heads.
“I’m done, boss,” said George Stalking Horse. “Jensen shot off two fingers on my gun hand. I ain’t got the stomach fer any more of this, an’ I’m headin’ back down the mountain soon as I finish this grub.”
Sundance raised his eyebrows. “How ’bout you, Toothpick? You done, too?”
Toothpick shrugged without raising his eyes. The hot coffee had started his cheeks bleeding again, blood trickling over his chin in fat, red drops onto his shirt
Without another word, Sundance drew his Colt and fired three times in rapid succession, putting a slug into each man’s forehead. Their bodies were slammed into the ground to quiver and spasm in grotesque dances of death as they died.
Bull’s and Washburn’s eyes widened in horror, while Lightning Jack’s teeth bared in a fierce grin of satisfaction.
Sundance whirled, his smoking Colt pointed at his other followers. “There ain’t no room in my outfit for quitters or slackers. Either you ride with me, or you die by my hand right now! Any questions?”
As the echoes of his gunfire died, and gunsmoke slowly drifted away on a gentle mountain breeze, his men were silent. None dared speak out against him.
Sundance broke open the Colt’s loading gate and punched out empty brass casings one by one. “Now, here’s what we’re gonna do . . .”
* * *
Smoke was dozing, conserving his energy for the fight he knew was coming later. He had made a small camp and ground-reined his horse, then walked seventy-five yards into thick ponderosa pines. He lay down, covering himself with pine boughs and branches so as to be invisible, should any of the outlaws chance upon him.
He was resting there, half asleep, his Colt in his hand, when a soft voice whispered in his ear. “Wake up, son, we gotta palaver.”
Smoke was startled into full wakefulness in an instant, his thumb automatically earing back the hammer of his pistol as he sat up. He was astonished that anyone could have approached him without him hearing it.
Puma Buck sat squatted on his haunches, baring stubby teeth in a wide grin. “Don’t look so damn surprised, Smoke, this ole beaver’s been Injunin’ up on critters with better hearin’ than you longer than you been alive.”
Smoke shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. “How’d you find me, Puma? I thought I was pretty well hid.”
“Same way a squirrel finds nuts fer the winter, child. ’Cause he knows where to look.” He cut his eyes toward Smoke’s camp nearby. “Ya’ got any cafecito over there? I be a mite parched.”
Smoke scrambled to his feet and led the mountain man to his fire, mostly embers now. He scattered dry twigs and pine needles over the coals, then added larger pieces of wood when flames began to lick at the tinder.
While Smoke was building the fire, Puma got canteens and Arbuckles’ coffee out of his saddlebags and prepared the tin pot with an abundance of coffee and a sparse amount of water.
Smoke cut strips of meat and grabbed a handful of dried apples and a tin of peaches out of his bags. As they ate, Puma informed Smoke of Cal’s wound, and told him how he had sent the younger men down to Big Rock to see Doc Spalding.
Smoke’s brow furrowed with concern. “Is Cal gonna be all right, Puma? Do you think he’ll make it?”
Puma smacked his lips after draining his cup of the thick, black brew. His faded blue eyes softened as he glanced at Smoke, knowing he thought of Cal as his son. “Don’t you worry ’bout that’un, Smoke. That boy’s got the heart of a mountain grizzly.” Puma pulled a cartridge from his pocket and handed it to Smoke, showing him tooth marks in the brass casing. “He never made a sound when I scorched his wound.” Puma nodded, his eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun. “He’s a natural-born mountain man, an’ he’ll have some impressive scars to show an’ tales to tell about his experiences in the high lonesome, fightin’ bandidos with Smoke Jensen an’ Puma Buck.”
Smoke grinned. “That’s good, ’cause Sally’d have my hide if I let anything happen to that boy.”
Puma topped off their cups with more coffee. He took two stogies from his buckskin shirt and handed one to Smoke, then lit them both with a burning twig from the fire. After puffing his cigar to life, filling the air with thick blue smoke, he asked, “What’s your plan, Smoke? Best I can figger it, you still got over a dozen hardcases on your trail.”
