Code of the Mountain Man tlmm-8

by William W. Johnstone

  Lee Slater and his group, Al Martine and his pack of no-goods, and part of another team watched from below as the carnage continued high above them.

  Al lifted field glasses and grimaced as he watched through the thick dust as Sonny tried to outrun the rampaging tons of rock. He could see the man’s face was tight and white from mind-numbing fear. Sonny was swallowed by the rocks. All but one arm. It stuck out of the huge pile, the fingers working, opening and closing for a moment, a silent scream for help. The fingers suddenly stiffened into a human claw and stayed that way. As soon as the buzzards spotted it they would rip, tear, and eat it to the bone.

  Jere and Summers almost made it. They had lost their weapons and were running and falling and stumbling down the mountain. Their mouths were

  working in soundless screams, the pale lips vivid in their frightened faces. Several huge boulders hit a stalled rockpile and came over, seeming to gain speed as they traveled through the air.

  “Split up!” Al yelled. But his warning came too late and could not be heard over the now-gradually dying roar of the avalanche.

  The boulders landed square on the running men, squashing them against the rock surface of the mountain.

  Al Martine crossed himself and cursed the day he ever agreed to leave California.

  A bounty hunter known only as Chris turned to look behind him and tripped, falling hard, knocking the wind from him. “No!” he screamed, just seconds before the tons of rock landed on him. One boot stuck out of the now-motionless pile of stone. The boot trembled for a moment, then was still.

  Huge clouds of dust began drifting upward to join the night skies.

  “I’d a not believed no one man could have done all this,” Whit said, his voice husky from near exhaustion. He sank to his knees and put his hands to his face, trying to block from his mind all that he’d just witnessed.

  Mac came limping out of .the dust, dragging one foot. Reed was behind him. He did not appear to be hurt.

  Luttie Charles, accompanied by his men, walked slowly up the slope to stand by his brother.

  “Incredible,” Luttie said, his voice small.

  They all cringed and jumped, some yelling and running away, as another dull thud cut the darkening day.

  “Musta been a pass back yonder,” Milt said. “And

  Jensen just blowed it.”

  Rod and Randy giggled.

  “Loco!” Lopez muttered.

  Luttie started counting. Thirty men left standing here out of nearly seventy. Maybe eight or ten bounty hunters still working the wilderness alone. He coughed as the dust from the avalanche drifted down the mountain. Luttie waved his people farther back.

  “Well make camp at the base down yonder,” he said, pointing. “Eat and rest and tomorrow we can take him.”

  “How you figure that?” his brother asked.

  “You’re forgetting, I know this country.” He turned to his foreman, and the man grinned.

  “I’ll take two of the boys and plug up the only hole out of that area,” the man said. “The gambler and the woman probably done made it out, but Smoke won’t try it at night-too dangerous. We got him now, boss. Pinned in like a hog for slaughter.”

  The lonely cry of a lobo wolf drifted to them, abruptly changing into the blood-chilling scream of a big puma.

  “Look!” the punk Peco yelled, pointing.

  At the crest of the mountain, the men could just make out the figure of a man, sitting his saddle. The scream of the puma came again.

  “It brings chills to my arms,” Pedro said. “He is calling like el gato. Daring us to come and get him.”

  Smoke screamed his panther scream again, the sound drifting and echoing around the mountains, touching all those who hunted him. A big puma answered the call, the scream fading off into the puma’s peculiar coughing sound.

  Martine and Pedro looked at each other, neither of them liking this at all.

  Smoke threw back his head and howled like a big wolf. It was so real that somewhere in the timber a big wolf replied, others joining in, lifting their voices in respect to a brother wolf.

  “I’ve had it,” Reed said. “The rest of you do what you want to, but as for me, I’m gone.”

  “You’re yeller! Jeff,” one of Peco’s punks sneered at Reed.

  Wrong thing to do.

  Reed palmed his .45 and put a hole in Jeff’s chest. The punk hit the rocky ground and died.

  “Anybody else want to call me yeller?” Reed said, jacking back the hammer of his pistol.

  No one did.

  “I'll watch your back for you, Reed,” Dumas said. “You got a right to leave if’n you want to.”

  “Let me tell you all something, boys,” Reed said. “That man up yonder was born with the bark on. We’ve all hunted him, trapped him, cornered him, and he’s tooken some lead. Bet on that .. .” He shivered as Smoke’s wolf howl drifted to them; it was soon joined by others. “Jesus God, I can’t stand no more of that. Makes my blood run cold. I think the man’s got some animal in him. Injuns think so.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “And he’ll probably take some more lead afore this is all over. You might get a bunch of lead in him. But you’ll all be dead, and he’ll be standin’ when it’s all over. Bet on it. And I will be too. ’Cause I’m leavin’. Goodbye.”

  Smoke howled again.

  The men looked toward the crest of the mountain.

  Smoke was gone, but his call still wavered in the air.

  “Where’d he go?” Crown asked, the question almost a cry of fear.

  No one replied. No one knew.

  Carbone lifted his hands and looked at them. They were trembling. .

  Lopez noticed the trembling hands. “Si,” he spoke softly, in a voice that only Carbone could hear. “I understand. He is of the mountains, one with the animals, brother of the wolf.”

  And us?” Carbone asked in a soft tone.

