Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  After wiping his knife on the man’s shirt, Joey walked around the corner to get on Red and head toward Pueblo, Colorado. As he stepped into the saddle, a voice came from the door of the saloon.

  “I thought that was you the barman described, Wells.”

  Joey’s hand was on his pistol butt before he saw who was talking to him. It was Louis Carbone, and standing next to him was his friend and constant companion, Al Martine.

  Joey shook his head and grinned. “Looks like they’ll let any ol’ trash come up to Texas.”

  Carbone smiled. “You got time for to wet your whistle, killer?”

  Joey looked to his left at the entrance to the alley. “Well, maybe just one, then I gotta be on my way.”

  Martine raised an eyebrow when he saw Joey’s eyes flicker toward the alley. “Yore hurry wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with that hombre you escorted outta here, would it?”

  Joey shook hands with the two men and they went back into the saloon. They showed him to their table, where there was a bottle of bourbon, half empty, and two mugs of beer. “Wanna beer?” Carbone asked.

  “Naw, like I said, I gotta git goin’ here ’fore too long. Whiskey’ll do me just fine.”

  After they all downed a drink, Joey asked, “What’re you two doin’ all the way up here? Last I heared, you was stuck down there in Chihuahua, entertainin’ all the señoritas.”

  “We came to buy some longhorns from Texas and run ’em back down to Mexico. Those Mexican crossbred cattle ain’t worth spit.”

  “Say,” Joey asked, “you boys know anything ‘bout a galoot named Murdock ranchin’ up Colorado way?”

  The two looked at each other and grinned. “Yeah, and I hope the fact that you’re askin’ about him means he’s gonna die real soon,” Martine said.

  “Oh?”

  Carbone chuckled. “Yeah, Al’s got a hard-on for the guy. ’Bout a year back, when we was last up here buying cattle, he got in a poker game with Murdock and lost half the money we had for cattle.”

  Martine scowled. “Later, I heard he ran a crooked game. He cleaned some ol’ boy outta everything he had, includin’ the deed to a ranch somewhere up in the mountain country. Coulda been Colorado, I guess.”

  “Last news we had was the Rangers tole him to git his butt outta Texas or they’d make ’im wished he had,” Carbone added.

  Joey’s face turned hard. “Don’t worry none ‘bout gittin’ any revenge, Al. I’m headed up that way ta have a talk with Murdock and some men he’s hired.” Joey went on to tell the two about how the marauders had shot Betty and Tom.

  Carbone put his hand on Joey’s arm. “Don’t worry none ’bout your family, compadre, Al and I will stay here and make sure they are well cared for while you take care of Vasquez and his men. But watch your ass. I hear Vasquez is crooked as a snake’s trail, and twice as dangerous with that long knife of his.”

  “Thanks, Louis.”

  The men walked outside to stand next to their horses at the hitching rail.

  Al narrowed his eyes. “If you happen to get up near Big Rock, Colorado, there’s someone I’d like you to look up for us.”

  “Who’d that be?”

  “Man name of Smoke Jensen. He did Louis and me a big favor a couple of years back, and I’d like you to take him a present from us.”

  “Smoke Jensen? Smoke Jensen the pistoleer?”

  Martine said, “Come on over to my horse. I have something in my saddlebags for you to take with you.”

  Chapter 2

  Smoke and Pearlie and Cal rode three abreast across the lush meadows of Sugarloaf, Smoke’s ranch, keeping their horses at an easy canter. The fields were full of wildflowers, riotous colors not yet muted by the early frost, and the air was crisp and cold with a gunmetal smell of snow on the breezes. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky but brought little warmth.

  They were riding the pastures and fields to make sure the spring calving hadn’t left any cows down, their calves to starve. Spring rains had knocked some fences down, and Pearlie and Cal were checking to see which ones needed fixing first, so Pearlie could send the punchers out to repair the damage.

  Out of the corner of his eye Smoke saw Cal flexing and swinging his left arm, a grimace of pain on his face. “How’s the arm, Cal?”

  The boy straightened in his saddle, wiping pain from his face. “Oh, it’s fine, Smoke, no problem at all.”

  Pearlie gave Smoke a wink. “Yeah, it’s fine, ‘ceptin’ I reckon ol’ Cal’ll be able to tell us when a storm’s comin’, from the aching in that wound of his.”

