Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  As they walked into the dining room, Monte introduced Louis and André to Tolson. Ben said. “Longmont? I seem to remember a Longmont ran a saloon in Silver City a while back. That you?”

  Louis smiled. “Yes, sir. I had a small establishment there for a while, until the mines began to play out.”

  André spooned heaping helpings of scrambled eggs mixed with chopped onions and hot peppers into their plates, and placed a platter of pancakes and blueberries in the middle of the table.

  Tolson speared two flapjacks onto his plate and began to eat. Between bites he said, “Back then I was riding with Curly Bill Bodacious, and he told me you pulled up stakes after . . . a fracas involving one of the city officials.”

  Longmont nodded. “The mayor’s son, actually. He was a headstrong, spoiled young man with an excess of money and a paucity of brains. He fancied the favors of a young . . . lady named Lilly Montez.” Louis smiled in remembrance. “She was a beauty. Long, shiny black hair, pretty face and complexion, and legs that went from here to there. Evidently, she and young Boyd had a lovers’ quarrel and she decided to make him jealous. She began to hang around my place, trying to interest me in her more obvious charms. About the only ladies I was interested in then were the four that reside in a deck of cards, so I declined her offer of companionship.”

  Smoke snorted. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of you turning a lady down.”

  Louis shrugged. “I was younger then and intent on making my fortune. Anyway, Lilly complained to Boyd I had ’insulted her honor’ and he felt compelled to call me out....”

  * * *

  Louis picked up two gold double-eagles and flipped them nonchalantly into a pile of money in the middle of the poker table. “I’ll see your bet, Clyde, and raise you a couple of eagles.”

  The batwings flew open and Boyd McAlister stormed into the saloon. He stood just inside the door for a moment, breathing hard. His wild eyes searched the room, lighting on Louis at his usual corner table. Hitching up his gun belt, he stomped over to stand across from Louis. “Longmont, I’m callin’ you out!”

  Louis glanced over the cards in his hand at the young firebrand. “I’m in the middle of a game here, Boyd. Why don’t you go to the bar and have a beer. I’ll be with you in a few minutes, and we can discuss whatever it is you have on your mind.”

  Boyd’s face turned red. “There ain’t nothin’ to discuss, Longmont. You insulted Lilly, an’ I’m gonna make you pay!”

  Louis shrugged. “What’s your hurry, boy? If you insist on this foolishness, you’re going to be a long time dead. Another few minutes of life shouldn’t matter one way or another.” Louis looked away and said, “Now, Clyde. I’ve called and raised. You in or out?”

  Beads of sweat formed on Clyde’s face as he glanced nervously over his shoulder at Boyd. “Jesus, Louis,” he whispered hoarsely, “don’t you think . . . ?”

  Louis removed his cigar from his mouth and studied its glowing tip. “I think, Clyde, that your two pair won’t stand up against my hand. The question before us at the moment is, what do you think?”

  Clyde carefully peeked at his hole card again. He had a pair of queens, an ace, and a ten showing faceup, and an ace in the hole. Louis had four hearts showing faceup. If he had a heart in the hole, his flush would beat Clyde’s two pair and take the pot, over six hundred dollars.

  Finally, Clyde flipped his cards over. “No, I think you got that flush, Louis. No need throwing good money after bad.”

  Louis raked in the pot with both hands, a wide grin on his face. “Good call, Clyde. You know I never bluff.” He stacked coins and folded bills and stuffed them all in his pockets.

  Across the room Boyd gulped his beer and yelled, “I’ll be waitin’ outside for you, Longmont.”

  Louis flipped a rawhide thong off the hammer of his Colt, tied down low on his right leg, saying, “I’ve never seen anyone so eager to die.” He walked toward the batwings. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Clyde turn over Louis’s hole card. It was the deuce of clubs.

  Clyde snorted. “A busted flush. Your hand was worthless.”

  “Like I said, Clyde, I never bluff . . . well, hardly ever.” Louis straightened his hat and squared his shoulders, mumbling “No guts, no glory” to himself as he stepped through the door into bright Colorado sunshine.

  Boyd, with two of his friends flanking him, was standing in the middle of the dirt street.

