Code of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Made a man plumb edgy.

  Louis’ saloon and gambling hall had been erected—due in no small part to the fact that Louis paid three times what others did for workmen. A smaller building had been built in the rear; this housed the kitchen, living quarters, and a privy attached to the building for maximum comfort and privacy. Cotton was on duty on the streets, and Louis and Johnny sat in the rear of the big wood and canvas saloon and talked in as low tones as the drumming of the rain overhead would permit. Earl was out of town.

  “You heard that miner over yonder, Louis,” Johnny said, cutting his eyes to a miner who had just come into town and was now sucking on a mug of beer. “What’d you think?”

  “As near as I can figure—discounting the inevitable exaggeration—Smoke and Charlie have killed seven or eight of Slater’s gang, and a couple of bounty hunters. This storm will probably blow out of here sometime tonight—it’s raining too hard to keep this up long—so the hunt will resume tomorrow. Slater has to be getting frustrated, and frustration leads to desperate and careless acts. Smoke is fighting several fronts, and using varying tactics, including guerrilla warfare. Guerrilla warfare is a nasty business. It’s demoralizing for those on the receiving end of it. Slater’s people and the bounty hunters will be shooting at shadows from now on. And it’s going to be just as dangerous in those mountains for Smoke and Charlie as it is for the outlaws and bounty hunters. Smoke will take some lead in this fight, my friend. I don’t see how he can avoid it, and I would imagine he has already mentally prepared himself for it.”

  Johnny listened to the rain beat against the canvas for a moment. “Seems like trouble has been on Smoke’s backtrail nearabouts all his life. Ever since I’ve known him—and years before that—all Smoke wanted was to be left alone to run his ranch, love his wife and kids, and live in peace. He changed his name and hung up his guns for several years, but no man should have to do that. That just isn’t right. He never wanted the reputation of gunfighter. Never got a dime out of any of them Penny Dreadful books or plays about him. He didn’t want the money. But he’s a man that won’t take no pushin’. Man pushes Smoke, Smoke’ll push back twice as hard as he got. Them mountains best be cleaned good by this rain, ’cause come the mornin’, they’re gonna run red with outlaw blood.”

  * * *

  The terrible storm raged over the mountains and then trekked east. Before dawn, Smoke was wide awake and looking at a star-filled sky. It was still dark when he broke camp, picked up his heavy pack, and headed down out of the high lonesome to face the ever-growing numbers of bounty hunters and the Lee Slater gang.

  “Come on, boys,” he muttered to the chattering squirrels and the singing birds. “Let’s get this over with. I want to get back to Sally and the Sugarloaf.”

  A rifle cracked and bark stung the side of his face. Smoke hit the ground, struggled out of his pack, and wormed his way forward, the .44-.40 cradled in his arms.

  “I seen him go down!” a man yelled.

  “Down is one thing,” another voice was added. “Out is another. Jensen’s hard to kill.”

  “Move out,” a third voice ordered. “But watch it. He’s tricky as a snake.”

  Three men, Smoke thought. Bounty hunters or outlaws? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. Man comes after another man for no valid reason, that first man better be ready to understand that death is walking right along beside him.

  “Where is the bastard?” the shout echoed through the lushness of timber.

  Smoke saw a flash of color from a red and white checkered shirt, and put a .44-.40 slug in it. The man screamed and went down, kicking and clawing. Lead sang around Smoke’s position, whining and howling as fast as the hunters could work the levers on their rifles. Smoke stayed low, and the lead sailed harmlessly over his head.

  “Oh, God!” the wounded man moaned. “My shoulder’s broke. I can’t move my arm.”

  Smoke watched as a hand reached up and shook a bush, trying to draw his fire. He waited. The hand reached up again and exposed a forearm. Smoke shattered the arm. The man screamed in pain. Smoke fired again, and the man’s screaming choked down to silence.

  “Back off, John,” a voice called. “He’s got the upper hand now.”

  “What about Ned?” a pain-filled voice called.

  “Ned’s luck ran out.”

