“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Mary replied. “Actually, Mr. Slaughter treated me quite well and made sure the other men did the same.”
Sally, while listening to Mary tell the men and Bountiful something of her journey with Jim Slaughter, noticed Ralph was wearing a gun tied down low on his hip. While he’d never actually been a gun hawk, Ralph was a tough man who knew his way around a six-killer and wasn’t afraid to mix it up when duty or honor called for action.
“Ralph, I notice you’re wearing a pistol,” Sally said.
“Yes, I am. And Bountiful and I have set up the church at the end of the street with cots and bedding and huge pots of soup and other food we’re going to keep ready in case of a long siege. We intend to do our part to help protect Monte and Big Rock from the depredations of men like Big Jim Slaughter and his henchmen.”
Over Ralph’s shoulder, Sally saw Johnny North and his wife, Belle, riding into town, a packhorse behind them with a suitcase strapped on it. North, an ex–gun slick, had married the Widow Colby after the Tilden Franklin affair, and lived about twenty miles outside of Big Rock on a ranch next to the Sugarloaf. Evidently a lot of people who liked and admired Monte Carson were coming into town to stay until the fight was over.
“Hello, Johnny, Belle,” Sally called, waving to the Norths as they rode by.
“Mornin’, Sally,” Johnny replied, a grin on his face. “Good day for a gunfight, ain’t it?”
Sally nodded, her right hand unconsciously falling to check the short-barreled .32-caliber pistol she was wearing in a holster on her right hip. The people of Big Rock were used to seeing Mrs. Jensen wearing men’s trousers and a tucked-in shirt with a pistol on a belt around her waist. Sally was very practical in her dress and didn’t give a hang what the conventions said about what young ladies of refinement should wear. If she was going to ride a horse or engage in gunplay, she believed in dressing accordingly, and to hell with what anyone thought about it.
Sally and Mary said good-bye to the judge and the Morrows and continued their walk. When they came to the general store they had to step out into the street to avoid the crowd of men and women going in and out.
Peg Jackson, the owner’s wife, was behind the counter, a curl of hair down over her forehead as she worked to get people’s orders ready. Ed, her husband, was busy nailing boards across the big front window of his store. He stopped to tip his hat to Sally and Mary.
“Hello, Ed,” Sally said.
“Howdy, Sally, Mary,” he replied, sleeving sweat off his face.
“Business looks like it’s booming,” Sally said.
He smiled. “Yes, it is. However, in view of the nature of this . . . emergency, I’m selling ammunition and building supplies at my cost.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to profit off the Carsons’ troubles.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Ed,” Mary said.
“Heck,” he answered, blushing, “it ain’t nothin’. Everybody’s pitchin’ in. That’s what friends are for.”
They were interrupted by the approach of Haywood Arden, the editor of the Big Rock Guardian, the town newspaper. He was gray-haired with ink stains on both hands, and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a plaid vest.
“Mary, do you have time for a quick interview?” he asked.
“Why, what do you need to know, Haywood?” she asked.
He pulled out a pad and pencil. “I know the leader of the gang is Jim Slaughter, but I don’t know the names of any of his cohorts.”
Sally put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “I can see you’re going to be busy for a while, so I’ll just go on up to Monte’s office and see how the preparations for the attack are going.”
Mary nodded as she turned back to Haywood. “There was this albino named Whitey Jones, and this very tall man called Swede Johanson . . .”
Sally walked to the sheriff’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Monte called.
She entered to find him leaning over his desk, staring at a sketch of the town.
“Oh, hello, Sally.”
“Hello, Monte. I just came by to see how you’re doing with the fortification of the town.”
“Here,” he said, “let me show you.”
She stepped to the desk and watched as he pointed out where the citizens of the town were building blockades and fortifications in preparation for Slaughter’s attack.
When he finished, he stood back. “So you can see, Sally, once the outlaws come into town, the blockades will funnel them down to the center of Main Street.”
She glanced again at the drawing. “Where you have both sides of the street covered by men on rooftops and in buildings along the way.”
