Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  In another second, both pistol hammers were eared back, and Joey faced the room, as calm as if he were alone.

  “Anybody else got somethin’ to say?” he asked in a harsh voice.

  From the corner of the table, a tall, lean, hawk-faced man stood up. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, a broad smile on his face. “I do believe that’s Joey Wells who just joined us, boys.”

  A low murmur swept the room. There wasn’t anyone living west of the Mississippi who hadn’t heard of the feats of Joey Wells, and to those south of the Mason-Dixon line he was more than a hero—he was a living legend.

  “A couple of you boys drag Max out and put his head in a horse trough, an’ you can tell him how lucky he is to be alive after bracin’ Joey Wells,” Cain called.

  After two men grabbed the fallen man by his boots and shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him out the front door, Cain turned to Joey and held out his hand.

  Joey hesitated just a second or two, looking Cain in the eye to show he wasn’t intimidated, then took the hand.

  “My name’s Lazarus Cain, Joey. I heard about you when I rode with Bill Quantrill’s raiders after the war.”

  “Yeah? Well, we all did some ridin’ after the war. Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

  Joey turned his back on Cain and sauntered over to the bar. “Gimme a whiskey, an’ use that bottle with the label on it in the corner there,” he said, pointing.

  Bob Blanchard quickly grabbed the bottle Joey pointed at, jerked the cork out, and placed it and a clean glass on the bar in front of him.

  As Joey filled the glass, Cain sidled up next to him. “I heard you had some marshal trouble over near Pueblo.”

  Joey downed his drink and poured another. He glanced at Cain out of the corner of his eyes. “Johnny North tole me he’d been by here. He’s not bad with a gun, but he’s got a big mouth.”

  “He tell you I have some work you might be interested in?”

  Joey sipped this drink instead of bolting it, and turned to face Cain. “I heared about you when you rode with Quantrill, Cain. I heared you was crazy, always spoutin’ off ’bout God an’ the Bible an’ such. Are you crazy, Cain? ’cause I don’t much cotton to workin’ fer a crazy man, no matter how good he is with a gun.”

  Lazarus’s cheeks burned, and his eyes narrowed at being called crazy. He stood there a moment, muscles rigid, fists clenched, thinking on what Joey had said. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. “You know, Joey, I probably was a little crazy back then. The war did that to some people, all the killin’ an’ dyin’ an’ knowin’ that if we’d had more guns an’ ammunition, the blue-bellies wouldn’t’ve had a chance against us.”

  Joey nodded slowly. Cain was right about that. The war was crazy, and it made everyone who survived it just as crazy as it was. But this man was more than that. His eyes were burning with an inner fire, and it was clear if you studied him, as Joey did people, that he was filled with inner demons of some sort. He was plain off-kilter. Joey had no doubt about that. He would have to be careful, ’cause this man might just do anything, for any reason whatsoever.

  “So, if I decide to work with you, what’s the job and what’s my cut liable to be?”

  Lazarus stared at Joey for a moment with those insane eyes, then held out his hand to Blanchard, who stuck a whiskey glass in it. Lazarus held it out, and Joey poured it full from his bottle.

  “There’s a local rancher whose land is plumb covered with gold. The man has no interest in it, but won’t let anyone else try to mine it. We”—he pointed over his shoulder at the men in the room—“plan to kill him and his hands and take the gold for ourselves.”

  “What’s this rancher’s name that don’t have no interest in gold? He sounds even crazier than you, Cain.”

  Lazarus smiled. It was refreshing to have someone around who didn’t walk on eggshells with him . . . who would speak his mind in front of him. Wells was proving to be every bit as interesting as he’d heard he was.

  “His name’s Smoke Jensen.”

  Joey let his eyes widen a bit in mock surprise. “Jensen, huh? I rode with him a few years back. He helped me . . . take care of some bandidos who shot up my family.”

  Lazarus’s face turned suspicious. “You rode with Jensen? What’d you think of him?”

  “Fastest man with a six-gun I’ve ever seed, ’ceptin’ fer me, of course.”

  “So you and he were friends?”

