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

by Johnstone, William W.

Sally then explained to her parents what her husband was doing.

  “Are you telling us, expecting us to believe,” John said, astonishment in his voice, “that your husband…ah…Smoke, one man, is going to…ah…attack and destroy an entire town of thugs and hooligans and ne’er-do-wells—all by himself? Now, really, Sally!”

  “Oh, he’s found some help. And I think you will approve of his methods, Father, or what you think his methods will be—in your New England straight-by-the book mind.”

  “You disapprove of law and order, Sally?”

  “Of course not, Father. Your way works here; our way works for us in the West. This will not be the first time Smoke has taken on an entire town.” Then she told them about the shoot-out at the silver camp and what had happened in Bury, Idaho.

  Her parents sat in silence and stared at her.

  “And you can believe what I say, the both of you. I was in Bury. I saw it all. When Smoke gets his back up, you better get out of the way. ’Cause he’s going to haul it out, cock it back, and let her bang.”

  “The finest schools in the country and Europe,” John muttered. “And she hauls it out and lets her bang. Incredible.”

  Sally laughed openly at the expression on her father’s face. “It’s just a western expression, father.”

  “It’s just that it is terribly difficult for us, here in the long-settled East, to fully understand the ways of the West, Sally,” Abigal said. “But we don’t doubt for a moment what you’ve told us. Sally, when Smoke comes out here for a visit, will he be armed?”

  “If he’s got his pants on.”

  John looked heavenward, shook his head, and sighed. “Yet another delightful colloquialism.”

  Sally reached into a pocket of her dress—she was getting too large to wear jeans, but she would have loved to do so, just to see the expression on her parents’ faces—and took out a piece of paper. “This wire came this morning, while you both were out. It’s from Smoke.”

  “Shall I contact the governor and have him call out the militia?” John asked his daughter, only half-joking. He wanted to meet his son-in-law, certainly; but he had absolutely no idea what to expect. And just the thought of an armed western gunfighter riding into the town made him slightly nauseous.

  Sally laughed at him. “You’re both thinking my husband to be some sort of savage. Well,” she shrugged her shoulders, “when he has to be, he is, to your way of thinking. Yet, he is a fine artist, well-read, and highly intelligent. He knows the social graces; certainly knows what fork and spoon to use. But we don’t go in for much of that where we live. In the West, eating is serious business, and not much chitchat goes on at the table. But I really think you’ll like Smoke if you’ll give him just half a chance.”

  Abigal reached over and patted Sally’s hand. “I know we will, dear. And of course he’ll be welcomed here. Now please tell us what is in the wire. I’m fairly bursting with excitement.” She looked at her husband. “This is the most exhilarating thing that’s happened in Keene in twenty years, John!”

  “Not yet, dear,” John said. “Smoke hasn’t yet arrived in town, remember.”

  Sally laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. She read from the wire. “Smoke has been appointed a deputy U.S. Marshal. This is from the marshal’s office in Denver. He has entered the outlaw town in disguise. They’ll wire me when the operation has been concluded.”

  “Well!” John said, obviously pleased. “I’m happy to hear that your husband has chosen the legal way, Sally. He’ll properly arrest the criminals and bring them to trial the way it’s supposed to be, according to the laws of this land.”

  Sally smiled. “Father, do you believe pigs can fly like birds?”

  “What! Of course not.”

  “Father, the only law Smoke is going to hand out to those outlaws will be coming out of the muzzles of his .44s. And you can believe that.”

  “But he’s an officer of the law!” the man protested. “More than that, he is operating under a federal badge. He must see to due process. That is his sworn duty!”

  Sally’s smile was grim. “Oh, he’ll see that the outlaws get their due, Father. Trust me.”

  Smoke made his camp at the very edge of town, pitching his tent and unrolling his blankets. He gathered and stacked wood for a fire. Saving his meager supplies, he cut a pole and rigged it for fishing, walking to a little stream not far away. There he caught his supper, all the while letting his eyes stay busy, checking out the terrain. The stream had to come from somewhere; it didn’t just come out of the ground here. For it was full of trout.

