Trail of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “They’re going to try,” Smoke said softly correcting him.

  “Where did you hear this, boy?” Hunt asked.

  “I was up in the loft getting ready to fork hay down to the horses when the men came inside the barn. I hunkered down in the loft and listened to them talk. They’s five of them, Smoke. Valentine, Suggs, Bolton, Harris, and Wright.”

  “I’ve heard of Valentine,” Smoke said. “He’s a gunhawk. Draws fighting wages from Franklin.”

  “His name was mentioned too,” the boy continued. “They said Mister Franklin told them to nip this matter in the bud and end it. If you was to die, they said, the other nests would crumble like a house of cards. They said the new law was on their side and Mister Franklin told them they didn’t have nothin’ to worry about from that end.”

  “I suggest we go see the new sheriff immediately,” Hunt said. “Let him handle this matter.”

  Billy shook his head. “I don’t know who you are, mister. But you don’t understand the way things are. Monte Carson is Franklin’s man. Franklin says frog, Carson jumps. Judge Proctor is an old wine-head from over the Delores way. Franklin brung him in here to stick him in as judge. It’s all cut and dried. All made up agin Smoke.”

  “Incredible!” Haywood said. “Oh, I believe you, son.” He looked at Billy. “Activities of this sort are not confined solely to the West.”

  Billy blinked and looked at Smoke. “What’d he say?”

  “Happens in other places too.”

  “Oh.”

  “If that is the case, Smoke,” Hunt said, “then you must run for your life.”

  Smoke’s eyes turned icy. He looked at the lawyer. “I don’t run, Lawyer.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Haywood asked.

  “You’ve all three heard Billy’s statement. A newspaper man, a lawyer, a minister.” Smoke smiled with a grim wolfs baring of his teeth. “Take Billy’s story down. I see a way to make Tilden Franklin eat crow on this matter and backpaddle.”

  “What are you going to do, Smoke?” Preacher Morrow inquired.

  “Fight,” Smoke said.

  “But there’s five of them!” Hunt protested. “Five against one of you.”

  “I’ve faced tougher odds, Lawyer.” He looked at Billy. “Where is it going down, Billy?”

  “They’re gonna brace you in the stable.”

  Smoke nodded his head. “After these gentlemen take your story on paper, Billy, you get the horses out of there. I don’t want to see a good horse die on account of trash like Tilden’s men.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Smoke looked at the three men. “I’ll be heading down that way in about an hour, boys. I would suggest you all hunt a hole.”

  Sally looked toward the eastern slopes of the Sugarloaf. Pearlie was not in sight. Bob Colby was working inside the barn, cleaning it out. She called for him.

  “Yes’um?” He stuck his head out of the loft.

  “Bob, look and see if you can spot Pearlie. He should be over there.” She pointed.

  Bob searched the eastern slopes of the Sugarloaf. “Nothing, ma’am,” he called. “I can’t spot him.”

  “All right, Bob. Thanks. He’s behind a hill, I guess.” She put Pearlie out of her mind and thought about what to fix for dinner — supper, as they called it out here, although she had never gotten used to that.

  “Now what, boys?” Pearlie asked the half-dozen Circle TF riders facing him.

  “I guess you know what, Pearlie,” a puncher said. He shook out a loop in his rope.

  “You boys is wrong,” Pearlie said. “A man’s gotta right to ride for the brand he chooses.”

  “You a turncoat, Pearlie. You should have knowed that no one shows his ass-end to Mister Franklin.”

  “He ain’t God, Lefty.”

  “He is around here,” Lefty responded.

  “Then let him bring you back to life,” Pearlie said. He jerked iron and blew Lefty out of the saddle, the slug taking the TF rider in the right shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

  Pearlie spun his cutting horse and tried to make a run for it. He was just a tad slow. He felt the loop settle around him, and then another circled him and jerked him out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him.

  Pearlie struggled to free himself of the stiff ropes, but he knew he was fighting a losing fight. He lifted his six-gun and thumbed the hammer back. He hated to do it, but he had to leave some proof of who had done this to him.

