Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  The American ninjas noted there were five or six blanket-covered forms around each of the dying fires. Puma whispered, “I count twelve camps. There must be over sixty men down there.”

  Joey answered in a low voice, “That means either Moses was lyin’ or more men have joined up in the last day or so.”

  Smoke nodded at Joey and motioned to the group of camps on the left with an outstretched arm. He touched Puma and pointed to the right, then, as they eased off, Smoke took the middle collection of sleepers.

  Smoke walked slowly, shuffling his feet in the dirt so he would not step on a twig or stick, and walked crouched over so as not to highlight himself against the horizon.

  When he came to the closest of the sleeping outlaws, he put his sack down, placed his hand over the man’s mouth, and sliced the blade of his Bowie knife quickly across his throat. The outlaw bucked and struggled for a moment, Smoke holding him down until he quieted, drowned in his own blood.

  Smoke then made an incision around his head and pulled the killer’s scalp free from his skull. He and Puma and Joey had agreed to kill only one man in each small camp, showing the others it could just have easily been them. He flipped the scalp onto the embers of the fire, where it began to slowly sizzle and burn. He then stepped to the next man and gently wrapped a rawhide thong around his boots, tying them together. A few feet farther on, he slipped a man’s gun out of his holster, flipped open the loading gate, and emptied his shells in the dirt next to the fire, close to red-hot coals. Crawling to the next slumbering form, Smoke slit his belt and pants button with his Bowie knife. At the end of this group of men, Smoke opened the end of his sack and shook out one of its inhabitants, then quickly walked to the next camp, fifteen yards away, to repeat his actions.

  Puma was overjoyed to find in his second group the mountain man known as Beaverpelt Solomon. He didn’t want the thief and killer to die without knowing who did it, so Puma grabbed his mouth and pricked him lightly under the chin with the point of his skinning knife.

  Beaverpelt’s eyes started to open, then widened in surprise as he recognized Puma’s blackened face leaning close to his in the darkness, the old man’s eyes glittering white with hate. Puma held his knife where Beaverpelt could see it, whispering low in his ear, “Preacher and Smoke send their regards.” As Beaverpelt reached up to grab Puma’s hand, Puma sliced quickly across the mountain man’s throat. He held on tight, staring into Beaverpelt’s face until both light and life died in his eyes.

  Not content with merely scalping the traitor to the mountain men, Puma also slit his pants open and cut off his genitals, sticking them in his mouth to protrude obscenely from his beard.

  Puma, like Smoke, unloaded many of the sleeping men’s weapons and sprinkled bullets near the red-hot embers, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they heated up enough to explode, sending slugs of lead flying everywhere.

  Joey didn’t scalp his last victim. After he was dead, he put his Arkansas Toothpick behind the man’s neck and jerked quickly upward. The razor-sharp blade sliced through skin, vertebrae, and windpipe, severing the head from its body. Joey found a long stick next to the fire and impaled the head on it, its lifeless eyes looking nowhere. He stuck the other end in the dirt, to stand like a sentinel next to the man’s headless body.

  When Joey and Puma were through, Smoke went silently among all the camps, depositing some of his burlap-sack cargo in each one.

  He trotted back to them, in a hurry now because the burning scalps were beginning to make a terrible stench. The trio quickly walked for fifty yards, then stopped. They turned their backs to the camps so their lights wouldn’t be seen, and Joey and Puma struck lucifers and lit cigars. Holding out the red-hot tips, they all lit fuses to bundles of dynamite and lobbed them into the camps, using the ones with longer fuses first and the shorter fuses last.

  After they had thrown all they had, the three men began to jog away at a ground-eating pace toward the rise where their friends waited. About halfway there, they were met by Louis, leading their horses. As they climbed into their saddles, the bundles of dynamite began to explode, and men began to scream and shout. Guns were fired at shadows and at comrades, thought to be enemies in the darkness.

  * * *

  In one of the camps, Charlie Jacobson rolled over and stretched, yawning. His outstretched hand encountered something wet and sticky next to him. He leaned over toward Billy Preston, his riding partner, and gagged at what he saw. He opened his mouth to scream just as all hell broke loose around him.

