Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “You wanna see what’s left of your woman?” a taunting voice called from near the back door. “I got her hair on my belt and a piece of her hide to tan. We all took a time or two with her. I think she liked it.”

  Smoke felt rage charge through him, but he remained still, crouched behind the thick pile of wood until his anger cooled to controlled, venom-filled fury. He unslung the big Sharps buffalo rifle Preacher had carried for years. The rifle could drop a two thousand pound buffalo at six hundred yards. It could also punch through a small log.

  The voice from the cabin continued to mock and taunt Smoke, but Preacher’s training kept him cautious. To his rear lay a meadow, void of cover. To his left was a shed. He knew that was empty, for it was still barred from the outside. The man he’d plugged in the butt was to his right, but several fallen logs would protect him from that direction. The man in the outhouse was either dead or passed out. His screaming had ceased.

  Through a chink in the logs, Smoke shoved the muzzle of the Sharps and lined up where he thought he had seen a man move, just to the left of the rear window, where Smoke had framed it out with rough pine planking. He gently squeezed the trigger, taking up slack. The weapon boomed, the planking shattered, and a man began screaming in pain.

  Canning ran out the front of the cabin, to the lean-to, sliding down hard beside Felter behind the water trough. “This ain’t workin’ out,” he panted. “Grissom, Austin, Poker, and now Evans is either dead or dying. The slug from that buffalo gun blowed his arm off. Let’s get the hell outta here!”

  Felter had been thinking the same thing. “What about Clark and Sam?”

  “They growed men. They can join us or they can go to hell.”

  “Let’s ride. They’s always another day. We’ll hide up in them mountains, see which way he rides out, then bushwhack him. Let’s go.” They raced for their horses, hidden in a bend of the creek, behind the bank. They kept the cabin between themselves and Smoke as much as possible, then bellied down in the meadow the rest of the way.

  In the creek, in water red from the wounds in his butt, Kid Austin crawled upstream, crying in pain and humiliation. His Colts were forgotten—useless, anyway. The powder was wet—all he wanted was to get away.

  The bounty hunters left in the house, Clark and Sam, looked at each other. “I’m gettin’ out!” Sam said. “That ain’t no pilgrim out there.”

  “The hell with that,” Clark said. “I humped his woman, and I’ll kill him and take the ten thousand.”

  “Your option.” Sam slipped out the front and caught up with the others.

  Kid Austin reached his horse first. Yelping as he hit the saddle, he galloped off toward the timber in the foothills.

  “You wife don’t look so good now,” Clark called out to Smoke. “Not since she got a haircut and one titty skinned.”

  Deep silence had replaced the gunfire. The air stank of black powder, blood, and relaxed bladders and bowels, death-induced. Smoke had seen the men ride off into the foothills. He wondered how many were left in the cabin.

  Smoke remained still. His eyes, burning with fury, touched the stiffening form of his son. If Clark could have read the man’s thoughts, he would have stuck the muzzle of his .44 into his mouth and pulled the trigger, guaranteeing himself a quick death instead of what waited for him later on.

  “Yes, sir,” Clark taunted him. He went into profane detail about the rape of Nicole and the perverted acts that followed.

  Smoke eased slowly backward, keeping the woodpile in front of him. He slipped down the side of the knoll and ran around to one wall of the cabin. He grinned. The bounty hunter was still talking to the woodpile, to the muzzle of the Sharps stuck through the logs.

  Smoke eased around to the front of the cabin and looked in. He saw Nicole, saw the torture marks on her, saw the hideousness of the scalping and the skinning knife. He lifted his eyes to the back door, where Clark was crouching just to the right of the closed door.

  Smoke raised his .36 and shot the pistol out of Clark’s hand. The outlaw howled and grabbed his numbed and bloodied hand.

  Smoke stepped over Grissom’s body, then glanced at the body of the armless bounty hunter, who had bled to death.

  Clark looked up at the tall young man with the burning eyes. Cold slimy fear put a bony hand on his shoulder. For the first time in his evil life, Clark knew what death looked like.

  “You gonna make it quick, ain’t you?”

