Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Louis Longmont nodded. “With any luck, we’ll be able to take out a significant portion of the gang with our initial attack, which will help even out the odds quite a bit.”

  “What if Pearlie is unable to talk to Joey?” Louis Carbone asked. “Perhaps Al an’ me might go into the town to find out what you want to know.”

  Smoke wagged his head. “No, Louis, but thanks. That’d be much too dangerous. I suspect the nearer Cain gets to the attack the more suspicious of strangers he’ll be, and we can’t afford to lose your guns before the battle. We’ll just have to hope Pearlie can meet with Joey and find out where the gang is staying in the town and the date of the attack.”

  23

  That night, Pearlie arrived at the place where he was supposed to meet with Joey and built a small fire. He made a pot of coffee and huddled there in the chilly blackness, waiting.

  In Fontana, Joey eased out of his bed and began to slip his trousers on. As he glanced out of a window, he noticed a flare of light across the street from the hotel, followed by an intermittent glowing red spot.

  Damn, he thought, Cain has somebody watching the hotel. Probably makin’ sure I don’t go anywhere.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and thought for a few minutes. He really didn’t have any news for Smoke, so risking his place with the outlaws just to have a meeting was foolish. He finally decided to go back to sleep and give it one more day trying to find out the date of the attack.

  * * *

  By five o’clock in the morning, Pearlie gave up any hope of seeing Joey. He kicked dirt over the smoldering coals of his fire and climbed wearily on Cold and began the long ride back to the Sugarloaf, hoping nothing had happened to his friend.

  * * *

  At breakfast the next morning Joey decided to force the issue with Lazarus. He finished his eggs and sausage, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and stood up from the table.

  Sauntering over to where Lazarus was sitting at his corner table with Blackie Jackson and Curly Joe Ventrillo, Joey flipped a twenty dollar gold piece onto the middle of the table.

  Lazarus looked up, surprised. “What’s that for, Joey?”

  “Fer my room an’ board the past week. I figger that’ll ’bout cover it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m leavin’. I’m bored sittin’ ’round here doin’ nothin’ all day, with no prospects of any action in the near future.”

  “I told you, it won’t be long now. Settle down and be patient,” Lazarus said.

  Joey leaned forward, his hands on the table. “That ain’t all of it, Cain. I also ain’t used to bein’ treated like a hired hand, not bein’ told what’s goin’ on an’ expected to sit around waitin’ fer my orders. I don’t much like it.”

  Blackie Jackson glared at Joey. “Who cares what you like an’ don’t like, Wells? You’ll wait for Mr. Cain’s orders an’ do like he says, just like everbody else.”

  Joey slowly turned his head to stare into Jackson’s eyes, his gaze deadly as a rattler’s just before it strikes.

  “I don’t recall addressin’ your boy, Cain. But you better tell him ’fore he antes up in this hand, he’d best have enough chips to back up his big mouth.”

  As he finished talking, Joey straightened up and loosed the hammer thong on his Colt. He turned to face Jackson, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his eyes flat and cold.

  “You want to try an’ give me some more orders, boy?” he asked Jackson.

  Blackie’s face blanched white, and sweat began to bead on his forehead in spite of the coolness of the morning. He licked suddenly dry lips and glanced at Cain, his eyes begging for help.

  The saloon became dead quiet as the men in it noticed what was happening. They all watched, wanting to see if Wells’s deadly reputation was accurate.

  Finally, Lazarus brought an end to it. “Men,” he said, “take it easy. There’s no need for this. Sit down, Joey, an’ I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Joey relaxed, the stiffness going out of his muscles and a small grin turning up the corners of his mouth. He turned away from Blackie, showing his contempt for the man in his manner.

  “So, what the hell’s goin’ on? Are we gonna go after Smoke Jensen, or sit here until winter comes?”

  Lazarus leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, so none of the others in the room could hear. “Give me two more days, Joey. I’m expecting the last wagonload of supplies in today or tomorrow. It’s got the gunpowder for my cannons, an’ enough ammunition to start our own war.”

  “And after we kill Jensen, what are your plans then?”

