Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man)

by Johnstone, William W.

  “I ain’t dis-pootin’ your word, Boss,” Pearlie said. “But I’m gonna have to see it to believe it.”

  Smiling, Smoke bent down and picked up a small chunk of wood. “Apache!” he called.

  The old, buckskin-clad man turned and looked at Smoke.

  “A silver dollar says you can’t knock it out of the air.”

  “Toss ’er, boy!”

  Smoke tossed the chunk high into the air. With fifty-odd years of gunhandling in his past, Apache’s draw was as smooth and practiced as water over a fall. He fired six times. Six times the hardwood chunk was hit, before falling in slivers to the ground.

  “Jesus!” Pearlie breathed.

  “That’s six silver dollars you owe me,” Apache said.

  Smoke laughed and nodded his head. The Apache Kid turned to talk with Charlie.

  “That Jensen?” Apache asked, as the other old gunfighters listened.

  “That’s him.”

  “He as good as they say?” Bowie asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to brace him,” Charlie said, paying Smoke the highest compliment one gunhand could pay to another.

  “That good, hey?” Luke Nations asked.

  “He’s the best.”

  “I heared he was that,” Dan Greentree said. “Rat nice of him to in-vite us on this little hoo-raw.”

  Smoke and Sally had gone into the cabin, leaving the others to talk.

  Pearlie shyly wandered over to the growing knot of men. He was expecting to get the needle put to him, and he got just that.

  “Your ma know you slipped away from the house, boy?” a huge, grizzled old man asked.

  Pearlie smiled and braced himself. “You be Pistol Le Roux?”

  “I was when I left camp this mornin’.”

  “I run arcost a pal of yourn ’bout three years ago—up on the Utah-Wyoming line. South of Fort Supply. Called hisself Pawnee.”

  “Do tell? How was ol’ Pawnee?”

  “Not too good. He died. I buried him at the base of Kings Mountain, north side. Thought you’d wanna know.”

  “I do and I ’preciate your plantin’ him. Say a word over him, did you?”

  “Some.”

  “This is Pearlie, Pistol.”

  “Pleased. Join us, Pearlie.”

  Pearlie stood silent and listened to the men talk. Charlie said, “This ain’t gonna be no Sunday social, boys. And I’ll come right up front and tell you that some of you is likely to be planted in these here mountains.”

  The sounds of horses coming hard paused Charlie. He waited until the last of the old gunslicks had dismounted and shook and howdied.

  Charlie counted heads. Twenty of the hardest, most talked-about, and most legendary men of the West stood in the front yard of the sturdy little cabin. Only God and God alone knew how many men these randy old boys had put down into that eternal rest.

  The Apache Kid was every bit of seventy. But could still draw and shoot with the best.

  Buttermilk didn’t have a tooth in his head, but those Colts belted around his lean waist could bite and snarl and roar.

  Jay Church was a youngster, ’bout Charlie’s age. But a feared gunhawk.

  Dad Weaver was in his mid-sixties. He’d opened him a little cafe when he’d hung up his guns, but the rowdies and the punks hadn’t left him alone. They’d come lookin’ and he’d given the undertaker more business. He’d finally said to hell with it and taken off for the mountains.

  Silver Jim still looked the dandy. Wearin’ one of them long white coats that road agents had taken to wearing. His boots was old and patched, but they shined. And his dark short coat was kinda frayed at the cuffs, but it was clean. His Colts was oiled and deadly.

  Ol’ Hardrock. Charlie smiled. What could he say about Hardrock? The man had cleaned up more wild towns than any two others combined. Now he was aging and broke. But still ready to ride the high trails of the Mountain Men.

  Charlie lifted his eyes and spotted Moody. Ol’ Moody. Standin’ away from the others, livin’ up to his name. Never had much to say, but by the Lord he was as rough and randy as they could come.

  Linch. Big and hoary and bearded. Never packed but one short gun. Said he never needed but one.

  Luke Nations. A legend. Sheriff, marshal, outlaw, gunfighter. Had books wrote about him. And as far as Charlie knew, never got a dime out of any of them.

