Ambush of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Soon, only the dead outlaw was left next to the tracks, blood still oozing into a puddle under his head.

  Smoke moved up to the engine and found the engineer lying on his side, holding his left arm, a bullet hole in his left shoulder.

  Smoke knelt next to him. “Are you gonna be all right?”

  The engineer nodded. “Yeah, but somebody needs to put some wood in the boiler or we’re gonna lose all our steam.”

  Smoke glanced over his shoulder. “Cal, would you help this man and do what he says while Pearlie and I go after the robbers?”

  “Aw shucks, Smoke,” Cal groused as he climbed up into the cab of the engine. “Pearlie gets to have all the fun.”

  “We just don’t want you getting yourself shot again an’ bleedin’ all over Mr. Hill’s fine car,” Pearlie teased, “you bein’ such a magnet for lead an’ all.”

  “Now Pearlie,” Cal argued, his face turning red. “I ain’t been shot in over three weeks now.”

  Smoke laughed. “That might be because we haven’t been in any gunfights for three weeks, Cal.”

  Cal bent and helped the engineer to his feet as Pearlie and Smoke jumped down out of the engine and headed back along the tracks toward the passenger cars.

  They eased up into the first one, and Smoke was surprised when a female passenger threw up her hands and screamed, “Oh, no, they’ve come back to rape and kill us!”

  Smoke smiled and motioned for her to put her hands down. “No, ma’am. We’re here after the robbers,” he explained as he and Pearlie moved down the aisle between the seats.

  She took one look at Smoke’s handsome face and broad shoulders and her voice seemed a mite disappointed when she said, “Then you aren’t going to rob the men and rape the women?”

  “Not this time,” Smoke called back over his shoulder with a grin.

  Smoke and Pearlie moved through three more cars before catching up to the robbers in the car just before Hill’s private one that Louis was in.

  Smoke motioned for Pearlie to kneel down in front of the door, and then stood over him as he jerked the door open.

  The crowd of robbers in the aisle collecting passengers’ money and jewels glanced back over their shoulders in time to see Smoke and Pearlie open fire, Smoke working the lever of the Henry so fast his shots seemed to be one long explosion.

  Six outlaws went down before the others could return fire, and then it was wild and poorly aimed as they shouted and screamed and backed through the far door of the car, which was so filled with gun-smoke they could barely be seen.

  The bandits in the lead jerked the door to Hill’s car open and rushed inside, to be met by the thundering explosion of twin ten-gauge barrels hurling buckshot at them.

  Four more men went down, shredded and almost cut in half by the horrendous power of the express gun.

  The seven men remaining alive dove off the train out of the connecting door to the cars, and began running as fast as they could back up the tracks to where they thought their horses were tied.

  They slowed and looked around with puzzled expressions when they came to Johnny’s dead body.

  “Where the hell are the hosses?” one of the men hollered, whirling around and looking in all directions.

  From thirty feet behind him, Smoke said, “They’re gone, you bastards!”

  The robbers turned and saw Smoke and Pearlie and Louis standing there, side by side, their hands full of iron.

  “There’s only three of them, boys, let’s take ‘em!” one of the men shouted.

  “Uh-uh,” came a voice from behind the outlaws. Cal stood there just outside the engine, his Colt in his hand. “There’s four of us,” he said, a wide grin of fierce anticipation on his young face.

  Nevertheless, the outlaws swung their pistols up and opened fire.

  In less than fifteen seconds it was all over and every gunman lay either dead or dying next to the train. Blood pooled and saturated the dry earth of the tracks.

  Smoke and Pearlie and Louis approached the group of bodies on the ground cautiously, kicking pistols and rifles out of reach of the wounded men who were groaning and writhing on the ground.

  Cal said softly, “Dagnabit!” as he glanced down at his thigh, noting a thin line of red where a bullet had creased his upper leg, burning rather than tearing a hole in his trousers.

  He quickly turned to the side so his friends couldn’t see the wound, calling, “I’m just gonna go on up and make sure the engineer is all right.”

