Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Donovan James, a seventy-year-old veteran of the Indian Wars, fired a .50-caliber Civil War musket until he ran out of gunpowder, then pulled ancient matching army cap-and-ball pistols from his double-rigged holsters and stood in an alleyway, firing and cocking, his frail arms bucking with each shot. When a wounded Mexican wearing a Rurale uniform pitched off his horse in front of James, he aimed and pulled triggers, both guns empty.

  The Mexican struggled to his feet, a grin on his face. “Now you die, gringo.”

  “Not yet, slimeball,” the old man growled. He pulled a twelve-inch-long Bowie knife from his belt and stuck it in the Mexican’s belly, then shoved the dying man off his knife and began to reload his pistols.

  A rider came thundering at Smoke and Joey out of the dust, an Apache tomahawk raised high like a sword, ready to swing. Smoke and Joey both pulled triggers, hammers falling on empty chambers. As the Indian neared, Smoke hurriedly punched out his empties, but knew he didn’t have time to reload before the man would be upon them.

  Joey didn’t hesitate. He threw down his pistol and ran toward the rider. He took a giant leap up onto a hitching rail as he ran and catapulted himself forward into the rider’s body, knocking him to the ground. As bullets whined around him, he and the rider came to their feet at the same time. Smoke had his pistol reloaded but couldn’t get a clear shot. Joey was in the way, so he gave covering fire to protect him from other riders, killing two and wounding one.

  The Apache pulled his mask down and grinned as he raised his tomahawk for a fatal blow. He was one of the group that had attacked Joey’s ranch. “Chinga tú, gringo!” he shouted.

  Joey crouched and pulled his Arkansas Toothpick from its scabbard on the back of his belt. As the tomahawk whistled down, he parried the blow with his knife, sending sparks flying. He screamed a rebel yell and stepped into the Indian’s body, burying his blade to the hilt in his stomach.

  The Apache’s eyes widened in pain and shock, and Joey twisted the blade and jerked it upward, ripping his chest open and tearing his heart out. As the man fell before him, Joey leaned over and spit tobacco juice into his staring, dead eyes as he holstered his knife.

  Billy Bob Boudreaux, one of the men on the rooftops, was shot in the neck and fell tumbling to crash through a roof over the boardwalk. Another businessman, Darren Jones, shot in the stomach, fell forward through his window, sending glass shards sparkling in the sunlight.

  Smoke saw three of the raiders jump from their horses and run bent over, dodging bullets, into an alley on his side of the street. Smoke began reloading his Colts as he jogged back down an alley next to where he was.

  Just before he reached the end of the passageway, he put his back against a wall and eased to a corner of the building, peering around it carefully. The three bandits were walking slowly along the back street, pistols in hands as they looked for a way out of the trap they were in.

  Smoke pulled his hat down tight, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the street, Colts hanging in his hands at his sides. “You boys lost?” he called.

  The men whirled and pointed pistols his way, shouting in Spanish as they began to fire wildly. Smoke raised both hands and fired from the hip without taking time to aim. His Colts boomed and bucked in his hands, spitting death and destruction into the killers. One of their bullets nicked Smoke’s neck, and another took his hat off, but he kept firing.

  Two of the men went down, bleeding from chest and stomach, writhing in their blood in the dirt of the street.

  The third spun, hit in his arm by Smoke’s last shot. He straightened as Smoke’s hammers fell on empty chambers. With an evil grin he raised his pistol and took aim at Smoke’s face. “Adiós, pendejo, ”he spat out as he eared back his hammer.

  From behind Smoke came an explosion and the whine of a bullet passing close by his ear. He ducked instinctively as the man facing him doubled over, clutching his stomach before he toppled to the ground, dead.

  Smoke said without looking behind him, “Nice shooting, Joey. Thanks.”

  Joey didn’t answer, he was busy ejecting brass casings from his Colt and reloading.

  By the time Smoke and Joey ran back down the alley to the main street, the gunfire had begun to die down as most of the raiders were killed or blown wounded out of their saddles. Three men managed to squeeze their mounts around the wagons at the end of town, shooting sentry Jerry Wilson dead as they made their escape, riding low over their saddle horns back toward the north. One had a machete hanging from his belt, bobbing up and down with the motion of his bronc.