  “Not likely,” Smoke said, then kicked him on the side of the head, dropping Clark unconscious to the floor.

  When Clark came to his senses, he began screaming. He was naked, staked out a mile from the cabin, on the plain. Rawhide held his wrists and ankles to thick stakes driven into the ground. A huge ant mound was just inches from him. And Smoke had poured honey all over him.

  “I’m a white man,” Clark screamed. “You can’t do this to me.” Slobber sprayed from his mouth. “What are you, half-Apache?”

  Smoke looked at him, contempt in his eyes. “You will not die well, I believe.”

  He didn’t.13

  * * *

  Lazarus shook his head, his brow furrowed with thought. “I see what you mean, Bob. If we fail in our attack, Jensen will hunt us down one by one until he’s killed all of us or one of us kills him.”

  “That’s about the size of it, Mr. Cain. I just didn’t want you going up against him until you knew what kind of man he is.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Bob. I guess the only thing to do is make sure we kill Jensen when we get the chance.”

  Blanchard nodded. “It’s that, or spend the rest of your life looking back over your shoulder, waitin’ on him to show up.”

  28

  About five miles outside of Fontana, Smoke reined Joker to a halt. “If what I’ve heard about Cain is true, with his military background he’s gonna have sentries posted around Fontana that’ll warn him we’re coming.”

  “What do you want to do, Smoke?” Louis Longmont asked.

  “Since Joey and I have the most experience at this, we’ll take out the sentries. I want the rest of you to ride in a wide circle around the town and try to intercept that wagon of dynamite and ammunition Cain’s expecting to arrive today. It should be coming from the north, from Pueblo.”

  After the others rode off, Smoke pulled his Colts out and began to check his loads, while Joey did the same.

  “It’s gonna seem like old times ridin’ with you, Smoke,” Joey said.

  Smoke grinned. “Yeah, let’s hope it turns out as well this time as it did last time . . .”

  * * *

  Smoke and Joey began to ride a circuit around Fontana, keeping their eyes peeled for any approaching riders. It didn’t take them long to attract a couple.

  Two men rode up, each carrying Winchester rifles in their hands, the butts resting on their thighs as they reined up in front of Smoke and Joey.

  One of the men, dark-skinned with several days’ growth of beard, spoke up. “Where you gents headed?”

  Smoke glanced at Joey, his lips curled in a lazy smile. “The man wants to know where we’re headed, partner.”

  Joey, his face deadly serious, replied, “Yeah, I heard the nosy son of a bitch.”

  He looked directly at the man who’d spoken. “What’s your name, mister?” he asked.

  The dark-skinned man glanced at the man sitting on the horse next to him, then back at Joey. “What’s it to you?”

  Joey shrugged. “I just thought it’d be nice to have somethin’ to carve on the cross over your grave, assumin’ anybody cares enough ’bout your sorry butt to come out here and bury you.”

  “Why you . . .” the man growled and started to lower his rifle barrel.

  Twin explosions erupted almost simultaneously from Smoke and Joey’s hands, which were full of Colts. The two men were blown backward off their horses before they could ear back the hammers on their long guns.

  The silent one struggled to get to his feet. Then a bullet from Smoke
put him down for good.

  Smoke cut his eyes to Joey. “I feel kind’a bad not offering them a chance to quit this madness and go on about their way.”

  Joey shook his head. “That kind of thinkin’s gonna git you kilt, partner. There’s not a one of the bunch ridin’ with Cain who’s worth two seconds of thought. They’s all murderers an’ thieves an’ such, an’ don’t deserve the time of day, much less a chance to shoot us while they’s decidin’ whether to stay or leave.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Smoke said.

  “Ain’t I always?” Joey said, this time grinning.

  * * *

  The next two sentries, perhaps because they’d heard the shots or perhaps because they were just more ornery than the first pair, didn’t bother to accost Smoke and Joey. They just started blasting away with long guns as soon as they saw them riding by.

  Luckily for Smoke and Joey, the pair were abysmal shots, and the first volley of bullets whined by harmlessly, other than startling the two gunmen out of a year’s growth.

