Code of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  A rifle slug grazed the side of Smoke’s head, knocking him to one side and addling him for several moments. He felt the warm stickiness of blood oozing down his cheek. He forced himself to ignore it as he shifted positions.

  Smoke found better cover and sighted in on a man. Mac took the slug just below his belt buckle and hit the ground howling, unable to move his legs. The bullet had angled up and exited out his back, tearing his spinal cord. Keno dragged the screaming man back toward the entrance to the valley.

  “I cain’t move my legs!” Mac hollered. “I’m crippled. Finish me, Keno.”

  “All right,” the outlaw said, and shot the man between the eyes.

  Outside the valley, reporters and the curious had gathered nearby, but not so close as to risk getting shot. After Louis and Sally had told their stories, the town of Rio emptied in a rush. Saloonkeepers had set up shop and were doing a brisk business in the wilderness. They kept people busy racing back and forth to town for more whiskey.

  Sally was bathing in Louis’ quarters. She had no intention of returning to the wilderness. She would be waiting here for her man – when he returned. Not if. When.

  Louis had posted one of his men at the front and at the back of his quarters, with orders to shoot to kill any man who tried to breech Sally’s privacy.

  Louis was sitting by Charlie Starr’s side, in a chair by the bed. Charlie was pale and hurting, but getting stronger.

  “I know that valley,” Charlie said. “Found it with Kit back in ’48. Peaceful, pretty little place.”

  “It isn’t peaceful now,” Louis told him.

  “How many you guess are in there after him?”

  “Twenty to thirty.”

  “He’ll take lead.”

  “He knows it. And so does Sally. But this last round is his. He told me so.”

  “It’s got to be that way, Louis. It’s the code of the mountain man. Preacher taught him that. You and me, we just shortened the odds some.” He sighed. “I’ve known that boy for a long time. Me and Preacher went way back together. Them gunnies in that valley now, they don’t really know what they’re up agin. It’s been play time so far. Now Smoke’s gonna get nasty. He laid in his blankets this mornin’ and put ever’thing out of his mind except stayin’ alive. He Injuned and made his peace with the gods. Asked the wind and the rain and the lightning and the animals and the trees and the mountains to help him. He’s not quite human now, Louis. And as bad hurt as he might get, when this is over, he might stay up there for several hours or several days, fixin’ his mind so’s he can once more be fit to associate with normal human bein’s. Depends on how bad it gets in his head.”

  Louis stirred in his chair. “I never saw him the way you just described him.”

  “Be thankful. It’s a fearsome sight.”

  Lilly came in and shooed Louis out. She took a bottle of sleeping medicine from the bureau and poured a tablespoon full. Charlie took it without grumbling. He smiled at the madam.

  “When I get my strength back, I’m gonna repay you, Lilly.” He winked.

  She returned the wink. “The saddle’ll be ready for you to ride, Charlie. Now go to sleep.” She drew the curtains to the small quarters in the big wagon. As she stepped down to the ground, her eyes flicked to the mountains. She’d been knowing Smoke Jensen ever since he was just a little tadpole roaming the country with that old reprobate Preacher. She’d heard Charlie telling Louis about how Smoke turned into some sort of unstoppable inhuman creature when he got all worked up. She knew it to be fact. She’d seen it one time. She hoped to God she never had to see it again. But she would, at least one more time. And soon.

  It was a terrible, fearsome thing to witness.

  * * *

  Steve Bolt was crawling through the lushness of the little valley. He had dreams of being the man who killed Smoke Jensen. The money wasn’t important – it was the reputation he sought.

  “Lars?” he whispered. His partner was supposed to be a few yards away, to his right.

  Lars didn’t reply.

  “Lars! Come on, man, where are you?”

  Steve raised up on his elbows, and his face froze with fear. Lars was standing up, sorta like a scarecrow, both arms wedged over low branches. His throat had been cut. Steve stood up to his knees, opening his mouth to scream.

  A spear, about six feet long and sharpened on one end, caught him in the chest and drove all the way through him. Steve uttered a long, low moan as the pain registered in his brain. Both hands gripped the spear, and he tried to pull it out. He screamed in pain and gave that up.