  Pistol Le Roux. A Creole from down in Louisiana. As fast with a knife as with a gun…and that was plenty fast.

  Quiet Bill Foley. Wore his guns cross-draw and had a border roll that was some quick.

  Dan Greentree. Charlie had riden many a trail with Dan. Charlie wondered if these mountain trails around Fontana would be their last to ride.

  Leo Wood. Leo just might be the man who had brought the fast draw to the West. A lot of people said he was. And a lot of so-called fast guns had died trying to best him.

  Cary Webb. Some said he owned a fine education and had once taught school back East. Chucked it all and came West, looking for excitement. Earned him a rep as a fast gun.

  Sunset Hatfield. Supposed to be from either Kentucky or Tennessee. A crack shot with rifle or pistol.

  Crooked John Simmons. Got that name hung on him ’cause he was as cross-eyed as anybody had ever seen. Had a hair-trigger temper and a set of hair-trigger Colts.

  Bull Flagler. Strong as a bull and just as dangerous. Carried him a sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip on his left side, a Colt on the other.

  Toot Tooner. Loved trains. Loved ’em so much he just couldn’t resist holding them up back some years. Turned lawman and made a damn good one. Fast draw and a dead shot.

  Sutter Cordova. His mother was French and his dad was Spanish. Killed a man when he was ’bout ten or eleven years old; man was with a bunch that killed his ma and pa. Sutter got his pa’s guns, mounted up, and tracked them from Chihuahua to Montana Territory. Took him six years, but he killed every one of them. Sutter was not a man you wanted to get crossways of.

  Red Shingletown. Still had him a mighty fine mess of flamin’ red hair. He’d been a soldier, a sailor, an adventurer, a rancher…and a gunfighter.

  And there they stood, Smoke thought, gazing at the men from the cabin. I’m looking at yet another last of a breed.

  But did I do right in asking them to come?

  Sally touched his arm. Smoke looked down at her.

  “You did the right thing,” she told him. “The trail that lies before those men out there is the one they chose, and if it is their last trail to ride, that’s the way they would want it. And even though they are doing this for you and for Charlie, you know the main reason they’re doing it, don’t you?”

  Smoke grinned, wiping years trom his face. He looked about ten years old. All except for his eyes. “Ol’ Preacher.”

  “That’s right, honey. They all knew him, and knew that he helped raise you.”

  “What do you plan on having for supper?”

  “I hadn’t thought. Why?”

  “How about making some bearsign?”

  “It’s going to run me out of flour.”

  “Well, I think me and Charlie and some of those ol’ boys out there just might ride into Fontana tomorrow. We’ll stop by Colby’s and get him to take his wagon. Stock up enough for everybody. ’Sides, I want to see Louis’s face when we all come ridin’ in.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, poking him in the ribs and tickling him, bending him over, gently slapping at her hands. “But mostly you want to see Tilden Franklin’s face.”

  “Well…He suddenly swept her up in his arms and began carrying her toward the bedroom.

  “Smoke. Not with all those…”

  He kissed her mouth, hushing her.

  “…men out…”

  He kissed her again and placed her gently on the bed.

  “Who cares about those men out there?” she finally said.

  It came as no surprise to Smoke to find the men up before he crawled out from under the covers. This high up,
even the summer nights were cool…and this was still late spring. The nights were downright cold.

  The men had gotten their bearsign the previous night, but Sally had been just a bit late with them.

  Smoke dressed, belted on his Colts, and, with a mug of coffee in one hand, stepped out to meet the breaking dawn, all silver and gold as the sun slowly inched over the high peaks of Sugarloaf.

  “Charlie, I thought a few of us would ride into town this morning and pick up supplies. We’ll stop at Colby’s place and he’ll go with us in his wagon.”

  “Who you want to go in with you?”

  “You pick ’em.”

  Adam Colby had been reading a dime novel about the life and times of Luke Nation, with a drawing of him on the cover, when he looked up at the sounds of horse’s hooves drumming on the road. The boy thought he’d been flung directly into the pages of the dime novel.

  He looked at the man on the horse, looked at the cover of the book, and then took off running for the house, hollering for his pa.