  Cal had only recently recovered from a bullet he took in his chest while helping Smoke in his fight against the man who called himself Sundance. Smoke sobered, his grin fading as he remembered how Cal and Pearlie had saved his life....

  * * *

  Smoke planned to cover the north part of the trail himself and to slow down, or eliminate that bunch of paid assassins. He directed Cal and Pearlie farther down the mountain to harass and attack a second bunch headed up the mountain along a winding deer trail through tall timber.

  By the time Cal and Pearlie made their way down the slopes to locate the gunmen’s campfire, it was past ten o’clock at night. The snow had stopped falling, and the dark skies were beginning to clear.

  Cal and Pearlie lay just outside the circle of light from the fire and listened to the outlaws as they prepared to turn in for the night.

  One-Eye Jordan, his hand wrapped around a whiskey bottle and his speech slightly slurred, said, “Black Jack, I’ll lay a side wager that I’m the one puts lead in Smoke Jensen first.”

  Black Jack Warner looked up from checking his Colt’s loads, spun the cylinder, and answered, “You’re on, One-Eye. I’ve got two double-eagle gold pieces that say I’ll not only drill Jensen first, but that I’ll be the one who kills him.”

  The Mexican and two Anglos who were watching from the other side of the fire chuckled and shook their heads. They apparently did not think much of their leader’s wager, or were simply tired and wanted them to quit jawing so they could turn in and get some rest.

  Finally, when One-Eye finished his bottle and tossed it in the flames, the men quit talking and rolled up in their blankets under a dusting of light snow.

  Pearlie and Cal waited until the gunnies were snoring loudly, and then they stood, stretching muscles cramped from lying on the snow-covered ground. Being careful not to make too much noise, they circled the camp, noting the location and number of horses, the layout of surrounding terrain. They crept up on the group of sleeping gun hawks, moving slowly while counting bedrolls to make sure all of Sundance’s men were accounted for.

  Pearlie leaned over and cupped his hand around Cal’s ear, whispering, “I count five bodies. That matches the number of horses.”

  Cal nodded, holding up five fingers to show he agreed. He took two sticks of dynamite from his pack and held them up so Pearlie could see, then he pointed to Pearlie and made a circular motion with his hand to indicate he wanted Pearlie to go around to the other side of camp and cover him.

  Pearlie nodded and slipped a twelve-gauge shotgun off his shoulder. He broke it open and made sure both chambers were loaded, then snapped it shut gently so as not to make a sound. He gave Cal a wink as he slipped quietly into the darkness.

  Cal waited five minutes to give Pearlie time to get into position. Taking a deep breath, he drew his Navy Colt with his right hand and held the dynamite in his left. He slowly made his way among the sleeping outlaws, being careful not to step on anything that might cause noise. When he was near the fire, he tossed both sticks of dynamite into the dying flames and quickly stepped out of camp. He ducked behind a thick ponderosa pine just as the dynamite exploded with an ear-splitting roar, blowing chunks of bark off the other side of the tree.

  The screaming began before echoes from the explosion stopped reverberating off the mountainside. Flaming pieces of wood spiraled through the darkness, hissing when they fell into drifts of snow.
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br />   Cal swung around his tree, both hands full of iron. One of the outlaws, his hair and shirt on fire, ran toward him, yelling and shooting his pistol wildly.

  Cal fired both Colts, thumbing back hammers, pulling triggers so quickly the roaring gunshots seemed like a single blast. Pistols jumped and bucked in his hands, belching flame and smoke toward the running gunnie.

  The bandit, shot in his chest and stomach, was thrown backward to land like a discarded rag doll on his back, smoke curling lazily from his flaming scalp.

  One-Eye Jordan threw his smoldering blanket aside and stood, dazed and confused. His eye patch had been blown off, along with most of the left side of his face. He staggered a few steps, then pulled his pistol and aimed it at Cal, moving as if in slow motion.

  Twin explosions erupted from Pearlie’s scattergun, taking Jordan low in the back, splitting his torso with molten pieces of lead. His lifeless body flew across the clearing, where it landed atop another outlaw who had been killed in the dynamite blast.

  One of the Mexican bandidos, shrieking curses in Spanish, crawled away from the fire on hands and knees. Scrabbling like a wounded crab toward the shelter of darkness, he looked over his shoulder to find Pearlie staring at him across the sights of a Colt .44.

