Law of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Brady stepped off the porch and walked to his horse. After swinging into the saddle, he looked at the men on the porch. “Good luck, boys. If you need help, holler, and I’ll come a-foggin’.”

  Brady turned his horse and rode out of the ranch without looking back.

  Smoke took out the Colts, one at a time, and filled up the empty chamber under the hammer. Rusty and Jackson did the same. Walt rose from his chair and walked into the house. When he returned, he had his gun belt in one hand and a box of .44’s in the other. He sat down and began filling up the loops in the belt.

  “I fought for this land,” the old rancher spoke. “Fought hard for it. But until you boys come along, I reckon I’d misplaced my backbone. I’d turned into a scared old man. That scared old man ain’t no more. Maybe it takes me a little longer to get goin’ in the mornings, but there ain’t nothin’ wrong with my eyes nor my trigger finger. And I made up my mind about something else: my brother can go right straight to Hell! And if it has to be me who sends him there, so be it.”

  26

  Days after the disastrous attack against the nesters, Jud was still having trouble accepting the fact that most people, from the territorial line west to the Little Malad River were no longer going to bow and scrape to him. Jud had not only lost his power base, but now he felt his mind going again. He struggled to maintain control. He managed to hold on, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to make rational thoughts work their way through the fog that clouded his brain.

  Jason was talking to him, but Jud was having a hard time understanding the words.

  “Jud!” Jason shouted at him.

  Jud turned his head. Blinked his eyes. “Yes, Jas. I hear you.”

  “Can you understand me, Jud?”

  “Yes. Now, 1 can. What were you saying?”

  “It’s time to pull in our horns. We got enough money to last us ten lifetimes. It’s time to quit. Break up the gangs and send them packing. Stick with ranchin’. The people has turned ag’in us. It can’t do nothin’ ’cept get worser.”

  Jud didn’t believe the words he was hearing. This wasn’t like Jas. Jas had been his strong friend and supporter for years—long, bloody, murderous, and savage years. Together they had raped and murdered and stolen and savaged from Illinois to Idaho. Now the man was telling him it all had to come to an end. Jud shook his head. “No way, Jas. It’s too late for that.” Lucidity was returning to Jud’s darkened brain. “Far too late. We are what we are. We can’t change. The people won’t let us. We’ve got to stay strong, and we’ve got to show the people that we’re still the kingpins of this area.”

  “For God’s sake, Jud—how? You haven’t ridden around the area like I have. Every move I make, they’s anywhere from five to fifteen guns on me. The people have had it, Jud. We’ve come to the end of our string.”

  Jud looked at the man. “You want to ride, Jas?”

  “You mean leave?”

  Jud nodded.

  “No. You know me better than that. We been together since we was young bucks, full of piss and vinegar. If you say we’re gonna stand and fight this out, then I’ll be right beside you.”

  “How many men are still on the payroll, drawing fighting wages?” “Seventy.”

  Jud’s eyes were hard and savage. “Then tell them to start earning it.”

  The riders struck at night, wearing masks and dusters. They struck a small farmhouse near the Wyoming line and burned it to the ground, killing the fanner and abusing his wife and oldest daughter before tying them naked to a tree and leaving them. Then they vanished into the night, scattering, leaving no trail that Sheriff Brady and his men could follow. The raiders did the same thing the next night, miles away from the first scene of horror and degradation. The third night the raiders struck, Sheriff Brady and his men were at the extreme south end of the county while the raiders were working the northern tip of the county. It was the same operation: a farm was burned, the man was killed, the women abused.

  But what Jud didn’t know was that after the first raid, Smoke had been absent from the Box T, roaming mostly at night, looking for tracks, and holed up during the day. Just before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, he watched the raiders return to the Bar V, still wearing their dusters. He waited until he was certain that all who were coming in were in, then began slowly and carefully backtracking the trail.

  By eight o’clock, he had found where all the raiders came together after scattering. It was on the Bear River Range, but he wasn’t certain it was on Bar V holdings. He felt this might be public range.

