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

by Johnstone, William W.

  York shook his head. “Weird, DeBeers. That’s you. Well, that Jake feller? He’s been makin’ his brags about how he’s gonna make you hunker down in the street and eat a pile of horse-droppin’s.”

  “Oh, is he now?”

  “Yeah. He likes to be-little folks. That Jake, he’s cruel mean, DeBeers. That one and them that run with him is just plain no-good. He makes ever’ slave that comes in here do that. I’ve had half a dozen or more men tell me that. All the men here, they think it’s funny watchin’ Jake force folks to eat that mess.”

  “I wonder how Jake would like to eat a poke of it himself?”

  York grinned. “Now that’d be a sight to see!”

  “Don’t give up hope, York. Would you please go get my stuff for me?”

  “Sure.” He turned, then stopped and whirled around to face Smoke. “I can’t figure you, DeBeers. You’ve changed. I noticed that this morning.”

  “We’ll talk when you get back, York. Be careful down in town. I think things are getting a bit tense.”

  “That ain’t exactly the way I’d put it, but whatever you say.” He walked off toward town, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. Smoke smiled at the young man and then set about preparing himself mentally for what the night held in store.

  And he knew only too well what lay before him when the dusk settled into darkness in the outlaw town.

  There was no fear in Smoke; no sweaty palms or pounding heart. He was deathly calm, inside and out. And he did not know if that was an asset or liability. He knew caution, for no man lived by the gun without knowing what was about him at all times. But Smoke, since age sixteen, had seldom if ever at all experienced anything even remotely akin to fear.

  He sat down on his ground sheet and blankets and calmly set about making a pot of coffee. He looked up at the sound of boots striking the gravel. Brute Pitman stopped a few yards away, grinning at him.

  “Go away, Bruce. The smell of you would stop a buzzard in flight.”

  Brute cussed him.

  Smoke smiled at him.

  “I’m gonna enjoy hearin’ you holler, pretty-boy,” Brute told him, slobber leaking past his fat lips. “With you, I’m gonna make it las’ a long time.”

  Smoke made no reply, just sat on the ground and stared at the hulking mass of perversion. He allowed his eyes to do the talking, and they silently spoke volumes to the big slob.

  Brute met the gaze and Smoke’s smile was wider still as something shifted in the hulk’s eyes. Was it fear touching Brute’s dark eyes? Smoke felt sure that it was, and that thought amused him. Brute Pitman was like so many men his size, a bully from boyhood. He had bulled and heavy-shouldered his way through life, knowing his sheer size would keep most from fighting back. But like most bullies, Brute was a coward at heart.

  “Something the matter, Brute?”

  That took him by surprise. “Huh! Naw, they ain’t nothin’ the matter with me, sissy-boy. Nothin’,” he added, “that come night won’t clear.”

  “You best watch the night, Brute,” Smoke cautioned. “Night is a time when death lays close to a man.”

  “Huh! Whatda you talkin’ ’bout now, pretty boy. I don’t think you even know. I think you so scared you peein’ your drawers.”

  Smoke laughed at him. Now he didn’t care. It was too close to the deadline to matter. By now, the men from the posse would be approaching the ranch and would be changing horses for the last time before entering the mountain pass. Already, the Utes would be slipping into place, waiting for the guards to change.

  Everything was in motion; it could not be stopped now.

  “Get out of my sight, Brute. You sickin’ me.”

  Brute hesitated, then mumbled something obscene under his breath and walked down the small hill. Twice he stopped and looked back at Smoke. Smoke gave him the finger, jabbing the air with his middle finger.

  “Crazy!” Brute said. “The bassard’s crazy! Done took leave of his senses.”

  Smoke heard the comment and smiled.

  Brute met Cat Ventura on his way down. The men did not speak to each other. Cat stood over Smoke, staring down at him.

  “I would wish you a good afternoon,” Smoke told him, “but with you here, it is anything but that.”

  Cat stared at him, ignoring the remark; Smoke was not sure the man even knew what he meant by it. “I seen you somewheres before, artist,” the gunfighter, outlaw, and murderer said. “And you wasn’t drawin’ no pitchers on paper, neither.”