  “Aiyee ... no . . .” he yelled, holding his hands in front of him as if they could stop the inevitable bullets. Pearlie shot him, the hot lead passing through his hand and entering the bandit’s left eye, exploding his skull and sending brains and blood spurting into the air.

  Black Jack Warner, who was thrown twenty feet in the air into a deep snowdrift, struggled to his feet. As he drew his pistol, he saw Pearlie shoot his compadre. Pearlie was turned away from Warner and did not see the stunned outlaw creep slowly toward him, drawing a bead on his back with a hogleg.

  Cal glanced up, checking on bodies for signs of life. He saw Warner with his arm extended, about to shoot Pearlie in the back.

  With no thought for his own safety, Cal yelled as he stood up, drawing his Navy Colt, triggering off a hasty shot.

  Warner heard the shout and whirled, catching a bullet in his neck as he wheeled around. A death spasm curled his trigger finger, and his pistol fired as he fell.

  Cal felt like a mule had kicked him in the chest as he was thrown backward. He lay in the snow, gasping for breath, staring at stars. In shock, he felt little pain—that would come much later. He knew he was hit hard and wondered briefly if he was going to die. His right arm was numb and wouldn’t move, and his vision began to dim, as if snow clouds were again covering the stars.

  Suddenly Pearlie’s face appeared above him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Hey, pardner, you saved my life,” he said, worry pinching his forehead.

  Cal gasped, trying to breathe. He felt as if the mule that had kicked him was now sitting on his chest. “Pearlie,” he said in a hoarse whisper rasping through parched lips, “how’re you doin’?”

  Pearlie pulled Cal’s shirt open and examined a blood-splattered hole in the right side of his ribs. He choked back a sob, then he muttered, “I’m fine, cowboy. How about you? You havin’ much pain?”

  Cal winced when, suddenly, his wound began to throb. “I feel like someone’s tryin’ to put a brand on my chest, an’ it hurts like hell.”

  Pearlie rolled him to the side, looking for an exit wound. The bullet had struck his fourth rib, shattering it, and traveled around the chest just underneath the skin, causing a deep, bloody furrow, then exited from the side, just under Cal’s right arm. The wound was oozing blood, but there was none of the spurting that would signify artery damage, and it looked as if the slug had not entered his chest cavity.

  Cal groaned, coughed, and passed out. Pearlie tore his own shirt off and wrapped it around Cal, tying it as tightly as he could to stanch the flow of blood from the bullet hole. He sat back on his haunches, trying to think of something else he could do to help his friend. “Goddammit, kid,” he whispered, sweat beading his forehead, “it shoulda been me lyin’ there instead of you.”

  The sound of a twig snapping not far away caught Pearlie’s attention, and he jerked his Colt, thumbing back the hammer.

  “Hold on there, young‘un,” a voice called from the darkness, “it’s jest me, ol’ Puma, come to see what all this commotion’s about.”

  Pearlie released the hammer and holstered his gun with a sigh of relief. “Puma! Boy, am I glad to see you!”

  Puma sauntered into the light, then he saw Cal lying wounded at Pearlie’s feet. He squatted down, laying his Sharps Big Fifty rifle near his feet, and bent over the kid. He lifted Pearlie’s improvised dressing and examined Cal’s wound. Pursing his lips, he whistled softly. “Whew ... this child’s got him some hurt.”

  He pulled a large Bowie knife from his scabbard and held it out to Pearlie. “Here. Put this in that fire and get me some fatback and lard out’n my saddlebag.”

  When Pearlie just stared at him, Puma’s voice turned harsh. “Hurry, son, we don’t have a surfeit of time if’n we want to save this’n.”

  Pearlie snatched the knife from Puma and hurried to carry out his request.

  Puma took his bandanna and began wiping sweat from Cal’s forehead, speaking to him in a low, soothing voice. “You just rest easy, young beaver, ol’ Puma’s here now, an’ yore gonna be jest fine.”

  When Pearlie returned carrying a sack of fatback and a small tin of lard, Puma asked him if he had any whiskey.

  “Some, in my saddlebags, but . . .”

  “Git it, and don’t dawdle now, you hear?”

  After Pearlie handed Puma the whiskey, the old mountain man cradled Cal’s head in his arms and slowly poured half the bottle down his throat, stopped to let him cough and gag, then gave him the rest of the liquor.