  He shot a TF horse. The animal dropped almost immediately as the slug entered behind its left shoulder and shattered the heart. The rider cursed and jumped free, kicking the six-gun out of Pearlie’s hand.

  “Drag the son of a bitch!” the horseless rider yelled.

  Pearlie was jerked along the ground. Mercifully, his head struck a rock and he was dropped into the darkness of unconsciousness.

  “Did you hear a shot!” Sally called.

  “Yes’um!” Bob called back. “Probably Pearlie shootin’ a rattler, is all.”

  “Maybe,” Sally muttered. She went back into the house and strapped on a pistol. She picked up a rifle and levered a round into the chamber of the Henry. Back outside, she called, “Bob! Are you armed?”

  “Yes’um. Got a short gun on and my rifle is right down there.” He pointed.

  “Get your rifle and stay in the loft. Keep a look-out for riders. I think we’re in for some trouble.”

  “Yes’um!”

  “While you’re getting your rifle, close and bar all the barn doors. I’ll bring Seven inside and put him in a stall.”

  “Yes’um, Miss Sally.”

  Sally hurriedly fixed containers of water and a basket of food for the boy. She put in several boxes of ammunition and carried it to him in the barn. “We might be in for a long day, Bob,” she told him. “And you might have to stay out here by yourself tonight.”

  “I ain’t skirred, Miss Sally. I can knock the eye out of squirrel at a hundred yards with a rifle. If anybody comes to fight, we’ll stand ’em off.”

  “Good boy. I’ll be in the house. Let them come close, we’ll catch them in a crossfire.”

  Bob grinned. “Yes, ma’am!”

  It was as if some invisible messenger had passed the word. The town of Fontana grew quiet, then hushed almost entirely. Smoke walked across the street and stepped into the tent of Louis Longmont. Louis waved him to the bar.

  “A pall has fallen over us, my young friend,” Louis said. “I’m sure it concerns you. Am I correct?”

  “Uh-huh. Some of Franklin’s men are setting me up for a killing.”

  “And naturally, you’re going to leave town in a cloud of dust, right?”

  “Sure, Louis. You know that.”

  “How many?”

  “Five.” Smoke named them.

  “Valentine is a bad one. I know him. He’s a top gun from down near the Tex-Mex border. Watch him. He’s got a border roll that’s fast as lightning.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard he’s good. How good?”

  “Very good,” the gambler said softly. “He beat Johnny North.”

  A smile passed Smoke’s lips. “But Johnny North is still alive.”

  “Precisely.”

  So Valentine was cat-quick, but couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Many quick-draw gunhands were blindingly fast, but usually missed their first shots.

  Smoke almost never missed.

  “I’ll back you up if you ask, Smoke,” Louis offered.

  “It’ll come to that, Louis. But not yet. Speaking of Johnny North, where is he?”

  “A question I’ve asked myself a few times since coming here. He’ll be here. But he’s a strange one, Smoke. He hates Monte Carson.”

  “So I hear. I’ve never heard of him teaming up with anyone.”

  “Lone wolf all the way. Johnny must be ... oh, about my age, I suppose. But age has not slowed him a bit. When do you meet these gentlemen, and where?”

  Smoke opened his watch.
“In about fifteen minutes. Down at the stables.”

  “Anything you need?”

  “A shotgun and a pocketful of shells.”

  Louis reached over the bar and pulled out a sawed-off twelve-gauge express gun. He handed Smoke a sack of shells.

  “I loaded these myself,” the gambler said. “Full of ball-bearings.”

  Smoke loaded the express gun. “Got a taste of that scotch handy?”

  Louis walked behind the long, deserted bar and poured two fingers of scotch for each of them. He lifted his glass. “To your unerring marksmanship.”

  “And hope I shoot straight too,” Smoke said needling the man.

  13

  Pearlie opened his eyes. He could have sworn he opened his eyes. But he couldn’t see a thing. Slowly, painfully, he lifted one hand and wiped his eyes. There. He could see ... a little bit, at least.

