Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Wong lifted his long-barreled goose gun, sighted in, and pulled the trigger. The charge blew the entire window out of its frame and tore the head off the rifleman who was getting set to snipe at the saloon. The headless body fell backward, bounced off a wall, and came catapulting out of the shattered frame, to crash through an awning and lie on the boardwalk.

  Fosburn looked at the bloody, horrible sight about two feet from him and shuddered.

  Wong picked himself up off the floor and reloaded the empty chamber.

  Moses, Chung, Jeff, and the Soiled Doves from the Golden Cherry stationed themselves at the rear of the saloon, ready to repel any intruders. Clemmie stayed by the side of the wounded Kit Silver.

  Stormclouds had been gathering all morning, and now a light rain began to fall. Lightning licked around the high peaks of the mountains that rimmed the mining town.

  “That’ll keep them from burning us out,” Wolf remarked, chewing on a sandwich from the free lunch table.

  Smoke nodded and lifted his rifle. A very small part of a leg was exposed across the street, the man behind a horse trough. Smoke sighted in and pulled the trigger and the man howled as the bullet shattered a shin. He staggered to his feet and turned to try to limp away, and Pasco nailed him from his position on the second floor of the saloon. The hired gun fell into the horse trough.

  “Remind me to have that water changed,” Smoke said. “I wouldn’t want to poison a good horse.”

  There was a lull in the fighting while both sides tended to wounded, caught their breath, and had a drink, and while those aligned with the Big Three plotted unspeakable evil against fellow human beings.

  Those in the Golden Plum waited as the rain picked up.

  “I don’t trust these men,” Fat whispered. “I think they’d as soon kill us as anybody else.”

  “Where’s your foreman, Waco?” Major asked Biggers.

  “Gone,” Biggers said sourly. “Pulled out last night. Said he didn’t sign on to fight girls and women and to associate with the likes of them I got on the payroll. Man turned Christian on me or something. Wouldn’t surprise me none to see him pop up over at Jenny’s ranch.”

  Waco was at that moment riding toward Red Light, with a dozen of the area’s small ranchers and farmers who had had quite enough of Cosgrove, Fosburn, and Biggers. Now that someone had finally gotten the ball rolling, they were in the game, root hog or die. From the edge of town, the men reined up, staring at the several hundred men, women, kids, and animals all gathered together at the mine complex.

  “Must be hell in the streets of Red Light,” Waco observed. “Let’s go down and even up the odds a little bit for them on the side of Jensen.”

  Up on the mountain, the local Temperance League had gotten cranked up and there was preaching, singing, tooting, oom-pahing, and drumming.

  Out at the Circle Cherry, Club and his deputies were playing poker with Sally and losing nearly every hand. “Ma’am,” Deputy Brandt asked. “Who taught you to play poker?”

  “Louis Longmont,” Sally said sweetly. “The bet is five dollars to you.”

  The sheriff and his deputies tossed their cards on the table. Louis Longmont was the most famous gambler in all of America, plus a noted gunfighter and a man worth millions and millions of dollars. “I believe we’ll just get a breath of fresh air, ma’am,” Club said.

  Sally smiled and raked in her winnings. “Come here, Jenny,” she said. “I’ll teach you about cold-decking and palming.”

  Club and his deputies shook their heads and walked outside, Club saying, “That there, boys, is one hell of a woman. Can you believe that Smoke Jensen actually dries the dishes?”

  Modoc looked at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Riders coming into town, Smoke,” Pasco called from the second floor. “It’s Waco, and he’s bringin’ in a bunch of small ranchers and farmers.”

  “Waco’s all right,” Kit said. His voice seemed to be a little stronger. “I figured he’d get a gutful of Jack Biggers and leave.” He started chuckling, and the others looked at him strangely. “It just dawned on me what Highpockets and Biff and them others was doin’ that day at the ranch. Walkin’ around, stoppin’, then throwin’ their hands up into the air. We all thought it was a new dance step. Then, when I seen Whisperin’ and Val doin’ it in the bunkhouse, I thought they had changed sides and was in love with one another!”