  * * *

  Men gathered riderless, milling horses and began to line bodies along the boardwalk, shoveling dirt over blood pools in the street. The raiders were laid in one section, fallen townspeople in another. The doctor was busily attending to wounded citizens, ignoring wounded bandits.

  Smoke and Joey walked over to the buckboard where Cal and Pearlie were still lying.

  Smoke shook his head at the sight of Cal with blood streaming down his neck from his partially shot-off ear.

  Joey laughed out loud. “Damn, Pearlie, you were right. This boy is plumb lead-hungry.”

  “Come on, Joey, don’t you start on me too,” Cal complained, one hand to his torn ear.

  Smoke saw Pearlie on hands and knees, crawling in the wagon. “Pearlie, what the hell are you doing?”

  Pearlie looked up and winked. “I’m lookin’ for Cal’s ear. Maybe the doc can sew it back on.”

  Smoke saw two men carrying Tolson out of a building on a makeshift stretcher. He and Joey rushed over to him, calling out, “Hey, Ben, how’re you doing?”

  He shook his head, grimacing. “Hell, it’s the same damn shoulder I been hit in three times already. This makes four bullets in the same place.”

  Joey smiled. “That much lead in ya, it’s a wonder ya don’t lean to the side when ya walk.”

  “Seriously, Ben, you did a good job. Murdock’s gang must be pretty well shut down now,” Smoke said.

  Tolson waved the men carrying his stretcher to stop. He leaned up on one elbow. “I don’t know, Smoke. All the men who got away were wearing masks. We all know it was Murdock, but I don’t know as I can prove it.”

  Joey said, “I don’t need no proof, sheriff. I saw the machete hangin’ on the belt of one that got away, so my business here isn’t finished yet.”

  “Give it a few days, Joey, just till I get on my feet again, and we’ll ride out to Murdock’s together and see what he has to say for himself . . . all right?”

  Joey scratched his chin. “I guess I can wait a couple o’ more days.” He looked at Smoke. “Maybe we can spend the time lookin’ over the ranch you bought.”

  Smoke slapped his forehead. “Damn, I clean forgot about the Williams place in all the excitement. We’ll go out tomorrow and take a look at it, though I doubt we’ll be needing it now that Murdock is finished.”

  Joey shook his head. “Don’t go countin’ him out just yet, Smoke. Cuttin’ the tail off a snake don’t always kill it. You got to git the head to make sure.”

  * * *

  A sweating Jacob Murdock twirled the dial of his office safe as fast as he could. Vasquez stood behind him, pulling a cork from Murdock’s bourbon.

  Murdock took a handful of cash from his safe, counted out twenty-five bills, and put the rest back in the drawer. He slammed the heavy iron door shut and spun the dial again to lock it.

  He rose and took a glass full of whiskey from Vasquez, who merely upended the bottle and gulped his straight.

  “Here is twenty-five hundred dollars, Emilio. Five hundred is for you, the other two thousand is for the men 1 want you to hire.”

  Vasquez spread his hands. “Señor, es finito, give it up. Jensen and Wells beat us. Is time to go to greener pastures.”

  Murdock took a long, slow drink of the bourbon and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “You don’t know who we’re dealing with here, do you?”

  Vasquez shrugged. “A couple of gringo gunfigh
ters. So? In a few weeks they will move on and forget Emilio and Jacob.”

  Murdock shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. That small one, the one with the Southern drawl, that’s Joey Wells.”

  “Again I say, so?”

  “During the Civil War a group of over a hundred and fifty men, called Kansas Redlegs, betrayed and killed Joey’s friends. It took him two and a half years, but he tracked every Kansas Redleg in that group, all one hundred and fifty of them, and shot them dead . . . sometimes taking on three or four at a time.”

  Vasquez narrowed his eyes. “Emilio es no Redleg.”