  Without looking up, he said, “Git my blade outta the fire, it oughta be ’bout ready by now.”

  Pearlie fished the knife out of the coals, its blade glowing red hot and steaming in the chilly air. He carried it to Puma and gave it to him, dreading what was to come next.

  “Pearlie, you sit on the young‘un’s legs and try an’ keep him from moving too much. I’ll sit on his left arm and hold down his right.”

  When they were in position, Puma pulled a two-inch cartridge from his pocket and placed it between Cal’s teeth. “Bite down on this, boy, an’ don’t worry none if’n you have to yell every now’n then. There ain’t nobody left alive to hear you.”

  Cal nodded, fear in his eyes, jaws clenched around the bullet.

  Puma laid the glowing knife blade sideways on Cal’s wound and dragged it along his skin, cauterizing the flesh. It hissed and steamed, and the smell of burning meat caused Pearlie to turn his head and empty his stomach in the snow.

  Cal’s face turned blotchy red and every muscle in his body tensed, but he made no sound while the knife did its work.

  When he was through, Puma stuck his blade in the snow to cool it, sleeving sweat off his forehead. He looked down at Cal, who was breathing hard through his nose, bullet sticking out of his lips like an unlit cigarette. “Smoke was right, Cal,” Puma whispered. “You’re one hairy little son of bitch. You were born with the bark on, all right.”

  Cal spit the bullet out and mumbled, “Do you think you could move, Pearlie? Yore about to break my legs.”

  Pearlie laughed. “Shore, Cal. I wouldn’t want to cause you no extra amount of pain.”

  Cal chuckled, then he winced and moaned. “Oh. It hurts so bad when I laugh.”

  While they were talking, Puma gently washed the wound with snow, then packed the furrow with crushed chewing tobacco.

  “What’s that for?” Pearlie asked.

  “Tabaccy will heal just about anything,” Puma answered as he dipped his fingers in the lard and spread a thin layer over the tobacco-covered wound.

  Cal looked down at his chest, then up at Pearlie. “Would you build me a cigarette, Pearlie? I think I’d rather burn a twist of tobacco than wear it.”

  Puma sliced a hunk of
fatback off a larger piece, laid it over Cal’s chest, and tied it down with Pearlie’s shirt. “There, that oughta keep you from bleedin’ to death till you git down to Big Rock an’ the doctor.”

  Pearlie handed Cal a cigarette and lit it for him. “How are we gonna git him down to town, Puma? I don’t think he can sit a horse.”

  Puma stood up and walked off into the darkness, fetching two geldings back, leading them into the light. He tied a dally rope from one to the other and then turned to the two younger men. “We’ll sit Cal in the saddle, and you’ll ride double behind him, with yore arms around him holdin’ the reins. That way, if’n he faints or passes out, you can hold him in the saddle. ’Bout halfway down, change horses when this’n gits tired.” He glanced up at the stars. “I figure you’ll make it to town about daylight.”

  Pearlie said, “But what about Smoke? How’ll he know what happened to us? He’s expectin’ us back at camp in the morning.”

  Puma smiled. “Don’t you worry none about that. I’ll tell him what you done and where you’re gone to. Now, git goin’ if’n you want to make it in time fer breakfast.”

  The two men lifted Cal into the saddle, and Pearlie climbed on behind, his arms around the younger man. “Just a minute,” Cal said, feeling his empty holster. “Where’s my Navy?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Pearlie said, “I’ll get you another one.”

  Cal shook his head. “No. That was Smoke’s gun when he came up here with Preacher. It means somethin’ special to me, an’ I won’t leave without it.”

  Puma dug in the snow where Cal had fallen until he found the pistol. He brushed it off and handed it to the teenager. “Here ya go, beaver. You might want to check yore loads ’fore you put it in yore holster.” He glanced back, surveying the outlaws’ bodies lying around camp. “Looks like you mighta used a few cartridges in the fracas earlier.”

  Pearlie grinned as they rode off. “That we did, Puma, that we did.”

  * * *

  Cal had been as close to death as a man could come and still survive. His wound left him bedridden for three months, with Smoke and Pearlie taking turns sitting by his bedside, feeding him beef stew and later steaks to build up his strength and help replace the blood he had lost. For his part, Cal never complained about the excruciating pain, gritting his teeth and forcing food down when he wasn’t hungry so he could heal faster.1