  Clemmie started giggling at the very thought of Val Davis and Whisperin’ dancing together, and it was highly infectious. Soon everybody in the saloon was roaring with laughter. Pasco had been sitting on the landing, looking out the window, and he almost fell down the steps, he was laughing so hard. Wolf Parcell was roaring with high mirth. The laughter reached those in the buildings directly across the street.

  “What in billy-hell is so damn funny?” Jim Pell snarled the words.

  “They must know something we don’t,” Al Jones said.

  “Yeah,” Dusty Higgens said, entering from the back door. “Believe me, they do. Like Waco and about twelve or fifteen men just rode into town and took up positions all around us. We got Smoke and them others surrounded in the saloon, and now we’re surrounded in here!”

  “Not with no twelve or fifteen men,” Chambers said.

  Dick Whitten stood up to look out the window and a rancher drilled him clean between the eyes with a .30-.30.

  “You wanna bet?” Dusty asked.

  Twenty-five

  “I’ve had it” a hired gun said to his buddy. They crouched behind the shattered windows on the second floor of a dry goods store. “I don’t know what them others plan on doin’, but I’m out of it.”

  “Me, too, Les,” his friend replied. “I’m sorry I ever got into this awful situation.”

  Les took off his bandanna and tied it around the muzzle of his rifle, just behind the front sight. He stuck the barrel out of the window and waved it back and forth. Then he left the rifle balanced on the sill. The men took off their belts and laid them beside their rifles, in plain sight of anyone on the second floor across the street.

  “Two of them giving it up,” Pasco announced. “Second floor across the street and to our right.”

  In the rear of the saloon, four gunhands covering the back talked it over and decided they’d had enough of this town. They darted from cover to cover while those in the rear of the saloon held their fire and watched them leave. The gunhands made their horses and rode off. None of them looked back.

  Moses slipped to the storage room door and called, “The back is clear, Smoke. The gunnies gave it up and rode off.”

  “The ones with any brains at all, and that ain’t many of them, have sensed it’s over,” Kit said. “I figure you give some others the chance to ride clear and they’ll go. That’ll leave about twenty at most.”

  “Waco?” Smoke yelled.

  “Right here, Mister Jensen!” the ex-Triangle JB foreman hollered.

  “Hold your fire. Let’s see if any want to ride out. If they do, let them have safe passage out of town.”

  “Will do.”

  “You men across the street!” Smoke yelled. “You heard it. Any who want to ride can do so in safety. Just clear out of this area and stay clear. It’s up to you.”

  A moment passed before the call sprang from a building. “We’re ridin’ out, Jensen! They’s eight of us. Hold your fire. You’ll not see none of us again.”

  “Ride out, then!”

  “Damn you all to hell!” Biggers shouted. “You’re all dirty cowards!”

  One of the retreating gunnies yelled out, telling Biggers where he could go and what he could do to himself while he was on the way. A couple more of those leaving yelled out some options for Biggers.

  “That would certainly be an interesting sight to see,” Clemmie muttered.

  “Twenty-four or twenty-five left,” Kit said, loud enough for Smoke to hear. “Maybe two or three less than that. But I could probably name those who stayed. They’re the bad ones, Smoke. They’l
l not give up.”

  “Then they’ll die,” Wolf grumbled.

  “They know that, too,” Kit said. “They’re worthless trash and sorry human bein’s, but they ain’t cowards. They just ain’t got good judgment.”

  Five hired guns rushed the front of the saloon. Rifles and pistols boomed and cracked from inside the Golden Plum. Five bodies lay still on the muddy street, the rain washing their blood into the wagon wheel ruts.

  “How many?” Kit called.

  “Five,” Smoke told him, punching out the empties and reloading.

  “Ruined,” Fat Fosburn muttered from his position on the floor. “We had it all and now we have nothing. Jensen stripped us down to the bare bones. Even if we survive this, we’re all looking at long prison terms or a hangman’s noose. Too many people heard our offer to the gunfighters. I been to prison. I just ain’t goin’ back.” He stuck the muzzle of his rifle into his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing out the back of his head and splattering his brains on the wall.