  “Damn!” Joey shouted even as he leaned far over Red’s neck and spurred the big stud toward the distant men firing at them.

  The two men, sitting on their horses, stopped shooting for a moment when they realized the men they were aiming at were doing something crazy. Instead of trying to get away from the hail of bullets, they were galloping at full speed toward them.

  Pete Garcia looked at Julio Cardenez with disbelief. “Julio, the mens are stupido!”

  Julio didn’t bother to reply, since the men were getting closer by the second and he could see pistols in their hands.

  Julio and Pete continued to fire, the explosions of their rifles making their horses jump and dance in fear, which did nothing to improve their already terrible aim.

  Joey, who’d spent considerable years after the Civil War riding and shooting from horseback, was under no such handicap.

  While he was still fifty yards from the attackers, his first slug whipped the bandit’s hat off. The second took the man in the left chest, just above his heart. The force of the bullet twisted the man around in his saddle, but didn’t knock him to the ground.

  Julio Cardenez tried to put his rifle to his shoulder, but then he noticed his left arm wouldn’t work right.

  “Damn, Pete,” Julio said, wonderment in his voice as if he’d never expected something like this to happen. “I am hit!”

  Pete glanced at Julio while levering his Winchester as fast as he could. When he turned his head to the left, a slug from Smoke’s pistol entered the right side of his face and exited out the left, blowing his lower jaw completely off in a split second.

  Pete tried to scream at the terrible pain, but could only gurgle as his blood poured down his throat and into his windpipe.

  By the time Julio looked up from his useless left arm, Joey was twenty yards away, staring at him over the sights of a Colt Army .44 caliber pistol.

  “No!” screamed Julio, holding out his good right arm as if that could shield him from Joey’s bullets.

  It didn’t. The next one passed through the meat of Julio’s forearm and hit him in the right eye, exploding his skull and killing him instantly.

  Smoke, seeing the terrible mess his bullet had made of Pete’s face, withheld his fire, watching the man strangle and drown in his own blood. Pete fell out of the saddle, his skin the color of night, gasping like a fish out of water as he died.

  Smoke and Joey rested their broncs as they punched out empty cartridges and reloaded their pistols.

  “How many left, do you think?” Smoke asked.

  Joey pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. “If’n he’s goin’ by the rules the rebels used to follow, he’s got eight sentries surroundin’ his camp. Two on each point of the compass.”

  Smoke slipped his pistol into his holster. “That means we’ve got four more to deal with.”

  Joey nodded. “At least.”

  * * *

  Louis Longmont was the first to spy the wagon. “There it is,” he called to the others, pointing up the road.

  A man could be seen driving a buckboard, a saddled horse following along behind on a dally rope.

  Monte Carson was the first to speak as they signaled the wagon to a halt. “Howdy, mister. My name’s Monte Carson, an’ I’m the sheriff around here. What’s in the back of your wagon?”

  The driver looked worriedly around at the faces of the men surrounding him. “Uh, some supplies from Garrett’s General Store over in Pueblo.”

  “What kind’a supplies?” Louis Longmont asked.

  The man stared at Louis Carbone and Al Martine, who looked like Mexican bandidos with their large, silver spurs, crossed bandoliers of shells on their chests, and twin Colt pistols on their hips.

  “What business is it of yours?” he asked.

  Al drew his pistol and crossed his arms on his saddle horn, leaning forward, the barrel of the gun pointing down. “Señor, the man he asked you very nice. Why you not answer his question, muy pronto?”

  “I’m carryin’ dynamite, gunpowder, an’ about two hundred boxes of shells, forty-fours, forty-fives, an’ a few thirty-six caliber bullets.”

  Monte let his face look puzzled. “You figurin’ on goin’ to war, mister?”

  “No. These are for a Mr. Cain, in the town of Fontana,” the driver answered belligerently. “Now, why don’t you just let me ride on into town and do what I’m bein’ paid to do?”

  “I can’t do that,” Monte said. “The town of Fontana is under quarantine.”

  “Quarantine?” the man asked.

  “Yeah. Seems they’s a disease in that town that’s gonna kill everybody in it,” said Pearlie, a smirk on his face.

