Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Abandoning the spear, Running Snake waved his arms to direct warriors into intersecting streets. Before he knew it, the Shoshoni leader found himself at the edge of the business district. Outlaws swarmed in confusion. Dust rose to obscure everything. Powder smoke wafted heavily on an indifferent breeze. Quickly he dismounted and brought his Spencer carbine to his shoulder. When the angry, shouting face of an armed white man came into the sights, Running Snake squeezed off a round.

  It blew away the lower jaw of the outlaw and sent him reeling away down the street. Another quickly filled the empty space, face contorted by rage, who charged toward Running Snake with flame spitting from a six-gun, while the Shoshoni worked the lever action to open the breech and insert another paper cartridge in the breech. With too little time, Running Snake tried to bring up his weapon as a club, only to not have a need.

  Smashed down by a tomahawk in the hand of Bright Sky, the thug splashed the roof post of the saddlery shop with his blood and brains. Running Snake completed loading, added a percussion cap to the nipple and looked around. To his surprise he saw they had advanced half a block. It would not take long now.

  White Beaver could hardly contain his Arapaho brothers. Several curvetted their ponies in nervous circles. He vaguely believed it to not be right to have to wait for the white men to start the fighting. Especially two times. White Beaver was unaware that his thoughts echoed those of Running Snake. It would be so easy to race through these white lodges and burn everything. Why kill only some of those in the village? And why fight as ally to the Shoshoni? A spatter of gunfire lifted the restraint on his warriors and they streamed into town from the north.

  To the right of White Beaver, one outlaw gaped in astonishment and shouted the news to his friends. “M’God, it’s Injuns! We’re bein’ attacked by Injuns.”

  White Beaver swung his right hand and arm across his body and shot the outlaw with an old Dragoon pistol that had belonged to his father. The .44 ball smacked loudly into the left side of the thug’s chest and tore its way through both lungs. Constantly advancing, White Beaver did not see him fall. Nor did he see a local resident dash out behind the line of Indians to retrieve the weapons of the human trash. Instead, he snapped his arm right and upward to aim at a man in the second floor window of a house.

  For an instant, his eyes locked with those of the gunhawk. White Beaver read fear there. Then the white renegade’s face washed into an expression of deep regret as he saw his death coming. The hammer fell on the Colt Dragoon in the hand of White Beaver. To the surprise of the Arapaho, the man was propelled forward by an unseen person to crash into the glass a moment before the bullet struck him in the neck. A voice followed.

  “That’ll learn ya not to pester my littlest girl.” Quickly followed by, “Oh my God! That Injun shot him.”

  More surprise awaited White Beaver as the dying outlaw fell through the air, his trousers around his knees. He hit the ground hard and did not move. The Arapaho war leader rode on. Another block and he signaled his warriors to break off and enter other streets, to close off the center of the village.

  Victor Spectre, or someone working for him, learned quickly from mistakes, Smoke Jensen observed. Several marksmen with long-range rifles had been stationed on the roofs of two-story buildings in the downtown area. From there they could make things uncomfortable for those closing in on the outlaw band.

  At least until one got careless and exposed himself to the still-keen eyesight of Ezra Sampson. Dust puffed up from the vest of the hard case and his head snapped back. Only a fraction of a second later, Smoke heard the report of Ezra’s Sharps. Immediately, two of the sharpshooters turned their attention toward the old mountain man.

  Ezra’s next shot went far wide of the mark and Smoke knew he had been nicked at the least. No such condition afflicted Zeke Duncan, who promptly accounted for another of the roof-top shooters. The man’s back arched and he flopped face-first on a slate roof, to slide down to the edge and off. He landed on the ground with a loud plop. Four of the gunmen turned their fire on Ezra’s position. Ezra gave them a taste of the same with a .56 caliber ball that took off the back of the head on one outlaw. Then Smoke heard a faint cry from Ezra.

  “Dangit, you done hulled my shoulder.”

  Emboldened by this, the remaining marksmen incautiously showed themselves to jeer at the injured men. They quickly learned, much to their regret, that it took more than a scratch or a hole in a shoulder to stop one of the mountain breed. Two balls dropped as many men and the remainder scurried for cover.

