Smoke nodded his head. He knew all too well the truth in that statement. Mountain men, for the most part, stayed away from people and civilization, keeping mostly to themselves, but God have mercy on your soul if you started trouble with them.
Oh, yes, Smoke knew. He had been raised up during his formative years by the most legended of all mountain men—old Preacher.
“Well, that mountain man’s name was Preacher,” Monte continued. “Slim told me that Preacher didn’t say nothin’ to Davidson; just ignored him. And that made Davidson hot under the collar. He called out, “Hey, you greasy old bastard. I’m talking to you, old man!’”
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Smoke said softly.
And in his mind’s eye, as Monte told his tale, Smoke could see what had happened. Smoke smiled as he visualized the long-ago day….
Preacher turned slowly, looking at the young man with the twin Colt Navy .36s belted around his waist and tied down low. The fast draw was new to the West, and some that thought they were fast weren’t. The mountain man, slim and lean-waisted, had a faint smile on his lips.
“What’d you want, Tadpole?”
“Davidson flushed red, hot and unreasonable anger flashing in his eyes.
The kid is crazy, Preacher guessed accurately. And he’s a killer.
“The name is Rex Davidson, old man.”
“Do tell? Is that ’pposed to mean something to me, Tadpole?”
“Yeah. I’m a gunfighter.”
“Is that right?” Preacher drawled. “Well, now, how come it is I ain’t never seen none of your graveyards, Tadpole?”
“Well, old man, maybe you just haven’t been in the right towns, standing in the right boot hill. I got ’em scattered around, here and there.”
“My, my! I ’spect I should be im-pressed.” He smiled. “But I ain’t,” he added softly.
“I thought you mountain men was supposed to be so damn tough!” Rex sneered. “You sound like you’re scared to visit a graveyard.”
“Oh…well, now, I tend to shy away from graveyards, Tadpole. They can be mighty spooky places. Some Injuns believe a man can lose his soul by wanderin’ around in a graveyard. Mayhaps that’s what happened to you, Tadpole.”
“What the hell are you babbling about, you old bastard? I think you’re silly!”
“Tadpole, I think you’ve prowled around so many old bone-yards, lookin’ up names on markers so’s you could lie about how bad you want people to think you is…why, hell, Tadpole, I think you lost your soul.”
“You calling me a liar, old man?” Rex fairly screamed the question, his hands dropping to his sides to hover over the butts of his Navy Colts.
“Could be, Tadpole,” Preacher spoke softly. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t take no of-fense. Not if you want to go on livin’ healthy.”
Slim Dugas got the hell out of the line of fire. He didn’t know this punk-faced kid from Adam’s Off Ox, but he sure as hell knew all about Preacher and that wild breed of men called mountain men. There just wasn’t no back-up in a mountain man. Not none at all.
“No man calls me a liar and lives, you greasy old fart!” Rex screamed.
“Well, now, Tadpole. It shore ’ppears like I done it, though, don’t it?”
“Damn your eyes! Draw!” Davidson shouted, his palms slapping the butts of his guns.
Preacher lifted his Sharps and pulled the trigger. He had cocked it while Davidson was running off at the mouth about how bad he was. The .52 slug struck the young man in the side, exactly where Preacher intended it to go; he didn’t want to kill the punk. But in later years he would realize that he should have. The force of the slug turned Davidson around and spun him like a top, knocking him against a wall and to the floor. He had not even cleared leather.
Monte chuckled and that brought Smoke back from years past in his mind.
“Slim told me that Preacher collected his money for his pelts, picked up his bacon and beans, and walked out the door; didn’t even look at Davidson. There was four or five others in the room, drinking rotgut, and they spread the story around about Davidson. Smoke, Davidson has hated Preacher and anyone connected with him for years. And one more thing: All them men in that room, they was all back-shot, one at a time over the years. Only one left alive was Slim.”
“That tells me that this Davidson is crazy as a bessie-bug.”
“Damn shore is,” Johnny agreed. “What kind of man would hate like that, and for so long? It ain’t as if Smoke was any actual kin of Preacher’s. Why wait this long to do something about it?”
“You askin’ me questions I ain’t got no answers for,” Monte replied.
Smoke stood up. “Well, you can all bet one thing. I’m damn sure going to find out!”
4
Smoke could tell that Sally was getting anxious to travel east and see her folks. She tried to hide her growing excitement, but finally she gave in and admitted she was ready to go.
Some men—perhaps many men—would have been reluctant to let their wives travel so far away from the hearth of home, especially when taking into consideration the often terrible hardships that the women of the West had to endure when compared with the lifestyle of women comfortably back east, with their orderly, structured society and policemen walking the beat.
Why, Sally had even told of indoor plumbing, complete with relief stations, not just bathing tubs. Smoke couldn’t even imagine how something like that might work. He reckoned it would take a hell of a lot of digging, but it sure would be smelly if the pipes were to clog.
“You real sure you’re up to this thing?” Smoke asked her.
“I feel fine, honey. And the doctor says I’m one hundred percent healed.”