  “I told you. We’ll make a run on Big Rock an’ shoot it to hell. Even if we don’t destroy the town, we’ll cause so much confusion no one will even notice that Jensen’s ranch has been taken over. By the time anyone gets on to us, we’ll all be rich from the gold we take out of his land.”

  Joey smiled coldly. “I must say, I do like the sound of that word rich, Cain.” He reached over and picked up his twenty dollar gold piece and put it in his pocket. “I’ll stick for two more days.”

  Lazarus nodded. “Good, Joey. You won’t regret it.”

  * * *

  Two of Cain’s men riding sentry duty crested a small hill south of town. Mario Lopez, a man on the run from the Federales in Mexico for murder, rape, and cattle theft, noticed a glint of sun on metal just off to the left.

  “Hey, Johnny, you see that?” he asked.

  His riding partner, Johnny Crow, a half-breed Mescalero Apache, glanced over at him. Johnny’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, showing he’d had a rough night the night before—as he did most nights, drinking enough whiskey for any two men.

  “No, what’d you see?”

  “Sunlight reflectin’ off metal . . . right over there.”

  “It’s probably nothin’,” the Indian mumbled, wondering if his head was going to explode. He figured he must’ve gotten some bad whiskey, cause he’d never had a hangover like this one before.

  “Let’s go see, muchacho,” Mario said as he jerked his horse’s head around and spurred it forward.

  “Damn,” Johnny said, fearing he was going to puke if he got his horse into a gallop.

  As they crested the ridge, Mario saw something he couldn’t understand. A tall man wearing buckskins was standing before a wooden framework, drawing on a large sheet of paper. He rode over to him, Johnny following.

  “Hey mister, what you doin’?” Mario asked, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

  Smoke Jensen looked up, showing no apparent concern at being seen. “Why, I’m drawing a sketch of Fontana.”

  “You what?” Mario asked again, not having any idea what a sketch was.

  “Drawing a picture of Fontana,” Smoke repeated. “Would you like to see it?”

  “Why you do that?”

  Smoke put his charcoal pencil down and turned to face the two men on horseback, a smile on his lips. “Because, there’s a bunch of lowlifes staying in the town, and some friends of mine and me are going to ride in there soon and kill them.”

  Mario’s eyes widened and he jerked at his pistol. Before he got his gun halfway out of his holster, Smoke’s hand appeared in front of him, filled with iron. The Colt barked once, spitting a slug that took Mario full in the chest, shattering his breastbone and tearing a hole the size of a man’s fist in his heart. He was blown backward off his horse, dead before he hit the dirt.

  Having a couple of extra seconds, Johnny managed to get his gun clear of its holster, but never managed to raise the barrel before Smoke’s second shot hit him in the forehead. The back of his head exploded, filling his hat with pieces of bone and brain as he tumbled off his horse to land facedown on the ground.

  “That’s two we won’t have to worry about when we come calling,” Smoke mumbled to himself.

  Whistling a low tune, he gathered up his easel and drawing and packed them on Joker. After he was packed and ready to leave, he arranged the two bodies facing each ot
her about three feet apart. He took a deck of cards from his saddlebag and scattered it between the two men, along with the few dollars he found in their pockets.

  * * *

  Joey was at the bar having a beer when one of the outlaws burst through the batwings. It was Boots Hemphill, so called because he wore expensive, knee-high leather boots which he spent hours each day keeping shiny.

  “Boss . . . Mr. Cain . . . it’s Johnny an’ Mario! I found ’em dead off to the south.”

  Lazarus got quickly to his feet, motioning Blackie and Curly Joe to follow him as he went to the door.

  “Mind if’n I tag along?” Joey asked, curious about what was happening.

  “Suit yourself,” Lazarus growled.

  It took them about thirty minutes to find the bodies, laid out as Smoke had left them.

  Lazarus got down off his horse and walked over to stand before them.

  “It appears the fools were playing poker, an’ one or the other got angry,” he said, shaking his head.