  Louis stepped off the boardwalk and faced the men. “Three against one. That makes the odds about even,” he called. He nodded at the two cowboys with Boyd. “You boys ready to die for your friend?”

  Boyd glanced from side to side. “We ain’t gonna die, Longmont. We’re gonna dust you through and through.”

  Louis shrugged and fastened his coat into the back of his belt, out of the way of his draw. “You called this dance, Boyd. Time someone has to pay the band. Make your play.”

  Four hands slapped leather simultaneously, and Colts exploded, sending clouds of cordite gun smoke to blot out the sun. Louis’s first shot took Boyd in the chest, punching out his back and throwing him backward. His gun was still in its leather. Louis crouched a little and spun to the right, cocking and firing in one lightning-fast move. His second shot took the man on Boyd’s left full in his face, blowing teeth and blood into the air. He’d gotten his gun out, but it was still pointed down. As the dying man’s finger twitched, his gun went off, blowing a hole in his foot. The third cowboy got off a round that tore through Louis’s coat but missed flesh. Louis swung his gun and cocked and fired a third time in less than three seconds, hitting the puncher high in his chest, spinning him around and dropping him facedown in the dirt.

  Louis took a deep breath and holstered his Colt. He walked to his horse, tied to a rail post nearby, and stepped into the saddle. Louis rode slowly out of town, never looking back.

  * * *

  As Louis finished his tale of the gunfight in Silver City, Cal, with eyes wide, said, “Gosh, Mr. Longmont, that must’ve been something to see!”

  Louis stubbed out his cigar with a wry grin. “Well, Cal, gunfights are always more fun to watch than to participate in.”

  Joey nodded. “That’s for damn sure.”

  Chapter 20

  Puma Buck walked his horse slowly through underbrush and light forest timber in the foothills surrounding Murdock’s spread. His mount was one they’d hired in Pueblo on arriving, and it wasn’t as surefooted on the steep slopes as his paint pony back home was, so he was taking it easy and getting the feel of his new ride.

  He kept a sharp lookout toward Murdock’s ranch house almost a quarter of a mile below. He was going to make damned sure none of those buscaderos managed to get to drop on Smoke and his other new friends. He rode with his Sharps .52-caliber laid across his saddle horn, loaded and ready for immediate action.

  Several times Puma had seen men ride up to the ranch house and enter, only to leave after a while, riding off toward herds of cattle, which could be seen on the horizon. Puma figured they were most likely the legitimate punchers Murdock had working his cattle, and not gun hawks he’d hired to take down Smoke and Joey. A shootist would rather take lead poisoning than lower himself to herd beeves.

  Off to the side, Puma could barely make out the riverbed, dry now, that ran through Murdock’s place. He could see on the other side of Murdock’s ranch house a row of freshly dug graves. He grinned to himself, appreciating the graves, some of them his doing, and the way Smoke had deprived the man of water for his cattle and horses.

  Puma knew that alone would prompt Murdock to make his move soon; he couldn’t afford to wait and let his stock die of thirst.

  As Puma pulled his canteen out and uncorked the top, ready to take a swig, he saw a band of fifteen or more riders burning dust toward the ranch house from the direction of Pueblo. Evidently they were additional men Murdock had hired to replace those he and Smoke and Joey had slain in their midnight raid.

  “Uh-huh,” he
muttered. “I’ll bet those bandidos are fixin’ to put on the war paint and make a run over to Smoke’s place.”

  He swung out of his saddle and crouched down behind a fallen tree, propping the big, heavy Sharps across the rough bark. He licked his finger and wiped the front sight with it, to make it stand out more when he needed it. He got himself into a comfortable position and laid out a box full of extra shells next to the gun on the tree within easy reach. He figured he might need to do some quick reloading when the time came.

  After about ten minutes the gang of men Puma was observing arrived at the front of the ranch house, and two figures Puma took to be Murdock and Vasquez came out of the door to address them. He couldn’t make out their faces at the distance, but they had an unmistakable air of authority about them.

  As the rancher began to talk, waving his hands toward Smoke’s ranch, Puma took careful aim, remembering he was shooting downhill and needed to lower his sights a bit, the natural tendency being to overshoot a target lower than you are.