  He had deliberately made his camp far enough away so he could not hear the terrible cries and the begging of those men and women at the far end of town, being tortured to death. He wished desperately to help, but he knew for the moment, he was powerless to do so.

  Huge peaks rose stately and protectively all around the little valley that housed Dead River. Smoke wondered where and how it had gotten its name. At first glance, he could understand why a lot of people would believe the myth of one way in and one way out. But Smoke knew that was crap, and he felt that most of the outlaws knew it as well. But those who would try to seek escape, when the attack came, would be in for a very ugly surprise when they tried those secret trails. White Wolf and his braves would be in hiding, waiting for them.

  As Smoke had ridden to his camp, he had seen the compound where some prisoners were being held; but mostly the town itself was a prison, and he had noticed many slaves had free access to the town.

  They obviously had been convinced, probably very brutally, that there was no way out except for the road, so why lock them up? But they were probably locked up at night. The compound, then, must be for any newcomers to the town. Or perhaps those were people being punished for some infraction of the rules.

  Or waiting to die.

  He wondered if the marshal’s plant, Hope Farris, was in the compound.

  Or had she been discovered and killed?

  He cleaned his fish and cooked his supper, all the while watching the comings and goings of the outlaws. So far, few had paid any attention to him.

  Smoke judged the number of outlaws in the town at right around two hundred, and that was not counting the shopkeepers and clerks and whores. Rex Davidson had himself a profitable operation going here, Smoke concluded, and he was sure King Rex got his slice of the pie from every store in town and from every whore who worked.

  Not that there were that many stores; Smoke had counted six. But they were all huge stores. By far, the biggest place in town was the livery stable and barns, a half dozen of them, all connected by walkways. And during bad weather, many men, Smoke guessed, would live and sleep in those barns. He knew that this high up the winters would be brutal ones.

  And so far, Smoke had not seen the man called Dagget. He felt sure he would recognize him from Sally’s description. Already he had seen a dozen or more hardcases he had brushed trails with years back; but his disguise had worked. They had paid him no mind, other than a quick glance and equally quick dismissal as being nothing more than a fop and totally harmless.

  He wondered if Lone Eagle had hidden his guns behind the privy yet, then decided he had not. Not enough time had gone by since Smoke had met with the brave at the head of the creek.

  Smoke heard a harsh shriek of pain from a shack across the wide road. Then a man’s voice begging somebody not to do something again. Wild cursing followed by more shrieks of pain.

  The door to the cabin was flung open and Smoke watched as a naked man ran out into the road. He was screaming. Then the obscene bulk of Brute Pitman appeared in the door of the shack. He was shirtless, his galluses hanging down to his knees. Brute held a long-barreled pistol in his hand.

  The face of the running man was a mask of terror and pain. His body bore the bruises and markings of the many beatings he had endured until he could no longer take any more of it. And because he was naked, Smoke knew that beatings were not the only t
hing the man had been forced to endure.

  But the man’s agony was about to end, Smoke noted, watching as Brute lifted the pistol and jacked the hammer back, shooting the man in the back. The naked man stumbled, screamed, and fell forward, sliding on his face in the dirt and the gravel. The bullet had gone clear through the man, tearing a hole in his chest as it exited. The man kicked once, and then was still.

  “How shocking!” Smoke said.

  Brute turned, looking at him. “You, come here!” he commanded.

  “Not on your life, you obscene tub of lard!”

  A dozen outlaws had stopped what they were doing and they were motioning for others to come join them; come listen and watch. For sure, they thought, the fop was about to get mauled.

  Brute stepped away from his shack. “What’d you call me, sissy-boy?”

  Smoke could see Rex Davidson and another man, dressed all in black from his boots to his hat, walking up the dirt street to join the crowd.

  Dagget.

  And he wore his guns as Smoke preferred to wear his: the left hand Colt high and butt-forward, using a cross draw.