  Joey looked at the bodies and noticed something, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew it hadn’t happened as Lazarus figured. The man named Mario was holding his pistol all right, but the hammer was still eared back. If he’d shot the half-breed, his gun wouldn’t be cocked.

  Joey had to turn his head to hide his smile. He recognized Smoke Jensen’s handiwork, two bullets perfectly placed, two dead men who probably hadn’t even gotten off a shot. He hoped Cain wouldn’t think to check their pistols to see if they’d been fired.

  Lazarus didn’t. The men were low on his list of assets, so he just got on his horse and started to ride off.

  “What about the bodies, Mr. Cain?” Boots asked.

  “Take what you want, an’ leave ’em for the buzzards an’ wolves. Serves the bastards right for playin’ cards while they were supposed to be on guard duty.”

  * * *

  That evening, just after supper, Joey drank a glass of whiskey, then gave a wide yawn and started to walk out of the saloon.

  Lazarus intercepted him just outside the batwings. “Where you goin’, Joey?” he asked.

  “Over to the hotel. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll turn in early tonight.”

  “Yeah, you do that. We got a big day tomorrow if that shipment gets here.”

  Joey nodded and touched the brim of his hat as he walked to his room.

  Lazarus spoke over his shoulder to Blackie. “Have one of the boys watch him. I still got a funny feelin’ about Mr. Joey Wells.”

  * * *

  Joey gathered his few possessions together into his saddlebags, threw them over his shoulder, and slipped from his hotel room. Trying to stay close to buildings in shadows and out of the moonlight, he made his way to the livery stable.

  He put a saddle on Red and cinched it down tight, flipped the saddlebags behind the saddle, and began to lead the big stud toward the door.

  The sound of a pistol hammer being eared back stopped him in his tracks.

  “Just where do you think you’re goin’, Wells?” came a voice from out of the darkness.

  “I thought I’d take a little ride in the moonlight,” Joey answered, his voice cool though his heart was racing.

  Boots Hemphill walked out into the meager light streaming through a nearby window. “Mr. Cain told me to keep an eye on you. I guess it’s a good thing he did.”

  Joey’s eyes fell to the Colt Hemphill was holding in his right hand.

  “Come on, let’s go see what he has to say about your little moonlight ride,” Hemphill said sarcastically.

  “All right,” Joey said. “Just let me get my saddlebags.”

  He turned and made to reach for the bags, but let his hand fall to his waist and grab the handle of his Arkansas Toothpick.

  As he pulled the saddlebags off Red, he made a quick backhand motion. The knife turned over one and a half times before it imbedded itself in Boots’s throat.

  He dropped his pistol and grasped the knife’s handle, gurgling and choking on his own blood.

  Falling to his knees, he finally managed to get the knife free, only to watch as his blood pumped out three feet in front of him from a severed carotid artery. He cast pleading eyes up at Joey for a few seconds, then he fell facedown in a pool of his own blood, dead.

  Joey took his Arkansas Toothpick from the dead hands and wiped it on Boots’s shirt, then slipped it back in his scabbard.

  Figuring he might need the edge of a little getaway time, Joey bent over and grabbed Boots under the armpits and dragged him to a pile of hay in the corner of the livery. He used a pitchfork to dig a deep hole in the hay and rolled the dead man into it, covering him with a thick layer of straw.

  Afterward, he used his boot to spread dirt over the thick pool of blood where the body had fallen, covering up all traces of the fight.

  He led Red out the door of the livery and closed it behind him. As he climbed in the saddle, Joey sighed, thinking about the man he’d just killed. “A man should always know his own limitations,” he whispered, walking his horse down the street and out of town.

  Once clear of the town, he leaned forward in the saddle and urged the stud on, racing for the Sugarloaf to tell Smoke of the impending attack the next day.

  He hoped Al and Louis had made it. They were going to need all the guns they could find to hold off Cain and his gang.

  24

  Cal had insisted on riding with Pearlie out to where he was supposed to meet Joey, vowing that if their old friend didn’t show up tonight he was going to ride into Fontana to make sure he was all right.

