Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  He was awakened by a frantic banging on his door. “Sheriff!” a man hollered. “Come quick, Sheriff. Cosgrove and the mayor is about to have a conniption-fit. Get your britches on, man. Hurry, now.”

  Cussing, Club pulled on his pants and boots. It wasn’t even daylight out yet. “This had better be good,” he muttered. “I sure was sleepin’ sound.”

  A crowd of men had gathered around a horse, tied to the hitchrail in front of Major Cosgrove’s offices. He recognized the animal as one that worthless back-shooting Peter Hankins had been riding.

  Cosgrove and Fosburn were backed up against the outside wall of the building, both of them pale and looking like they wanted to puke.

  Hankins’ rifle was in the special-made saddle boot, and something was tied to it. Club pulled up short when he saw what it was.

  A scalp.

  Hankins’ scalp. The man’s blond hair was unmistakable.

  “You reckon we’re about to be attacked by wild Indians, Sheriff?” a man who was new to the West asked, nervousness in his voice.

  “No. Hell, no, Adkins. Just calm down. The only Indians around here are tame ones, for the most part. Besides, Indians didn’t do this.”

  “How do you know?” Adkins pressed.

  “Indians keep the scalps, man. No Indian would have tied the top knot to this expensive rifle and turned this fine horse loose.” This was the horse I heard walking up the street last night, Club thought. Oh, Jensen, you ballsy bastard. You got more guts than any ten men combined.

  Cosgrove pointed a finger at the scalp flapping in the cool early morning breeze. “That’s … something only a damn heathen would do!” His voice trembled as badly as his finger.

  “Yep,” Club said, rolling a cigarette. “For a white man to do this is almost as bad as a growed-up man who would try to steal a young girl’s ranch and kill her in the process.”

  “I demand you go arrest Smoke Jensen!” Fosburn hollered. “I order you to arrest him!”

  “You don’t order me to do a damn thing, Fat.” Club cupped his hand around the match flame and lit up. “And how do you know Smoke Jensen done this? Was you there? Did you see it?”

  “Why … ah, no. Of course not.”

  “Well, shut your mouth then.”

  “You’re all against me!” Cosgrove suddenly screamed out. “Every damn one of you. Well … well … by God, we’ll see who wins this fight. I own this town. It was my money that helped build this town. No two-bit gunfighter is going to cheat me out of what is rightfully mine. I’ll hire a hundred, a thousand gunfighters to kill that damn Smoke Jensen. You all hear me? And I’ll have you all groveling at my feet, begging me to forgive you for turning against me. I …”

  Lawyer Dunham had walked down from his quarters to see what the commotion was all about. “Mister Cosgrove, as the man handling your affairs, I would suggest, in the strongest possible terms, that you shut your damn mouth before you develop what is known as a buffalo mouth and a hummingbird ass.”

  “You’re fired!” Cosgrove screamed.

  “Suits me,” Dunham said. He looked at the flapping scalp and grimaced. “My word! I was going to the Grand Hotel for breakfast. I think I’ll settle for coffee.”

  “I’ll join you,” Club said.

  “What about that … scalp?” Fosburn hollered.

  “He worked for you,” Club told him. “You bury it.”

  Twenty-two

  Before the citizens of Red Light had settled down to breakfast that morning, twelve hired guns stuffed their saddlebags, rolled up blankets in ground sheets, saddled up, and pulled out. Many of the residents of the boom town stood silently on the boardwalks and watched them leave.

  Lawyer Dunham stood with Sheriff Bowers. “I have been such a fool,” the attorney said. “The big money offered me by Cosgrove, Fosburn, and Biggers dazzled me. It blinded me to what is right and wrong and sent me down the wrong path.”

  “I been on the wrong path near ‘bouts all my growed up life,” Club said. “I do know what you’re talkin’ about. But ain’t it a nice feelin’ once you know you’re back on track?”

  “Yes. I started experiencing that sensation about a week ago. I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from me. Sheriff? I would like to handle Miss Jenny Jensen’s affairs. And I won’t even charge her for my services. Do you suppose I could safely ride out to her ranch without Smoke shooting me?”