  It was going to be a very interesting match when it came, Smoke thought. For no man wore his guns like that and lived very long, unless he was very, very quick.

  Smoke turned his attention back to Brute. The man had moved closer to him. And, Jesus God, was he big and ugly! He was so ugly he could make a buzzard puke.

  “Is aid you were a fat tub of lard, blubber-butt!” Smoke shouted, his voice high-pitched.

  “I’ll tear your damn head off!” Brute shouted, and began lumbering toward Smoke.

  “Only if you can catch me!” Smoke shouted. “Can’t catch me, can’t catch me!”

  He began running around in circles, taunting the huge man.

  The outlaws thought it funny, for few among them liked Brute and all could just barely tolerate his aberrant appetites. He lived in Dead River because there he could do as he pleased with slaves, and because he could afford the high rent, paying yearly in gold. He left the place only once a year, for one month to the day. Those who tried to follow him, to find and steal his cache of stolen gold, were never seen again.

  Smoke knew that he could never hope to best Brute in any type of rough and tumble fight—not if he stayed within the limits of his foppish charade—for Brute was over three hundred pounds and about six and a half feet tall. But he was out of shape, with a huge pus-gut, and if Smoke could keep the ugly bastard running around after him for several minutes, then he might stand a chance of besting him and staying known as a sissy.

  It was either that or getting killed by the huge man, and the odds of Smoke getting killed were strong enough without adding to it.

  Smoke stopped and danced around, his fists held in the classic fighter’s stance. He knew he looked like a fool in his fancy-colored britches and silk shirt and stupid cap with a feather stuck in it.

  “I warn you!” Smoke yelled, his voice shrill. “I am an expert pugilist!”

  “I’m gonna pugile you!” Brute panted, trying to grab Smoke.

  “First you have to catch me!” Smoke taunted. “Can’t catch me!”

  The outlaws were all laughing and making bets as to how long Smoke would last when Brute got his hands on him, and some were making suggestions as to how much they would pay to see Brute do his other trick, with Smoke on the receiving end of it.

  “No way, hombre!” Smoke muttered, darting around Brute. But this time he got a little too close, and Brute got a piece of Smoke’s silk shirt and spun him around.

  Jerking him closer, Brute grinned, exposing yellowed and rotted teeth. “Got ya!”

  Smoke could smell the stink of Brute’s unwashed body and the fetid animal smell of his breath.

  Before Brute could better his hold on Smoke, Smoke balled his right hand into a hard fist and, with a wild yell, gave Brute five, right on his big bulbous nose.

  Brute hollered and the blood dripped. Smoke tore free and once more began running around and around the man, teasing and taunting him. The crowd roared their approval, but the laughter ceased as Smoke lost his footing, slipping to the ground, and Brute was on him, his massive hands closing around Smoke’s throat, clamping off his supply of air.

  “I’ll not kill you this way,” Brute panted, slobber from his lips dripping onto Smoke’s face. “I have other plans for you, pretty-boy.”

  Smoke twisted his head and bit Brute on the arm, bringing blood. With a roaring curse, Brute’s hand left his throat and Smoke twisted from beneath him, rolling and coming to his feet. He looked wildly around him, spotting a broken two-by-four and grabbing it. The wood was old and somewhat rotten, but it would still make a dandy club.

  Brute was shouting curses and advancing toward him.

  Smoke tried the club, right on the side of Brute’s head. The club shattered and the blood flew, but still the big man would not go down.

  He shook his head and grinned at Smoke.

  “All right, you nasty ne’er-do-well,” Smoke trilled at him. “I hate violence, but you asked for this.”

  Then he hit Brute with everything he had, starting the punch chest-high and connecting with Brute’s jaw. This time when Brute hit the ground, he stayed there.

  Smoke began shaking his right hand and moaning as if in pain, which he was not.

  He heard Davidson say, “Doc, look at DeBeers’s hand. See if it’s broken. Sheriff Danvers? If DeBeers’s hand is broken and he can’t draw, shoot Brute.”