He nodded. “That’s right. We’ll have maximum firepower and minimum chance of any citizens getting shot.”
Suddenly, his face fell and he leaned forward, both hands on his desk.
“What is it, Monte?” Sally asked, sensing his discomfort.
He shook his head. “I just don’t feel right, letting the town get in the middle of my problems,” he said. “There’s bound to be someone that takes lead ’cause of me and what I did years ago. It just isn’t right.”
Sally smiled. “This is our town, Monte, and you are our sheriff and our friend. There is not one person in Big Rock who, even if they know they are going to be shot, will not stand next to you in your time of need. Like Ed Jackson said to Mary a while ago, that’s what friends are for.”
Monte looked up at her. “I know, I just don’t want anyone hurt on account of me.”
She nodded. “Then work as hard as you can to make our defenses as good as you can. That’s all anyone here expects.”
26
Jim Slaughter was in the process of folding up his ground blanket and sleeping bag when he heard what sounded like hoofbeats coming from the mountain slope on the east side of the camp.
He straightened up, his hand going to the butt of his pistol, and looked toward the sound. He could see nothing through the heavy morning mist, which hung close to the ground like dense fog. Though the sun was peeking over the horizon, it shed little warmth and even less light through the haze.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the campfire and saw that most of his men were still milling around, grabbing biscuits and beans and coffee, most of them still half asleep at this early hour.
Damn, he thought, we’re all targets out here with no sentries left to stand guard. “Whitey,” he called, pulling his pistol and grabbing his rifle from his saddle boot on the ground.
“Yeah, Boss?” Whitey answered from over near the fire.
Before he could reply, four shapes materialized out of the fog like crazed ghosts on a fierce rampage, orange blossoms of flame exploding from the guns they held in their hands.
Their faces were covered with bandannas and their hats were pulled low over their faces as they rode straight into the knot of men around the campfire, shooting as fast as they could pull the triggers.
David Payne, a gunny from Missouri who’d ridden with Quantrill’s Raiders, drew his pistol and got off one shot before a bullet took him in the throat and flung him backward into the fire, scattering embers and ashes into the air.
Jim Harris, a tough from Texas who’d fought in the Lincoln County War, had his gun half out of his holster when two slugs tore through his chest, blowing blood and pieces of lung on the men next to him. He only had time for a surprised grunt before he hit the ground, dead.
Slaughter’s men scattered as fast as their legs could carry them, some diving to the ground, others trying to hide behind trees or saddles on the ground as the marauders galloped through camp.
An ex-Indian scout called Joe Scarface managed to get his rifle cocked, and was aiming it at one of the riders, when an explosion from the direction of the mountainside was followed by a large-caliber bullet plowing into his back between his shoulder blades, which lifted him off the ground like a giant hand and threw him facedown in the dirt, a hole
you could put your fist through in his chest.
“Goddamn!” Slaughter yelled, glancing over his shoulder. They were under attack from all sides, it seemed. He dove to the ground behind his saddle as one of the riders, a big man with broad shoulders on a big, roan-colored horse with snow-white hips, rode right at him.
He buried his face in the soft loam of the ground, and felt rather than saw the bullets from the big man’s pistols tear into his saddle and the ground around him as the giant Palouse jumped over him. Miraculously, he was unhit.
“Shit!” he said, spitting dirt and leaves out of his mouth. He recognized that horse. It was the one Johnny West had been riding in Jackson Hole. So he was one of the bastards who’d been killing his men all along. The son of a bitch had played him for a fool.
Whitey Jones ran for his saddle, hunched over, expecting a bullet in his back the whole way. As he bent to grab his Greener shotgun, one of the raiders rode by, his pistol pointing at the albino.
Whitey whirled, pointing his express gun just as the rider fired. The bullet grazed Whitey’s cheek and tore a chunk out of his left ear, spinning him around and snapping his head back, blood spurting into his eyes and blinding him momentarily.
