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

by Johnstone, William W.

  Smoke felt sure it would be Lone Eagle, and it was. He was dragged out of the saloon and onto the boardwalk. He had been badly beaten, his nose and mouth dripping blood. But his face remained impassive and he deliberately did not look at Smoke.

  “Drag that damned savage to the shooting post,” Davidson ordered. He looked at Smoke and smiled, an evil curving of the lips. “And you, Mr. Artist, you come along, too.”

  “Do I have to? I hate violence. It makes me ill. I’d be upset for days.”

  “Yes, damn it, you have to. Now get moving.”

  Smoke allowed himself to be pushed and shoved along, not putting up any resistance. He wondered if any Indians were watching from the cliffs that surrounded the outlaw town and concluded they probably were.

  And he also had a pretty good hunch what the test was going to entail.

  The crowd stopped in a large clearing. In the center of the clearing, a bullet-scarred and blood-stained post was set into the ground.

  Lone Eagle turned to face the crowd, and when he spoke, his voice was strong. “I do not need to be tied like a coward. I face death with a strong heart, and I shall die well. I will show the white man how to die with honor. Which is something that few of you know anything about.”

  The crowd of hardcases booed him.

  Lone Eagle spat at them in contempt.

  He had not as yet looked at Smoke.

  Smoke was shoved to the front of the crowd and a pistol placed into his hand.

  “What am I supposed to do with this weapon, Mr. Davidson?”

  “Kill the Indian,” Rex told him.

  “Oh, I say now!” Smoke protested shrilly. “I haven’t fired a gun in years. I detest guns. I’m afraid of them. I won’t be able to hit the savage.”

  Lone Eagle laughed at Smoke, looking at him. “The white man is a woman!” Lone Eagle shouted. And Smoke knew he was deliberately goading him. Lone Eagle knew he was going to die and preferred his death to be quick rather than slow torture, torture for the amusement of the white men gathered around. He might have chosen the slow way had he been captured by another tribe, for to die slowly and with much pain was an honor—if at the hands of other Indians. But not at the hands of the white men. “The silly-looking white man is a coward.”

  “You gonna take that from a damned Injun, Shirley?” a man shouted.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Hell, sissy-boy. Kill the bastard!”

  Smoke lifted the pistol and pretended to have trouble cocking it. He deliberately let it fire, the slug almost hitting an outlaw in the foot. Smoke shrieked as if in fright and the outlaw cussed him.

  The others thought it wildly funny.

  “Watch it there, Black!” an outlaw yelled. “He lift that muzzle up some you liable to be ridin’ side-saddle!”

  The man whose foot was just missed by the slug stepped back into the crowd and gave Smoke some dirty looks.

  “Shoot the goddamn Indian, DeBeers!” Davidson ordered.

  Smoke lifted the pistol and cocked it, taking careful aim and pulling the trigger. The slug missed Lone Eagle by several yards, digging up dirt. The outlaws hooted and laughed and began making bets as to how many rounds it would take for Smoke to hit his target.

  “Try again, Shirley,” Davidson told him, disgust in his voice.

  “What a silly, silly man you are!” Lone Eagle shouted. “If you had two pistols and a rifle and shotgun beside you, you still would not be able to hit me. It is good they are out of your sight. You might hurt yourself, foolish man.”

  Lone Eagle was telling Smoke that his weapons had been hidden as planned.

  “Shoot the damned Injun, Shirley!” Dagget hollered in Smoke’s ear.

  “All right! All right!” Smoke put a hurt expression on his face. “You don’t have to be so ugly about it!”

  Smoke fired again. The slug missed Lone Eagle by a good two feet.

  “Jesus Christ, DeBeers!” Dagget said, scorn thick in his voice.

  “The pistol was fully loaded, Shirley,” Davidson told him. “You have four rounds left.”

  Lone Eagle turned his back to Smoke and hiked up his loincloth, exposing his bare buttocks; the height of insult to a man.

  Facing the crowd, Lone Eagle shouted, “There are little girls in my village who are better shots than the white man. Your shots are nothing more than farts in the wind.”