  “Yes, sir,” the so-called sheriff said.

  An old whiskey-breathed and unshaven man checked Smoke’s hand and pronounced it unbroken.

  Smoke turned to Rex Davidson. “I am sorry about this incident, sir. I came in peace. I will leave others alone if they do the same for me.”

  Davidson looked first at the unconscious Brute, then at Smoke. “You start drawing me first thing in the morning. Sheriff Danvers?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When Brute comes out of it, advise him I said to leave Mr. DeBeers alone. Tell him he may practice his sickening perversions on the slaves, but not on paying guests.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He once more looked at Smoke. “Breakfast at my house. Eight o’clock in the morning. Be there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smoke replied, and did not add the “Majesty” bit.

  “Does this place offend your delicate sensibilities, Mr. DeBeers?” Davidson asked.

  “Since you inquired, yes, it does.”

  It was after breakfast, and Davidson was posing for the first of many drawings.

  “Why, Mr. DeBeers?” For some reason, Davidson had dropped the “Jester” bit.

  “Because of the barbarous way those unfortunate people at the edge of town are treated. That’s the main reason.”

  “I see. Interesting. But in England, Mr. DeBeers, drawing and quartering people in public was only stopped a few years ago. And is not England supposed to be the bastion of civilized law and order…more or less?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Well, this is still a young country, so it’s going to take us a while to catch up.”

  What an idiotic rationalization, Smoke thought. Louis Longmont would be appalled. “Yes, sir, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Don’t pander to me, Mr. DeBeers. You most certainly do not think I am right.”

  “But when I do speak my mind, I get slapped or struck down.”

  “Only in public, Mr. DeBeers. When we are alone, you may speak your mind.”

  “Thank you, sir. In that case, I find this entire community the most appalling nest of human filth I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!”

  Davidson threw back his head and laughed. “Of course, you do! But after a time, one becomes accustomed to it. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t plan on staying that long, sir.” Smoke looked at King Rex, checking for any signs of annoyance. He could see none.

  Instead, the man only smiled. “Why would you want to
leave here?”

  Smoke stopped sketching for a moment, to see if the man was really serious. He was. “To continue on with my journey, sir. To visit and sketch the West.”

  “Ah! But you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world right around you. Plus many of the most famous outlaws and gunfighters in the West. You could spend a lifetime here and not sketch it all, could you not?”

  “That is true, but two of the people I want to meet and sketch are not here.”

  “Oh? And who might those be?”

  “The mountain man, Preacher, and the gunfighter, Smoke Jensen.”

  The only sign of emotion from the man was a nervous tic under his right eye. “Then you should wait here, Mr. DeBeers, for I believe Jensen is on his way.”

  “Oh, really, sir! Then I certainly shall wait. Oh, I’m so excited.”

  “Control yourself, Shirley.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Getting back to this place…The west, from what I have been able to see, is changing almost daily. Settling. Surely this town is known for what it really is?”

  Davidson met his eyes. “So?”

  “Do you think this will go on forever and ever? As the town becomes known outside of this immediate area, the citizens will eventually grow weary of it and demand that the Army storm the place.”

  “Ummm. Yes, you’re probably right. And I have given that much thought of late. But, young man,”—he smiled and held up a finger, breaking his pose—“this town has been here for twenty years and still going. How do you account for that?”

  “Well, when you first came here, I suppose there were no others towns nearby. Now all that has changed. Civilization is all around you and closing in. That, sir, is why I wanted to come west now, before the wild West is finally tamed.”

  “Ummm. Well, you are a thinking man, Mr. DeBeers, and I like that. There is so little intellectual stimulation to be found around here.” He abruptly stood up. “I am weary of posing.” He walked around to look at the sketch. “Good. Very good. Excellent, as a matter of fact. I thought it would be. I have arranged for you to take your meals at the Bon Ton Café. I will want at least a hundred of your sketches of me. Some with an outside setting. When that is done, to my satisfaction, then you may leave. Good day, Mr. DeBeers.”