  A packet of two sticks of dynamite tied together exploded fifteen feet away, tearing bark off a nearby pine tree and sending razor-sharp shards of wood spinning through the night to impale Charlie’s face and chest. Now he screamed as if his lungs would rupture.

  Johnny Blackman jumped to his feet and started to run as dynamite went off behind him. He took one step, and his tied-together feet locked, sending him sprawling facefirst into the campfire embers. As he rolled away, red-hot bullet casings near the fire exploded, sending molten chunks of lead into Johnny’s body in three places, killing him where he lay. His clothes, covered with embers, caught fire, and his flesh began to char and roast, adding to the horrible stink of burning scalps.

  Willie Clayton rolled over at the first blast of dynamite and covered his head with his hands. As the echoes of the blast died down, he looked up, straight into the dead eyes of a head on a stick, staring sightless down at him. His mind snapped and he jumped to his feet, drew his pistol, and began to fire indiscriminately around at anything he saw moving. After he shot two of his camp mates, the third put a bullet into Willie to save his own life.

  Felix Salazar jumped to his feet, his pistol in his hand. As he tried to run, his pants fell down and tripped him, to land squirming on his friend Juan Jimenez. Jimenez, frightened out of his wits, slashed his long stiletto blade into Salazar, ripping his abdomen open and spilling his guts in the dirt.

  Jake Sixkiller’s life ended when a packet of dynamite thrown by Joey landed two feet from his sleeping form. He rose when he heard the sputtering fuse and reached to grab it as it went off. It blew his right arm off at the shoulder, and the force of the explosion made pulp of his eyes and mincemeat of his face. The killer of women and children rolled in the dirt in blind agony, screaming for the mercy of a God he had always denied existed, until he bled to death.

  Dewey, the man whose face Smoke had caved in and ruined, scrabbled on his hands and knees until he was up against a tree, which he hugged for dear life. As he sat there, something crawled across his leg. Terrified, Dewey brushed it away with his hand. He felt a sharp stinging in his palm, and jerked it back. The rattler whose fangs were embedded in his hand came with it, flying through the air to wrap around Dewey’s neck, where it again sank its fangs directly into his jugular vein. When the poison hit Dewey’s brain, he began to jerk and dance in a seizure, biting his tongue completely in two, drooling and snapping his jaws until his teeth broke off. He died within three minutes of the first bite.

  By now, fire-heated bullets were exploding like strings of firecrackers, drilling men in arms, stomachs, legs, and heads. Over ten men were killed and another fifteen wounded by the dynamite and bullets, either from the fire or from their compatriots, who were shooting in terror at anything that moved.

  Smoke and his men sat on the rise, watching the chaos they had caused, laughing at the antics of the screaming, hollering men below when they discovered the Colorado diamondback rattlers Smoke had unleashed in their midst. More than one man shot his foot off that night trying to kill the vicious reptiles, and two actually died from snakebite and fear.

  Finally, as dawn approached, Smoke and his friends rode back to the Rocking C ranch, satisfied with a good night’s work.

  * * *

  Vasquez and Murdock finally got their men to calm down and stop shooting each other. Torches and lanterns were lit, and they began to try to make sense of what had happened.

  Murdock stood with his hands
on his hips, looking around at the mess, and at the dead, dying, and wounded desperadoes he had hired.

  “Goddamn that Jensen and Wells!” He grabbed Vasquez by the arm. “Just look at what they’ve done!”

  “Señor, try to calm yourself,” Vasquez said, peeling Murdock’s grasping fingers from his arm. “It is over for now.”

  “But, how . . . when . . .”

  “I tole you we should have guards posted,” the Mexican said, shaking his head. “Those hombres are loco, they do not know fear.”

  “But I’ve got sixty men here. Who would try and attack when they’re so outnumbered?”

  “You no have sixty men anymore, señor. Maybe half . . .”

  “Fuck the men! There’s another fifteen coming in the next few days, we’ll just wait for them to get here, then I’m gonna make those bastards pay for this.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t kill more men?”

  “What do you call that?” Murdock fairly screamed, pointing at the number of men lying dead or wounded.

  Vasquez shook his head. “They were here among us, they could kill many more if they wanted.”

  Murdock just shook his head. “They killed enough, and wounded plenty more. Now I’m gonna have to put off killin’ ’em until I get some reinforcements, and some of these men need time to heal.”