  “If you don’t kill him,” Davidson warned, “you shall be the one to gouge out his eyes. And if you refuse, I’ll personally kill you. After I let Brute have his way with you.”

  Smoke cocked the pistol.

  Lone Eagle began chanting, and Smoke knew he was singing his death song.

  He fired again. This time, the slug came much closer. Lone Eagle’s words changed slightly. Smoke listened while he fumbled with the gun. Lone Eagle was telling him to miss him again, and then he would charge and make the outlaws kill him; it was too much to ask a friend to do so. He told him that his death could not be avoided, that it was necessary for the plan to work. That for years it would be sung around the campfires about how well Lone Eagle had died, charging the many white men with only his bare hands for a weapon.

  And it was a good way to die. The Gods had allowed a beautiful day, warm and pleasant.

  Smoke cocked the pistol and lifted it, taking aim.

  Lone Eagle sang of his own death, then abruptly he screamed and charged the line of outlaws and gunslingers. Using the scream as a ruse to miss him, Smoke emptied the pistol and fell to the ground just as Lone Eagle, with a final scream, jumped at the line and a dozen guns barked and roared, stopping him in midair, flinging him to the ground, bloody and dead.

  Rex helped Smoke up. “You’ll never change, Shirley,” he said disgustedly. “Do us all a favor and don’t ever carry a gun. You’d be too dangerous. Hell, you might accidentally hit something!”

  Smoke fanned himself. “I feel faint!”

  “If you pass out, DeBeers,” Dagget told him, contempt in his eyes and his voice, “you’ll damn well lie where you fall.”

  “I can probably make it back to the camp before I collapse,” Smoke trilled.

  “Stand aside, boys!” an outlaw said with a laugh. “Shirley’s got the vapors!”

  “Come on, boys! The drinks are on me.”

  As they passed by him, several hardcases jokingly complimented Smoke on his fine shooting.

  Smoke looked first at Davidson and Dagget, standing by his side, and then at the bullet-riddled and bloody body of Lone Eagle. “Isn’t anyone going to bury the savage?”

  Dagget laughed, cutting his eyes to Davidson. “I think that’d be a fine job for Shirley, don’t you, Rex?”

  “Yes.” That was said with a laugh. “I do. There is a shovel right over there, DeBeers.” He pointed. “Now get to it.”

  It took Smoke more than a hour to dig out a hole in the rocky soil, even though he dug it shallow, knowing the chief would take the body from the ground and give it a proper Indian burial.

  When he got back to his camp, York was laying on his blankets, looking at him, disgust in his eyes.

  Smoke flopped down on his own blankets. “What a horrible experience.”

  “They wasn’t no call to kill that Injun. He wasn’t even armed and probably was lookin’ for food. You was missin’ him deliberate, wasn’t you?”

  Smoke made up his mind and took the chance. “Yes, York, I was.”

  “I figured as much. Can’t nobody shoot that bad. ’Specially a man who was raised up on a farm the way you claim to be. You puttin’ on some sort of act, DeBeers. But you best be damn careful around here. This is a hellhole, and they ain’t nothin’ but scum livin’ here.”

  “I know. Davidson at first said if I didn’t kill the Indian, he was going to give me to Brute Pitman and then have me gouge out the Indian’s eyes.” Smoke let the mention of his putting on an act fade away into nothing, hoping York would not bring it up again.

  York lay on the ground and gazed at him.
“I heard of Brute; seen him around a couple of times. He’s a bad one. If they’d a tried that, I’d have been forced to deal myself in and help you out.”

  “You’d have gotten yourself killed.”

  “You befriended me. Man don’t stand by his friends when they in trouble ain’t much of a man or a friend. That’s just the way I am.”

  And Smoke felt the young cowboy was sincere when he said it. “I agree with you. You know, at first, they were going to make you kill the Indian.”

  “I’d a not done it,” he said flatly. “My ma was part Nez Percé. And I’m damn proud of that blood in my veins. And I don’t make no effort to hide that fact, neither.”