  He took a deep breath and held it, slowly increasing pressure on the trigger, so when the explosion came it would be a surprise and he wouldn’t have time to flinch and throw his aim off.

  The big gun boomed and shot a sheet of fire two feet out of the barrel, slamming back into Puma’s shoulder and almost knocking his skinny frame over. Damn, he had almost forgotten how the big Sharps kicked when it delivered its deadly cargo.

  The targets were a little over fifteen hundred yards from Puma, a long range even for the remarkable Sharps. It seemed a long time but was only a little over five seconds before one of the men on horseback was thrown from his mount to lie sprawled in the dirt. The sound was several seconds slower reaching the men, and by then Puma had jacked another round in the chamber and fired again. By the time the group knew they were being fired upon, two of their number were dead on the ground. Just as they ducked and whirled, looking for the location of their attacker, another was knocked off his bronc, his arm almost blown off by the big .52-caliber slug traveling at over two thousand feet per second.

  The outlaws began to scatter, some jumping from their horses and running into the house, while others just bent over their saddle horns and burned trail dust away from the area. A couple of brave souls aimed rifles up the hill and fired, but the range was so far for ordinary rifles that Puma never even saw where the bullets landed.

  Another couple of rounds fired into the house, one of which penetrated wooden walls, striking a man inside in the thigh, and Puma figured he had done enough for the time being. Now he had to get back to Smoke and tell him Murdock was ready to make his play, or would be as soon as he rounded up the men Puma had scattered all over the countryside.

  Several of the riders had ridden toward Smoke’s ranch and were now between Puma and home. “Well, shit, old beaver. Ya knew it was about time for ya ta taste some lead,” he mumbled to himself. He packed his Sharps in his saddle boot and opened his saddlebags. He withdrew two Colt Army .44s to match the one in his holster and made sure they were all loaded up six and six, then stuffed the two extras in his belt. He tugged his hat down tight and eased up into the saddle, grunting with the effort.

  Riding slow and careful, he kept to heavy timber until he came to a group of six men standing next to a drying riverbed, watering their horses in one of the small pools remaining.

  There was no way to avoid them, so he put his reins in his teeth and filled both hands with iron. It was time to dance with the devil, and Puma was going to strike up the band. He kicked his mount’s flanks and bent low over his saddle horn as he galloped out of the forest toward the gunnies below.

  One of the men, wearing an eye patch, looked up in astonishment at the apparition wearing buckskins and war paint charging them, yelling and whooping and hollering as he rode like the wind.

  “Goddamn, boys, it’s that old mountain man!” One-Eye Jackson yelled as he drew his pistol.

  All six men crouched and began firing wildly, frightened by the sheer gall of a lone horseman to charge right at them.

  Puma’s pistols exploded, spitting fire, smoke, and death ahead of him. Two of the gun slicks went down immediately,. 44 slugs in their chests.

  Another jumped into the saddle, turned tail, and rode like hell to get away from this madman who was bent on killing all of them.

  One-Eye took careful aim and fired, his bullet tearing through Puma’s left shoulder muscle, twisting his body and almost unseating him.

  Puma straightened, gritting his teeth on the leather reins while he continued firing with his right-hand gun, his left arm hanging useless at his side. His next two shots hit their targets, taking one gunny in the face and the other in the stomach, doubling him over to leak guts and shit and blood in the dirt as he fell.

  One-Eye’s sixth and final bullet in his pistol entered Puma’s horse’s forehead and exited out the back of its skull to plow into Puma’s chest. The horse swallowed its head and somersaulted as it died, throwing Puma spinning to the ground. He rolled three times, tried to push himself to his knees, then fell facedown in the dirt, his blood pooling around him.

  One-Eye Jackson looked around at the three dead men lying next to him and muttered a curse under his breath. “Jesus, that old fool had a lotta hair to charge us like that.” He shook his head as he walked over to Puma’s body and aimed his pistol at the back of the mountain man’s head. He eared back the hammer and let it drop. His gun clicked... all chambers empty.