  Only when the sun came up did Murdock realize how badly his men had been demoralized. After the wounded were carried inside and attended to, and the dead stacked in a row behind the house, another seven men packed up their gear and prepared to ride off.

  Murdock and Vasquez stood before the men as they sat on their horses. “Why are you men leaving? We’ll have plenty more gun hands in a couple of days and then we’ll take out Jensen and Wells and their entire force.”

  Black Jack Morton said, “Mr. Murdock, you don’t understand what happened last night. The man lying next to me was gutted and scalped, and my gun was emptied and put back in my holster.” He shook his head. “They coulda just slit all our throats and we’d never have known what hit us.”

  The man sitting next to him, famous as a fearless fighter in the New Mexico range wars, said, “They was sendin’ us a message. They was tellin’ us they’re not afraid of us, an’ they kin kill us anytime they want to.” He jerked his horse’s reins around. “An’ I fer one believe ’em. Yore money’s no good to a dead man, Mr. Murdock. I’ll see ya around, maybe.” With that final word, the seven men galloped off, straight west, to avoid both Pueblo and Smoke Jensen’s ranch.

  Chapter 19

  Murdock paced angrily around his study, scowling and cursing as he sipped his bourbon. “Goddammit, I want to kill that Smoke Jensen and Joey Wells so bad, I can taste it. I knew they were gonna be trouble the minute I laid eyes on them!”

  Vasquez was sitting on a couch against a far wall, leaned back with his feet crossed on a small table, smoking a cigar and watching smoke curl toward the ceiling. “You know, Señor Murdock, I think you were right what you tole Emilio. That Wells will never rest until he kill me. I think I plenty glad we have more men coming soon.”

  Murdock shook his head. “I wish they were already here. If they don’t get here in the next day or two, I’m afraid more of our men will leave. That raid last night really spooked them.”

  Murdock stopped pacing long enough to bend over his desk and pluck a cigar out of his humidor. He ran it under his nose, inhaling its rich aroma, then lit it with a lucifer, rotating it so it would burn evenly. As smoke billowed around his head, he pointed the stogie at Vasquez like a pistol. “Emilio, I want you to watch the men real close. If any of ’em start talkin’ about leaving, you got to stop ’em quick, make an example of ’em.” He raised his eyebrows. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sí, señor. We must make them understand they are to be more afraid of me than of the gringos, Wells, or Jensen.”

  Murdock, braver now that he had some bourbon under his belt, sat one hip on the edge of his desk. “You put a bridle on your men for a week or two, let the dust settle a bit, then we’ll deal with Mr. Jensen and Mr. Wells once and for all!”

  * * *

  Over the next few days Joey drilled the punchers they had hired unmercifully, trying to teach them in a short while what it had taken him years to learn about guerrilla warfare. Soon he began to seem less grim and even smiled occasionally. “Smoke, I never woulda believed it, but them boys are makin’ real progress.” He grinned. “They ain’t ever gonna be pistoleers, but at least they ain’t gonna shoot themselves in the foot if’n somebody draws down on ’em.”

  Smoke gripped his shoulder. “That’s because they have a good teacher, Joey. You’re the best man with a short gun I’ve ever seen!”

  “Well,” Joey said, blushing, “I don’t know ’bout that, but ever one o’ these boys have got some hair. I wished I’d o’ had ’em ridin’ with me agin those Kansas Redlegs.”

  Smoke smiled. “Oh? I heard you did all right all by yourself, Joey.”

  Joey shrugged, smiled, and went out to drill the hands some more. After he left, Smoke and his friends got busy setting up the defenses around the ranch house he had planned against the raid they all knew was coming. Puma Buck, not one to sit around and wait for trouble, took off alone to roam the hills and woods surrounding Murdock’s ranch. He would alert Smoke to any movements there signaling preparations for an attack.

  When all preparations were made, Smoke dynamited the rocks above the river running through his ranch, blocking its flow down to Murdock’s spread. Within two days Murdock and Ben Tolson rode out to the ranch house.

  Smoke told Louis and Monte Carson to stay out of sight and walked out to meet the two riders. “Howdy, Ben. What can I do for you?”