  And judging by the scars on his flat-knuckled hands, York had been battling over that very fact most of his life, Smoke noted.

  York followed Smoke’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m just as quick with my fists as I am with my guns.” His eyes dropped to Smoke’s big hands. “And you ain’t no pilgrim, neither, Mr. Shirley DeBeers. Or whatever the hell your name might be.”

  “Let’s just leave it DeBeers for the time being, shall we?”

  “’Kay.” York took off his battered hat and ran fingers through his tousled hair. “DeBeers?”

  “Yes, York?”

  “Let’s you and me get the hell gone from this damn place!”

  12

  There was no doubt in Smoke’s mind that York was serious and was no part of Davidson’s scheme of things in or around Dead River. The young cowboy was no outlaw and had made up his mind never to become one. But Smoke had three days to go before the deadline was up and the posse would strike. He had a hunch that would be the longest three days of his life. He looked at York for a moment before replying.

  “I’m just about through sketching Davidson. He has indicated that he would allow me to leave after that.”

  “Like I said before—and you believed him?”

  “I have no choice in the matter.”

  “I guess not. But I still think you’re draggin’ your boots for some reason. But I’ll stick around just to see what you’re up to. Don’t worry, DeBeers. I’ll keep my suspicions to myself.”

  Again, Smoke had nothing to say on that subject. “What are you going to do on the outside, York?”

  York shook his head. “I don’t know. Drift, I reckon. I just ain’t cut out for this kind of life. I think I knowed that all along. But I think I owe it to you for pointin’ it out.”

  “Stay out of sight, York.” Smoke picked up his sketch pad. “I have to go sketch Davidson. Even though I certainly don’t feel up to it.”

  “What if Davidson won’t let you leave here like he says he will?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Bridges don’t worry me,” York said glumly. “It’s that damn guarded pass that’s got me concerned.”

  The next two days passed without incident. York stayed at Smoke’s camp—and stayed close. Smoke continued his sketching of Rex Davidson, and his opinion that the man was a conceited and arrogant tyrant was confirmed. The man remained friendly enough—as friendly as he had ever been to Smoke—but Smoke could detect a change in him. He appeared tense and sometimes nervous. And there was distance between them now, a distance that had not been there before. Smoke knew that Davidson had never really intended to let him leave. He did not think that Rex suspected he was anything except the part he was playing, what he claimed to be. It was, Smoke felt, that Rex had been playing a game with him all along; a cat with a cornered mouse. A little torture before the death bite.

  “I’m becoming a bit weary of all this,” Davidson suddenly announced, breaking his pose. The afternoon of the sixth day.

  “Of what, sir?” Smoke lifted his eyes, meeting the hard gaze of the man.

  “Of posing, fool!” Davidson said sharply. “I have enough pictures. But as for you, I don’t know what to do about you.”

  “Whatever in the world are you talking about, Mr. Davidson?”

  Rex stared at him for a long moment. Then, rising from the stool where he’d been sitting, posing, he walked to a window and looked out, staring down at his outlaw town. He turned and said, “I first thought it was you; that you were the front man, the spy sent in here. Then I realized that no one except a professional actor could play the part of a fool as convincingly as you’ve done…and no actor has that much courage. Not to come in here and lay his life on the line. So you are what you claim to be. A silly fop. But I still don’t know what to do with you. I do know that you are beginning to bore me. It was the Indian. Had to be. The marshals hired the Indian to come in here and check on us.”

  “Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But Smoke knew. Somewhere in the ranks of the marshals or the sheriffs or the deputies, there was a turncoat. Now he had to find out just how much Rex Davidson knew about the plan just twenty-four hours away from bloody reality.

  And stay alive long enough to do something about it, if he could.

  “That damn woman almost had me fooled,” Davidson said, more to himself than to Smoke. He had turned his back again, not paying any attention to Smoke. “It was good fun torturing her, DeBeers; I wish you had been here to see it. Yes, indeed. I outdid myself with inventiveness. I kept her alive for a long time. I finally broke her, of course. But by the time I did, she was no more than a broken, babbling idiot. The only thing we learned was that the marshals were planning on coming in here at some time or the other. She didn’t know when.”