  “Boy!” Colby said, stepping out of the house. “What in tarnation is wrong with…”

  The man looked at the group of riders still sitting their horses in his front yard. Colby’s eyes flitted from man to man, taking in the lined and tanned faces, the hard, callused hands, and the guns belted around the lean waists. Colby knew of most of the men…he just never imagined he’d see them in his front yard.

  Adam approached Luke, the dime novel in his hand. He stood looking up at the famed gunfighter, awe in his eyes. He held out the book.

  “Would you sign my book, Mister Nations?”

  “I’d be right honored, boy,” the gunfighter said. He grinned. “That’s about all I can write is my name.” He took the book and a stub of a pencil Adam held out to him and slowly printed his name, giving book and pencil back to the boy.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “We’re riding into Fontana, Colby. Sally needs some supplies. Wanna get your wagon and come in with us?”

  “Good idea. Wilbur and the boys will stay here. Give me a minute to get my shirt on. Adam, hook up the team, son.”

  Colby’s wife Belle, daughter Velvet, and boys Adam and Bob stood with Wilbur and his wife Edna and watched the men pull out. They would stop at several other small spreads to take any orders for supplies. The men and women and kids left at Colby’s place resumed their morning chores.

  A mile away, hidden in the timber, a TF rider watched it all through field glasses. When the men had ridden and rumbled out of sight, the TF rider took a mirror from his saddlebags and caught the morning sun, signaling to another TF rider that everything was ready. He didn’t know who them hard-lookin’ old boys was with Jensen, but they didn’t look like they’d be much trouble to handle. Most of ’em looked to be older than God.

  Tilden Franklin wanted to make damn sure he was highly visible to as many people as possible until after Clint’s plan was over. Tilden had taken to riding into Fontana every morning, early, with Clint and several of his hardcases for bodyguards. He and his foreman usually had breakfast at the best hotel in town and then took their after-meal cigars while sitting on the porch of the hotel, perhaps reading or talking or just watching the passing parade.

  This morning, Tilden looked up from the new edition of the Fontana Sunburst, Haywood and Dana Arden’s endeavor, just as a TF rider rode by. Without looking at either Tilden or Clint, the rider very minutely nodded his head as he passed.

  With a slight smile, Tilden lifted the newspaper and once more resumed his reading.

  In a way, Tilden thought, he was kind of sorry he was gonna miss out on the action with that built-up little gal of Colby’s. Tilden would bet that, once she settled into the rhythm, Velvet would get to liking it. All women were the same when it came to that, Tilden felt. They liked to holler and raise sand, but they wanted it. They just liked to pretend they didn’t for the look of things.

  Women, to Tilden’s mind, were very notional critters…and just like critters, not very bright. Pretty to have around, nice to pet, but that was about it.

  One of Monte Carson’s deputies rode up and looped the reins over the hitch rail in front of the hotel. Dismounting, he stood on the boardwalk facing Tilden.

  “Charlie Starr ridin’ in with that Smoke Jensen and the nester Colby, Mister Tilden.”

  Tilden felt his face stiffen and grow hot as the blood raced to flush his cheeks. He lowered the newspaper and stared at the deputy.

  “Charlie Starr?”

  “Yes, sir. And that ain’t all. Smoke’s got some mean ol’ gunslicks with him, too. The Apache Kid, Sunset Hatfield, Bill Foley, Silver Jim, Moody, and Luke Nations. They ridin’ like they got a purpose if you know what I mean.”

  A young, two-hit, half-assed punk, who thought himself to be a bad man, was hanging around near the open doors of the hotel. He smiled and felt his heart race at the news. The deputy had just mentioned half a dozen of the most famous gunslingers in all the West. And they were coming into town—here!

  Right here, the punk who called himself The Silver Dollar Kid thought, is where I make my rep. Right here, right out there in that street, that’s where it all starts. He smiled and walked through the lobby, slipping out the back way. He wanted to change clothes, put on his best outfit before he faced one of those old gunhawks. There was a picture-taker in town; might be a good idea to stop by his studio and tell him about the old gunslicks so’s he could have all his equipment set up and ready to pop.

  The punk ran back to his tent and began changing into his very finest.