  Tolson, a half smile on his face, pointed to Murdock. “Mr. Murdock here has lodged a complaint against you, Smoke. He says you’ve blocked off the water to his ranch.”

  Smoke frowned. “Oh? And if I have, Ben, is that against the law?”

  Murdock’s face purpled in rage. He pointed his finger at Smoke. “Jensen, you son of a bitch, I know my rights! That riverbed runs through my place, and I got the right to use any water in it to feed my herd!”

  Smoke shrugged. “Why, I reckon you’re correct, Mr. Murdock, and you’re certainly welcome to use any water that comes onto your property.” He smiled. “Trouble is, the river must have eroded the walls of a canyon where it comes through my spread. Seems some boulders fell and dammed up the river.” He glanced at Tolson and winked. “I don’t see how I can be held accountable for forces of nature.”

  Murdock looked at Tolson. “Sheriff,” he almost shouted, “that ain’t all. The other night Jensen and Wells rode onto my place and killed and wounded a bunch of my hands. I want him arrested for murder!”

  Tolson glanced at Smoke. “Well, what do you say, Smoke?”

  Smoke considered the two men, his face serious. “I sure hate to hear that your cowhands got shot up, Murdock.” He raised his eyebrows. “Did anyone see who did it?”

  Murdock glared hate at Smoke. “You know we didn’t, Jensen. The murdering bastards attacked us at night, while we were sleeping.”

  Smoke spread his hands and shrugged. “If you didn’t see the men who attacked you, I don’t see how you can blame it on me.” He smirked. “Maybe it was some of those Mexican and Indian gunslingers who rode on the town last week coming back to haunt you.”

  “Bullshit! I know it was you. You’ve shot up my men and now you’re trying to kill my cattle by cutting off my water.”

  Smoke stared at the rancher, his eyes cold and hard. “Your cattle? Way I hear it, Murdock, there’s some doubt about just whose cattle those are on your spread.” He smiled, but there was no friendliness in his face. “Maybe we could have the sheriff and some of the other ranchers around here ride on over and take a close look at your brands, just to make sure none of them have been altered. While we’re at it, we could also take a look at those cowboys that got killed and see if they’r
e really punchers . . . or gun hawks who got only what they deserved.”

  “Why, you . . .” Murdock’s hand fell toward his pistol, but Tolson laid a hand on his arm.

  “I don’t think you want to do that, Mr. Murdock.” Tolson shook his head. “I don’t fancy hauling your body all the way back into Pueblo draped across your horse.”

  Murdock took a deep breath and settled back in his saddle. Venom dripped from his voice as he said, “You haven’t seen the last of me, Jensen.”

  Smoke’s lips curled in a smirk. “No, I reckon not. But I am looking forward to the next time you come calling, Mr. Murdock. And you be sure to bring your friend Vasquez with you. Joey Wells wants to have a little . . . chat with him.”

  As Murdock jerked his reins and whirled his mount around to leave, Smoke said, “Ben, why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee before you head back to town? There’s an old friend of yours wants to say hello.”

  Tolson watched Murdock ride off in a cloud of dust. He shook his head and climbed out of his saddle. “I wouldn’t underestimate that man, Smoke. He may be full of hot air, but he’s had some mean ol’ boys come ridin’ through Pueblo headin’ for his ranch the last couple of days.”

  Smoke walked him to the house. “I’ve got some hard men with me too, Ben.”

  When he entered the room, Ben’s eyes lit up and he broke into a wide grin. “Monte Carson, you ol’ son of a gun!”

  The two men shook hands, clapping each other on the shoulder. “What are you doing up here?” Ben asked.

  “Hell, I figured it’d been way too long since I had a palaver with my old sidekick, and when I heard my friend Smoke might be in need of help, I thought I could stand a little time off from sheriffing.”

  “It’s surely good to see you, partner. Been a long time since I had anybody interesting to swap lies with.”

  André appeared in the door to the kitchen. “Monsieur Tolson, would you care to join the other gentlemen for breakfast?”

  Tolson glanced at the Frenchman and raised his eyebrows. “Why, sure, long as Carson here didn’t do none of the cooking. As I recollect, his biscuits an’ fatback weren’t fit for man nor beast.”