Rampage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t know that I can do that.”

  “Of course you can do it,” Smoke said. “In fact, I am already a deputy back in Big Rock. All you have to do is grant me a professional courtesy as a visiting lawman. It’s done all the time.”

  “All right, all right,” Sheriff Dawson said. “You’re deputized. Do what you feel must be done. But don’t count on any help from either me or my deputy.”

  “At this point, Sheriff, you and your deputy would just get in our way,” Smoke said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Jarred McHenry came back to the feeder lot to report to Williams and Pardeen on what he had just learned.

  “The sheriff has deputized Smoke Jensen and the others,” he said.

  “Well, now, this is getting interesting,” Pardeen said. They were holding the conversation just outside the fence of the feeder lot, and the air was redolent with the pungent smell of manure. Nearby was a stable where a half-dozen buckboards and wagons were parked and waiting to be rented. Someone from the stable was working on the wheel of one of the wagons, totally unaware of the impending showdown.

  “We about to have us a shoot-out, ain’t we?” one of the men asked, his voice betraying his nervousness over the prospect.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Pardeen said.

  “What do you mean, you hope so?”

  “The stage has been set for me’n Smoke Jensen to have us a meeting for a long time now,” Pardeen said. “And this is as good a time and place as any.”

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you boys, this isn’t what I wanted,” Williams said. He sighed. “But I’m afraid the fat is in the fire now.”

  Suddenly, and inexplicably, Jarred laughed.

  “What it is? What are you laughin’ at?” one of the others asked.

  “Devil’s food cake,” Jarred said.

  “What?”

  “Devil’s food cake,” Jarred repeated. “You think it really is devil’s food? What I’m askin’ is, come supper time in hell tonight, you think they’ll serve devil’s food cake?”

  One of the others shook his head. “Jarred, you are dumber than a cow turd.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Then Jarred growled, “We goin’ to stand around ’n talk all day? Or are we goin’ to get this thing done?”

  “You’re anxious, are you?” Pardeen asked.

  “Some,” Jarred admitted. “If we’re goin’ to do this, let’s get it done.” He started toward town and some of the others began to follow.

  “Wait,” Williams called. The others turned to look at him.

  “Didn’t you say they were coming to us?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it sounded like,” Jarred said.

  “Then let’s make them come to us. That way, we’ll have the advantage. And when it’s over, there won’t be no question about it bein’ murder or anything.”

  “Yeah, good idea,” Pardeen said. “Hey, you,” he called to the man who was working on the wagon wheel.

  The man looked over toward Pardeen. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Yeah, you,” Pardeen repeated. “Come here.”

  Responding to the call, the man got up and walked over toward them, wiping his hands with a rag he carried in his back pocket.

  “What’s your name?” Pardeen asked.

  “The name is Cooksie. I own this place.” He pointed to the livery. “You need to board your horse, or rent a horse or a wagon?”

  “Nah,” Pardeen said. As he was talking, he took out his pistol and began checking the loads in the cylinder. Seeing this, the others did the same thing. “We need you to do something for us.”

  The expression on Cooksie’s face reflected some anxiousness over seeing everyone suddenly check their pistols.

  “What’s going on here? What are you men about to do?”

  “We’re about to conduct a prayer meetin’,” Pardeen said, and the others laughed.

  “Yeah, a prayer meetin’,” Jarred repeated with a low laugh.

  “What?” Cooksie asked.

  “Never you mind what we’re about to do,” Pardeen said. “You just go on down to the sheriff’s office and tell them new deputies he just swore in that we’re down here waitin’ for ’em.”

  “You’re about to get into a gunfight here, aren’t you?” Cooksie asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Cooksie shook his head. “You boys don’t really want to do this,” he said, his voice high-pitched and nervous.

  “Yeah,” Pardeen said, looking pointedly at him. “We do. Now, you go down there and get them like we said. Then you stay the hell out of the way.”