  A third suddenly yowled and went down with a Shoshoni arrow in his thigh. Smoke gave a slight nod of appreciation and moved to another vantage point, where he could study the ever-narrowing area where Spectre and his henchmen could still find shelter. Two thugs broke cover from inside the Watering Hole Saloon. With Smoke Jensen looking on, Ike Mitchell spun around the alley-side of the general mercantile and shot one rogue through the breastbone.

  “Over here,” Smoke shouted at the other when Ike’s six-gun cylinder hung up on a backed-out primer.

  Obediently, the fast-gun turned toward the sound of Smoke’s voice. His eyes widened when he recognized Smoke Jensen. Smoke also registered an eye-squint of surprise when he saw the features of Whitewater Bill Longbaugh. No slouch as a gunfighter, Longbaugh had been rumored to have gone into the land swindle game and left gun-slinging behind. Perhaps the amount of the price on Smoke’s head, or the chance to up his sagging reputation by claiming that head had been too tempting for Whitewater Bill.

  Whatever the case, it became instantly obvious that Longbaugh lamented his decision. He crouched low, knees bent and torso leaned forward, as though already gutshot, and his face took on a pained expression. His thick lips worked and his voice came out cramped and weak.

  “Awh, shit!” Then Longbaugh added in a whine, “Uh—Smoke, we don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s you came here lookin’ for me. Now it’s time you started the dance.”

  “There’s no other way?” Whitewater Bill pleaded.

  At the negative shake of Smoke Jensen’s head, Whitewater Bill Longbaugh made a desperate grab for iron. He almost made it. He had his sweat-slicked fingers on the fancy pearl grips of his Smith and Wesson Scofield when Smoke cleared leather. Longbaugh gave a yank and the grips slid free of his insecure grasp. Instantly an expression of wild alarm washed over his face as he corrected and made another try.

  Smoke had his barrel leveled and the hammer back when Longbaugh managed to draw the cylinder clear of his soft pouch holster. The barrel came out as Smoke’s hammer fell. A powerful blow struck Whitewater Bill in the gut as he looped his thumb over the hammer. Staggered by the impact of the bullet fired by Smoke Jensen, he wobbled into the middle of the intersection. With great effort, he raised his wheel-gun again and fired a round. It turned out to be the closest to good luck Longbaugh had since he had encountered Smoke.

  Fire erupted along the side of Smoke’s left shoulder. The shallow wound had no effect on the outcome, since Smoke Jensen already had a second slug on its way to bury itself in the chest of Bill Longbaugh. Bright lights exploded behind the eyes of Longbaugh on impact. Quickly the shower of sparks faded into the eternity of blackness he would endure. Without regret, Smoke turned away to seek out another of Spectre’s henchmen. He had no trouble finding one. One that came at him from behind.

  Slobbering as usual, Farlee Huntoon rushed through the bat-wings of the Watering Hole. “I gotcha, Jensen, by God, I do,” he chortled.

  Smoke had barely started to turn when Huntoon raised his Merwin and Hulbert .44 to make a back-shot. Even with this head start, Smoke beat Huntoon to the first round fired. The fat .45 slug sped from the muzzle of Smoke’s Colt and slammed into the protruding gut of the hillbilly outlaw. Huntoon’s mouth and eyes went wide and round. Enormous pain erupted among his organs. In spite of that, he managed to trigger his weapon.

  Huntoon’s bullet entered the side of Smoke’s whipcord jacket a
nd bit into flesh, to form a short tunnel right below the skin. Fire radiated through the body of Smoke Jensen and he took a single, staggered step before he eared back the hammer again and put another deadly projectile into Farlee Huntoon. This time the hot lead destroyed the lower lobe of Farlee’s right lung. Choking on his own blood, the West Virginia trash triggered yet a third cartridge.

  With a shower of splinters, the slug buried itself in the boardwalk, between the widespread boots of Smoke Jensen. A black scrim, harbinger of things to come, settled over Farlee’s vision. He worked numb lips and tried to gulp back a fountain of sanguine fluid that threatened to erupt out of his mouth. He partly succeeded and panted out a few words from a body rapidly weakening.

  “I…think…I’ve…died.”

  Smoke Jensen watched the Merwin and Hulbert drop from fingers no longer able to hold it, stepped in close and spoke with whimsical assurance. “Not yet, but you will.”