  Jack Biggers looked at the mess and swallowed hard. He cut his eyes to Major Cosgrove. “Now what?”

  Cosgrove shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s only one way out of this damn town, and it’s blocked by Waco and those men with him. All my gold is up at the mine. I’ve got to get it. It’s all I have left. It’s a fortune, Jack. Come on. We can’t ride out, but we can walk out through the mountains. We can follow the ravines up to the rear of the mine office without being seen. All the townspeople have taken shelter from the rain in the sheds and the mouth of the pits. The gold is concealed under the office floor.”

  “We can’t carry all that gold, man!”

  “There are burros up there. They can go where a horse or mule can’t go. They can tote the gold. We got no choice, Jack.”

  “If the gunhands see us leaving, they’ll kill us.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  Jack shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

  Jack Biggers and Major Cosgrove slipped out the rear of the office and stood in the hard-pouring rain for a few seconds. The rain would help conceal their movements. The pair pushed off, running hard and staying low.

  Since the abortive attempt to rush the saloon, no shots had been fired from either side. The bodies in the street gave mute testimony to the secure position of those inside the Golden Plum. It was a standoff, but a standoff that the gunhands knew they could not win.

  “Whisperin’?” the hoarse call came from the outside, just loud enough to be heard by those in the front room.

  Whisperin’ moved to the busted window and looked out. Russ Bailey stood in the rain, pressed up close to the building. “Yeah?”

  “Fat Fosburn is dead in the office. Looks like he blowed his own head off. It’s a real mess, I tell you. Cosgrove and Biggers is gone.”

  Whisperin’ mouthed an extremely ugly word several times. “We been sold out, boys,” he told those in the room. “Cosgrove and Biggers has run. They got to be headin’ for the mine. I suspect that’s where he’s hid all that gold he talked about.”

  “But there ain’t no way out of that place!”

  “Yeah, there is. Mule knew a way through and told some of the boys ‘fore he left. There’s a horse ranch just over the pass.”

  “Just over the pass means walkin’ through them damn mountains, totin’ the gold by hand.”

  “We can do it. At least, we can carry some of it. Come on, let’s start slippin’ out one at a time. Don’t tell the others. Hell with them.”

  “Not me,” Tom Wilson said. “I was caught in a thunderstorm in the mountains one time. If you ain’t never seen it, you don’t want to be in it. There’s lightnin’ dancin’ and poppin’ everywhere. They was three of us down in Colorado when we got caught. I was the only one who made it out. You ever seen a man hit by lightnin’?” He shuddered. “I have. Johnny’s eyeballs popped out of his head. I’m stayin’ right here.”

  “Somebody do something!” Russ said. “I’m freezin’ to death out here in the damn rain!”

  “Let’s go.”

  Five men slipped out the rear of the building to join Russ in the rain. Lonesome was the last to leave. Tom Wilson stayed where he was, all right. Lonesome Ted Lightfoot had cut his throat to ensure the man’s silence. They were all a real nice bunch of folks.

  “Smoke!” Pasco called from the landing. “I thought at first I was seeing things. But now I’m sure. There’s some men heading for the mine. I saw two about three or four minutes ago. Then about four or five more.”

  “That’s it? No more?”

  “Not yet. What do you think is up?”

  “Rats desertin’ the ship,” Kit called.

  “Probably,” Smoke said. He checked his pistols and picked up a rifle, making certain it was loaded up full. “Hold it here, people. I’m heading for the mine.”

  “You want some company?” Van Horn called.

  “No. You can be sure they’re keeping a good eye behind them. One man alone will be much harder to spot. Besides, I think you’re going to have your hands full with those still across the street. See you shortly.”

  Smoke was gone out the back door, running hard for the mine, keeping to the alley and out of sight of those across the street. At the mine road that angled off from the edge of town, Smoke darted across the crushed rock road and took the hard and long way up to the mine, clambering over huge rocks and jumping young rivers of water that would vanish when the rain stopped. Since this route was very nearly impossible for a man to climb, Smoke knew it would be the last place those above him would look.