  Smoke and the others were still standing in front of the sheriff’s office, discussing the best way to deal with the situation at hand, when Cooksie came up to them.

  “Is the sheriff and his new deputies in the office?” the stable owner asked.

  “We’re his new deputies,” Smoke replied.

  “You ain’t wearin’ no stars.”

  “We don’t need any stars,” Smoke said. “But if you doubt we are deputies, you can check with the sheriff. He is just inside.”

  “No, that’s all right. Now that I think about it, I reckon you’re the ones they was talkin’ about anyway. They said new deputies.”

  “Who said it?”

  “Well, the only ones I know are Jarred McHenry, Abner Coleman, Whizzer Magee, Lou Smith, the Parker brothers, and maybe three or four more with ’em.”

  “What about them?” Smoke asked.

  “Well, sir, I don’t rightly know what this is all about, but they said to tell you that they are down at the feeder lot waitin’ for you.”

  “Are they now?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, sir. And that fella Pardeen? He’s with them too.”

  Pearlie grinned broadly. “Pardeen too? Well, what do you know, Smoke?” he said. “We must’ve been livin’ right. Christmas is comin’ early this year.”

  “Pardeen belongs to me,” Smoke said.

  “Dead is dead,” Mike said. “The son of a bitch killed Billy, so I don’t care who kills him, as long as he’s dead.” Then, realizing that Sally had overheard him swear, Mike apologized.

  “Sorry ’bout usin’ them words like that, Miz Sally.”

  “No need to apologize, Mike,” Sally replied. “Pardeen is a son of a bitch.”

  Jules laughed. Then he and the others checked their guns and the loads, then replaced the weapons loosely in their holsters.

  “A shoot-out!” Cooksie shouted then, running down the street. “Stay off the streets, ever’body, there’s going to be a shoot-out!”

  Cooksie’s shouts were picked up by others, but what he intended to be a warning had just the opposite effect. People began pouring out into the street from all the stores and houses. What they saw was five men and a woman walking resolutely toward this rendevous with destiny. What they didn’t see was one ounce of emotion in any of the faces of the six.

  When they looked back toward the eleven the six would be facing, though, they saw faces that reflected the gamut of emotion, from resignation to fear to excitement. On Quince Pardeen’s face was an expression of detachment.

  Sheriff Dawson suddenly appeared, stepping out into the street. He held his hand up to stop Smoke and the others.

  “Stop right there,” he called. “I don’t intend to have a bloodbath in my town.”

  “You want to go down there and arrest them, Sheriff?” Smoke asked.

  Dawson looked at Smoke and the others for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he stepped back out of the street. “No,” he said. “You folks are on your own now. I wash my hands of it.”

  Sally chuckled. “Why not?” she asked. “It worked for Pontius Pilate.”

  As Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, Cal, Mike, and Jules approached, Williams, Pardeen, and the others stepped out of the livery barn and stood facing them. The two groups stood no more than ten feet apart. Williams, Pardeen, McHenry, and the others were now boxed in, for the feeder lot
was behind them, the livery barn on one side, and a house on the other. Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, Cal, Mike, and Jules were standing out in the open close to the street.

  There was a moment of silence as the two parties confronted each other.

  “Williams, this doesn’t have to happen. You and your men lay your guns on the ground, then walk away and leave my cattle here, and this will all be over,” Smoke said.

  “Oh, it has to happen,” Pardeen said. “Yes, sir, it has to happen.” Pardeen allowed a snide smile to spread across his face.

  “Pardeen, you aren’t a part of this offer. I was talking to Williams,” Smoke said. “You killed Billy, so I’m going to kill you, no matter what Williams does.”

  The smile left Pardeen’s face. Then he made the first move, reaching for and pulling his .45 so fast that to some of the bystanders, it appeared as if he had been holding the gun all along.

  “No!” Williams suddenly shouted. He took a couple of hesitant steps backward. “No, wait! We’ll be killed!” Williams turned and ran through the open door of the barn behind them. “No, don’t shoot us, don’t shoot us!” he begged.