He patted her swelling belly and grinned. “Getting a little chubby, though.”
She playfully slapped at his hand. “What are you going to do if it’s twins?”
He put a fake serious look on his face. “Well, I might just take off for the mountains!”
She put her arms around him. “Mona says all the travel arrangements are complete. She says we’ll be leaving the last part of next week.”
“She told me. The Doc and me will ride down to Denver with you and see you both off.”
“I’ll like that. And then, Smoke?…”
“You know what I have to do, Sally. And it isn’t a question of wanting to do it. It’s something I have to do.”
She lay her head on his chest. “I know. When will they ever leave us alone?”
“Maybe never, honey. Accept that. Not as long as there is some punk kid who fancies himself a gunslick and is looking to make a rep for himself. Not as long as there are bounty hunters who work for jackasses like this Rex Davidson and his kind. And not as long as there are Rex Davidsons in the world.”
“It’s all so simple for you, isn’t it, Smoke?”
He knew what she was talking about. “Yes. If we could get rid of the scum of the earth, it would be such a very nice place to live.”
With her arms still around him, feeling the awesome physical strength of the man, she said, “Didn’t you tell me that this Dagget person came from back east?”
“Yeah. That’s what Johnny told me and the sheriff. Came out here about ten years ago. Are you thinking that you know this fellow?”
“It might be the same person. Maybe. It was a long time ago, Smoke. And not an experience that I wanted to remember. I’ve tried very hard to put it out of my mind.”
“Put what out of your mind?”
She pulled away from him and walked to the open window, the curtains ruffling with the slight breeze. “It was a long time ago. I was…oh, I guess nine or ten.” She paused for a time, Smoke waiting patiently. “I finally forced myself to remember something else Dagget said that night. He said that he…had wanted to see me naked for a long time. Then he grinned. Nasty. Evil. Per-verted. Then I recalled that…experience so long ago.”
She turned to face him.
“I was…molested as a chil
d. I was not raped, but molested. By a man whom I believe to be this Dagget person. I screamed and it frightened him away. But before he left me, he slapped me and told me that if I ever told, he would kill my parents.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I never told anyone before this.”
“And you believe this Dagget is the same man?”
“I’m sure of it now. Shortly after my…incident, the man was forced to leave town; he killed a man in a lover’s quarrel.”
“All the more reason to kill the man.”
“I was not the only little girl he molested. Some were actually raped. It’s the same man,” she said flatly. “That is not something a woman ever forgets.”
“They still have warrants out for him in New Hampshire, you reckon?”
“I’m sure they do. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe I’ll bring his head back in a bag. Give it to the police.”
She shuddered. “Smoke, you don’t do things like that in New Hampshire.”
“Why? He’s worse than a rabid beast. What’s the matter with the people back east?”
“It’s called civilization, honey.”
“Is that right? Sounds to me like they got a yellow streak running up their backs.”
She shook her head and fought to hide a smile.
“If I take him alive, you want me to wrap him up in a fresh deer hide and stake him out in the sun?”
Sally sighed and looked at her man. “Smoke…no! How gruesome! What would that accomplish?”
“Pay back, Sally. Sun dries the hide around them; kills them slow. Helps to tie a fresh cut strip of green rawhide around their heads. That really lets them know they’ve done wrong; that someone is right displeased with them.”
She shuddered. “I think they would get that message, all right.”
“Almost always, Sally. Your folks back east, Sally, they’ve got this notion about treating bad men humanely. That’s what I’ve been reading. But the bad men don’t treat their victims humanely. Seems like to me, your folks got things all screwed up in their heads. You won’t have crime, Sally, if you don’t have criminals.”
She sighed, knowing there was really no argument against what he was saying. It was a hard land, this frontier, and it took a hard breed to survive. They were good to good people. Terribly brutal to those who sought the evil way.
And who was to say that the hard way was not the right way?
She smiled at her man. “I guess that’s why I love you so much, Smoke. You are so direct and straightforward in your thinking. I think you are going to be a most refreshing cool breeze to my family and friends back in New Hampshire.”
“Maybe.”
“Smoke, I am going to say this once, and I will not bring it up again. I married you, knowing full well what kind of man you are. And you are a good man, but hard. I have never tried to change you. I don’t believe that is what marriage is all about.”
“And I thank you for that, Sally.”
“I know you are going man-hunting, Smoke. And I know, like you, that it is something you have to do. I don’t always understand; but in this case, I do. My parents and brothers and sisters will not. Nor will my friends. But I do.”
“And you’re going to tell them what I’m doing?”
“Certainly. And you’ll probably be written up in the local newspaper.”
“Seems to me they ought to have more important things to write about than that.”
Sally laughed at his expression. How could she explain to him that the people back in Keene didn’t carry guns; that most had never seen a fast draw; that many of them didn’t believe high noon shoot-outs ever occurred?
He probably wouldn’t believe her. He’d have to see for himself.