  He hurt all over. He wriggled his toes. Something was wrong. His boots were gone. He could feel the cool earth against his skin. His jeans were ripped and his shirt was gone. He carefully poked at himself. He was bruised and cut and torn from head to toes, but he didn’t feel any broken bones sticking out. Lucky. Damn lucky.

  Pearlie turned his head and felt something flop down over one ear. He carefully inspected his fingertips. A flap of skin was torn loose. He pressed it back against his head and took his bandana from around his neck, tying it around his head. Hurt like hell.

  Only then did he think of the danger he might still be in. What if the TF riders were still hanging around?

  He looked around him.

  Nothing and nobody in sight.

  He slowly drew himself up to his knees and looked around. He could clearly see where he had been dragged. He looked down where he had lain. A hole in the hard ground, blood beside it. He stuck a finger into the hole and pulled out the dirt. His fingers touched something hard. Pearlie dug it out and looked at it. A battered and mangled .44 slug. The bastards had shot him. They thought they’d killed him with a gunshot to the head. That would account for the flap of skin hanging down.

  “Boy, you was lucky,” he croaked, pushing the words out of a dry throat.

  He looked back along the torn path he’d been dragged on. It ran for a ways back toward the cabin. He could see one boot standing all alone in the mangled path. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered back toward the boot, one solid mass of aches and pains and misery.

  And mad.

  Goddamn, was he mad!

  He picked up the boot and wandered off in search of his other boot. Pearlie fell down more times than he cared to recall. He banged and bruised and battered his knees and hands each time he fell, but each time he hit the ground, his anger increased. He began cursing Tilden Franklin and all the TF riders who had dragged him and then left him for dead.

  The verbal barrage seemed to help.

  He found his other boot and sat down to rest, slipping on both his boots. Now he felt better. He could see, just barely, the fallen horse of the TF man. He walked and staggered and stumbled toward it. The animal had fallen on its left side; no way Pearlie could get to the rifle in the saddle boot. But he could salvage the canteen full of water. He sat on the rump of the dead horse and drank his fill. His eyes swept the immediate area. He spotted his six-gun and walked to it, picking it up. He brushed off the dirt, checked the action and the loads, and holstered the weapon. Now he felt better than ever. He dug in the saddlebags of the fallen horse and found a box of .44’s, distributing them in his pockets.

  Now, by God, just let me find some TF punchers! he thought. He managed to pull the other saddlebag from under the dead horse and rummage through it. Some cold biscuits and beef. As tired and as much as he hurt, he knew he had to have something to eat. Them bearsign was good eatin’, but they didn’t stay with a man.

  He ate the beef and biscuits and washed them down with water. He looked toward the direction of the ranch. A good four or five miles off. With an explosive oath, Pearlie stood up and began walking. Miss Sally and the boy was probably in for a rough time of it. And by God, Pearlie was gonna be there to help out.

  He put one boot in front of the other and walked and staggered on.

  Drops of blood marked his back trail.

  Smoke didn’t know where all the people had gone, but the streets of Fontana were empty and silent as he walked along, keeping to the near side of the long street, advancing toward the stable.

  But he could feel many eyes on him as he walked.

  He slipped the thongs from his Colts as he walked, shifting the sawed-off express from right hand to left hand. He looked up as the batwing doors of a saloon swung open. Tilden Franklin and his foreman, Clint, stepped out to stare at Smoke. The new sheriff, Monte Carson, stood beside them, his large, new, shiny badge catching the late-morning rays of the sun.

  “We don’t like troublemakers in this town, Smoke,” Monte said.

  Smoke stopped and turned to face the men. With his eyes on Monte, he said, “What trouble have I caused, Sheriff?”

  That took Monte aback. He stared at Smoke. Finally, he said, “Man walks around carrying a shotgun like that one there you got must be lookin’ for trouble.”

  Smoke grinned. “Why, Sheriff, I’m just going down to the stables to see about my horse. Any law against that?”

  Monte shook his head.

  “Thanks. If there is nothing else, I’ll just be on my way.”

  Tilden grinned at Smoke. His mean eyes shone with evil and power.

  Smoke met the man’s eyes. “How about you, Franklin? You got anything to say?”