  Once, when he paused to catch his breath, he studied the long stairs that led from ground level to the main offices. Since the mine was not working this day, the mule-drawn hoist was not being used and he could see two men just entering the offices, high above him. The big one was Cosgrove and the other one looked like Jack Biggers. It sure wasn’t Fat Fosburn. The size was all wrong.

  The angled steps had four landings, five if you counted the landing at the top. It was a good three hundred feet off the ground.

  Then Smoke saw a knot of men running up the steps. Five, no, six of them. They paused for breath at the first landing. Unless you were accustomed to it, this high up was no place to be running, and it could sap your strength quickly.

  Smoke climbed on while the storm raged, lightning dancing all around the high peaks above him. He had slung his rifle, muzzle down, and made sure his pistols were snug in their holsters and thonged down tight.

  He was winded when he reached the top, but as far as he knew, no one had spotted him. The temperance band had stopped tooting and oom-pahing and drumming, and the singing had stopped. The townspeople had taken refuge wherever they could find it, and none were in sight.

  Smoke studied the situation. There was no way he was going to risk climbing those steps; he’d be a very conspicuous target. Unless …

  He studied the sheer wall of the cliff behind the steps, where the hoist was located. He could probably climb up a couple of hundred feet of dry cable, but damned if was going to try it in a drenching rain.

  Then he realized there was a road leading up to the mine proper. Naturally, dummy! he berated himself. How else could they build the damn complex way up there? The rain had obscured the narrow road, just wide enough for a wagon with a skilled driver at the reins and a stout rope or chain hooked to the rear of the wagon with the other end attached to a heavy-duty spoked gearbox of some type in case the wagon brakes failed.

  Smoke left his dubious shelter and ran for the road. With his clothing soaked, he blended in against the gray water-soaked rock of the cliff the road had been carved out of.

  Jack Biggers suddenly appeared on the top landing and started shooting at the men who were now at the second landing. The men returned the fire, driving the rancher back into the building.

  Interesting, Smoke thought, as he squatted under a small overhang very near the mouth of the mine, which was on a level with the top landi
ng. More steps led from the mine to the office. He unslung his rifle and wiped it as dry as he could, thinking: I’ll just stay here out of the rain and if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll kill each other.

  No such luck. Patmos turned, spotted Smoke, and opened his mouth to shout out the warning. Before he could yell, Smoke drilled the gunfighter clean and Patmos went down on the slick landing The shot was lost in the roar of rain, the howl of wind, and the crash of thunder.

  For a few seconds — enough time for Smoke to leap out and run for a small foreman’s hut — those on the landing with Patmos thought he had lost his footing and slipped. Whisperin’ knelt down beside him and got the word from the badly wounded killer-for-hire. From his hiding place behind the hut, Smoke watched Whisperin’ look wildly all around the spot where Patmos had pointed. Then the gunhand had to jump for safety as both Cosgrove and Biggers opened fire from above them, driving the gunfighters back. Whisperin’ leaped away, leaving Patmos exposed on the landing. Patmos’s body jerked in pain as half a dozen rounds were fired into him. He feebly lifted one hand, then the arm fell to the landing and he did not move again.

  “That sure is a loyal bunch,” Smoke muttered. “Certainly true to one another.”

  As he leaned against the hut, a thought came to him. Wherever miners are, there is bound to be dynamite. Smoke picked up a broken ax handle and used it to tear off a couple of boards from the rear of the hut. He smiled. The place was filled with cases of dynamite. Then he lost his smile as he realized what a lousy place he’d picked to hide behind. If a stray bullet hit the right spot, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to pick up. Not even with a spoon and shovel.

  He grabbed a dozen sticks and some caps and fuses and vacated the area immediately.

  While those on the middle landing were being sniped at by Cosgrove and Biggers, unable either to return the fire or do much looking for Smoke, Smoke edged closer and capped and fused his dynamite. He lit a bundle and gave it a flip. The bundle of explosives bounced on the landing and went sailing off into space, exploding harmlessly in midair.