  Club chuckled. “Mister Dunham, you’ll be surprised at how forgivin’ Smoke is. I’ve spoke at length with half a dozen or more cowboys who right now still work for Biggers or Fosburn. They all, to a man, told me that Smoke could have easily killed them out on the range and had plenty of cause to do just that. Instead, he offered them a job on Miss Jenny’s ranch once this fracas was over. Yeah. Really. I’d bet my last dollar—most of it, until lately, ill-gotten — ” he admitted, “that you ride out there and they’ll invite you in, give you coffee and pie, and everybody will shake hands and forget and forgive the past. Smoke has offered the same deal to the Big Three more than once, and they turned it down. He’ll not offer it again. Come on. I’ll ride out to the ranch with you.”

  As the sheriff and the lawyer were riding out one end of town, Jack Biggers and his entire crew, including the cook — an old outlaw wanted for murder in three states and two territories — were riding into town from the other end. Within five minutes, the hired-gun crew of Fat Fosburn came thundering in. Shopkeepers and store owners began closing and locking their doors. The Golden Cherry and the Golden Plum shut down. The town began bracing for a showdown the citizens knew was probably only hours away.

  People called pet dogs and cats inside and tied them up or caged them. They began moving their horses out of the livery stables of Red Light and into corrals outside of town, out of bullet range. Thirty minutes after the heavily armed gunslicks rode into town, the long main street of Red Light was void of any decent person. Only the horses of the gunhands stood at the hitchrails. The hired guns sat in various saloons and waited for word to start the war.

  “I will control this town,” Cosgrove said, his eyes blazing with anger and approaching madness. “This is my town, and I give the orders.”

  Both Biggers and Fosburn felt it was their town, too; but they didn’t bring that up at this time. Major Cosgrove had strapped on a gunbelt and had a rifle and a bandolier of ammunition on his desk.

  The mine had shut down and the town was eerily silent. The miners were staying close to their tents and shacks on the slopes above Red Light. Whoever won, they would still have a job. They played cards, drank coffee, and waited.

  On the Fosburn ranch, Luddy, Parker, and Dud packed up their few possessions and saddled their personal mounts. They stood for a moment, looking across the saddles at each other.

  “Ain’t nobody yet said where it is we’re goin’,” Parker broke the silence.

  “I ain’t no gunhand and never called myself one,” Luddy said. “But I reckon it’s time we seen if Miss Jenny Jensen might need some hands over to her place.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Dud said.

  The men swung into the saddle and put the Fosburn ranch behind them.

  On the Triangle JB, Highpockets, Dick, Biff, and Howie saddled up and mounted up.

  “I damn sure ain’t leavin’ no regrets behind,” Biff said, picking up the reins.

  “Me, neither,” Highpockets said. “You reckon Smoke really scalped that back-shootin’ Hankins like Biggers heard he done?”

  “You want to ride into town and ask someone?” Howie looked at him.

  “Hell, no! I don’t want to get within ten miles of Red Light. That town’s fixin’ to explode.”

  “You know,” Dick said, “Jack Biggers ain’t got no family nowhere. They’s gonna be a lot of work to be done around here once he’s in the ground. And Smoke did say we could go to work for Miss Jenny.”

  “She’s gonna own this place for sure,” Biff said. “Let’s ride over to her place and ask if we coul
d please have a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”

  Lawyer Dunham sat in the lovely living room in Jenny Jensen’s ranchhouse and drank excellent coffee and enjoyed some of the finest doughnuts he’d ever put in his mouth. He had gotten over his astonishment at the nice reception he’d received and was now talking legal business with Smoke, Sally, and Miss Jenny. Smoke had told him to put any past differences between them behind him. All that was in the past and best forgotten.

  Lawyer Dunham was greatly relieved to do just that. Being hurled out of a second-story window was an experience he did not wish to relive.

  “Rider comin’!” the lookout in the barn loft hollered. “It’s young Billy Leonard from town.”

  The young man jumped from his horse and ran up to Sheriff Bowers, who had just stepped outside. “Deputy Brandt says to come quick, Sheriff. All the gunfighters has gathered in town. The men you fired, Reed and Junior, are workin’ for Cosgrove. All the people in town are takin’ sides, and they’s gonna be a face-off before dark. It’s bad, Sheriff. Real bad.”

  “More riders comin’ in,” the lookout called. “From north and south. I recognize Highpockets and Luddy.”