  When the engineer looked at the blood staining Cal’s pants leg, Cal shook his head. “Don’t say nothin’ ‘bout this to my friends, all right?”

  The wounded engineer just grinned, having heard what Pearlie and Smoke had said about Cal being a magnet for lead. “I promise not to say nothin’, if you’ll be so kind as to build me a cigarette while we wait for the steam to build.”

  TWO

  Carl Jacoby sat staring out of the train window next to his seat, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his cheeks as he thought about just how fast with a gun Smoke Jensen and his friends had proved to be.

  Jacoby was one of Johnny MacDougal’s best friends . . . or at least he had been until Jensen and his men had shot his friend down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado, last year. Jacoby hadn’t been there, being sick with the grippe at the time, but he’d been told Jensen had shot Johnny down in cold blood without even giving him a chance to clear leather.

  Being also hopelessly in love with Johnny’s older sister, Sarah, Jacoby had at once told the family he would do anything they wanted to help them get even for Johnny’s untimely death. He’d hoped this would endear him to Sarah, but she hadn’t seemed to notice him when he made the offer just after her brother’s funeral. She’d been quiet and kind of off in her own world, as if she was thinking of something else.

  Old Angus MacDougal, eaten up with grief and the need for vengeance, had questioned Sheriff Wally Tupper about where Jensen and his friends had been heading after they’d killed his son. Sheriff Tupper had said that one of the men, a Cornelius Van Horne, was a famous Canadian railroad builder.

  Angus had done some checking, and afterward he’d sent Carl up to Canada to follow Jensen and his men and to let the old man know when they headed back to the States so he could avenge his son’s death.

  He’d told Jacoby to stay out of Jensen’s way, not to brace him or to let him know he was being watched, but just to keep an eye on him and make sure they didn’t leave Canada without Jacoby knowing about it.

  Jacoby had done so gladly, sure that no one could have bested Johnny in a fair fight, him being the quickest man with a short gun Carl had ever seen—that is, until the gunfight he’d just now witnessed.

  He was watching out the window as Jensen and the three men with him went up against outlaws who outnumbered them two to one. He’d gasped in disbelief when he’d seen the cowboys blow the outriders off their feet without even breaking a sweat.

  Hell, he thought, sleeving sweat off his forehead, I was watching Jensen when he drew and I still didn’t see his hand move it was so fast, and the gents with him were just a hair slower, if that.

  He didn’t think the outlaws would’ve gotten a single shot off if they hadn’t already had their guns in their hands, and still they hadn’t managed to draw blood from Jensen or any of his friends.

  Jacoby shook his head, remembering how many times he’d been tempted over the past six months to just step up to Jensen and draw his gun and shoot the bastard. His stomach grew queasy at the thought of what would have happened had he been so foolish—he’d be lying dead and buried in the godforsaken wilderness above the border, that’s what. He snorted. Hell, as fast as Jensen is and as slow as I am, he’d have had time to build and light himself a cigarette and still could’ve shot me deader’n yesterday’s news.

  He turned his head from the sight of the men from the train picking up the dead outlaws’ bodies and stacking them in an empty boxcar, and thought about what he was g
oing to do next. He knew that if he continued on his mission for Angus MacDougal, sooner or later he would have to go up against Jensen and his friends, and that thought scared him half to death.

  On the other hand, if he quit now and headed back to Pueblo with his tail between his legs, he was sure Sarah MacDougal would never give him another look—at least not the kind of look he’d want her to give him. She’d more than likely think him a coward and a fool, and would never again give him the time of day.

  Damn Johnny to hell, he thought angrily. If he’d just kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to play the big man like usual, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Jacoby looked up as the conductor came down the aisle, telling all the passengers that they would be on their way shortly and that all of their money and valuables would be returned to them at the next stop, thanks to Smoke Jensen and his friends.

  “Uh, sir,” Jacoby asked, raising his hand like a schoolkid to get the conductor’s attention.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked, stopping next to Carl’s seat.

  “Will there be a telegraph at the next stop?” Carl asked, almost hoping the man would say no.

