Justice of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “And if he don’t?” Pearlie asked.

  Thomas rubbed his chin. “Well, we could make sure by figuring out just who did shoot the Kid. Then there wouldn’t be no doubt of Jensen’s innocence.”

  “Would you mind if we . . . kind’a helped you nose around about that?” Cal asked.

  Thomas smiled. “Son, one thing I’ve learned in all my years out here in the territories, don’t never turn down help when it’s offered.”

  12

  Marshal Bill Tilghman slowed the team of horses driving the prison wagon near a grove of mesquite trees, pulling it to a stop where both the animals and the prisoners could enjoy some shade. Out on the edge of the Oklahoma Territory Indian Nations, the heat was almost unbearable, even though it was still a couple of months before summer would officially begin.

  “Hey, Tilghman,” Dynamite Dick Bodine said, his voice raspy and dry. “How ’bout some water back here, or are you tryin’ to save the Hangin’ Judge the expense of a rope by starvin’ us to death?”

  Tilghman climbed down from the hurricane deck of the wagon, grabbed a large canvas bag under the seat, and walked back to the rear of the wagon.

  He thrust the bag through the bars. “There’s some canteens, an’ some jerky and biscuits an’ a couple of apples apiece for you gents.”

  The three prisoners riding along with Smoke tore into the bag, grunting in their haste to get water and food. Smoke stayed in his position against the forward wall of the cage.

  Tilghman raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t you hungry an’ thirsty, Jensen?”

  Smoke nodded. “Yes, but I can wait until the others get their fill. I’m more used to going without food and water from my days in the mountains.”

  Tilghman walked over to stand in the shade of the wagon next to where Smoke reclined. He made two cigarettes from a small cloth sack and passed one through the bars to Smoke. After they both had their cigarettes going, Tilghman said, “I’ve heard you used to be a mountain man. Is that true?”

  Smoke nodded, his mind going back to his early days in the West, riding the slopes with his friend Preacher.

  “Yeah. I came out here with my dad when I was just fifteen years old,” Smoke said.

  Tilghman nodded. “Those must’ve been some times, what with the Indians an’ all.”

  Smoke laughed. “There were times we’d go a whole year and not see another white man.”

  “I’ve been told the Indians pretty much left the mountain men alone.”

  “Some did,” Smoke said, his eyes becoming vague with memories that seemed as if they’d happened only yesterday. “Others came at us every chance they got . . .” Like the ones attacked my father and me the day we met Preacher, he thought to himself, his mind going back to the day he and his father first laid eyes on the man known as the first mountain man . . .

  * * *

  Preacher galloped up to the pair, his rifle in his hand. “Don’t get nervous,” he told them. “It ain’t me you got to fear. We fixin’ to get ambushed . . . shortly. This here country is famous for that.”

  “Ambushed by who?” Emmett asked, not trusting the old man.

  “Kiowa, I think. But they could be Pawnee. My eyes ain’t as sharp as they used to be. I seen one of ’em stick a head up out of a wash over yonder, while I was jawin’ with you. He’s young, or he wouldn’t have done that. But that don’t mean the others with him is young.”

  “How many?”

  “Don’t know. In this country, one’s too many. Do know this: We better light a shuck out of here. If memory serves me correct, right over yonder, over that ridge, they’s a little crick behind a stand of cottonwoods, old buffalo wallow in front of it.” He looked up, stood up in his stirrups, and cocked his shaggy head. “Here they come, boys. . . rake them cayuses!”

  Before Kirby could ask what a cayuse was, or what good a rake was in an Indian attack, the old man had slapped his bay on the rump and they were galloping off. With the mountain man taking the lead, the three of them rode for the crest of the ridge. The packhorses seemed to sense the urgency, for they followed with no pullback on the ropes. Cresting the ridge, the riders slid down the incline and galloped into the timber, down into the wallow. The whoops and cries of the Indians were close behind them.

  The Preacher might well have been past his so-called good years, but the mountain man had leaped off his spotted pony, rifle in hand, and was in position and firing before Emmett or Kirby had dismounted. Preacher, like Emmett, carried a Sharps .52, firing a paper cartridge, deadly up to seven hundred yards or more.