  “They’ve left the Big Three,” Club said. “I spoke to them only a few days ago. They’re good boys. I trust them to keep their word.”

  “So do I,” Van Horn said.

  Highpockets rode up to the front porch and tossed his hands into the air. The others did the same.

  “What the hell … ?” Club said.

  Smoke laughed at the men. “No need for that, boys. But I must say you have it down pat. You boys looking for work?”

  “Punchin’ cows and breakin’ horses, yes, sir,” Highpockets said. “We ain’t hirin’ out our guns. But we’ll fight for the brand if attacked.”

  “That’s all anyone could ask. Put your stuff in the bunkhouse and the barn. When this mess is over, we’ll rebuild the bunkhouses on Fat’s place and over on the Triangle JB.”

  “But the bunkhouse on the JB is in pretty good shape,” Dick said.

  Smoke smiled at him. “It probably won’t be when all this is over.” He looked over at Van Horn. “Pick the men who stay here, Van.”

  “Ladd, you, Ford, Cooper, and Jimmy stay here at the ranch. Highpockets, you boys leavin’ any saddle pals behind?”

  “Not a one, Mister Van Horn. And I can speak for all of us. They all drifted when the gunslicks started comin’ in. If you’re worried about us tossin’ lead at anyone who attacked this ranch, you can put your mind to rest. Y’all didn’t start this war. Biggers and Fosburn and Cosgrove is in the wrong, and so is any who ride for them.”

  “That’s good enough for me. You men stay here and protect the ranch.”

  “You new men,” Sally called from the kitchen window. “Jenny and I just fixed a huge tub of doughnuts and the coffee is hot and fresh. Stow your gear and come on back here … if you’re hungry, that is.”

  The seven of them almost broke their necks getting to the barn and the bunkhouse.

  Smoke looked at the gathering of men. “Whoever is riding into town with me, get geared up for a fight. We’ll pull out in half an hour.”

  Smoke stepped back inside and looked at Sally. “Keep some of those doughnuts handy, honey. The boys and me will be hungry when we get back.”

  Eight men saddled up and rode out, heading for Red Light and a showdown with five or six times their number. Smoke headed the column. In addition to his matched .44s, he carried two more .44s tucked down behind his belt and his old Colt revolving shotgun slung by a strap over one shoulder, a bandolier of shells across his chest.

  Beside him rode Van Horn, the legendary old gunfighter still ramrod straight and leather tough, his Remingtons loaded up full and ready to bang. Like Smoke, he had shoved two spare six-shooters behind his belt.

  Behind Smoke and Van Horn rode Wolf Parcell and Bad Dog, both heavily armed, both carrying bows and a quiver of arrows.

  Third in the column rode Pasco and Kit Silver. Behind them rode Slim Waters and Shady Bryant. Kit Silver felt in his guts this would be his last fight. He had carried that feeling with him since the day he rode into Red Light. But if it was true, he would go out on the right side, and that gave him comfort.

  The men pulled up at the pass and bunched. “You can bet they’re waiting for us,” Smoke said. “We’ll go into town in pairs, two minutes apart. Just as soon as they open the dance …” He looked at Wolf, grinning at that remark. “Or, whoever opens the dance, we don’t stop until it’s over. I’ll see the deputies first and give them Club’s message. They’ll clear out of town in jig time, you can bet on that. Club’s giving us all a break by ordering his deputies out and by staying at the ranch until an hour before sundown. So it better be over by then. By now, with the fresh horse we gave him, Billy Leonard has delivered my message to the Big Three and found himself a safe hole. I want to thank you men … ” Smoke paused, unable to find the right words.

  Wolf said, “Just ‘cause you was partly raised by that ol’ windbag, Preacher, don’t start actin’ like him by makin’ no long-winded speeches. You and that creaky, ancient ol’ reprobate with you just ride on into town and get set. Me and the boys will be right behind you. I think it’d be best if we leave our horses at the crick, out of danger. Time the gun-smoke settles, this town will be tame and Miss Jenny won’t be bothered no more. Now git!”

  “Creaky ol’ reprobate!” Van Horn hollered.

  “Hee, hee, hee!” Wolf giggled, and the others smiled at the antics of the randy old mountain man, who was still tough enough to take on a grizzly bear … and would, if the opportunity presented itself.