  “Perhaps if you dwell on it long enough, it will come to you in time, Mister-whatever-your-name is. Not that I particularly care at this juncture.”

  “Huh! Boy, you got a damn smart mouth on you, ain’t you? I’m Cat Ventura.”

  “Not a pleasure, I’m sure. Very well, Mr. Meow. If you came up here to ask me to sketch you, my studio is closed for the time being. Perhaps some other time; like in the next century.”

  “You piss-headed smart ass! When the time comes, I think I’ll jist stomp your guts out; see what color they is. How ’bout that, sissy-pants?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Purr. I really have my doubts about you doin’ that.”

  Before he turned away to walk back down the hill, Cat said, “I know you from somewheres. It’ll come to me. I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll certainly be here.”

  Smoke lay on his ground sheet and watched a passing parade of outlaws visit him during the next few minutes. Some walked up and stared at him. A few made open threats on his life.

  He would have liked to ask why the sudden shift in their attitude toward him, but he really wasn’t all that interested in the why of it.

  Smoke checked the mountain sky. About three hours until dusk. He rose from the ground and got his fishing pole, checking the line and hook. Jake and Shorty and Red had been watching him, hunkered down at the base of the hill. Out of the corner of his eyes, Smoke saw them all relax and reach for the makings, rolling and lighting cigarettes. He stepped back into the timber behind his camp, as if heading for the little creek to fish and catch his supper. Smoke assumed his line of credit at the Bon Ton Café had been cut off. The food hadn’t been all that good anyway.

  Out of sight of the trio of outlaws, Smoke dropped his pole and walked toward the center of town, staying inside the thin timber line until he was opposite the privy and the pile of lumber behind the saloon. He quickly stepped to the lumber, moved a couple of boards, and spotted the rolled-up packet.

  The back door to the saloon opened, a man stepping out. “What you doin’, boy? Sneakin’ around here. You tryin’ to slip out, pretty-pants?”

  Smoke looked up as the man closed the door behind him and walked toward him. His hand closed around a sturdy two-by-four, about three feet long and solid. “Just borrowing a few boards, sir. I thought I might build a board floor for my tent. Is that all right with you?”

  The outlaw stepped closer, Smoke recognizing him as a wanted murderer. “No, it ain’t all right with me. You jist git your butt on out of here.”

  Smoke could smell the odor of rotting human flesh from those unfortunates hanging from the meat hooks at the edge of town. Those few still alive were moaning and crying out in pain.

  Smoke looked around him. They were alone. He smiled at the outlaw. “Playtime is all over, you bastard.”

  “What’d you say to me, fancy-pants?” The man stepped closer, almost within swinging distance. Just a few feet more and Smoke would turn out the man’s lights. Forever.

  “I said you stink like sheep-shit and look like the ass end of a donkey.”

  Cursing, growling deep in his throat, the outlaw charged Smoke. Smoke jerked up the two-by-four and laid the lumber up against the man’s head. The outlaw stopped, as if he had run into a stone wall. His skull popped under the impact. He dropped to the earth, dying, blood leaking from his ears and nose and mouth.

  Smoke dropped the two-by-four and quickly dragged the man behind the privy, stretching him out full length behind
the two-holer. He could only be seen from the timber.

  Smoke took the man’s two .44s and punched out the shells from the loops of his belt. He grabbed up his own guns and walked back into the timber, heading for his campsite.

  He was smiling, humming softly.

  They had said their good-byes to their wives and kids and girlfriends and swung into the saddle, pointing the noses of their horses north, toward the outlaw town.

  One deputy from an adjoining county had been caught trying to make it alone to Dead River. He had been brought back to face Jim Wilde. It turned out his brother was one of the outlaws living in Dead River. The deputy was now locked down hard in his own jail, under heavy guard.

  The members of the posse were, to a man, hard-faced and grim. All knew that some of them would not live through the night that lay before them. And while none of them wanted to die, they knew that what lay ahead of them was something that had to be done, should have been done a long time back. The outlaw town had been a blight on society for years, and the time had come to destroy it and all who chose to reside within its confines.