  The news of the approaching gunfighters, still several miles out of Fontana, swept through the town like wild-fire through a dry forest. Haywood heard it and walked rapidly toward the main business district. He found himself a spot on the boardwalk across the street from where Tilden Franklin sat, surrounded by his hardcases.

  Shopkeepers had shooed customers outside, where they stood, lining the boardwalks and packed-dirt sidewalks, waiting for the event of the day.

  Louis Longmont came out of his gaming tent to stand on the boardwalk, watching as he smoked his first cigar of the morning. So Smoke had done it, he thought. A smile curved his lips. He’d actually pulled in some of the randiest old boys still living in the West.

  “Going to be interesting,” Louis murmured. “Very, very interesting.”

  19

  Smoke halted his small group on the edge of town. He looked at Charlie. “A whole passel of two-bit young punks who’ll be looking for a reputation in town. They’ll be on the prod for a fight.”

  Charlie spat on the dirt beneath his horse’s belly. “They’ll damn sure get more than they bargained for with this bunch,” he replied.

  “We’ll ride straight through,” Smoke said. “Stopping at Jackson’s Mercantile. Colby, pull your wagon up to the loading dock by the side. If there’s going to be trouble, let the other side start it. Let’s go, boys.”

  Smoke and Charlie took the point, with Apache and Sunset riding to the left of the wagon, Bill Foley and Silver Jim to the right, and Moody and Luke Nations taking the drag. Smoke rode slowly, so the wheels of the wagon would not kick up much dust. The town had virtually come to a halt, the streets lined with citizens. They stood silently, watching the riders make their way along the street. Trouble hung in the air, as thick as dust.

  The riders could practically feel the hate from Tilden Franklin’s eyes boring into them as they rode past where he sat like a king on the hotel boardwalk. Smoke met the man’s eyes and touched his hat brim in a gesture of greeting.

  Tilden did not return the greeting.

  They passed Louis Longmont’s gaming tent. Most of the old gunfighters knew the gambler and they greeted him. Louis returned the greeting and very minutely nodded his head in the direction Smoke was riding.

  There was something or someone down there that Louis wanted Smoke to know about. Smoke’s eyes searched both sides of the street. Then he
saw them, the three of them, lounging in front of a newly erected tent saloon.

  Luis Chamba, Kane, and Sanderson.

  The Mexican gunfighter stood with his arms folded across his chest, his sombrero off his head, hanging down his back by the chin cord.

  “See them?” Smoke whispered the words, just audible over the clop of hooves.

  “I see them,” Charlie returned the whisper. “That Chamba, he’s a bad one. Kills for pleasure. Gets his kicks that way, you know?”

  Smoke knew the type.

  Then they were past the killers.

  “Kane and Sanderson?” Smoke asked. He knew of them, but did not know them personally.

  “Just as bad. They’re all three twisted. And they’ll kill anything or anybody for money.”

  “Look at them punks over to your left.”

  “Seen them too,” Charlie said sourly. “Lookin’ to make themselves a reputation. I hope they don’t try none of this bunch. These guys are all on the shady side of their years, but Lord God, don’t sell ’em short.”

  A young man with a smart-ass look to him and dressed like a San Francisco pimp stood glaring at the men. At least Smoke figured that’s how a San Francisco pimp might dress, having never been there.

  “Reckon it’s time for us to start us a Boot Hill here in Fontana, boys!” the loud-mouthed, loudly dressed young man said, raising his voice so the riders could all hear him.

  The Apache Kid favored the young man with a glance and dismissed him just as quickly.

  Sunset openly laughed at the dandy.

  “Yeah,” another duded-up, two-gun-totin’ young man agreed, his voice loud. “And them old boys yonder ain’t got long to go no ways. Might as well start with them. How ’bout it?”

  None of the aging gunfighters even acknowledged the punk had spoken. They rode on.

  “Hell!” another would-be gunslinger yelled, fanning the air with his fancy hat. “They so goddamned old they done lost their balls, boys!”

  “That one is mine,” Luke said, just so his friends could hear.

  “He means it, Smoke,” Charlie said. “Don’t interfere none.”