  “I’m gonna put a knot on your head when I get back,” Van Horn warned Wolf.

  Wolf laughed and slapped Van Horn’s horse on the rump. “Go git ‘em, Van!”

  Van Horn and Smoke reined up at the creek, stripped saddle and bridle off their horses, and hobbled them. They checked their guns and exchanged glances.

  “See you at the other end of the street, young feller,” Van Horn said, then hopped across the little creek and began working his way up behind the first line of houses and buildings.

  Smoke took the other side. But he stayed on the boardwalks, at least for now.

  There was not one living creature visible on the streets or boardwalks of the town. Not a dog, cat, chicken, horse, or man, woman, or child.

  Smoke looked back. Wolf and Bad Dog were swinging down from the saddle at the creek. He walked on until he came to an empty building at the end of the first block of stores. All the stores that he could see were closed and locked.

  Far up the street came the sound of a tinny piano and the high, shrill, false laughter of a hurdy-gurdy girl. Smoke looked across the street at the alleyway. Van Horn was standing there. He looked over at Smoke, shrugged his shoulders, and walked on.

  Smoke paused, his eyes searching the second-story windows to his right. He was certain men with rifles had been posted along the way, but he could spot nothing that would give away their location. He resumed his slow walking.

  The town was filled with gunfighters on the payrolls of Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove; but where the hell were they? All scattered out in the town’s many saloons? Some of them, yes. But he rather doubted that all of them were in the bars. Smoke stopped his walking. They had to be in the stores, all spread out along the narrow, twisting streets.

  Smoke slipped off the boardwalk and stepped into the coolness of a shadowed alley. He slipped one of the spare .44s from behind his belt and jacked the hammer back as he walked toward the rear of the buildings. At the alley’s opening, he looked back left, toward the Golden Cherry. Clemmie waved to him from a window on the second floor. Smoke returned the wave and walked on. By now, Wolf and Bad Dog would be a block behind him and Pasco and Kit would be hobbling their horses at the creek. The hired guns would know their quarry was in town. So why didn’t they make a move?

  That question was answered when a young man who looked to be
in his early twenties suddenly stepped out from behind the rear of a building, both hands hovering over the butts of his guns. “Leather that six-shooter, Jensen, and face me like a man. I’ve come to kill you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” Smoke told him, the cocked .44 in his right hand. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. Give this up and go on back home.”

  “Yellow, that’s what you are!” the young man sneered.

  “I’m offering you your life, partner,” Smoke reminded the young man. “Take the offer. Don’t die for nothing.”

  “You ain’t gonna holster that gun and try your luck with me?”

  “Not a chance, kid. This is not a game. Give it up, go home, and live.”

  The would-be gunslinger stood for a moment, cussing Smoke. Then, with a strange cry of desperation, his hands closed around the butts of his guns and Smoke fired, knocking a leg out from under the young man. The young tough hollered in pain, both hands grabbing at his shattered knee. Smoke walked up to him and took his guns from leather, noticing that one was a .44 and the other a .45. He kept the .44 and threw the .45 into the bushes.

  He looked down at the young man, writhing in pain on the bottle- and can-littered ground. “Boy, if I ever see you again and you’re carrying iron, I’ll kill you on the spot. Do you understand all that?”

  “Yes … sir,” the young man groaned out the words. “I swear to God I’ll never tote no gun again. But Jesus, I hurt something awful.”

  “Pain is good for a man. It’s a reminder that you’re still alive.” Smoke walked on.

  His shot had been the only one thus far. Smoke felt that was about to change. Now the hired guns knew where he was and they surely would be coming after him.

  He heard a pistol bark and a man scream. That was followed by a crash of breaking glass and the thud of a body after falling a distance. Van Horn had nailed one of those on a second floor … or a rooftop.

  He heard running boots and stopped, filling his left hand with a .44. Two men sprang out of a narrow passageway between buildings and pulled up short, spotting Smoke. Smoke did not recall ever seeing the men before. But they cursed him, their guns lifting. Smoke had no choice but to open fire. He fired four times, the slugs taking the hired guns in belly and chest as the muzzles lifted. They spun around and jerked their way into the rapidly enveloping darkness of death.