  Kirby looked up in time to see a brave fly off his pony, a crimson slash on his naked chest. The Indian hit the ground hard and did not move.

  “Get me that Spencer out of the pack, boy,” Kirby’s father yelled.

  “The what?” Kirby had no idea what a Spencer might be.

  “The rifle. It’s in the pack. A tin box wrapped up with it. Bring both of ’em. Cut the ropes, boy.”

  Slashing the ropes with his long-bladed knife, Kirby grabbed the long, canvas-wrapped rifle and the tin box. He ran to his father’s side. He stood and watched as his father got a buck in the sights of his Sharps, led him on his fast-running pony, then fired. The buck slammed off his pony, bounced off the ground, then leaped to his feet, one arm hanging bloody and broken. The Indian dodged for cover. He didn’t make it. Preacher shot him in the side and lifted him off his feet, dropping him dead.

  Emmett laid the Sharps aside and hurriedly unwrapped the canvas, exposing an ugly weapon with a potbellied, slab-sided receiver. Emmett glanced up at Preacher, who was grinning at him.

  “What the hell are you grinnin’ about, man?”

  “Just wanted to see what you had all wrapped up, partner. Figured I had you beat with what’s in my pack.”

  “We’ll see,” Emmett muttered. He pulled out a thin tube from the tin box and inserted it in the butt plate, chambering a round. In the tin box were a dozen or more tubes, each containing seven rounds, .52-caliber. Emmett leveled the rifle, sighted it, and fired all seven rounds in a thunderous barrage of black smoke. The Indians whooped and yelled. Emmett’s firing had not dropped a single brave, but the Indians scattered for cover, disappearing, horses and all, behind a ridge.

  “Scared ’em,” Preacher opined. “They ain’t used to repeaters. All they know is single-shots. Let me get something outta my pack. I’ll show you a thing or two.”

  Preacher went to one of his pack animals, untied one of the side packs, and let it fall to the ground. He pulled out the most beautiful rifle Kirby had ever seen.

  “Damn!” Emmett softly swore. “The blue-bellies had some of those toward the end of the war. But I never could get my hands on one.”

  Preacher smiled and pulled another Henry repeating rifle from his pack. Unpredictable as mountain men were, he tossed the second Henry to Emmett, along with a sack of cartridges.

  “Now we be friends,” Preacher said. He laughed, exposing tobacco-stained stubs of teeth.

  “I’ll pay you for this,” Emmett said, running his hands over the sleek barrel.

  “Ain’t necessary,” Preacher replied. “I won both of ’em in a contest outside Westport Landing. Kansas City to you. ’Sides, somebody’s got to look out for the two of you. Ya’ll liable to wander round out here and get hurt. ’Pears to me don’t neither of you know tit from tat ’bout stayin’ alive in Injun country.”

  “You may be right,” Emmett admitted. He loaded the Henry. “So, thank you kindly.”

  Preacher looked at Kirby. “Boy, you heeled—so you gonna get in this fight, or not?”

  “Sir?”

  “Heeled. Means you carryin’ a gun, so that make you a man. Ain’t you got no rifle ’cept that muzzle-loader?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Take your daddy’s Sharps then. You seen him load it, so you know how. Take that tin box of tubes too. You watch out for our backs. Them Pawnees—and they is Pawnees—likely to come ’crost that crick. You in wild countr
y, boy . . . you may as well get bloodied.”

  “Do it, Kirby,” his father said. “And watch yourself. Don’t hesitate a second to shoot. Those savages won’t show you any mercy, so you do the same for them.”

  Kirby, a little pale around the mouth, took up the heavy Sharps and the box of tubes, reloaded the rifle, and made himself as comfortable as possible on the rear slope of the slight incline, overlooking the creek.

  “Not there, boy.” Preacher corrected Kirby’s position. “Your back is open to the front line of fire. Get behind that tree ’twixt us and you. That way, you won’t catch no lead or arrow in the back.”

  The boy did as he was told, feeling a bit foolish that he had not thought about his back. Hadn’t he read enough dime novels to know that? he chastised himself. Nervous sweat dripped from his forehead as he waited.

  He had to go to the bathroom something awful.