  “What’s the matter, Steve?” another manhunter called in a low whisper.

  Steve could only grunt in pain. His eyes were fixed on a tall, very muscular man who suddenly appeared about ten yards in front of him. He was hatless, his face bloody. His shirtfront was bloody. But it was his eyes that froze Steve’s tongue. The brown eyes had a gold tint about them – they seemed to glow with rage. The man – it had to be Jensen – held several long spears in his left hand.

  “Steve!” the call came again.

  Steve found his voice and screamed like he had never done before in his life. He cut his eyes. The tall bloody man had disappeared.

  “Good God!” the third bounty hunter said, running over to Steve. His eyes touched the lifeless body of Lars, hanging from the branches. “No,” he whispered.

  That was the last thing he whispered. A long spear, hurled with strength that the average man only dreams about, struck the manhunter in the chest with such force it knocked him back against a tree. He died on his boots.

  Keno was the first to find the three bounty hunters. He immediately dropped to his knees for cover and looked wildly around him. His mouth and throat and lips were suddenly very dry. And he realized that he was scared. Very badly scared. He’d been an outlaw since no more than a boy; he’d done some terrible, awful things and seen even worse. But he had never before faced such a man as Smoke Jensen. There were no rules. Jensen was a savage, through and through. Worser than any damn Injun that ever lived.

  “Martine?” Keno called as softly as he could and still have a chance to be heard.

  “ ’Bout twenty yards behind you, Keno. What you got?”

  “Steve, Lars, and that other fellow. All dead. Lars’ throat is cut ear to ear. Steve and his buddy was kilt with spears.”

  Martine cursed softly in Spanish.

  “Que haces?” Lopez questioned.

  Mason Wright came running up, both hands filled with Colts. His eyes became wild with rage when he saw the three dead bounty hunters. “Jensen!” he screamed. “Goddamn you, Jensen. Me and Lars was compadres. You’ll pay for this, you cowardly bastard. Step out here, face me.”

  A rifle cracked and a blue-black hole appeared in Mason’s forehead. The gunfighter slumped to the ground, stayed on his knees for a moment, then fell over on his face. Both Colts went off when he hit the ground, and Keno screamed in pain as a slug tore through his shin and exited out the back of his calf. He rolled on the ground, yelling.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Keno squalled. “You shot me, you stupid idiot! Oh, God, it hurts.”

  Luttie ran up, looked around, and hit the ground. “Fill the woods with lead,” he yelled. “Everybody start shooting.”

  Lead started flying from all directions in all directions. “Don’t shoot at me, you fools!” Luttie screamed. “Form a skirmish line, left and right of me. Jesus Christ, men, think!”

  The outlaws and bounty hunters formed up and began filling the timber ahead of them with lead. But Smoke was gone. He knew if he was to survive, he had to think twice as fast as the outlaws and be two steps ahead of them at all times.

  He chanced a return to the pass entrance, hoping against hope. But after scanning the entrance, he knew it had been posted with men. Safely behind and to the north of the outlaws, Smoke paused for a short rest while he looked around him at the high peaks surrounding the valley. Was this valley really a box? He knew a lot of cowboys ca
lled any canyon or valley they could not ride a horse out of a box. Maybe it was – maybe it wasn’t. He was going to find out. Only problem was, he had no blankets to combat the intense cold of the high lonesome should he be trapped up there and have to spend the night.

  A bullet slammed into a tree, just missing his head. Smoke jumped for cover.

  “Here he is!” came the shout. “Come on, boys. Now we got him.”

  “Where, Malone?”

  “Work your way north towards me. I’ll keep him pinned down. That’ll put him ’twixt you and me.”

  Smoke put a .44-.40 ’twixt Malone’s ribs, right in the center of the V of the ribcage.

  “Oh, God!” Malone yelled. “He plugged me.”

  Smoke ran to Malone and kicked the man’s rifle away from him, smiling as he saw the rolled up ground sheet and blanket tied across the man’s back. He tore it from him and took his pistols.