  The riders each carried at least two pistols belted around their waists. Most had two more six-guns, either tucked behind their belts or carried in holsters, tied to their saddles. All carried a rifle in the boot; some had added a shotgun, the express guns loaded with buckshot. The men had stuffed their pockets full of .44s, .45s, and shotgun shells.

  The posse rode at a steady, distance-covering gait; already they had changed horses and were now approaching Red Davis’s place. While the hands switched saddles, the men of the posse grabbed and wolfed down a sandwich and coffee, then refilled canteens. All checked their guns, wiping them free of dust and checking the action.

  “Wish I was goin’ with you,” Davis said. “I’d give a thousand dollars to see that damn town burned slap to the ground.”

  Wilde nodded his head. “Red, there’ll be doctors and the like comin’ out here and settin’ up shop ’bout dark. Some of us are gonna be hard-hit and the slaves in that town are gonna be in bad shape. You got your wagon ready to meet us at the mouth of the pass?”

  “All hitched up.” He spat on the ground. “And me and my boys will take care of any stragglers that happen to wander out when the shootin’ starts.”

  Jim Wilde smiled grimly. Between the Utes and Red Davis’s hard-bitten hands, any outlaws who happened to escape were going to be in for a very rough time of it. Red’s ranch had been the first in the area, and the old man was as tough as leather—and so were his hands.

  Red clasped Jim on the shoulder. “Luck to you, boy. And I wanna meet this Smoke Jensen. That there is my kind of man.”

  Jim nodded and turned, facing the sixty-odd men of the posse. The U.S. Marshal wore twin .44s, tied down. He carried another .44 in his shoulder holster and a rifle and a shotgun in the boots, on his horse. “All right, boys. This is the last jumpin’-off place. From here on in, they’s no turnin’ back. You gotta go to the outhouse, get it done now. When we get back into the saddle, we ain’t stoppin’ until we’re inside Dead River.” He glanced at the sinking sun. “Smoke’s gonna open up the dance in about an hour—if he’s still alive,” he added grimly. “And knowin’ him he is. Anybody wanna back out of this?”

  No one did.

  “Let’s ride!”

  The guards along the pass road had just changed, the new guards settling in for a long and boring watch. Nothing ever happened; a lot of the time many of them dozed off. They would all sleep this dusky evening. Forever.

  One guard listened for a few seconds. Was that a noise behind him? He thought it was. He turned, brought his rifle up, and came face to face with a war-painted Indian. He froze, opening his mouth to yell a warning. The shout was forever locked in his throat as an axe split his skull. The Ute caught the bloody body before it could fall to the ground and lowered it to the earth. The body would never be found; time and wind and rain and the elements and animals would dispose of the flesh and scatter the bones. A hundred years later, small boys playing would discover the gold coins the outlaw had had in his pockets and would wonder how the money came to be in this lonely spot.

  His job done, for the moment, the brave slipped back into the timber and waited.

  Up and down the heavily guarded narrow road, the guards were meeting an end just as violent as the life they had chosen to live. And they had chosen it; no one had forced them into it. One outlaw guard, who enjoyed torturing Indians, especially children, and raping squaws, was taken deep into the timber, gagged, stripped, and staked out. Then he was skinned—alive.

  Their first job done, the Indians quietly slipped back and took their positions around the outlaw town of Dead River. With the patience bred into them, they waited and watched, expressionless.

  York looked up and blinked, at first not recognizing the tall muscular man who was walking toward him, out of the timber. Then he recognized him.

  “Damn, DeBeers. I didn’t know you at first. How come you shaved off your beard?”

  “It was time. And my name is not DeBeers.”

  “Yeah. I kinda figured it was a phony. And I didn’t believe that Shirley bit, neither.”

  “That’s right. You get my boots and spurs?”

  York pointed to a bag on the ground. He had never seen such a change in any man. The man standing in front of him looked…awesome!