  Murdock refilled his glass and sat behind his desk, taking out a long, thick cigar and lighting it. As smoke curled around his head, he pointed the cigar at Vasquez. “Tolson told me that a group of Mexican and Indian bandidos raided Joey’s ranch, stole his cattle, and shot his wife and son. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Emilio?”

  The Mexican’s eyes gave him away, first narrowing, then opening wide as he spread his hands. “Me, señor?”

  “Don’t bother denying it, Emilio. Why do you think Wells and Jensen showed up here? They certainly weren’t after me.”

  The Mexican nodded. “Señor, one question. What makes you trust Emilio with your money? What if I take money and don’t come back?”

  Murdock smiled. “Remember the Redlegs, Vasquez? Joey Wells will hunt you down and kill you unless you come back here with the meanest guns you can buy. It’s your only chance of living long enough to get gray hair.”

  “You are correct, Señor Murdock.” Vasquez took the stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them in his coat. “Where will I find these men?”

  Murdock pursed his lips. “Colorado Springs, I think, is the best bet. It is right on the edge of a mountain range, where men on the run from the law go to hide out, and it’s only about forty miles from here. From there you can wire other nearby towns and have the word put out I’m hiring, and paying top wages, for men not afraid of Smoke Jensen or Joey Wells. With their reputations, there ought to be plenty of men willing to make their name by taking them down. Tell them they have one week to get here, then we’ll make our move.”

  Vasquez nodded. “Sí señor.”

  “And, Emilio, unless you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder every time you enter a town, you’d better get some good men.”

  Chapter 12

  It was three days before the doctor gave the okay for Tolson to ride out to the Lazy M and confront Murdock. Smoke, Joey, Cal, and Pearlie rode along in case some of Murdock’s regular ranch hands tried to stop the sheriff.

  On the way to the ranch house, the group could see several herds of beeves in the distance, being tended to by punchers on horseback.

  Smoke pointed out the activity to Tolson. “Doesn’t look much like Murdock has packed up and left, does it?”

  The sheriff looked over his shoulder at Smoke. “You didn’t expect it to be that easy, did you?”

  Murdock was waiting for them on his front porch as they approached. “Howdy, gents. What can I do for you?”

  Tolson said, “We come to talk to you about the raid on Pueblo a few days ago.”

  Murdock took the cigar out of his mouth and examined its tip. “Yeah, I heard about that. Seems some of those Mexican workers I hired went crazy and attacked the town.” He looked back up at Tolson. “I certainly hope you killed or captured all of them.”

  Tolson pursed his lips, his eyes narrow. “And you didn’t know anything about all this?”

  Murdock spread his arms. “Of course not, sheriff. I’m a law-abiding rancher. One day last week the men just up and left the ranch without a word to me about where they were going.” He shrugged. “I thought maybe they just quit and were going looking elsewhere for work, you know how Mexes and half-breeds are.”

  “What about Vasquez? He leave with the others?” Joey asked, staring intently at Murdock.

  Murdock shook his head. “No, Mr. Vasquez is on an errand for me.” He glared back at Joey, his gaze flicking to Smoke for a moment. “I sent him over to ... to another town to hire some men to replace the Mexicans that left.”

  “You know when he’ll be back?”

  “I think he’ll be here within the next couple of days. Why do you ask?”

  Joey smiled with his lips but not with his eyes. “Oh, I got a few things I wanna discuss with him.”

  Now it was Murdock who smiled, just as evilly as Joey. “Well, I’ll be sure and tell him to look you up when he gets back, Wells. Now, if there’s nothing further, gentlemen?”

  Tolson snorted. “We’ll be seeing you, Murdock.”

  Murdock nodded. “Yes, yes, I think you will, sheriff.”

  As they walked their horses toward town, Joey said, “Sheriff, I know Vasquez was in that raid. I recognized him. ”

  Tolson glanced to the side, then shook his head. “Not good enough, Joey. With those masks on, we’d never prove it was him. Hell, half the Mexes I know carry those machete things when they work.”

  “So, what next, Ben?” Smoke asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Tolson answered. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see what Murdock’s got up his sleeve.” He glanced at Smoke. “But I can tell you one thing, I’ll bet we won’t like it one bit.”