  He began following the main body of the raiders, finally discovering where they had built a hidden corral to keep their spare horses. Smoke backed off a good half-mile, rubbed down Dagger, and cooked himself a meal. He stretched out on the ground to sleep for a few hours. This night, the raiders would be in for a surprise when they came for their horses. A very deadly surprise.

  When he opened his eyes, he guessed the time to be about four o’clock. Smoke built a small fire and made coffee, frying some bacon to go with the last of his bread. After eating, he leaned back against his saddle and rolled a cigarette, enjoying his coffee and the peace and quiet. Come the night, it would not be a bit peaceful, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be quiet.

  Before dusk settled over the land, Smoke put out his small fire and saddled up, moving closer to the hidden corral. He dismounted and carefully picketed Dagger, hopefully out of the line of fire. Taking his rifle, he moved to well within throwing distance of the corral and found himself a good position. He chambered a round and eased the hammer down, then Smoke settled in to wait for the first of the raiders to arrive.

  He didn’t think they would come all in a bunch, but instead come drifting in by two’s and three’s. The first bunch of outlaws would wait until the last had arrived, then take off to do their dirty work.

  But Smoke had some dirty work of his own in mind, and he was confident that the number of raiders who rode out would be considerably less than the number who rode in this night.

  The first bunch rode in almost carelessly, certain that no unfriendly eyes were upon them.

  Smoke waited and watched through the gathering gloom as the assorted scum on Jud’s payroll checked the corrral to see if their spare mounts were still there. One man busied himself building a fire and making coffee.

  Then the damning evidence showed itself as the men began unrolling white dusters from behind their saddles and shaking out the black bandanas they would use to cover the lower half of their faces.

  More men began drifting in until the number had reached twenty. They drank coffee and began slipping into their dusters. The talk was rough as the conversation drifted to where Smoke lay hidden. The Bar V hired guns laughed as they casually talked of murder, rape, and torture. Another man tossed more wood on the fire.

  Smoke had carefully gauged the distance between his location and the main body of men. With a grim smile on his lips, he lit the fuses and tossed two sticks of giant powder into the group.

  It took a couple of seconds for the men to react, and a couple of seconds was all it needed for the short fuses to burn down. When the dynamite blew, the din was enormous in the night.

  Outlaws were hurled off their boots, some landing hard and breaking bones, others with the wind knocked from them. Horses reared up, screaming their panic, breaking loose and galloping off into the darkness. Those hired guns who were still on their feet were stumbling around, cursing and disoriented and momentarily deafened from the huge explosion.

  Smoke knocked half a dozen men sprawling with fast but well-placed rifle shots, then shifted locations, reloading as he made his way toward the corral. The outlaws began pouring lead into the area Smoke had just vacated.

  Smoke jerked the rawhide string holding the gate to the post and fired into the air, stampeding the remuda. The frightened horses ran right into and through the milling gun hands, knocking a few screaming to the earth before the steel-shod hooves mangled fle
sh and broke bones.

  Smoke took that time of painful confusion to run back to where he had picketed Dagger and swing into the saddle. Smoke got himself gone from that area, feeling very confident that the raiders would not strike against women and children this night.

  He did not head for the Box T, instead pointing Dagger’s nose toward the Bar V. He had not gone a mile before a horseman rode onto the trail and waved at him.

  Clint Perkins. Smoke reined up and looked at the man.

  “Heading for the Bar V to do some mischief, Smoke?”

  “That was my plan.”

  “I’ll ride along with you.”

  “Your funeral.”

  Clint laughed in the night. “Oh, not just yet, Smoke. Oh, my, no! I have that auspicious but final event all worked out in my mind. And the time is close, but not this night.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Your plan for the Bar V?”

  “Lay up on the ridges and put about a hundred rounds into the house and bunkhouse. Just let Jud know that I haven’t forgotten him.”

  Clint laughed. “Let’s ride!”

  They rode hard for a couple of miles, then slowed to a walk, sparing their horses but still covering the distance swiftly. They did not talk until they were about two miles from the mansion.