  Smoke was dressed all in black, from his boots to his shirt. His belt was black with inlaid silver that caught the last glows of the setting sun. He wore a red bandana around his neck. He had buckled on twin .44s, the left handgun worn butt-forward, cross-draw style. He had shoved two more .44s behind his belt.

  “Ah…man, you best be careful with them guns,” York cautioned. “You packin’ enough for an army. Are you fixin’ to start a war around here?”

  “That is my hope, York.”

  “Yeah?” Somehow, that did not come as any surprise to York. There was something about this tall man that was just…well, unsettling. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, hot, strong, and black. He looked at the tall man. Naw, he thought, it couldn’t be. But he sure looked like all the descriptions York had ever heard about the gunfighter. “Who are you, man?”

  Smoke pulled a badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “I’m a United States Deputy Marshal. And as far as I’m concerned, York, all those warrants against you are not valid. And when we get out of here, I’ll see that they are recalled. How does that sound to you?”

  York took a sip of coffee. Oddly, to Smoke, he had shown no surprise. “Sounds good to me, Marshal.” He stood up and pulled a gold badge out of his pocket and pinned it on his shirt. “Buddy York is the name. Arizona Rangers. I was wonderin’ if you plan on corralin’ this town all by your lonesome.”

  “That’s a good cover story of yours, Ranger,” Smoke complimented him.

  “Well, took us six months to set it up. The dodgers that are out are real. Had to be that way.”

  “I gather you have warrants for some people in here?”

  “A whole passel of them, including some on Dagget.”

  “There is a large posse on the way in. They’ll be here just at dusk. The Utes have taken care of the guards along the road.”

  York looked up at the sky. “That’s a good hour and a half away, Marshal.” He was grinning broadly.

  “That’s the way I got it figured, Ranger. Of course, you do know that you have no jurisdiction in this area?”

  “I’ll worry about that later.”

  “Consider yourself deputized with full government authority.”

  “I do thank you, Marshal.”

  “You ready to open this dance, Ranger?” Smoke sat down on a log and buckled on his spurs. He looked up as York opened another bag and tossed him a black hat, low crowned and flat brimmed. “Thanks. I am ever so glad to be rid of that damned silly cap.” He tried the hat. A perfect fit.

  “You did look a tad goofy. But I got to hand it to you. You’re one hell o
f a fine actor.”

  Both men stuffed their pockets full of shells.

  Rifle in hand, York said, “What is your handle, anyways?”

  “Smoke Jensen,” the tall, heavily muscled man said with a smile.

  York’s knees seemed to buckle and he sat down heavily on a log. When he found his voice, he said, “Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ!”

  “I’m new to the marshaling business, Ranger. I just took this on a temporary basis.” Then he explained what had happened at his ranch, to his wife.

  “Takes a low-life SOB to attack a lone woman. I gather you want Davidson and Dagget and them others all to yourself, right?”

  “I would appreciate it, Ranger.”

  “They’re all yours.”

  Smoke checked his guns, slipping them both in and out of leather a few times. He filled both cylinders and every loop on his gunbelt, then checked the short-barreled pistol he carried in his shoulder holster. Breaking open the sawed-off shotgun, he filled both barrels with buckshot loads. Smoke looked on with approval as the ranger pulled two spare .44s out of his warbag and loaded them full. He tucked them behind his belt and picked up a Henry repeating rifle, loading it full and levering in a round, then replacing that round in the magazine.

  “I’ll tell you how I see this thing, Ranger. You don’t have to play this way, but I’m going to.”

  “I’m listenin’, Smoke.”

  “I’m not taking any prisoners.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it myself.”

  The men smiled at each other, knowing then exactly where the other stood.

  Their pockets bulging with extra cartridges, York carrying a Henry and Smoke carrying the sawed-off express gun, they looked at each other.

  “You ready to strike up the band, Ranger?”

  “Damn right!” York said with a grin.

  “Let’s do it!”

  13

  Marshal Jim Wilde’s posse had an hour to go before reaching Dead River when Smoke and York stepped into the back of the saloon. Inside, the piano player was banging out and singing a bawdy song.