“Smoke, I know that you take chances that many other men would not take. You’re a special breed. I learned early on why many people call you the last mountain man. Perhaps that is yet another of the many reasons I love you like I do. So do this for me: When you put me on that train and see me off, put me out of your mind. Concentrate solely on the job facing you. I know you have that quality about you; you do it. I will leave messages at the wire offices for you, telling you how I am and where I can be reached at all times. You try to do the same for me, whenever you can.”
“I will, Sally. And that’s a promise. But I’m going to be out-of-pocket for a couple of months, maybe longer.”
“I know. That’s all I ask, Smoke. We’ll say no more about it.” She came to him and pulled his head down, kissing him.
“I have an idea, Sally.”
“What?”
“All the hands are gone. The place is all ours. But it might hurt the baby.”
“I bet it won’t.” She smiled impishly at him.
She was right.
Smoke stood watching until the caboose was out of sight. Dr. Spalding had walked back into the station house. Spalding and his wife, Mona, along with Sally, had ridden the stage into Denver. Smoke had ridden Drifter. He had not brought a pack animal; he’d buy one in the city.
There were already laws in parts of Denver about carrying guns, so Smoke had left his twin Colts back in the hotel room. He carried a short-barreled Colt, tucked behind his belt, covered by his coat.
Smoke turned away from the now-silent twin ribbons of steel that linked the nation. “See you soon, Sally,” he muttered. He walked back into the station house.
“Are you going to stay in town for a time and see some of the shows?” Colton asked.
Smoke shook his head. “No. I’m going to gear up and pull out.” He held out his right hand and Colton shook it. “You’ll stay in touch with the doctors in Boston?”
“Yes. I’ll have progress reports for you whenever you wire Big Rock.”
“Check on Billy every now and then.”
Colton nodded. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine. You take care, Smoke.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Smoke turned and walked away.
He bought three hundred rounds of .44s. The ammo was interchangeable between rifle and pistols. He bought a tent and a ground sheet, a coffee pot and a skillet. Coffee and beans and flour and a small jug of lard. Bacon. He walked around the store, carefully selecting his articles, choosing ones he felt a back-east dandy come west might pick up to take on his first excursion into the wilds.
He bought lace-up boots and a cap, not a hat. He bought a shoulder holster for his short-barreled Colt. He bought a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun and several boxes of buckshot shells.
“Have this gear out back on the loading dock in two hours,” Smoke instructed the clerk. “That’s when I’ll be coming for it. And I’ll pay you then.”
“Yes, sir. That will be satisfactory. I shall see you in two hours.”
“Fine.”
Smoke inspected several packhorses and chose one that seemed to have a lot of bottom. Then he took a hansom to a fancy art-house and bought a dozen sketch pads and several boxes of charcoal pencils.
He had not shaved that morning at the hotel and did not plan on doing anything other than trimming his beard for a long time to come.
At a hardware store, he picked up a pair of scissors to keep his beard neat. An artist’s beard. He would cut off his beard when it came time to reveal his true identity.
When it came time for the killing.
Smoke had a natural talent for drawing, although he had never done much with it. Now, he thought with a smile, it was going to come in handy.
At the art store, the clerk was a dandy if Smoke had ever seen one, prissing around like a peacock, fussing about this and that and prancing up one aisle and down the other.
Smoke told him what he wanted and let the prissy little feller fill the bill.
Smoke studied the way the clerk walked. Wasn’t no damn way in hell he was gonna try to walk like that. Some bear might think he was in heat.
He went to a barbershop and told the barber he wanted his hair cut just like the dandies back east were wearing theirs. Just like he’d seen in a
magazine. Parted down the middle and greased back. The barber looked at him like he thought Smoke had lost his mind, but other than to give him a queer look, he made no comment. Just commenced to whacking and shaping.
Smoke did feel rather like a fop when he left the barber chair, and he hoped that he would not run into anyone he knew until his beard grew out. But in a big city like Denver—must have been four or five thousand people in the city—that was unlikely.
Smoke checked out of the hotel and got Drifter and his packhorse from the stable, riding around to the rear of the store, picking up and lashing down his supplies. His guns were rolled up and stored in a spare blanket, along with the sawed-off express gun.
He was ready.
But he waited until he got outside of the city before he stuck that damn cap on his head.
He rode southeast out of Denver, taking his time, seeing the country—again. He and old Preacher had ridden these trails, back when Smoke was just a boy. There were mighty few trails and places in Colorado that Smoke had not been; but oddly enough, down south of Canon City, down between the Isabels and the Sangre de Cristo range, was one area where Preacher had not taken him.
And now Smoke knew why that was. The old man had been protecting him.
But why so much hate on the part of this Rex Davidson? And was Sally right? Was this Dagget the same man who had molested her as a child? And how were he and Davidson connected—and why?
He didn’t know.
But he was sure going to find out.
And then he would kill them.
Smoke spent a week camped along the West Bijou, letting his beard grow out and sketching various scenes, improving upon his natural talent. He still didn’t like the silly cap he was wearing, but he stuck with it, getting used to the damned thing. And each day he combed and brushed his hair, slicking it down with goop, retraining it.
Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man) Page 27