  “Williams, you lily-livered coward!” Jarred McHenry shouted.

  Although Pardeen had drawn first, the first shot came from Smoke’s gun. He fired and the recoil kicked his hand up. Pardeen called out in pain, then grabbed his stomach as blood spilled between his fingers. But even as Pardeen went down, Magee shot at Smoke but missed. Sally shot Magee, hitting him in the chest. Smith fired at Mike as Pearlie fired at Coleman, hitting him between the eyes.

  After that, guns began to roar in rapid succession. Both Parkers went down, then three other gunmen, leaving only Smith and McHenry. Smoke killed Smith, while a bullet from Cal’s pistol tore through McHenry’s right hand. Another hit him in the chest.

  McHenry staggered back against a window of the vacant house, then slid slowly to the ground. He switched his pistol to his left hand. Sitting there on the ground with his legs crossed, and resting his pistol on his shattered arm, he shot with his left hand. His bullet hit Sally in the arm, spinning her around. Smoke shot McHenry again, this time in the forehead, knocking him back against the house.

  “Sally, are you all right?” Smoke shouted.

  “Yes,” Sally answered. “It’s not much more than a nick.”

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Sally saw Williams reappear in the door of the barn, holding a rifle. Williams fired, and Mike went down. Smoke, Pearlie, and Cal all fired at the same time and their bullets slammed into Williams’s chest. He stumbled out into the street and lurched over toward the people who had crowded around to watch. Unable to shoot for fear of hitting someone in the crowd, Smoke held his fire.

  Williams grabbed onto the post that supported the roof over the boot repair shop. He coughed once and blood bubbled from his lips; then he fell back, dead in the dirt.

  Of all those involved in the fight, not one of the gunmen with Williams was left alive. Smoke, Pearlie, Cal, and Jules were unscathed. Sally had a bullet in her arm, and Mike was dead.

  “Mike!” Sally shouted. “Oh, Smoke, they got Mike.”

  Smoke went over to look down at the young man, then shook his head sadly.

  The fight had been witnessed by scores of people, and now Smoke could see them moving closer to look at the bodies of the slain. None of the townspeople said anything. Their looks weren’t of pity, or compassion, or even hate. Most were of morbid curiosity, as if they were experiencing a sensual pleasure from being so close to death while themselves avoiding it.

  “Did you ever seen anythin’ like this?” someone asked.

  “Never,” another answered.

  “It was over in a hurry, wasn’t it?” someone asked.

  “Thirty-seven seconds,” another said, holding a watch in his hand. “I timed it.”

  One of them came over to look down at Mike.

  “Get away from him,” Smoke said.

  “I don’t mean nothin’ by it, mister. I’m just goin’ to look.”

  “I said get away!” Smoke shouted, pulling his pistol and pointing it at the curious townsman. The citizen backed away quickly, holding his hands up.

  Two days later, Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, Cal, and Jules were standing on the platform at the depot, waiting for the train that would take them back home. Sally had been treated by a doctor and her arm was in a sling. The bodies of Mike and Billy were in coffins, and would be put on the baggage car of the same train. The cattle were gone, and Smoke had a certified bank draft for $97,250.00, the amount he and Colin Abernathy agreed upon after Abernathy came personally to take delivery of the cattle. They heard the sound of the train in the distance.

  “Here it comes,” Jules said excitedly.

  “Are you anxious to get home?” Sally asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jules said. “I’ll be glad to give this money to Ma and Pa. Plus,” he added with a broad grin, “this here will be the first time I ever rode on a train.”

  The smile left his lips. “It’s the first time either Billy or Mike ever rode on a train too. They was really lookin’ forward to it.”

  Sheriff Dawson came up to them then. “I thought you might like to know that an inquest was held, and it was found that the shootin’ and killin’ was all justified,” he said.

  Smoke just nodded, but said nothing.

  Dawson smiled. “And you’ll be goin’ home with almost one hundred thousand dollars. I reckon this is one trip you’ll be real glad you made.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m just all broke out with joy,” Smoke replied.