  A flurry of shots from the general mercantile drew Smoke’s attention. Leaving the dying Huntoon behind, he headed that way. Six Sugarloaf hands had some of Spectre’s minions pinned down inside the store. Before Smoke could reach the establishment and size up how to drive them out, Stumpy Granger let out a yowl and began to hop on one foot, holding the other in a gnarled hand.

  “Bastit in there shot off a couple of my toes,” he yelped to anyone who wanted to hear. Then he dropped the injured foot to the ground, took aim and fired at a wisp of dark shadow that crossed behind the shot-out display window. The heavy crash of a body striking the floor told the result. Stumpy cackled and reloaded his shotgun.

  Smoke made a quick assessment and spoke to his hands. “There’s seven of us now. Three of you take the alley. Go this way, there’s no windows along that side, and head around back. Stumpy can stay here and lay down covering fire on the front. Perk, Buford, Handy, when you’ve had time to get in place, fire a shot and we’ll charge them together.”

  “I like it, Mr. Jensen,” Handy Barker spoke up.

  Five minutes went by, during which Smoke wondered if the hands had run into a silent ambush, when he heard a muffled shot from the back of the building. Stumpy opened up with his shotgun, alternated with rounds from a six-gun, while Smoke Jensen, Jules Thibedeaux, and Mort Oliver rushed the storefront.

  It became a mad scramble for the outlaws inside. Nine hard cases tripped over one another, fired blind shots into ceiling and floor and tried to force their way out the rear. Hot lead from the Sugarloaf hands met them. They recoiled and sought the wider, sliding door entrance on the loading dock. That only served to expose them more. Then Smoke and the two men with him entered the front with six-guns blazing.

  Three of the trapped thugs tried to resist. They died before the eyes of their comrades in a swift, deadly duel. One gunhawk, smarter than most of them, laid his Colt on a counter and raised his hands. He spoke sage advice.

  “There ain’t gonna be any big pay-off for us. Me, I’m quittin’ right now. Don’t shoot, I give up.”

  In three minutes it had ended. Stumpy Granger took charge of the prisoners while Smoke had a look around the unnaturally quiet town. He soon discovered that all of the gunmen had either been killed, captured, or had fled. Except for a few, Smoke reasoned, who would hang close to Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner. That left Smoke Jensen with only one thing to do: hunt down the three responsible for all this destruction, misery, and death.

  23

  Their attention centered on the Watering Hole Saloon. While Smoke Jensen made preparations to storm the building from its blind side entrance and the rear, using his Indian allies to pour a withering fire into the front, a stout, florid-faced man with a shock of white hair and thin mustache, and a large shotgun, approached in a dignified manner.

  “Mr. Jensen. You remember me, don’t you?” At Smoke’s hesitation, he went on, “I’m Issac Spaun, the banker. I helped you the last time you had to do this.”

  “Oh, yes. You did well, as I recall. It looks like you put in a hand this time, too.”

  Beaming, Spaun nodded vigorously. “That I did. And I came to offer more help if needed. I have fifteen men from town, all well-armed, who want to be in on putting an end to this terrible affair.”

  “There’s not much to do, Mr. Spaun. We’re going after the three responsible right now. They and a handful of gunmen are in the saloon over there.”

  “Well, we came to help. I suppose we could keep an eye on the second floor windows. And there’s a door up there on the side.”

  Smoke gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, I appreciate you doing this. Pick your spots and we’ll get started.”

  Four minutes later the Arapaho and Shoshoni warriors began to whoop and caterwaul, while they sent a shower of arrows in through the shattered casements. Some of the outlaws showed themselves in the window of the upper story, only to be shot away from their vantage points by the townsmen. Smoke Jensen let the softening-up go on for a full ten minutes. Then he ordered the ranch hands forward as the outside firing dwindled to nothing. Smoke personally led the assault on the side door.

  Hank Evans used his burly shoulder to smash through the thin, poorly secured portal. Smoke rushed in at once and skidded to a halt. He found himself face-to-face with Ralph Tinsdale, who held a shot-barreled ten-gauge shotgun, pointed directly at Smoke’s chest.

  Smoke Jensen reacted automatically and instantly. He put a bullet between the eyes of Ralph Tinsdale. The shotgun in Tinsdale’s hands discharged into the pebbly, pressed tin ceiling as he went over backward. Smoke swung to his right to confront Gus Jaeger and felt a powerful blow in his lower right side. His shot went wide of the mark, only nicking the Prussian gunfighter in his left upper arm. A quick glance showed Victor Spectre on the landing, a smoking revolver in one hand.