  Pearlie just shook his head. “Ya cain’t do that, boy. You wouldn’t make it ten yards inside the town limits ’fore you’d be blown clear outta your saddle.”

  “I know, but that’s what I want’a do.”

  Pearlie reined his horse to a stop next to the boulder. “Here, use up some of that energy makin’ us a fire. It’s gonna get plumb cold tonight ’fore long.”

  After Cal had the fire going and a pot of coffee cooking next to it, he settled down on his ground blanket and built himself a cigarette. Lighting it off a burning piece of wood, he squinted through the smoke at Pearlie sitting across from him.

  “You remember the story Al and Louis told us ’bout how they met Smoke?”

  Pearlie grinned. “Sure. It was just after Lee Slater an’ his gang shot up Big Rock, an’ some of the bullets hit Miss Sally.”

  Cal nodded, “Yeah, they signed on to fight with Slater agin’ Smoke an’ his friends.”

  “That’s when they had that big shootout at the town of Rio,” Pearlie said. Leaning back against his saddle, his hands behind his head, he stared at the stars and thought about what it must have been like, and how much the next few days were going to be like it when they attacked Lazarus Cain in Fontana.

  Cal handed him a cup of coffee and squatted next to him, his forearms on his thighs. “Al said Smoke had killed just about all the outlaws, an’ Miss Sally put the final bullet in Lee Slater, when Al decided to make his move. . . .”

  * * *

  A man stepped out of the shadows. Lee Slater. His hands were wrapped around the butts of Colts, as were Smoke’s hands. “I’m gonna kill you, Jensen!” he screamed.

  A rifle barked, the slug striking Lee in the middle of his back and exiting out the front. The outlaw gang leader lay dead on the hot dusty street.

  Sally Jensen stepped back into Louis’s gambling hall and jacked another round into her carbine.

  Smoke smiled at her and walked on down the boardwalk.

  “Looking for me, amigo?” Al Martine spoke from the shadows of a doorway. His guns were in leather.

  “Not really. Ride on, Al.”

  “Why would you make such an offer to me? I am an outlaw, a killer. I hunted you in the mountains.”

  “You have a family, Al?”

  “Sí. A father and mother, brothers and sister, all down in Mexico.”

  “Why don’t you go pay them a visit? Hang up your gun
s for a time?”

  The Mexican smiled and finished rolling a cigarette. He lit it and held it to Smoke’s lips.

  “Thanks, Al.”

  “Thank you, Smoke. I shall be in Chihuahua. If you ever need me, send word, everybody knows where to find me. I will come very quickly.”

  “I might do that.”

  “Adiós, compadre.” Al stepped off the boardwalk and was gone.

  Smoke finished the cigarette, grateful for the lift the tobacco gave him. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the buildings, the alleyways, the street.

  He caught movement on the second floor of the saloon, the hotel part. Sunlight off a rifle barrel. He lifted a .44 and triggered off two fast rounds. The rifle dropped to the awning, a man following it out. Zack fell through the awning and crashed to the boardwalk. He did not move.

  Rich Coleman and Frankie stepped out of the saloon, throwing lead, and Smoke dived for the protection of a water trough.

  “I got him!” Frankie yelled.

  Smoke rose to one knee and changed Frankie’s whole outlook on life—what little remained of it.

  Rich turned to run back into the saloon and Smoke fired, the slug hitting him in the shoulder and knocking him through the batwings. He got to his boots and staggered back out, lifting a .45 and drilling a hole in the water trough as he screamed curses at Smoke.

  Smoke finished it with one shot. Rich staggered forward, grabbing anything he could for support. He died with his arms around an awning post.

  The thunder of hooves cut the afternoon air. Sheriff Silva and a huge posse rode up in a cloud of dust.

  “That’s it, Smoke,” the sheriff announced. “It’s over. You’re a free man, and all these other yahoos are gonna be behind bars.”

  “Suits me,” Smoke said, and holstered his guns.

  Luttie Charles stepped out of the saloon, a gun in each hand, and shot the sheriff out of the saddle. The possemen filled Luttie so full of lead the undertaker had to hire another man to help tote the casket.