  “Help me,” Malone moaned.

  Smoke pointed his rifle at Malone and jacked back the hammer.

  “Oh, Jesus!” the outlaw squalled. “Not thataway!”

  “Then shut up and die quietly.” Smoke was gone, running into the timber north of the gutshot outlaw and at the base of a formidable-looking peak.

  “He’s run towards the mountains, boys!” Smoke heard Malone’s yell, and knew he had to stand and fight for a time.

  He bellied down behind a rotting log and punched rounds into his Winchester. One outlaw ran across the small clearing, running to help Malone. Smoke dropped him. The man threw his rifle high into the air and hit the ground. He did not move.

  “You a devil, Jensen!” Malone yelled. “He was a-comin’ to help me.”

  “Stay along the timberline,” Luttie told his men. “Don’t expose yourselves.”

  “What about Malone?” Jake asked.

  “You want to go help him?”

  Jake did not reply. The men stayed in cover until Malone’s screaming ceased. They did not know if he had passed out or if he was dead. Most didn’t care one way or the other.

  “He’s tooken Malone’s bedroll,” Whit said. “See yonder. It’s gone.”

  “He’s going to try for the peaks,” Lee said. “But you said this was a box.”

  “It is.” But that nagged at Luttie. He knew there were only two ways that a man could ride a horse in or out. Jensen had blown one of them closed. But was it possible for a man to climb out? He didn’t know. He’d never tried it, and didn’t know of anyone who ever had.

  Luttie silently cursed. But if any man could climb out, it would be that damn Smoke Jensen.

  “Fan out,” Luttie ordered. “We can’t let him get into the highup. Remember what he done last time.”

  The outlaws and manhunters started cautiously fanning out. Some of them were rapidly losing their taste for the hunt and would leave if they got a chance. Honor be damned.

  Smoke silently melted into the timber and the brush, climbing higher. He would pause now and then to scan the peaks with field glasses. A cup of coffee would taste good right now, but he didn’t have any and could not dare risk a fire even if he did.

  He found a small pool of clear, cold water and bathed his wounds carefully, treating them with the medicines Sally had packed for him. The wounds were not serious, and he knew that high altitudes slowed infections.

  Smoke took the time to rig some deadfalls and other more lethal traps. That done, he hiked up another hundred yards and found a good location. To hell with it! He was tired and was going to rest.

  “Come on, boys,” he muttered. “You want me, here I am!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  They almost got him.

  It was one of those freak shots that had nothing at all to do with skill. The slug howled off a rock, hit a tree a glancing blow, and struck Smoke in the side. Had it not lost much of its force, it probably would have killed him.

  Smoke looked at the hole in his side. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of his back and exited out the front. It looked awful, hurt like hell, but was not a serious wound. It was, however, going to impede any attempts at climbing.

  Smoke shifted positions, working his way out of the rocks and getting into a natural depression that offered less chance of a ricochet. He checked the sun. About ten o’clock, he figured. It was going to be a very long day.

  Smoke sighted in what appeared to be a man’s arm and fired. He missed his shot, but the outlaw yelled and scrambled back down the hill, finding a more protected spot.

  Smoke kept his head down while the lead hammered and howled all around him. He knew they were advancing toward him during the fusillade, but it couldn’t be helped. While the outlaws frantically punched fresh rounds into their rifles, Smoke sighted in a man running hard for cover . . . and alarmingly near Smoke’s position. The .44-.40 slug busted him, turning him around like a top. Smoke’s second shot ended the spin.

  “He got Tap!” a man yelled, jumping up in anger and excitement.

  Smoke got him, too. He couldn’t tell if it was a killing shot, but the man went down limp and didn’t move.

  “Damn!” he heard a man say. “Whit’s had it.”

  “I’ve had it too,” another man said. “I’m gone. Done. Finished.”

  Two more agreed with him, and Smoke let them leave, even though he had a clear shot at one of them and a maybe shot at another.