  Joey’s eyes turned hard and cold as stone, though his expression didn’t change. “Let me git this straight, Cain. I don’t have no friends, an’ that includes you. Just ’cause I ride with a man don’t give him no claim on my friendship later. If’n I decide to ride with you, I’ll do what I’m paid to do. But, when the job’s over don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ I owe you anythin’ else, ’cause you might be my next job—understand?”

  “You’re a man after my own heart, Joey. Hard as nails and tough as a just-woke grizzly bear.”

  Joey let his lips curl in a half-smile. “So I’ve been told.”

  “What do you think of the job offer?”

  “I’ll have to do some thinkin’ on it. Jensen is mighty tough, an’ he’s got lots of friends in Big Rock. How do you plan to handle them?”

  Lazarus held up his hand. “I’ll tell you the details after you decide whether you’re gonna ride with us or not.”

  Joey emptied his glass. “Well, then, how ’bout some grub? You got anythin’ worth eatin’ in this dump?”

  “Only if you like enchiladas an’ beans,” Lazarus said with a smirk.

  He inclined his head at Blanchard, who yelled at the Mexican cook in the kitchen to get another plate ready.

  Joey picked up his bottle and glass and walked to the nearest table against a wall. The three men sitting there looked up from their drinks, scowls on their faces.

  “Whatta you want, Wells?” one asked.

  “I need yore table. I’m fixin’ to sit down an’ eat.”

  “You can kiss my butt, runt,” the other man snarled. “We ain’t afraid of you, or your reputation.”

  Joey turned and handed the glass and bottle to Lazarus, and when he turned back around, a long knife was in his left hand. Quick as a wink the blade was against the snarling man’s throat and a tiny trickle of blood was running down his neck. The cowboy’s eyes were wide and frightened.

  “Excuse me. I don’t hear so well,” Joey whispered. “Just what was it you said to me?”

  At a movement from one of the other men at the table, Joey filled his right hand with iron before the other man could get his pistol half out of its holster.

  “Do you really want to ante up in this game, mister?” Joey asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Uh . . . no . . . I was just gittin’ up to leave the table,” the man said, his voice harsh with fear.

  Both the other occupants of the table scraped back their chairs and hurried out the batwings. Joey looked back into the eyes of the scared man with the knife against his throat.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear you answer my question. You said somethin’ ’bout not bein’ afraid of me—isn’t that right?”

  “No . . . no . . . I was just kiddin’. You can have the table if’n you want it, Mr. Wells,” said the man, his voice breaking from fear.

  “Why, thank ye kindly,” Joey said in a low voice. “That’s right neighborly of you.”

  He pulled the knife back, wiped the blood off its blade on the man’s cheek, then slipped it in a scabbard on the back of his belt as the man bolted from the saloon.

  By the time Joey sat down, he could hear the man’s horse galloping out of town.

  He glanced up at Lazarus, who was smiling down at him. “Looks like you lost a man.”

  “It wasn’t any great loss. I don’t need any cowards ridin’ with me.”

  Joey shook his head. “That man wasn’t a coward. He just knew his limitations. I don’t call that yellow. I call it smart.”

  “Well,
smart or yellow, he’s gone,” Lazarus said, “and good riddance to him.”

  “You got any peppers fer these enchiladas?” Joey asked. “They’re a mite bland.”

  18

  Lazarus Cain sat at the table and drank as Joey ate. “Say, Joey, what happened to those bandidos Jensen helped you go after?”

  Without looking up Joey replied, “They died.”

  “You mind tellin’ me about it?” Lazarus asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been stuck here in this one-horse town for nigh onto three weeks waitin’ for enough men to show up to take down Jensen and maybe even the town of Big Rock, an’ I ain’t had nobody with anything interestin’ to say to talk to the entire time.” He gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I’ll understand if’n you don’t want to talk about it, but I’d be obliged if you would, just to pass the time.”

  Joey paused to slab a thick coat of butter onto a tortilla. After he rolled it up and bit off half of it, he sat back in his chair and pulled out his makin’s. He built a cigarette, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and lighted it.