Ike Mayhew, one of the men who’d joined Slaughter’s gang in Jackson Hole, snapped off two quick shots and saw one of the riders flinch as one of his slugs hit home. He grinned, and had eared back the hammer for another shot when the man he’d hit leaned to the side and fired point-blank into his face. Mayhew’s head exploded in a fine, red mist as the .44-caliber bullet blew his brains into his hat.
Two more explosions from the distant mountainside sent two more men to the ground, one dead and one with his left arm dangling from a shattered bone. Milt Burnett screamed in pain as he grabbed his flopping arm and went to his knees, just as a gray-and-white Palouse rode directly over him, its hooves pounding his chest to pulp. He died choking on bloody froth from a ruptured lung.
Whitey sleeved blood out of his eyes and rolled onto his stomach, pointing his ten-gauge at the back of a raider and letting go with both barrels. Just as he fired, Ben Brown, one of the men who’d been with Slaughter for several years, stepped between them, his arm outstretched as he aimed his pistol.
Whitey’s double load of buckshot hit Brown square in the back, blowing him almost in half as he spun around, dead before he hit the ground.
Swede, too far from his saddle to get his gun, pulled his long knife out and stood there, waiting as a rider rode down on him. He bared his teeth and screamed a defiant yell, holding the knife out in front of him.
The rider’s eyes grew wide as he saw the man had no gun and he held his fire, lashing out with his leg and catching Swede in the mouth with a pointed boot as he raced by, knocking out several of his teeth and putting out Swede’s lights as his head snapped back and he somersaulted backward, unconscious.
Jimmy Silber, thoughts of his thousand-dollar bonus still in his mind, fired pistols with both hands, crouched near the fire. When his guns were empty, he bent over to punch out his empties. Then a sound made him turn his head.
He looked up just as a young man on a gray horse rode toward him. The last thing Jimmy saw was a tongue of orange from the man’s pistol as the slug tore the left side of his face off and left him standing there, dead on his feet.
* * *
The entire firefight lasted only four or five minutes, but to the men of Slaughter’s command it seemed like hours before the four riders rode off into the mist, disappearing as quickly and as silently as they’d arrived, leaving bodies lying all over the Wyoming countryside.
Slaughter got to his feet, brushing dirt and leaves and sweat off his face. Whitey was twenty feet away, squatting over the prone body of Swede, shaking his shoulder to see if he was alive.
Slaughter looked around him as he walked toward his two lieutenants. He counted five or six dead and several more so severely wounded he knew they’d either be dead soon or of no use to him in his quest for the fifty thousand dollars.
“Whitey, how’s Swede?” he asked, standing over the two.
Whitey turned his head, and Slaughter saw a bleeding furrow along his left cheek and most of his ear missing. Blood was streaming down Whitey’s face, but it wasn’t spurting, so Slaughter figured he’d be all right, though quite a bit uglier than he was before.
“Looks like he’s lost most of his front teeth and he may have a broken jaw,” Whitey said, shaking Swede’s shoulder.
The big man finally opened his eyes, wincing at the pain the movement caused him. He rolled to the side and spat out pieces of teeth along with blood and mucus. “Goddamn,” he mumbled, barely understandable, “what the hell hit me?”
“One of those bastards kicked you in the face,” Whitey said. “I saw the whole thing. He had you dead in his sights and instead of blowing your head off, he tried to kick it off when he seen you didn’t have no gun.”
Swede mumbled something else, but Slaughter couldn’t quite get it. “What’d he say?” he asked.
Whitey grinned. “He said the son of a bitch is gonna wish he’d shot him if he ever sees him again.”
Slaughter walked to the campfire and poured himself a cup of coffee, looking around him at the mess the attackers had made of his command. “Well, from the looks of things, we’ll probably be seein’ more of’em than we want to. It don’t look like they have any intention of leaving us alone on our way to Colorado.”
Whitey helped Swede to his feet and poured him some water from a canteen. As the big man washed blood and more bits of teeth from his mouth, groaning in pain as he did so, Whitey glanced at Slaughter.
“So, you haven’t had enough yet, huh?”