  “You talk mighty big standing there with that express gun in your hands,” Tilden replied.

  “Insurance, Franklin,” Smoke said. “Since you’re afraid to move without your trained dogs with you.”

  That stung Clint. His eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists. But he knew better than to prod Smoke; the gunfighter’s rep was that his temper was volatile, and that express gun would turn all three of them into chopped meat at this distance.

  “That’s right, Clint,” Smoke said, a nasty tone to his words. “I forgot. You’d rather make war against farmers and women and kids, wouldn’t you?”

  “Stand easy, Clint,” Tilden quietly warned his foreman.

  Smoke laughed and turned, continuing his walking down the street.

  Billy darted from the corral and pressed against the side of a newly erected building. “They’re all over the place, Smoke,” he called in a stage whisper. “Two of ’em up in the loft.”

  Smoke nodded his thanks and said, “Get out of here, Billy. Hunt a hole.”

  Billy took off as if the devil was howling and smoking at his heels.

  Smoke looked toward the corral. Horse was watching him, his ears perked up.

  Smoke walked to the huge open doors and paused. He knew he would be blind for a few seconds upon entering the darkened stable. Out of habit, he rechecked the loads in the express gun and took a deep breath.

  He slipped the thongs back on the hammers of his Colts and jumped inside the stable, rolling to his right, into an open stall.

  Gunfire blasted the semi-darkness where Smoke had first hit the floor.

  “Riders comin,’ Miss Sally!” Bob called from the barn loft.

  “How far off, Bob?” She called from the house.

  “Bout a mile, ma’am. I can’t make out no brand yet.”

  “If they’re Circle TF, Bob,” she called, “we’ll blow them out of the saddle.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Woman and boy waited, gripping their rifles.

  Pearlie found Lefty’s horse and gently approached the still-spooked animal. The horse shied away. Pearlie sat down on a large rock and waited, knowing that the horse would eventually come to him, desiring human company. In less than five minutes, while Pearlie hummed a low tune, the animal came to him and shoved at the puncher with its nose. Pearlie petted the animal, got the reins, and swung into the saddle. Lefty’s rifle was in the boot a
nd Pearlie checked it. Full. Pearlie pointed the animal’s nose toward the ranch.

  “Let’s go boy,” Pearlie said, just as the sounds of gunfire reached him. “I wanna get in a shot or two myself.”

  Sally’s opening shot knocked a TF rider out of the saddle. Bob squeezed off a round, the slug hitting a TF gunhawk in the center of his chest. The puncher was dead before he hit the ground. With only three gunslicks left out of the original half a dozen, those three spun their horses and lit a shuck out of that area.

  They ran right into Pearlie, coming at them at full gallop. With the reins in his teeth, his right hand full of Colt and his left hand full of Henry rifle, Pearlie emptied two saddles. The last TF rider left alive hunched low in the saddle and made it over a rise and out of range. He then headed for the ranch. They’d been told they were going up against Pearlie and one little lady. But it seemed that Pearlie was as hard to kill as a grizzly and that that little lady had turned into a bobcat.

  Meanwhile, Pearlie reined up in a cloud of dust and jumped out of the saddle. “You folks all right?” he yelled.

  “My God, Pearlie!” Sally rushed out of the house. “What happened to you?”

  “They roped and drug me,” Pearlie said. “Then shot me. But they made a bad mistake, ma’am.”

  She looked at him.

  “They left me alive,” Pearlie said, his words flint hard.

  Smoke darted into the darkness of the first stall just as the lead tore smoking holes where he’d first hit. Rolling to one side, Smoke lifted the sawed-off express gun and eared back both hammers and waited.

  “Got the punk!” someone hissed.

  “Maybe,” a calmer voice spoke from just above Smoke.

  Smoke lifted the sawed-off and pulled both triggers. The express gun roared and bucked, and ball-bearing loads tearing a great hole in the loft floor. The “maybe” man was flung out of the loft, both loads catching him directly in the crotch, almost tearing him in half. He lay on the stable floor, squalling as his blood stained the horse-shit-littered boards.