  “I’ll take this side, Clint,” Smoke told him. “The other side is all yours.”

  “That’s fair. How long do we keep it up?”

  “Oh, ten or fifteen minutes. Weil wait about half an hour before we start. That’ll give our horses time to catch their breath and for some of those behind us to make the ranch and spread the news. There’ll be lots of lanterns and lamps lit when they return. That’ll give us better targets.”

  Clint smiled. “See you around, Smoke Jensen.” Then he was gone into the night.

  Smoke angled off into the timber and carefully made his way to a ridge overlooking the great mansion. He picketed Dagger and settled in behind a tree, just at the crest of the hill.

  The minutes ticked by, turning into half an hour. What was left of Jud’s raiders began trickling back to the ranch complex, about half of them belly-down over a saddle, tied in place. Smoke brought his Winchester to his shoulder, compensated for the downhill shooting, and sighted in a man, squeezing the trigger.

  The slug went high and knocked the man’s hat from his head, sending the hired gun to the ground. Smoke’s second shot was true. The gun hand tried to rise up on one elbow, then fell face-forward,, neck-shot.

  From across the way, Clint opened up, the outlaws clearly visible under the light of the moon and the starry night. Smoke joined in, concentrating his fire into the mansion.

  Jud, Jason, and the bodyguards hit the floor as .44 slugs began tearing through the walls and windows of the mansion.

  A slug shattered the knee of a bodyguard, bringing a howl of pain. Clint was pouring rifle fire into the running men in the yard. He quickly punched more cartridges into his rifle and began peppering the bunkhouse. Smoke shifted the muzzle of his rifle and put two fast rounds into one of the newly built outhouses. A man came rushing out, trying to run while holding his britches up with one hand. One knee caught in his dangling suspenders and sent him sprawling to the ground.

  Smoke tried for a lamp in the mansion, his third shot. finally striking true, sending coal oil and flames worming across the floor like a flaming snake. Jud and Jason and the bodyguards began stomping at the flames before they caught and burned the place down.

  There was little the men around the mansion could do except curse the birth of Smoke Jensen; they knew it was Smoke on one of the ridges. And probably Clint on the other ridge.

  Smoke decided he’d pressed his luck to the maximum for this night, and began working his way back to Dagger. It would take Clint only a couple of minutes to understand that Smoke was gone.

  Inside the mansion, hopping mad, jumping around like a huge frog, his eyes bugged out, cursing at the top of his lungs, and just barely hanging onto what little sanity was left him, Jud began screaming orders to get Smoke Jensen, declare war on everybody, burn down Montpelier, assassinate President Arthur; do whatever needs to be done … just kill that damned Smoke Jensen!

  Clint fired one more round before he pulled out, putting his shot into the living room and plugging a suit of armor Jud had imported from England.

  “Another day, Father,” Clint muttered, slipping back to where he’d tied his horse. “Soon.”

  Smoke slept soundly the remainder of that night, in his room in the barn at the Box T. He had stopped at several small farms, telling the people what had gone down and also that he doubted Jud’s raideres would be out doing their dirty work that night. But keep a guard posted just in case.

  He slept late; it was nearly six o’clock when he awakened and put on his hat, then his pants and boots and shirt, slinging his gun belt around his waist, and stepping outside.

  “What went down last night?” Jackson asked, handing him a cup of coffee.

  Smoke took a sip of coffee before replying. Jackson was smiling when Smoke finished.

  “Wish you had invited me along,” he said wistfully.

  “I didn’t know what I was going to do until the last minute. But it will be interesting to see what Jud does next.”

  “Interesting is one way of putt in’ it, for sure.”

  27

  “Jud’s sell in’ his herds,” the farmer said, dismounting in front of the ranch house. Walt led him to the porch and offered the man coffee, as Smoke and Jackson and Rusty joined them.

  It was just past dawn and three days after Smoke and Clint had assaulted the mansion.

  “He’s pulling out?” Walt asked, a hopeful note to the question.