  “You don’t sound all that happy.”

  “Mike, Billy, Hank, Andy, LeRoy, and Dooley,” Smoke said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No,” Smoke said. “You wouldn’t.”

  The train pulled into the station then, chugging, clanging, spewing steam and dripping glowing embers onto the track bed.

  “Come on, Sally,” Smoke said. “Let’s go home.”

  Turn the page for an exciting preview of

  THE FIRST MOUNTAIN MAN:

  PREACHER’S SHOWDOWN

  by William W. Johnstone

  with J. A. Johnstone

  Coming in January 2008

  Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold!

  Chapter One

  Civilization stank.

  As the man called Preacher paddled the canoe down the Mississippi River, he scented St. Louis before he ever came in sight of the settlement sprawled along the west bank of the stream the Indians called the Father of Waters. The smell was a mixture of wood smoke, tanning hides, boiling lye, rotting fish, burned meat, and a hundred other less-than-pleasant aromas. Preacher preferred to think of it as just the smell of civilization, and he thought it stank.

  But then, he reckoned that after months in the wilderness, he was no fragrant flower. And the plews piled up in front of him and behind him in the canoe didn’t smell too good neither. He chuckled. Soon enough, he’d be rid of the plews, since he planned to sell them first thing when he reached the settlement. Then he’d find a place to stay and maybe soak off in a tub full of hot water some of the months of grime that had collected on his body. Some folks claimed it was unhealthy to bathe too often, and the life Preacher had chosen to lead was already perilous enough as it was, but sometimes a fella just had to live dangerously.

  Preacher was a tall, rangy man, although his height wasn’t too evident while he was sitting in the canoe. His broad shoulders and muscular arms strained at the buckskins he wore and revealed the power in his body. His long, thick hair was black as midnight, save for a few silver strands, as was the bushy beard that concealed the lower half of his rugged face. His eyes, shaded by the broad brim of his felt hat, were dark and deep-set under prominent brows. His face and hands were tanned to the color of old saddle leather. He was in his early thirties, having been born as the eighteenth century turned to the nineteenth. He was no longer considered a young man in this day and age, but Preacher’s
active, outdoor life and iron constitution gave him the strength and vigor and attitude of someone younger.

  He had left home at an early age, not really running away from the farm or his family, but rather running toward something—the lure of the unknown. He wanted to see the vast American frontier, and the best way to do that was to just set out on his own two feet.

  Ever since then, he’d been wandering. After spending some time on the river, he had joined up with Andy Jackson’s army and fought the British down at the town of New Orleans back in 1814. Then he had headed west with some mountain men, and except for occasional forays back to civilization in St. Louis or down yonder in Texas, he had spent the intervening years in the Rockies, making his living by trapping beaver and other animals and selling their pelts, and trying to stay out of trouble.

  He hadn’t been any too successful in that last goal.

  But he’d spent the previous spring trapping and had a good load of plews, so he thought it would be all right to make a trip downriver to sell them, then head back up the Missouri for the fall season. The fur companies had begun to establish trading posts in the mountains where he could have disposed of his pelts, but Preacher had a hankering to visit the settlements again. He knew it was probably a mistake to do so. He wouldn’t be happy once he got there and would be eager to get back to the frontier. But he had come anyway.

  The river was narrower here than it was farther downstream, but it was still a pretty impressive thing, flowing as it did between high, wooded banks. Preacher figured he was still a mile or more above St. Louis. The south breeze would carry the smell of the settlement that far. His muscles worked with smooth efficiency as he dug the paddle into the water first on one side of the canoe, then on the other. The sleek craft, made of slabs of bark sealed together with pitch, cut through the water.

  Preacher heard the dull boom of a shot at the same time as he saw the lead ball plunk into the water with a small splash just in front of the canoe’s bow. His keen-eyed gaze went to the west bank of the river, where he spotted a puff of smoke floating in the air.