  Ned, Smoke thought. Ned Mallory, probably. A bounty hunter from down New Mexico way. He lay still and listened to the two men back off and move through the brush. After a few minutes, he heard their horses’ hooves fade away. He made his way to Ned and stood over the dead man. His first slug had broken the man’s forearm; the second slug had taken him in the throat. It had not been a very pleasant way to die. But what way is?

  Smoke refilled his .44 loops with the dead man’s cartridges and left him where he lay. He was not being unnecessarily callous; this was war, and war is not nice any way one chooses to cut it up.

  He figured the shots would draw a crowd, and he headed away from that location, but every direction he walked, he saw riders coming before they saw him.

  Smoke cussed under his breath. “All right,” he muttered. “If this is the way it’s going to be, all bets are off. I can’t fight any other way.”

  He lifted his .44-.40 and blew a man out of the saddle, the slug taking him in the center of his chest.

  “Over yonder!” another man yelled, pointing, and Smoke sighted him in. The man moved just as he squeezed the trigger, and that saved his life, the slug hitting his shoulder instead of his chest. The rider managed to stay in the saddle, but he was out of this hunt, his arms dangling uselessly by his side.

  A round stung Smoke’s shoulder, drawing blood, and another just missed his head. Smoke emptied another saddle, the rider pitched forward, his boot hanging in the stirrup. The horse ran off, dragging the manhunter.

  Smoke slipped back into the timber and jogged for several hundred yards before he was forced to stop to catch his breath. He chose a spot where his back and his left flank would be protected and rested. He could hear the sounds of horses laboring up the grade.

  “He’s trapped!” a man shouted. “We got him now, boys. Let’s go.” He forced his tired horse up the slope, and Smoke sighted him in, squeezed the trigger, and relieved the nearly exhausted animal of its burden. The hunter bounced on the ground and then lay still.

  Smoke drank some water and ate a piece of dry bread and waited. He was in a good spot and thought he saw a way out of it should it come to that. But he didn’t think it would. The manhunters would soon realize that the advantage was all his—this time—and probably back off.

  After a few minutes, a shout rang up the slope. “Give it up, Jensen! They’s a hundred men ringin’ this range. You can’t get out. Come on down, and we’ll take you in alive for trial.”

  “Sure you will,” Smoke muttered.

  A man deliberately ran from his cover for a short distance, exposing himself for no more than two or three seconds.

  “Fool’s play, boys,” Smoke whispered. “You must have cut your teeth on amatuers.”

  He held his fire.

  The manhunters began firing indiscriminately, the slugs howling around the rocks and trees. They were trying for a ricochet, not knowing that Smoke had taken that into consideration when he chose the spot to hole up. They wasted a lot of lead and hit nothing.

  Another group rode in, and the men began arguing among themselves. Smoke shouted, “Why don’t you boys try for the Slater gang? The mountains are full of them. There’s about fifty of them, and they’re all wanted by the law.”

  “Nickel and dime re-wards, Jensen,” he was told. “You’re worth a lot more.”

  “Look around you,” Smoke verbally pointed out. “The ground is covered with the blood of those who thought the same thing. Think about it.”

  The bounty hunters fell silent as some of them did just that.

  Rested, Smoke took that time to slip through the rocks and make his way around his left flank. But h
e had to leave his heavy pack, taking with him only what he absolutely needed for survival. He packed that in his bedroll and groundsheet, tied it tight, secured it over one shoulder, and Injuned his way out of the rocks.

  When he had worked his way several hundred yards above his last location, he paused and looked down. The sight did not fill him with joy. There were at least thirty men in position, grouped in a semicircle, around where the manhunters believed him to be.

  A grim smile curved his lips. He took four sticks of dynamite from his roll and planted them under four huge boulders, making each fuse slightly longer than the other. Then he lit the fuses and got the hell gone from there.

  The explosives moved three of the huge boulders, sending them cascading down the mountain, picking up small boulders as they tumbled. Even from his high-up location, he could hear the screaming of the men as the boulders, large and small, crushed legs and arms and sent the manhunters scrambling for cover.

  “You opened this dance, boys,” he said. “Now it’s time to pay the band.”