  He squinted one eye against the smoke curling up, and let the cigarette bob up and down as he talked in his soft, Southern accent, taking an occasional sip of whiskey without removing the butt from his mouth.

  “The gang of bandidos had joined up with a man name of Murdock, an’ Jensen and his men and me went to war with ’em. We’d managed to kill or wound most of ’em when the leader of the bandidos, a man called El Machete, ’cause of his habit of choppin’ people to death with one, and Murdock ran off to Murdock’s ranch. I’d taken some lead in the shoulder, but me an’ Jensen took off after ’em. . . .”

  * * *

  Smoke put a hand on Joey’s arm and helped him climb up on Red, then he stepped into the saddle on Horse. They rode off toward the Lazy M and Murdock and Vasquez at an easy canter.

  After a few miles, Smoke noticed fresh blood on Joey’s shoulder and a tight grimace of pain on his lips.

  “This ride too much for your wound, Joey? If it is, we can go back and wait a few days for the stitches the doc put in to knit together.”

  Joey shook his head, looking straight ahead. “I want to end this business, Smoke. All my life it seems I’ve been livin’ with hate—first during the war, then after, when I was chasin’ Redlegs.” He took a deep breath. “The only time I’ve been at peace was with Betty, and then when little Tom came I thought my life was complete and all that anger was behind me.”

  He pulled a plug of Bull Durham out and bit off the end. As he chewed, he talked. “Since Vasquez and his men rode into my life, I’ve found all that hate and more back in my heart.” He looked over at Smoke. “At first, I thought I’d missed all the excitement of the chase, an’ the killin’. But I’ve found that the hate festers inside of ya’, an’ I’m afraid if I don’t git shut of it soon I won’t be fit ta’ go back to Betty. She’s just too fine a woman ta’ have to live with a man all eat up inside with hate and bitterness.”

  Smoke smiled gently. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, Joey. You’ve just been doing what any man would do, fighting to protect your family and your home.” He slowed Horse and bent his head to light a cigar. When he had it going good, he caught up with Joey. “When you see the end of Vasquez and Murdock, things’ll go back like they were. The only hate I can see inside you is anger at the men who hurt your loved ones, and that’s a good thing. A man who won’t stand up for his family is no good.”

  Joey gave a tight grin. “You ought to be a preaching’ man, Smoke. You sure know the right things ta’ say.”

  Smoke laughed until he choked on his cigar smoke. After he finished coughing, he said, “Now that’s a picture to think on—Smoke Jensen, holding Sunday-go-to-meeting revivals.”

  They stopped at the riverbed and watered their mounts in one of the small pools. “What are you going to do about the river, once this is over?” Joey asked.

  Smoke gave him a look he didn’t quite understand and said, “Oh, I think I’ll leave that to the new ramrod of the Rocking C. It’ll be his decision to make.”

  * * *

  Another hour of easy riding brought them to the outskirts of the Lazy M. They could see two horses in the distance, tied up to a hitching rail near the corral, away from the house. Smoke pulled Puma Buck’s Sharps .52 from his saddle boot and began to walk toward a group of trees about a hundred yards from the house, keeping the trees between him and the house so Murdock and Vasquez wouldn’t be able to see him coming.

  Joey walked alongside, carrying a Henry repeating rifle in his right hand, hammer thong loose on his Colt.

  * * *

  Murdock was in his study, down on hands and knees in front of his safe, shoveling wads of currency into a large leather valise.

  He and Vasquez had arrived back at his ranch at three in the morning and had taken a nap, planning to leave the territory early the next morning. They had slept longer than intended, and were now hurrying to make up for lost time.

  Vasquez was sitting at Murdock’s desk, his feet up on the leather surface, a bottle of Murdock’s bourbon in one hand and one of his hand-rolled cigars in the other.

  “What you do now, Señor Murdock? Where you go?”

  Murdock looked back over his shoulder, his hands full of cash. “I plan to head up into Montana. There’s still plenty of wild country up there, a place where a man with plenty of money, and the right help, can still carve out a good ranch.”

  “What about Emilio?” Vasquez asked, his right hand inching toward his machete. He was looking at the amount of cash in the safe, thinking it would last a long time in Mexico. He could change his name, maybe grow a beard, and live like a king for the rest of his life.