  “Why, yes, I believe there is, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Carl replied, turning his mind to just what he was going to say to Angus. He knew he’d better warn him about Jensen’s ability with a gun, but he didn’t want to come off sounding like he was afraid of the man, even though the plain truth of the matter was he was more frightened of Jensen than of anything else he could imagine. Carl scrunched down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. This was going to take some heavy thinking before they got to the next stop if he was going to get it right.

  After all, he remembered, Angus MacDougal don’t exactly take kindly to being told he is wrong about anything, and especially not about this.

  Angus MacDougal sat on his porch smoking a corncob pipe, still wearing his black mourning suit even though it’d been more than six months since his only son had been shot down in the streets of Pueblo, Colorado.

  He glanced up from his reverie at the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching his ranch house. He nodded slowly to himself when he recognized the portly figure of Sheriff Wally Tupper riding toward him. Must be some news from Carl, he thought, getting slowly to his feet and stretching to get the kinks out. He felt like he’d aged ten years since Johnny died, but then the death of a loved one will tend to do that to a person, he reasoned as he walked down the porch and waved a greeting at the sheriff.

  Tupper climbed down out of the saddle and held up an envelope in his hand as he climbed the steps to the porch. “Got this here wire for you from Carl Jacoby, Angus,” he said, his voice deferential as if he worked for Angus instead of the town of Pueblo. “It came in on the telegraph just this mornin’ and I rode right out here to bring it to you first thing,” Tupper said.

  Angus took the paper, his eyebrows knitting together over a scowling face. “What’s it say?” he asked.

  “I dunno,” the sheriff replied, his face screwing up in fright. “I wouldn’t presume to read a wire addressed to you, Angus. You know that.”

  Angus smiled a halfsmile, reveling in the look of fear and trepidation on the sheriff’s face. He couldn’t help it, he just loved to intimidate other men, especially men who were supposed to be in authority.

  “I know you’d better not, Wally,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Now go on into the kitchen and have the cook fix you some coffee while I read this, and then we’ll talk.”

  Angus slit the envelope with a thumbnail and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. It was indeed a telegram from Carl Jacoby. Angus squinted his eyes—it looked to be from some pissant town in Minnesota that he’d never heard of before. Sighing at the indignities old age put on him, Angus reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of reading spectacles he’d taken to using in the last year when he found he was unable to read the local newspaper without holding it way out at arm’s length.

  The telegram read:

  HAVE SEEN JENSEN AND HIS MEN IN ACTION STOP VERY IMPRESSIVE STOP DO NOT THINK THEY WOULD HAVE TO BACKSHOOT ANYONE STOP PLEASE CHECK SITUATION AGAIN BEFORE PROCEEDING STOP SHOULD ARRIVE BIG ROCK SEVEN TO TEN DAYS DEPENDING ON WEATHER END CARL

  Angus crumpled up the paper and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. He whirled around and stomped across the porch and into his house. He found Sheriff Tupper drinking coffee out of a mug and flirting with his Mexican housekeeper, Lupe.

  Angus took a deep breath and tried to calm down as Lupe poured him a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him.

  “Would you excuse us, Lupe?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice soft. “Man talk.”

  “Certainly, Señor,” she said, and quickly vanished from the dining room.

  Tupper raised his eyebrows when he saw the crumpled sheet of paper in Angus’s hand. “Bad news?” he asked over the rim of his cup.

  Angus didn’t answer until he’d gotten to his feet and walked over to the cabinet against the wall. He opened the door, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured a dollop into his coffee, pointedly not offering any to Tupper.

  “Tell me again about the day my boy Johnny was shot down, Wally,” Angus ordered shortly as he took a sip of his whiskey and coffee.

  “You sure you want to hear all that again?” Tupper asked, his face showing his discomfort. The day he’d brought Johnny’s body home to Angus, he’d thought for a moment the old man was going to kill him, as if he’d done something wrong.

  “I asked, didn’t I?” Angus responded angrily, slamming his cup down so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim.