  I think, amigo, that if we pursue the last mountain man, we are dead.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Smoke had approached the pass leading out of the valley very cautiously. He took his field glasses and squinted at the pass in the dim light the moon provided. The pass looked innocent enough, but warning bells were ringing in his head. He picketed his horse and approached the narrow pass on foot. The closer he got the more certain he became that the pass was guarded. He heard the faint whinny of a horse and stopped cold, listening. Another horse answered. Smoke began backtracking.

  He returned to his horse and removed the saddle. He took his small pack, two rifles, and his saddlebags, then turned the animal loose. There was plenty of water and good graze in the valley. If the horse never found its way out, it would live a good and uneventful life.

  Smoke returned to a spot near the mouth of the pass and rolled up in his blankets after eating a can of beans and the last of his now very stale bread. He slept soundly, awakening while the stars were still diamond—sparkling high above the mountains. He lay for half an hour, mentally preparing for the battle ahead.

  They had him trapped, but he had been trapped before. Smoke was outnumbered and out-gunned. He’d been there before, too. He lay in his blankets and purged his mind of all things that did not pertain to survival. He’d had lots of practice at that. He became a huge, dangerous, predatory animal. He became one with the mountains, the trees, the animals, the rocks, and the eagles and hawks that would soon be soaring above him, looking for food.

  He came out of his blankets silently. He rolled his blankets in the ground sheet and left them. If the fight lasted more than one day, and he was forced to spend another night in the mountains, well, he’d been cold before. More than once in his life he had lain down on a blanket of leaves with only fresh-cut boughs covering him. He slung one rifle and picked up the other.

  He did not think of Sally or his children. He had no thoughts of friends or family. He forced everything except survival from his mind. He had told Louis where he had cached supplies and his horses. If he died in this
valley, Louis would see to his stock.

  Just as dawn was streaking the sky with lances of silver and gold, Smoke Jensen, the last mountain man, threw back his head and screamed like an enraged panther.

  The chirping of awakening birds and chattering of playing squirrels ceased as the terrible scream cut through the forest and echoed around the mountains.

  Smoke was telling his enemies to come on; he was ready to meet them.

  * * *

  "My God!” Mills said, standing at the base of the mountain where so many men had died of gunshots and the avalanche. The sunlight was bright on the side of the slope, the rays reflecting off of dark splotches of dried blood.

  “The rumbling we heard yesterday,” Larry said.

  “Yes,” Moss replied, looking at the hands and arms and legs sticking out from under tons of rock. His eyes touched upon what was left of two men who’d been crushed under huge boulders, the boulders rolling on after doing their damage.

  “I can say in all honesty, I have never seen anything like this,” Winston said.

  “Do you suppose the fight is over?” Sharp asked.

  “No,” Albert called, squatting down off the rock face. “A group of men rode out of here. Heading that way.” He pointed.

  Mills consulted a map he’d purchased at the assayer’s office. “If Smoke is still behind this death mountain, he’s probably trapped. According to this, there is only one way in and one way out of that little valley. And you can bet the outlaws and bounty hunters know it and have sealed off the entrance.”

  “How far are we from the mouth of that pass?”

  Larry asked.

  “I’m not sure, but—”

  The sounds of a shot echoed to them.

  “It’s started,” Hugh said.

  Smoke opened the dance, His .44-.40 barked, the slug taking Dumas in the throat. The outlaw gasped and gurgled horribly and died as he watched his life’s blood gush from the gaping wound.

  Smoke lay about seventy-five yards from the mouth of the pass and watched and waited with all the patience of a great puma sunning itself.

  “We got ourselves an em-pass-see goin’ here,”

  Tom Post said.

  “A what?” Lee asked.

  “We can’t go in, and he can’t come out.”

  Rod and Randy giggled.

  One-Eye looked at Morris Pattin and shook his head in disgust. Morris nodded his head in complete agreement.

  “We got to go in,” Luttie said. “We got to get him. It’s a matter of honor, now. We’re finished in this country. No matter what, we’re done here.”

  Ed and Curt exchanged glances and began crawling toward the mouth of the pass. They passed the bloody body of Dumas and tried not to look at it. Slowly, one by one, the others followed them, staying low on their bellies, offering Smoke no target. They knew that some of them were going to die breeching the mouth of that narrow pass. They also knew that once inside, they could track Smoke Jensen down and kill him. The money was unimportant now. Not even a secondary thought. Their honor was at stake. One man, Smoke Jensen, with a little help, had nearly destroyed a huge gang. He had to pay. That was their code.

  They understood it, and Smoke Jensen understood it.

  Bobby Jackson jumped up and ran toward the rocky mouth of the pass, firing as fast as he could work the lever of his rifle. Smoke put a slug into his belly, and the man folded up on the ground, his rifle clattering on the rocks.

  But four outlaws had worked a dozen yards closer to the entrance.

  A bounty hunter called Booker ran into the clearing and jumped for cover. He almost made it through unscathed. Smoke’s .44-.40 barked, and the slug hit Booker in the hip, turning him in the air. He hit the ground hollering in pain. But he was inside the valley and still holding onto his rifle.

  “Come on!” Booker shouted, and began laying down a withering fire, forcing Smoke to keep his head down.

  Tom Post, Martine, and Mac made it inside the valley and fanned out. Smoke saw them and backed up, crawling on his belly into a thick stand of timber. The other manhunters poured into the valley, sensing victory. That was very premature thinking on their part.

  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 Smokes 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 Jense
n. 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 seared. 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.