  * * *

  “Good God!” Cotton said, as the first of the shot up and avalanche victims came limping and staggering back into town.

  Johnny stepped out into the muddy street and halted the parade of wounded. “Where’d you boys tangle with Smoke Jensen?”

  A man with a bloody bandage tied around his head said, “Just south of Del Norte Peak. They’s a half a dozen men buried under the rocks. Jensen is a devil! He caved them rocks in on us deliberate.”

  “And I suppose you boys were just ridin’ around up there takin’ in all the scenery, huh?” Johnny said sarcastically.

  The man didn’t answer. But his eyes drifted to the badge on Johnny’s chest. “You the law. I want to swear out a warrant agin Smoke Jensen.”

  Johnny laughed at him. “Move on, mister. There’s a new doctor just hung out his sign down the street.”

  “You ain’t much of a lawman,” another bounty hunter sneered at him. “What’s your name?” He spoke around a very badly swollen jaw.

  “Johnny North.”

  The manhunter settled back in his saddle with a sigh and kept his mouth shut.

  “Move on,” Johnny repeated. “And don’t cause any trouble in this town or you’ll answer to me.”

  Cotton and Louis had stepped out, Louis out of his gambling house and Cotton out of the marshal’s office to stand on the boardwalk and watch the sorry-looking sight.

  Cotton and Johnny joined Louis. “I count twelve in that bunch,” Louis said. “Did he say there were half a dozen buried under rocks?”

  “Yeah. Smoke musta started a rock slide. Earl said he took a case of dynamite with him. When’s Earl gettin’ back? I ain’t seen him since he rode up to the county seat.”

  “Today, I would imagine. He said he’d be gone three days. He was going to send some wires. I don’t know to whom, but I suspect they concern Smoke.”

  “You think he really knows the President of the U-nited States?” Cotton asked.

  “Oh, he probably does.” Louis smiled. “I do.”

  * * *

  Smoke reared up from behind the man, jerked the rider off his horse and slammed on to the ground. He hit him three times. Three short vicious right-hand blows that crossed the man’s eyes, knocked out several teeth, and left the rider unconscious. Smoke knew the guy slightly. Name of Curt South. He was from Utah, Smoke remembered. A sometimes cowboy, sometimes bounty hunter, sometimes cattle thief, and all around jerk. He released Curt’s shirt, and the man fell to the ground, on his back, unconscious. Smoke left him where he lay and swung into the saddle. The stirrups were set too short, but he didn’t intend to keep the horse long.

  Smoke headed across country, for the deep timber between Bennett Mountain and Silver Mountain. After a hard fifteen minute ride, Smoke reined up and allowed the horse to blow while he inspected the bedroll and saddle bags. The blankets smelled really bad and had fleas hopping around them. He threw them away and kept the ground sheet and canvas shelterhalf. He found a side of bacon wrapped in heavy paper and some potatoes and half a loaf of bread that wasn’t too stale. He smashed Curt’s rifle against a rock and swung back into the saddle.

  Minutes later, he came around a clump of trees and ran right into the outlaw Blackjack Simpson—literally running into him. The two horses collided on the narrow game trail and threw both Lee and Smoke to the ground, knocking the wind out of both of them. Blackjack came up to his knees first and tried to smash Smoke’s head in with a rock. Smoke kicked him in the gut and sent the man sprawling.

  Guns were forgotten as the two men stood in the narrow trail and slugged it out. Blackjack was unlike most gunmen in that he knew how to use his fists and enjoyed a good fight. He slammed a right against Smoke’s head and tried to follow through with a left. Smoke grabbed the man’s arm, turned, and threw him to the trail. Blackjack got to his feet, and Smoke busted his beak with a straight right that jarred the man right down to his muddy boots. The blow knocked him backward against a tree.

  With the blood flowing from his broken nose, Blackjack came in, both fists swinging. Smoke hit him a left and right combination that glazed the man’s eyes and buckled his knees. Smoke followed through, seizing the advantage. He hammered at the man’s belly with his big, work-hardened fists, the blows bringing grunts of pain from Blackjack and backing him up.