  One-Eye leaned down and rolled Puma over to make sure he was dead. Puma’s left shoulder was canted at an angle where the bullet had broken it, and on the right side of his chest was a spreading scarlet stain.

  Puma moaned and rolled to the side. One-Eye Jackson chuckled. “You’re a tough old bird, but soon’s I reload, I’ll put one in your eye.”

  Puma’s eyes flicked open and he grinned, exposing bloodstained teeth. “Not in this lifetime, sonny,” and he swung his right arm out from beneath his body. In it was his buffalo-skinning knife.

  One-Eye grunted in shock and surprise as he looked down at the hilt of Puma’s long knife sticking out of his chest. “Son of a . . .” he rasped, then he died.

  Puma lay there for a moment, then with great effort he pushed himself over so he faced his beloved mountains. “Boys,” he whispered to all the mountain men who had gone before him, “git the cafecito hot, I’m comin’ to meet ya.”

  Smoke was sitting with his friends around the dining room table as dusk approached.

  He looked at Cal and said, “Where’s Puma got to? He knows to be back here before dark.”

  Cal shrugged. “I dunno, Mr. Smoke. He sat up most of last night, starin’ at the fire and singing some old Indian song. Then this mornin’ he put some red and yeller and blue paint on his face and took off toward the mountains with that big old Sharps of his acrost his saddle.”

  Smoke jumped to his feet. “Damn, Cal, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “Why?” the boy asked, a frightened, puzzled look on his face.

  “’Cause that was his death song he was singing, and that paint on his face meant he was going on the warpath, probably intended to do as much damage to Murdock as he could before they killed him!”

  “Jiminy, Smoke, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know.”

  Smoke grabbed his hat and Henry rifle and ran out the door, everyone in the cabin following him. They all loved the old man and weren’t about to let Murdock and his men kill him, that is if they weren’t too late.

  Smoke and his five friends rode hard toward Murdock’s ranch, leaning over their saddle horns, grim, determined looks on their faces.

  It was almost an hour before they galloped up to the scene of Puma’s charge. Dead bodies lay everywhere, and horses milled, grazing on the green grass near the old riverbed.

  Smoke jumped out of his saddle before Horse came to a stop and ran to where Puma lay, still staring at the mountains.

  Smoke knelt and cradled the old man’s head in his la
p. Puma gazed up at him through watery, faded blue eyes. “Hey, pardner, I kicked some ass today,” he whispered through dry, cracked lips.

  Smoke, tears in his eyes, nodded. “You sure did, Puma.”

  Puma reached up and put his palm against Smoke’s cheek. “Don’t fret, young beaver. There’s been somethin’ goin’ wrong inside me the last coupla months, an’ I didn’t hanker to die in no bed. The only fittin’ way fer a mountain man to die is with his hands full of iron, spittin’ lead and laughin’ at death.”

  “Puma, I’ll make sure the other mountain men know of this day and sing about it around their campfires until there are none of us left.”

  “Say good-bye to the fellahs fer me, Smoke. An’ if Preacher’s waitin’ fer me on the other side, I’ll tell him what a good job we did raisin’ our boy.”

  Smoke started to reply, but then noticed it wasn’t necessary. Puma was with his friends, and he had all eternity to hunt, where streams never dried up and the beaver and fox were plentiful, and where there was always someone to listen to his tall tales of the ways of the mountain men.

  Smoke stood, cradling Puma in his arms like a baby. He face the others with tears running down his cheeks. “I’m going to take him home, up into the high lonesome, and bury him. I’ll be back at the ranch tomorrow.”

  Louis put his hand on Smoke’s shoulder. “Smoke, if it’s all right with you, I’d be honored to go with you and see Puma off.” The gambler and gunfighter who had killed dozens of men in his life choked back a sob, his eyes filling. “I’ve ridden with many men in my years out west, but none of them could hold a candle to Puma Buck.”

  Joey, Cal, Pearlie, Monte, and Ben Tolson all stepped forward, nodding their heads, wanting to go too.

  Smoke said, “I think Puma would consider it an honor if all of you came along to wish him well on his last journey.”

  He climbed up on Horse and began to ride up the hill toward distant mountain peaks, Puma’s friends following.