  “Well,” Tupper began quickly, trying to picture that day in his mind, “from what I heard from those who were there, Johnny and the boys had been drinking a mite, an’ they proceeded to tease Jensen and the men with him about how they smelled. Shortly, one of those old mountain men riding with Jensen jumped up and . . . uh . . . ” Tupper hesitated, trying to decide how graphic to get with his description of the events. Finally, he decided to be a bit vague. “Jumped up and knocked Johnny to the floor.”

  “And Johnny hadn’t drawn on the man up till then?” Angus asked, his eyes full of sorrow and anger.

  “Nope,” Tupper replied. “Matter of fact, Johnny was flat on his back after the man attacked him without no warning,” he said, shading the truth a mite because he knew that was what the old man wanted to hear.

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, sir, Johnny’s friends took him outside an’ they waited for Jensen and his men to come out of the Feedbag an’ into the street.”

  “And when they did?”

  “This is where the stories all get a mite different,” Tupper said. “Johnny and his friends all had their guns in their hands when I got there, but only Johnny’s had been fired, an’ he’d only gotten off the one shot. But the man with Jensen, a William Cornelius Van Horne, said Johnny and his men had fired at them first an’ started the fracas.”

  Angus drained his cup, his face pale at hearing once again how his boy had died. “And you believed him, even though none of the boys managed to get a shot off?”

  “I didn’t have no choice, Angus. This Van Horne man carries a lot of weight in the state, an’ he knows the governor personally.”

  “And tell me again, just how many times was my boy shot?” Angus asked.

  “Uh, the undertaker said he had over six slugs in him, Angus.”

  “And you honestly think, knowing how fast Johnny was with a six-gun, that he could be standing there with his guns out and only get off one shot whilst someone else has to take the time to draw and ends up shooting him six times?” Angus asked, his voice incredulous. He shook his head. “No, sir! There ain’t nobody alive that fast,” he finished without waiting for an answer.

  “Well, what do you think happened then?” Sheriff Tupper asked.

  “I think those bastards shot my boy and his friends down in cold blood, and then
they took out their guns and put them in their hands so it’d look like a fair fight,” Angus said, his voice tight with anger.

  Before Sheriff Tupper could answer saying there’d been plenty of other witnesses to dispute Angus’s version of the gunplay, the door opened and a pretty young woman in her mid-twenties walked into the room, her face a mask of anguish. It was obvious she’d been listening to Tupper and Angus from the other room.

  “That’s not all they did to him, Daddy,” Sarah MacDougal said through jaws tight with anger.

  Angus cut his eyes to her. “What do you mean by that, Sarah?” he asked.

  “Sarah, do you really think this is necessary?” Sheriff Tupper began, a worried look on his face.

  “Yes, Wally, I do!” she answered. “My father deserves to know the truth about what was done to his son and my little brother.”

  Angus slammed his fist down on the table, causing the coffee cups to leap into the air and spill dark liquid all over the wood.

  “Damn it!” he shouted. “Don’t talk about me like I wasn’t even in the room!” He turned his gaze to the sheriff. “Wally, if you know more than you’ve been telling me for the past six months, you’d better spit it out now or I’ll make you wish to hell you had.”

  Tupper reached out and turned his coffee cup back right-side-up, clearing his voice. “Well, Angus, when I got to Johnny’s body, I saw a deep cut on his cheek and saw that his two front teeth had been knocked out.”

  “What?” Angus shouted, half-rising to his feet.

  Tupper held out his hand, palm out. “Now hold on, Angus. I asked around and it seems Johnny was raggin’ the men with Jensen ‘bout them being smelly and dirty, an’ one of the old mountain men took offense at it and pulled out his Colt and pistol-whipped Johnny with it.” Tupper took a deep breath. “I didn’t say nothing about it ‘cause it was plain to see that Johnny had picked the fight in the first place.”

  Angus sat back down, slowly nodding his head. “Now I see why Johnny was waiting outside for those men to leave the saloon. His pride was hurt because of the beating he took in front of his friends.”