  Smoke pulled back. He was so muddy and bloody he blended in with the earth and the foliage. He ached all over and longed for a hot tub of water with a big bar of soap. What he got was dirt and rocks and twigs kicked into his face by a bullet. He wiped his vision clear and slipped into cover, his face bleeding.

  He watched through a sturdy mountain bush as a man limped from one tree to another. Smoke ended his limping with a single shot.

  “Damnit!” a man said. “I told Keno to head back out of the valley.”

  “He shore ain’t goin’ nowheres now,” another man said. ’Ceptin’ the grave, if he’s lucky.”

  “I want his boots,” a man yelled. “I was with him when he stole ’em. Them’s brand new. Mine’s wore slap out.”

  Keep talking, Smoke thought, shifting around to face the direction of the closest voice and earing back the hammer on his Winchester.

  He waited and saw what he felt was the tip of a boot. The boot moved just a bit, exposing several more inches of leather. He laid a bead and squeezed the trigger. A howl of pain erupted from behind the cluster of low rocks.

  “My foot’s ruint!” a man yelled. “Oh, God, it hurts! He blowed my toes off.”

  “Now you shore need some boots,” a man told him, ending it with a dirty laugh.

  Smoke put three fast rounds into the bushes where he felt the smart-mouth was hiding. He watched as a man rose slowly to his feet. He looked down at his bullet-perforated and bloody shirt front. “You bastard,” the outlaw said, then toppled over on his face.

  “It ain’t workin’, Luttie,” the sound came to Smoke. “He’s pickin’ us off one by one.”

  “Then leave, you yeller-belly!” Luttie said. “You’re paid up. Haul your ashes.”

  “I believe I’ll just do that little thing. I’m pullin’ out, Jensen. You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Don’t shoot. I’m gone.”

  Smoke let him go while the remaining outlaws poured lead into Smoke’s position. Smoke stayed low, hating it, knowing they were inching closer, but unable to prevent it.

  He heard panting coming from only a few feet away and knew if he didn’t move, they would have him cold.

  “Goddamnit, he must have moved!” the voice was only inches away.

  “He’s got to be in there. Are you stone blind, Crown?” Lee yelled.

  No. Crown was just stone dead. Smoke shot him in the belly at point-blank range, pulled out the man’s twin Remingtons and emptied them downhill. He lunged out of the hole and ran into the bushes, lead whining and howling and clipping branches and thudding into trees all around him.

 
; “Somebody kill him, damnit!” Luttie screamed. “Cain’t nobody shoot straight no more?”

  Smoke climbed higher, pausing often to rest. His wounds were taking a toll on him, gradually sapping his strength. Although still bull-strong, he couldn’t last another day; he knew that. He had to bring this fight to an end.

  Something slammed into his head and knocked him spinning. The last thing he remembered was falling into darkness.

  * * *

  “They claim they killed him,” Mills said, after speaking to several people in the huge crowd around the mouth of the valley entrance.

  “I don’t believe it,” Winston said.

  Mills shrugged his shoulders. “Smoke is a mortal man, Winston. A big tough bear of a man, but still mortal. Look, I don’t want to believe it either, but face facts. He’s been fighting terrible odds for days.”

  “Where’s the body?” Larry asked, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “They said he fell down into a ravine. No way to retrieve the body. But they have his rifle.”

  “Oh, my God!” Hugh shook his head. “It must be true.”

  “We’ll arrest the outlaws as they come out,” Mills ordered. “If they offer just the slightest hint of resistance, kill them on the spot.”

  “You don’t mean that, Mills!” Sharp said.

  “The hell I don’t!”

  * * *

  Sally looked up into the face of Lilly LaFevere. Johnny North, Cotton, Earl, and Louis were with her. All their faces were grim.

  “Give it to me straight,” Sally said.

  “Word is they killed your man, honey.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “A bounty hunter told a reporter that it can’t be recovered. Smoke supposedly fell off into a ravine after being shot in the head,” Louis said grimly. “We’re riding to the valley. Sheriff Silva and a posse are here now, to keep order. Stay with her, Lilly.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  * * *