  “What is it? The pox?”

  “No,” answered Louis Longmont. “It is a disease called greed. It is being spread by Lazarus Cain, and it has infected everyone in the town.”

  “Greed ain’t fatal,” the driver persisted, not getting the joke.

  Al Martine cocked his pistol with a loud metallic sound. “It is in this case, my friend,” he growled.

  “Uh, if you gentlemen will allow me, I’ll just get on my horse and head on back to Pueblo.”

  “That’ll be just fine,” Monte said. He smiled, looking around at the group of men with him. “My friends and I will make sure Mr. Cain gets all of the bullets and dynamite in your wagon, one way or another.” He hesitated and grinned at the others riding with him. “You have my word on it.”

  * * *

  Nate Bridges and Will Calloway were riding sentry for Lazarus when Nate stopped his horse and pulled a small canvas sack out of his shirt pocket and began to build himself a cigarette. Will stopped his horse, too, and pulled out his canteen to get a drink of water.

  As Nate dipped his head to lick the paper around his tobacco, there came a sudden sound from behind him, like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef, and Nate back-flipped off his horse.

  “What the hell?” Will said, glancing down at his partner as a booming sound echoed from across the valley.

  He saw a spreading stain of crimson on the front of Nate’s shirt, then looked back over his shoulder in time to see a puff of smoke come from a tiny figure on horseback over fifteen hundred yards away.

  He jerked his reins and whirled his horse, saving his life as the bullet from Joey’s Sharps Big Fifty hit him in the shoulder.

  The force of the slug almost unseated Will, but he managed to keep his balance and leaned over the neck of his mount and spurred it toward Fontana as fast as the animal could run.

  “Damn! Missed the second one,” Joey muttered as he reloaded the Sharps.

  “That might not be so bad,” Smoke said. “Let him tell Cain what happened, and when the other sentries don’t show up and he realizes what happened to them, it’ll cause him some confusion.”

  “Why is that good? I thought we wanted the element of surprise.”

  “We did. But that wasn’t going to happen with us having to kill all the se
ntries. Sooner or later he was going to realize he was under attack, anyway. Now we’ll let him stew on it a while, wondering just who and how many are after him.”

  “Well, if that’s the plan, then we need to git those other two sentries pronto,” Joey said.

  After he put the Sharps in his saddle boot they rode north, the direction of the remaining two sentries.

  Bill Boudreaux and Francois Tibbido, two friends on the run from New Orleans for killing five men in a riverboat gambling feud, were riding the northern sentry post.

  “Say, Bill,” drawled Francois, “here come two men.” He pointed off to the west.

  “Uh huh,” Bill replied.

  “What you want to do?”

  “Let them come. Then when they get here we kill them, mon ami,” Bill said.

  “Why not just tell them to leave?” Francois asked, his face glum.

  “’Cause Monsieur Cain, he be plenty mad if he find out. He say kill anyone who come, so we kill these two mens.” Bill hesitated, then asked, “Unless you want to go to Monsieur Cain an’ tell him you be too soft for this job?”

  “No! I agree. They must die.”

  As soon as Smoke and Joey got within thirty yards of the two men they were approaching, they saw the men go for their guns.

  Without hesitating, Smoke and Joey filled their hands with iron, firing on the two sentries before they could clear leather.

  Smoke hit Bill Boudreaux in the heart and throat with two shots that sounded almost simultaneous. The bullets tore into Boudreaux, killing him before he had time to scream.

  Joey’s shots hit Francois in the stomach and left arm, doubling him over his saddle horn with a loud grunt.

  After a few seconds, he toppled to the side to fall to the ground, moaning in pain and writhing in the dirt.

  “Help me . . . oh dear God, help me . . .” he cried.

  Joey rode over to look down at the dying man. “You got a gun. Help yourself,” he said. Then he and Smoke rode off toward Fontana’s town limits, where they were to meet with their friends.

  29

  Will Calloway made it to just in front of the Dog Hole Saloon in Fontana before impending shock from loss of blood caused him to faint and fall off his horse.