  Murdock noticed the way Vasquez was eyeing his money, so he pulled a Colt out of the safe and pointed it at the Mexican. “Just keep your hands where I can see ’em, Emilio. I was planning on taking you with me. I can always use a man like you.” He raised his eyebrows. “But now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to have to sleep with one eye open all the way to Montana to keep you from killing me and taking my money.”

  Vasquez smiled, showing all his teeth, “But señor, you have nothings to fear from Emilio. I work for you always.”

  Murdock had opened his mouth to answer when he heard a booming explosion from in front of his house and a .52 caliber slug plowed through his front wall, tore through a chest of drawers, and continued on to imbed itself in a rear wall.

  Murdock and Vasquez threw themselves on the floor behind his desk, Vasquez spilling bourbon all over both of them in the process.

  “Chinga . . . ” Vasquez grunted.

  “Jesus!” said Murdock.

  Smoke hollered, “Murdock, Vasquez! Come out with your hands up and you can go on living . . . at least until the people of Pueblo hang you.”

  The two outlaws looked at each other under the desk. “What do you think?” Murdock asked.

  Vasquez shrugged. “Not much choice, is it? I think I rather get shot than hang. You?”

  Murdock nodded. “Maybe I can buy our way out.”

  Vasquez gave a short laugh. “Señor, you not know mens very well. Jensen and Wells not want money, they want our blood.”

  Murdock didn’t believe him. Everyone wanted money. It was what made the world go round. “Jensen, Wells. I’ve got twenty thousand in here, in cash. It’s yours if you turn your backs and let us ride out of here!” Murdock called.

  His answer was another .52 caliber bullet tearing through the walls of his ranch house. It seemed nothing would stop the big Sharps slugs.

  Murdock said, “I guess you’re right.”

  Vasquez answered, “Besides, after they kill us they take moneys, anyway.”

  Murdock scrambled on hands and knees to the wall, where he took his Winchester ’73 rifle down off a rack. He grabbed a Henry and pitched it across the room to Vasquez. “Here, let’s start firing back. Maybe we’ll get
lucky.”

  Vasquez chuckled to hide the fear gnawing at his guts like a dog worrying a bone. “And maybe horse learn to talk. But I do not think so.”

  They crawled across the floor and peeked out the window. They could see nothing. Then a sheet of flame shot out of a small group of trees in front of the house and another bullet shattered the door frame, knocking the door half open and leaving it hanging on one hinge.

  “Goddamn!” Murdock yelped. He rose and began to fire the Winchester as fast as he could work the lever and pull the trigger. He didn’t bother to aim, just poured a lot of lead out at the attackers.

  “Vasquez,” he whispered, “see if you can sneak out the back and circle around ’em. Maybe you can get them from behind.”

  “Hokay, señor,” the Mexican answered. He crawled through the house, praying to a God he had almost forgotten existed that he’d make it to his horse. He wasn’t about to risk trying to sneak up on Jensen and Wells. If he got to his horse he was going to be long gone before they knew it.

  He eased the back door open and stuck his head out. Good, there was no one in sight and no place to hide behind the cabin.

  Crouching low, he ran in a wide circle to where he and Murdock had left their horses. He slipped between the rails on the far side of the corral and crawled on his belly across thirty yards of horseshit to get to his mount’s reins. He reached up and untied the reins and stood up next to his bronc, his hand on the saddle horn, ready to leap into the saddle and be off.

  “Howdy, El Machete,” he heard from behind him.

  He stiffened, then relaxed. It was time to make his play. Maybe, as Murdock said, he would get lucky.

  He grabbed iron and whirled. Before his pistol was out of its holster, Joey had drawn and fired, his bullet taking the Mexican in the right shoulder. The force of the slug spun Vasquez around, threw him back against his horse, then to the ground. He fumbled for his gun with his left hand, but couldn’t get it out before Joey was standing over him.

  “Okay, Señor Wells. I surrender.”

  Joey’s eyes were terrible for the Mexican to behold. They were black as the pits of hell, and cold as those of a rattler ready to strike.