  “Sir, I—”

  Davidson whirled around, his face hard with anger. “Shut your goddamn mouth, DeBeers!” He shouted. “And never interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, she was raped—among other things. The men enjoyed taking their perversions upon her.” He was pacing the room. “Repeatedly. I enjoyed listening to her beg for mercy. Dagget can be quite inventive, too. But finally I wearied of it, just as I am rapidly wearying of you, DeBeers. You’re really a Milquetoast, Shirley. I think I’ll put you in a dress and parade you around. Yes. That is a thought.”

  Smoke kept his mouth shut.

  Davidson turned back to the window, gazing out over his town of scum and filth and perversion. “I have not left this place in years. I stay aware of what is going on outside, of course. But I have not left this valley in years. It’s mine, and no one is going to take it from me. I will not permit it. I know an attack is coming. But I don’t know when.”

  Smoke knew then why the sudden influx of outlaws. Somehow, probably through outriders, Davidson had gotten the word out to them: If you want to save your refuge, you’d better be prepared to fight for it.

  Or something like that.

  With King Rex, however, it had probably been put in a much more flowery way.

  “Ah, sir, Your Majesty?” Smoke verbally groveled, something he was getting weary of.

  “What do you want, Shirley?”

  “May I take my leave now, Your Magesty?”

  “Yes, you silly twit!” Davidson did not turn from the window. “And stay out of my sight, goofy. I haven’t made up my mind exactly what I’m going to do with you. Get out, fool!”

  I’ve made up my mind what to do with you, King Rex, Smoke thought, on his way out. And about this time tomorrow, you’re going to be in for a very large surprise. One that I’m going to enjoy handing you.

  He gently closed the door behind him. He was smiling as he walked down the hill from the King’s house. He had to work to get the smile off his lips before he entered the long main street of Dead River.

  In twenty-four hours, he would finally and forever shed his foppish costume and strap on his guns.

  And then Dr. Jenson would begin administering to a very sick town.

  With gunsmoke and lead.

  Smoke was conscious of York staring at him. He had been sliding furtive glances his way for several hours now, and Smoke knew the reason for the looks. He could feel the change coming over hi
m. He would have to be very careful the remainder of this day, for he was in no mood to continue much longer with his Shirley DeBeers act.

  York had just returned from town and had been unusually quiet since getting back. He finally broke his silence.

  “DeBeers?”

  “Yes, York?”

  “I gotta tell you. The word is out that come the morning, you’re gonna be tossed to the wolves. Davidson is gonna declare you fair game for anybody. And you know what that means.”

  Mid-afternoon of the seventh day.

  “Brute Pitman.”

  “Among other things,” York said.

  “What size boots do you wear, York?”

  “Huh! Man, didn’t you hear me? We got to get the hell gone from this place. And I mean we got to plan on how to do it right now!”

  “I heard you, York. Just relax. What size boots do you wear?”

  The cowboy signed. “Ten.”

  “That’s my size. How about that?” Smoke grinned at him.

  “Wonderful!” The comment was dryly given. “You lookin’ at gettin’ kilt, and you all het up about us wearin’ the same size boots. You weird, DeBeers.”

  With a laugh, Smoke handed York some money. “Go to the store and buy me a good pair of boots. Black. Get me some spurs. Small stars, not the big California rowels. Don’t say a word about who you’re buying them for. We’ll let that come as a surprise for them. Think you can do that for me, York?”

  “Why, hell, yes, I can! What do you think I am, some sort of dummy? Boots? ’Kay. But I best get you some walkin’ heels.”

  “Riding heels, York,” Smoke corrected, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his new friend’s face. “And how many boxes of shells do you have?”

  “One and what’s in my belt. Now why in the hell are you askin’ that?”

  “Buy at least three more boxes. When you get back, I’ll explain. Now then, what else have you heard about me, York?”

  “You ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It might give me more incentive to better do the job that faces me.”