Smoke thought about it a moment, drinking coffee and smoking while he considered his options. “I’m gonna end it tonight.” He glanced at the cloudless sky. “There won’t be any snow tonight, an’ the moon’s still almost full, so there’ll be plenty of light to shoot by.”
Puma nodded.
“I plan to hit and run, takin’ a few of ’em from ambush, an’ leading the rest up the slope, to a spot where I have a forting-up place ready. I’ll make my stand there.”
Puma pursed his lips, staring at the glowing end of his cigar. “Ya’ want some help?”
Smoke put his hand on Puma’s shoulder. “This is my fight, old friend. I don’t want anyone else hurt on my account.”
Puma started to argue, “But—”
“No, you’ve done more than enough already.” Smoke hesitated, then added, “However, if you could cover my left flank with your Sharps, you could keep ’em from sending a party to circle around to my rear.”
Puma chuckled deep in his throat. “They’ve had a small taste of my Sharps once. I guess another bite or two will keep ’em in line.”
Smoke’s face got serious. “Puma, there’s one more thing. If something happens ... if things don’t go as I plan, I got two more favors to ask.”
Puma’s eyebrows raised.
“One, make sure Sundance Morgan doesn’t leave the mountain alive.”
“Done. An’ the other?”
“Take me home to Sugarloaf, and tell Sally what happened.”
Puma stuck out his hand. “You got my word on it, partner.”
Smoke took his friend’s hand. “Now, it’s time to do some serious damage. There’s some stinkweed on this mountain that needs pruning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Smoke was loaded for bear. He had his two Colt .44 pistols, a knife in his scabbard, a tomahawk in his belt against the small of his back, a Henry repeating rifle in one saddle boot, and a heavy Greener ten-gauge shotgun on a rawhide thong over his shoulder. He was ready to hunt, and to kill anything that got in his way.
He rode through thick ponderosa pines, making no sound that could be heard from more than a few feet away. By late afternoon he located the party of gunmen looking for him. Unused to traveling in the mountains, they were making so much noise they were easy to find.
Smoke stepped out of his saddle, leaving his horse ground-reined for a quick getaway should it be necessary, and slipped down a snowy slope toward
a ribbon of trail the gang was following.
As the last man in line came abreast of his hiding place, Smoke took a running jump and leaped on the rider’s horse behind him. Before the startled man could make a sound, Smoke slit his throat with his knife. Smoke pulled the dying man’s gun from its holster and a knife hidden beneath his mackinaw as he slumped over his horse’s withers.
He pushed the dead body out of the saddle and threw the knife at the next rider in line. The blade buried itself in the gunman’s back, causing him to arch forward, screaming in pain.
Smoke thumbed back the Colt’s hammer and began to fire. Two more of Sundance’s hired killers were mortally wounded before any had time to clear leather.
Smoke whirled the dead man’s horse in a tight circle and galloped into the brush, leaning over the saddle to avoid low-hanging branches and limbs.
Sundance’s gang jerked their reins and tried to turn around to give chase, but the trail was narrow and all they managed to do was get in each other’s way. Two men were knocked from their mounts, one sustaining a broken arm in the process.
Only minutes after the attack began, Smoke had disappeared and the gunhawks counted four dead and one injured, while not a shot had been fired at the mountain man.
Sundance was furious as he rode among his followers. “Goddammit! You worthless bastards didn’t fire a single round!” He leaned to the side and spat on one of the bodies lying in the dirt. “Hell, I thought I was ridin’ with some tough gunslicks.” He shook his head in disgust. “I might as well have hired schoolmarms, for all the help you galoots have been.”
“Fuck it!” yelled Curly Bill Cartwright. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!” He filled his hand with iron and spurred his horse into the brush after Smoke.
Three other men pulled guns and started to follow Cartwright.
“Hold on there,” yelled Sundance. “That’s just what Jensen wants us to do.” He waved the gang toward him. “Circle up and get ready in case he comes back. We’ll stay here and see what happens. Maybe Cartwright’ll get lucky.”
Vengeance of the Mountain Man Page 24