  Smoke’s boot struck a rock and threw him off balance. Blackjack grabbed a club from off the ground and tried to smash in Smoke’s head. Smoke kicked him in the parts, and Blackjack doubled over, gagging and puking from the boot to his groin.

  Smoke grabbed up the broken limb and smacked Blackjack a good one on the side of his head. Blackjack hit the ground and didn’t move.

  Smoke took the man’s guns and smashed them useless, then caught up with the spooked horse. He took Blackjack’s .44-.40 from his saddle boot and shucked out the ammo, adding that to his own supply. Then he smashed the rifle against a tree.

  He knew he should kill Blackjack; the man was a murderer, rapist, bank robber, and anything else a body could name that was low-down and no-good.

  But he just couldn’t bring himself to shoot the man.

  Trouble was, he didn’t know what the hell to do with him.

  “Can’t do it, can you, Jensen?” Blackjack gasped out the words.

  “Do what, Blackjack?” Smoke backed up and sat down on a fallen log.

  “You can’t shoot me, can you?”

  “I’m not a murderer.”

  “That’ll get you killed someday, Jensen.” The man tried to get to his feet, and Smoke left the log and kicked him in the head.

  Smoke took Blackjack’s small poke of food from his saddlebags, cut Blackjack’s cinch strap and slapped the horse on the rump. He swung into his saddle and looked at the unconscious outlaw.

  “I should kill you, Blackjack. But I just can’t do it. If I did that, I’d be across the line and joined up with the likes of you. God forbid I should ever enjoy killing.”

  He rode into the timber, straight for trouble.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Those men who came into Rio thinking the hunt for Smoke Jensen would be no more than a lark took one last look at those manhunters who staggered out of the mountains and hauled their ashes out of the country.

  With their departing, they left behind them only the hardcases of the bounty hunting profession. Men who gave no thought to a person’s innocence or guilt. Men who were there only for the money.

  “Amazing,” Earl said, gazing at the ever-growing number of manhunters converging on the town. “The mountains are full of members of the Lee Slater gang—all with a price on their heads—and these dredges of society would willingly consort with them to get to Smoke.”

  “There isn’t much to them,” Louis agreed. “I’ve seen their kind all over the West. Most lawmen don’t like them, and few decent members of society have anything more than contempt for them. But I suppose in some instances, they do provide a service for
the common good.”

  “Name one,” Johnny said sourly.

  “I would be hard-pressed to do so,” Louis admitted. He cut his eyes. “Well, now. Would you just look at this.”

  The men looked up the street. Luttie Charles and his crew were riding in, and his crew had swelled considerably. The men of the Seven Slash turned in toward the marshal’s office, where Earl and the other ‘deputies’ were standing on the boardwalk. The men sat their saddles and stared at the quartet.

  “Loaded for bear,” Cotton whispered, taking in the bulging saddlebags and bedrolls.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “I got a hunch this ain’t no good news for Smoke.”

  “I am here to announce our intentions, gentlemen,” Luttie said.

  Earl stared at the man, saying nothing.

  “Smoke Jensen is a wanted man, correct?” Luttie asked, his smile more a nasty smirk.

  “That is, unfortunately, correct,” the Englishman acknowledged.

  “That being the case,” Luttie said, “we have come to offer our services toward the cause of law and order.”

  “Like I said,” Johnny whispered. “No good news for Smoke.”

  “We want this to be legal and above board,” Luttie said. “So we came to the appointed law first.”

  “Get to the point,” Cotton said bluntly.

  “We are going into the mountains to bring back the murderer Smoke Jensen,” Luttie spoke around his smirky smile.

  “Dead or alive,” Jake said.

  The Karl Brothers, Rod and Randy, giggled. Both of them were about four bricks shy of a load, and were men who enjoyed killing.

  Johnny spat on the ground to show his contempt for the goofy pair.

  Rod grinned at him. “If you wasn’t wearin’ that tin star, I’d call you out for that, North.”

  Johnny reached up, unpinned the badge, and put it in his pocket. “Then make your play, you stupid-lookin’ punk.”

  “No!” Luttie’s command was sharply given. “We have no quarrel with the law, and that’s an order.”