  At the present, Smoke had no time for Spectre, who had tried to shoot him in the back. He returned his attention to Jaeger, who unlimbered two shots at Smoke, both of which missed. On the floor, Tinsdale shuddered his last and expired in a welter of blood. Smoke fired again, aiming at the center of mass on the chest of Gus Jaeger. The bullet went home and shattered the breastbone of the gang foreman.

  Gus Jaeger took two unsteady steps backward and abruptly sat in a sturdy oak captain’s chair. He looked down foolishly at his .44 Colt Frontier, as though he did not know its function. Then, remembering, he raised it to aim at Smoke Jensen. From the other parts of the saloon, Smoke heard scattered exchanges of gunfire. He had the position and time advantage over Jaeger and used it fully.

  Smoke’s bullet slammed into the face of Gus Jaeger to make an exclamation point of the gunhawk’s long, patrician nose. The chair went over backward and Gus Jaeger sprawled in the clutches of Father Death. Sudden movement drew Smoke’s attention to the stairwell. Victor Spectre had disappeared onto the second floor.

  Favoring the wound in his side, and the stinging from arm and back, Smoke limped slightly as he followed after Spectre.

  Every nerve screamed caution as Smoke Jensen climbed the stairway. Near the top, he bent as low as his injuries would allow and presented the least silhouette possible when he edged over the second floor landing. When no bellow of gunfire challenged him, Smoke came upright and stepped into the hallway. To add to his irritation, he found every door closed to him. However he chose to proceed he had the sinking sensation that he would select the wrong one. A quick glance to the rear showed him a narrow, steep stairway now covered by hands from the Sugarloaf. That decided him.

  Smoke turned to his right and went to the front of the building. There he began a game of cat-and-mouse, seeking the villainous man behind so much misery. The first door he opened yielded up only three corpses. At the second, the hinges squealed loudly when he flung back the panel. One dead man there. Smoke moved to the next.

  He felt resistance. The lock had been set against him. He stepped to the side, raised his left foot and readied himself. With all the force he could put behind it, he drove his boot into the portal beside the cast-iron lock mec
hanism. Metal shrieked, wood splintered and the door flew inward. From the bed, a thoroughly frightened soiled dove stared at him while she clutched a sheet to her bosom and made little squeaking sounds.

  Smoke tipped his hat. “Sorry, wrong room. Are there any more of you up here?”

  Mute at first, the lady of the evening eventually found her voice. “Y-yes. Two or three…I think.”

  “Thank you. I hope I don’t bother them as much.”

  Banishing the vision of rounded silken shoulders, Smoke went on with his search. He found the next two rooms empty, then got a look at a pair of scarlet sisters in bloomers and shifts, who hugged each other in the middle of the room and wailed like banshees. Once again he apologized and moved on. Room after room proved to be empty. Smoke had taken only three strides past the last one he had inspected when the door to it silently swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  His boots removed, Victor Spectre stepped out into the hallway on silent, stockinged feet. He held at the ready a Smith and Wesson .44, which he raised slightly to make a perfect back-shot on Smoke Jensen. How much he would have liked to make Jensen suffer, but everything was in a shambles and he believed it best to simply get it over and escape. Carefully he lined up the sights.

  That flicker of motion, reflected in the glass chimney of a kerosene lamp, alerted Smoke Jensen to the danger. Instantly, Smoke dropped to one knee, his Colt Peacemaker on the rise as he turned toward his would-be assassin. His .45 bullet reached Victor Spectre before the latter’s left the barrel. Slammed into the wall, Spectre’s slug went wild down the hall. He fought back pain and cocked his weapon again.

  Fortune deserted Victor Spectre entirely then. Again, Smoke Jensen’s round reached its target before his could be discharged. Shoved back through the open door, Victor went to all fours, and struggled dimly to stay alive. Smoke Jensen had to die! He told himself that in a litany of desperation. Obligingly, Smoke presented himself again. Victor was waiting for him and fired a shot that cut meat from the muscular underside of Smoke’s left armpit. Then, suddenly, the world of Victor Spectre washed a brilliant red.