Slaughter pulled his makin’s out and began to build himself a cigarette. “Hell, no! This has gone too far for me to quit now. I’m gonna get that money, kill Carson and everybody helping him, and then I’m gonna kill his wife an’ his friends an’ his dog if he has one. I’m gonna make the sumbitch wish he’d never laid eyes on me.”
Swede looked up, blood dripping from his ruined mouth. “You can count me in on that, Boss. Nobody gets away with doin’ this to me, nobody!”
“How about you, Whitey? You in or out?” Slaughter asked.
Whitey shrugged. “Hell, Boss, you know I’m in. I been with you through good times and bad, an’ damned if this ain’t one of the worst so far . . . but I’m in.”
“Good. Then let’s check the men out and see how many we’ve got left who are able to go on.”
“What are we gonna do about the wounded?” Whitey asked.
“Those that can ride we’ll take with us to the next town. Those that can’t . . .” He shrugged, as if their fate held little interest for him.
“The other boys may not like that much,” Swede mumbled through swollen lips.
Slaughter whirled on him. “I don’t give a good goddamn what the boys like or don’t like,” he growled. “They’d better learn to like what I tell them to like or they’ll end up just like those other suckers out there, facedown in the dirt as dinner for the worms.”
Swede glanced at Whitey, as if wondering whether Slaughter would show as little concern for him if he were seriously wounded.
Whitey gave his head a little shake, letting him know not to pursue the matter any further, and began to wander among the men lying on the ground, looking to see if any were capable of riding.
He rolled Jimmy Silber over, wincing when he saw what was left of his face and head. “Jesus, I guess he won’t be seein’ any of that thousand-dollar bonus,” Whitey murmured to himself, letting the body fall back to the ground.
After he’d made the rounds and salvaged what wounded men he thought might be able to make the trip, Whitey approached Slaughter, who was still standing by the campfire, drinking coffee, lost in his own thoughts.
“You want me to have the men make up a burial party?” he asked.
Slaughter looked at him like he thought he was crazy. “Hell, no. We’re gonna mount
up and head on down the trail. Stayin’ here is just inviting another attack by West and his cohorts.”
Swede looked up, his eyebrows raised. “West? You mean that big fellow was Johnny West?”
Slaughter nodded. “Yeah. I recognized that big roan Palouse he was ridin’. It was the same one he had in Jackson Hole.”
“I never trusted that son of a bitch,” Whitey said. “I knew he was a ringer from the get-go.”
“Well, he fooled me,” Slaughter said, a wry expression on his face. “Hell, I even tried to hire him.”
“You were right as rain about one thing,” Swede said.
“What’s that?”
“He was damn sure a killer. He went through us like grain through a goose an’ never got a scratch on him.”
Whitey slapped his pistol in its holster. “He won’t be that lucky the next time I see him.”
“If you don’t get these men mounted up, we might not live long enough to see that,” Slaughter said, throwing the remainder of his coffee on the fire and turning to saddle up his horse.
27
Two days later, Slaughter and his men rode toward the outskirts of Pueblo, Colorado. They’d lost two of the wounded on the trail already when Roscoe Archer, known throughout Arkansas as “The Butcher,” fell sideways off his horse. He’d taken a bullet in the left arm, which Whitey had bandaged with the outlaw’s own bandanna. The arm had since swollen to three times its normal size and was almost black.
Archer screamed when he hit the ground and sat hunched over, holding his injured arm tight against his body. Tears streamed down his face.
Blackjack Tony McCurdy, his partner for the past three years, jumped off his horse and squatted next to his friend.
“Hey, Roscoe,” he said, watching as the other men continued to ride on by. “You got to git up, or they’re gonna leave your sorry butt here for sure.”
Roscoe shook his head, rocking back and forth, cradling his arm as if it were a newborn baby he had to protect. “I don’t care,” he said, looking at his riding partner through eyes reddened and bloodshot from fever. “I can’t stand this pain no longer, Blackjack. You got to help me.”
Heart of the Mountain Man Page 18