  A half hour passed, the only action the always-moving Kansas winds chasing tumbleweeds, the southward-moving waters of the creek, and an occasional slap of a fish.

  “What are they waiting for?” Emmett asked without taking his eyes from the ridge.

  “For us to get careless,” Preacher said. “Don’t you fret none . . . they still out there. I been livin’ in and round Injuns the better part of fifty year. I know ’em better than—or at least as good as—any livin’ white man. They’ll try to wait us out. They got nothing but time, boys.”

  “No way we can talk to them?” Emmett asked, and immediately regretted saying it as Preacher laughed.

  “Why, shore, Emmett,” the mountain man said. “You just stand up, put your hands in the air, and tell ’em you want to palaver some. They’ll probably let you walk right up to ’em. Odds are, they’ll even let you speak your piece. They polite like that. A white man can ride right into near-abouts any Injun village. They’ll feed you, sign-talk to you, and give you a place to sleep. Course . . . gettin’ out is the problem.

  “They ain’t like us, Emmett. They don’t come close to thinkin’ like us. What is fun to them is torture to us. They call it testin’ a man’s bravery. If ’n a man dies good—that is, don’t holler a lot—they make it last as long as possible. Then they’ll sing songs about you, praise you for dyin’ good. Lots of white folks condemn ’em for that, but it’s just they way of life.

  “They got all sorts of ways to test a man’s bravery and strength. They might—dependin’ on the tribe—strip you, stake you out over a big anthill, then pour honey over you. Then they’ll squat back and watch, see how well you die.”

  Kirby felt sick to his stomach.

  “Or they might bury you up to your neck in the ground, slit your eyelids so you can’t close ’em, and let the sun blind you. Then, after your eyes is burnt blind, they’ll dig you up and turn you loose naked out in the wild . . . trail you for days, seein’ how well you die.”

  Kirby positioned himself better behind the tree and quietly went to the bathroom. If a bean is a bean, the boy thought, what’s a pea? A relief.

  Preacher just wouldn’t shut up about it. “Out in the deserts, now, them Injuns get downright mean with they fun. They’ll cut out your eyes, cut off your privates, then slit the tendons in your ankles so’s you can’t do nothin’ but flop around on the sand. They get a big laugh out of that. Or they might hang you upside down over a little fire. The ’Paches like to see hair burn. They a little strange ’bout that.

  “Or if they like you, they might put you through what they call the run of the arrow. I lived through that . . . once. But I was some younger. Damned if ’n I want to do it again at my age. Want me to tell you ’bout that little game?”

  “No!” Emmett said quickly. “I get your point.”

  “Figured you would. Point is, don’t let ’em ever take you alive. Kirby, now, they’d probably keep for work or trade. But that’s chancy, he being nearabout a man growed.” The mountain man tensed a bit, then said, “Look alive, boy, and stay that way. Here they come.” He winked at Kirby.

  “How do you know that, Preacher?” Kirby asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Wind just shifted. Smelled ’em. They close, been easin’ up through the grass. Get ready.”

  Kirby wondered how the old man could smell anything over the fumes from his own body.

  Emmett, a veteran of four years of continuous war, could not believe an enemy could slip up on him in open daylight. At the sound of Preacher jacking back the hammer of his Henry .44, Emmett shifted his eyes from his perimeter for just a second. When he again looked back at his field of fire, a big, painted-up buck was almost on top of him. Then the open meadow was filled with screaming, charging Indians.

  Emmett brought the buck down with a .44 slug through the chest, flinging the Indian backward, the yelling abruptly cut off in his throat.

  The air had changed from the peacefulness of summer quiet to a screaming, gun-smoke-filled hell. Preacher looked at Kirby, who was looking at him, his mouth hanging open in shock, fear, and confusion. “Don’t look at me, boy!” he yelled. “Keep them eyes in front of you.”

  Kirby jerked his gaze to the small creek and the stand of timber that lay behind it. His eyes were beginning to smart from the acrid powder smoke, and his head was aching from the pounding of the Henry .44 and the screaming and yelling. The Spencer Kirby held at the ready was a heavy weapon, and his arms were beginning to ache from the strain.