  “No,” Smoke said. “I’d say he’s gearing up for a long and expensive war. Putting his hands on as much hard cash as possible.” He glanced at the farmer. “When did you find out about this?”

  “Late yesterday evenin’. My neighbor, Jim Morris, had been up to Montpelier. Stopped in for a drink and heard cattle buyers talkin’ about it. Them buyers done sent men in to move the cattle.”

  “Knowing we wouldn’t harm any innocent party,” Smoke mused aloud. “Good move on Jud’s part. Then they’ve begun moving the cattle out?”

  “Oh, yeah. Job’s might near half done, I reckon.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Them bounty hunters—Wills is one of them?”

  Smoke nodded. “I know them.”

  “I heard some talk, Mr. Jensen; heard it this morin’. Word is they’re pullin’ out on Jud’s orders. Goin’ down to Arizony, lookin’ for your wife and family.”

  “It would be something Jud would do,” Walt said. “That would be one way to get you away from here.”

  Smoke stepped from the porch, his face tight and his eyes hard. He walked to the bam and saddled Dagger. The road by the trading post would be the one they would be most likely to take. Smoke would be waiting for them. It was time to bring this boil to a head. Crazy or not, when Jud Vale started threatening Smoke’s wife and family, Jud Vale was a dead man.

  Doreen had a poke of food waiting for him when he rode up to the ranch house. Smoke stowed it in his saddlebags. There was a gunnysack filled with dynamite tied onto the saddle horn. One side of his saddlebags was stuffed with ammunition and spare pistols. Smoke looked at Rusty and Jackson.

  “Jud may be doing this trying to pull us all away from the Box T. Well, it isn’t going to work that way. You boys stay here. This is my show. I’ll be back.”

  The farmer grabbed hold of the reins. “No, sir,” he said firmly. “That ain’t the way it is and it ain’t the way it’s gonna be. This is our show. They’s men comin’ here right now. Farmers and hired hands and shopkeepers and such from all over; as far away as Montpelier. Sheriff Brady and his men is comin’ in, too.”

  “Riders comin’ for a fact,” Rusty said. “Horses and wagons. Looks like a regular parade.”

  Smoke cut his eyes. It did look like a parade. He pi
cked out Chester and his wife, and a dozen other farmers and family. He smiled as he saw Doc Evans’s buggy. Right behind it was the editor of the Montpelier paper, Mr. Argood. Coming up to intersect the line of horses and wagons and buggies, was Sheriff Brady and his men. Chester whoaed his team and stepped down, helping his wife to the ground.

  The farmer had a gun belt around his waist and his wife carried a rifle. He walked to Smoke and looked up at him. “We ain’t no good as gunfighters, Mr. Smoke. But we can damn sure defend this ranch while you boys is gone.”

  “I can’t interfere or condone this, Smoke,” Sheriff Brady said. “But I can stay right here and then son out the pieces when it’s over.”

  “And I’ll be here to patch up the wounded,” Doc Evans told him.

  “I’ll get my guns.” Walt turned toward the house. “Walt!” Alice said.

  “Hush, woman,” the old rancher told her. “A man’s got to do what he’s got to do. You just keep the coffee hot. I’ll be back.”

  Rusty and Jackson were walking toward the barn to saddle up.

  Matt walked his horse toward Smoke. There was a grim look on Smoke’s face as he noticed the way the boy was wearing his guns. He carried his Peacemaker on his right side, and Cheyenne’s old Colt on his left side, butt-forward for a cross draw.

  It was like looking into a minor that reflected years back. Like looking at himself as a boy.

  “I’ll be comin’ with you,” Matt told him.

  “I can’t stop you.”

  “That is correct, sir,” Matt said politely.

  They waited and watched for a few moments, as the farmers took up positions around the ranch and the women gathered on the porch. Rusty and Jackson rode up, leading Walt’s horse. The rancher stepped out of his house, kissed Alice on the cheek, and swung into the saddle, booting his Winchester. The four men and the boy headed out, Smoke in the lead.