  After a few minutes he asked, “What do you gents plan to do?”

  Joey said, “I’m waitin’ fer Vasquez ta git back ta town. Once I’m done with him, I guess I’ll head back ta Texas.”

  Smoke spoke up. “Joey, let’s cut to the north on the way back to town and take a look at the ranch I bought.”

  “Okay with me. See ya later, Ben.”

  The Williams spread was only a matter of an hour’s ride north of Murdock’s place. As the four men crested a ridge, they could look down over sprawling hills and meadows of lush green mountain grass.

  “What do you think?” Smoke asked Joey as they sat looking at fields filled with cattle.

  “Right purty, Smoke.” He grinned. “Mite greener than my place in Mexico.” He pulled a plug of Bull Durham out of his shirt and took a bite. “Hell, those ol’ longhorns on my ranch had to walk for miles ta find a clump o’ grass worth the effort it took ta eat it.”

  “Let’s go check out the ranch house, Smoke. We can see what supplies we need to buy when we get back to town,” said Pearlie.

  Cal chimed in. “Always thinkin’ ’bout your stomach, Pearlie.”

  Pearlie looked hurt. “If I don’t, who will?”

  They rode down the hill toward a log ranch house on the horizon. It was a sprawling place, with two large corrals and an open-sided barn nearby.

  They opened the door and entered. “Open some windows, boys. It’s a little musty in here,” Smoke said.

  Joey stared at the floor. It was made of split hardwood beams, and Mrs. Williams had scrubbed and polished it until it shined. “Who-eee, Smoke. This sure beats hell out of my dirt floor back home,” said Joey.

  Smoke nodded, looking at the window curtains and many small things the Williamses had done to make this cabin a home. “It’s a shame someone killed him. From the looks of this place, they must’ve been a happy couple.”

  Joey walked around the room, running his hands over the handmade furniture and tables. “Yeah, it looks real homelike, don’t it?”

  Pearlie emerged from the kitchen with a wide grin on his face. “Pantry’s full. We won’t have to buy hardly any foodstuffs nor cookin’ supplies. The owner just packed up and left everything like it was, I guess.”

  Smoke looked at Joey. “Probably couldn’t wait to get shut of this place and the memories of her dead husband.”

  Smoke said, “Come on, boys, let’s get back to town. We better get those hands Joey hired out here working the cattle before they all wander off.”

  “Or before someone takes them off,” Joey added, glancing out the window to the south, toward Murdock’s spread.

  * * *

  As the four
men rode into Pueblo, one of Tolson’s deputies stepped off the boardwalk and waved them down. “Smoke, Sheriff Tolson wants to see you at his office as soon as you can get there.”

  “Something wrong?”

  The man shook his head. “I’ll let him tell you.”

  They spurred their mounts into a trot toward Tolson’s office. As they dismounted, he stepped through the door to meet them. “More bad news.”

  Smoke and Joey looked at each other, wondering what was going on. Smoke asked, “What is it, Ben?”

  “It seems Vasquez has been successful in his search for more hired hands for Murdock. A few of ’em just rode into town on the way to his place.” He inclined his head at the saloon down the street. “Wanna go meet them?”

  Smoke shrugged. “Sure.”

  Tolson stepped back into his office, grabbed his Greener, and joined them as they walked down the boardwalk. “These are some of the worst specimens of humanity I’ve ever seen. Evidently Vasquez went over to Colorado Springs, ’bout forty miles north of here, and spread the word Murdock was hiring gun hands.”

  Joey smiled. “Good. That’s one more reason to kill him.” “

  They stepped into the saloon and took a table over to one side. Across the room was a table with five men seated at it, still covered with trail dust, passing around a whiskey bottle. The gunnies were too intent on their booze to notice Smoke’s group enter the saloon.

  Smoke’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Tolson looked at him. “You know these galoots, Smoke?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that, Ben.”

  Joey watched the men for a moment, shaking his head. “Jesus, but they look like they been rode hard and put up wet. That one on the end there has had a horse stomp on his face for sure, an’ the one in the middle cain’t hardly walk, looks more like a duck waddlin’.”