  His head suddenly came up, eyes alert. He had seen movement on the far side of the creek. Right there! Yes, someone, or something was over there.

  I don’t want to shoot anyone, the boy thought. Why can’t we be friends with these people? And that thought was still throbbing in his brain when a young Indian suddenly sprang from the willows by the creek and lunged into the water, a rifle in his hand.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Kirby watched the young brave, a boy about his own age, leap and thrash through the water. Kirby jacked back the hammer of the Spencer, sighted in on the brave, and pulled the trigger. The .52-caliber pounded his shoulder, bruising it, for there wasn’t much spare meat on Kirby. When the smoke blew away, the young Indian was face-down in the water, his blood staining the stream.

  Kirby stared at what he’d done, then fought back waves of sickness that threatened to spill from his stomach.

  The boy heard a wild screaming and spun around. His father was locked in hand-to-hand combat with two knife-wielding braves. Too close for the rifle, Kirby clawed his Navy Colt from leather, vowing he would cut that stupid flap from his holster after this was over. He shot one brave through the head just as his father buried his Arkansas Toothpick to the hilt in the chest of the other.

  And as abruptly as they came, the Indians were gone, dragging as many of their dead and wounded with them as they could. Two braves lay dead in front of Preacher; two braves dead in the shallow ravine with the three men; the boy Kirby had shot lay in the creek, arms outstretched, the waters a deep crimson. The body slowly floated downstream.

  Preacher looked at the dead buck in the creek, then at the brave in the wallow with them . . . the one Kirby had shot. He lifted his eyes to the boy.

  “Got your baptism this day, boy. Did right well, you did.”

  “Saved my life, son,” Emmett said, dumping the bodies of the Indians out of the wallow. “Can’t call you boy no more, I reckon. You be a man now.”

  A thin finger of smoke lifted from the barrel of the Navy .36 Kirby held in his hand. Preacher smiled and spat tobacco juice.

  He looked at Kirby’s ash-blond hair. “Yep,” he said, “Smoke’ll suit you just fine. So Smoke hit’ll be.”

  “Sir?” Kirby finally found his voice.

  “Smoke. That’s what I’ll call you now on. Smoke. ”7

  * * *

  Smoke came back to the present when Shorty Robinson nudged his arm with a canteen. “Don’t you want no water, Jensen?”

  Smoke took the canteen, wiped the spout off, then took a deep swallow. It tasted as good as anything he’d ev
er swallowed.

  13

  Smoke drank his fill of the water, sleeved moisture off his lips, and passed the canteen over to Shorty Robinson.

  “Here ya go, Shorty.”

  “Thanks, Smoke,” the little man said as he upended the canteen and gulped the rest of the liquid down.

  Dynamite Dick leaned over and whispered to Smoke, “Jensen, you think there’s any way we can get the drop on the marshal?”

  Smoke shook his head, a slow grin appearing on his lips. “Having the Hanging Judge waiting to put a noose around your neck isn’t dying fast enough for you, Dick? You want to go to hell a little faster?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that Tilghman has a reputation of never having lost a prisoner, though I hear tell he’s had to bring a few in dead who didn’t start out that way,” Smoke said. “You want to commit suicide, go ahead. But me, I’d rather take my chances with Judge Parker. At least a couple of men have survived going before him. . . . None have tangled with Tilghman and lived to tell about it.”

  Dynamite Dick looked disgusted. “I figgered you for more sand than that, Jensen.” He looked over at Shorty and Jonathan Mayhew. “Either of you gents got the guts to try it with me?” he asked.

  Both men just shook their heads.

  Dick slapped his thigh. “Yellow sons of bitches,” he muttered.

  Tilghman walked around the wagon, a slight smile on his face as if he’d heard what the men had said. “You’d be smart to listen to Jensen, Bodine,” he said. “That way you might live to make it to Fort Smith.”

  Dick scowled and Tilghman laughed. “All right, men, break’s over. Get back in the wagon and we’ll get on our way.”

  Two hours later, when the wagon was halfway across an open prairie with no cover other than the saw grass that grew to knee height, Tilghman pulled back on the reins and jumped down off the hurricane deck. He walked around to the back of the caged area and pulled a long, brass spyglass out of the saddlebags on his horse.