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Heart of the Mountain Man

Page 19

by William W. Johnstone


  “Help you? I ain’t no doctor, Roscoe. Maybe they got one in that town up yonder that’ll fix you up.”

  Roscoe shook his head. “Uh-uh, I ain’t fixin’ to let no sawbones cut my arm off. I can’t face going the rest of my life with only one arm.” He hesitated. “You got to put one in me, Blackjack . . . put me outta my misery.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Roscoe grabbed Blackjack’s arm. “I’d do it for you, pal.”

  Blackjack gritted his teeth, then suddenly drew his pistol and shot Roscoe in the heart, knocking the big man flat on his back, ending his pain forever.

  After a moment of quiet consideration, Blackjack removed Roscoe’s boots and tooled leather gun belt, and took all the money he had in his pockets. He took off his own boots and slipped on Roscoe’s. “I always did like these handmade boots you got in Del Rio, partner,” he said to the dead man as he hurried to get back on his horse and join the others.

  Slaughter glanced back over his shoulder at the men riding behind him. “Damn, we’re down to fifteen men. We need to see if we can pick up a few here,” he said, tilting his head at the sign that read, “Pueblo, Colorado.”

  Whitey looked around at the town as they entered the city limits. “It looks pretty promising,” he said. “Most mining towns like this have their fair share of hard cases and men who fancy themselves gun hawks.”

  “Take the men to the biggest saloon in town. I’m going to have a word with the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” Swede asked, able to talk a little better now that the swelling had gone down in his face and jaw. He still couldn’t eat anything solid and was living on mashed-up beans and biscuits soaked in coffee.

  “Yeah. I’m gonna make him an offer that he’ll have a hard time turning down.”

  While the men proceeded to the nearest saloon, Slaughter reined in before a wooden building with a hand-lettered sign on it reading “JAIL.”

  He walked through the door and found a tall, heavyset man with a huge potbelly leaning back in a chair with his feet up on two planks, which were stretched across a couple of beer barrels and evidently served as his desk.

  The man spoke around a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? What can I do for you, mister?”

  “You the sheriff?” Slaughter asked.

  The man looked pointedly at a tin star on his shirt. “You think I’m wearin’ this for decoration?” he asked sarcastically.

  Slaughter grinned, then slapped the man’s feet off the desk and when he started to get to his feet, backhanded him, knocking him spinning back into his chair. As the sheriff grabbed for his gun, Slaughter drew his pistol and stuck the barrel against the sheriff’s nose.

  “I doubt if they pay you enough to try what you’re thinkin’ of tryin’,” Slaughter growled.

  “What . . . what do you want?” the sheriff said, his eyes crossed, fixed on the hole in the end of Slaughter’s gun against his face.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Will, Will Durant.”

  “Well, Will, I’m here to help you out.”

  Durant took his eyes off Slaughter’s pistol long enough to give him a disbelieving stare.

  “I’m gonna start by putting this back in my holster, but don’t even think about tryin’ to outdraw me, Will. Men a lot better an’ faster’n you have tried an’ they’re all forked end up now.”

  “Who ARE you, mister?”

  “My name is Jim Slaughter.”

  “Big Jim Slaughter?” the sheriff asked, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  “There’s some that calls me that,” Slaughter answered.

  “What can I do for ya, Mr. Slaughter?” Durant asked, his face regaining some of its color as Slaughter holstered his Colt.

  “It’s what we can do for each other, Will. I’m going to give you a hundred dollars, an’ you’re gonna point out the baddest men in town to me. The ones who give you bad dreams at night. The kind you don’t want to run into on a dark night.”

  “Why would you want . . .”

  Slaughter held up his hand. “Will, don’t ask foolish questions. All you have to know is you’re gonna be a hundred dollars richer, an’ you’re gonna have a lot less men you have to worry about in a couple of days.”

  Durant grinned weakly. “All right, Mr. Slaughter. Let’s take a walk around town an’ I’ll show you the badasses, an’ this stinkin’ town’s got plenty of ’em.”

  * * *

  By just after dusk, Slaughter and Sheriff Durant had picked out twenty men who were known to make their living using their guns instead of their wits. As the men were pointed out to him on his rounds with Durant, Slaughter approached each of them and told them to meet him after dark at the Lucky Lady Saloon on the edge of town.

  As he walked through the batwings, followed by Whitey and Swede, Slaughter looked around at the saloon, which was little more than a large tent with planks for a bar and whiskey bottles with no labels on them lining the shelves. He shook his head. “What a name for this place.” He laughed. “There isn’t a lady in sight, and if there was, no one in their right mind would call her lucky.”

  “You got that right, Boss,” Swede said, looking around at the motley crew of men assembled. “I’ve seen better places than this in ghost towns.”

  Slaughter walked to the bar and motioned for the barman to give him a bottle. He took it and banged it on the wood to get the attention of the men sitting around the room so they’d quiet down enough for him to be heard.

  “My name’s Jim Slaughter,” he said, smiling at the murmur of voices as the men recognized the name. “I’ve got a little job planned a few miles from here, an’ I need to hire some men who know their way around a six-gun, and ain’t afraid of usin’ it.”

  “What kind’a job?” asked a portly man with a full beard.

  “The kind where you do what you’re told an’ you make a lot of money,” Slaughter replied.

  “That ain’t good enough for me,” the man said belligerently.

  Slaughter shook his head, an almost sad look in his eyes. “What’s your name, mister?” he asked in a pleasant tone of voice.

  “Augustus Skinner. Why do you want to know?”

  “So they’ll know what to put on the cross over your grave on boot hill,” Slaughter replied, drawing his pistol and pulling the trigger.

  The gun exploded, sending an ounce of molten lead hurtling into Augustus Skinner’s chest, knocking him backward off his chair to land in the lap of a man sitting behind him.

  The men in the room all jumped at the sound of the gunshot, some reaching for pistols, until they saw Whitey ear back the hammers on his ten-gauge Greener and grin at them over the sights.

  “Somebody drag that carcass out of here so we can get down to business without it stinkin’ up the place,” Slaughter said, holstering his pistol and pulling the cork from his whiskey bottle.

  As he took a deep drink, two men grabbed what was left of Augustus Skinner by the heels of his boots and dragged him through the batwings, leaving a trail of blood on the floor. The barman scurried from behind the bar and quickly covered the mess with sawdust.

  “Now, are there any other questions?” Slaughter asked.

  A man in the back of the room stood up, holding his hands out from his sides so Whitey wouldn’t mistake his intentions. “If it wouldn’t piss you off too bad, I’d kind’a like to know what the job pays ’fore I sign on,” he said.

  Slaughter laughed, as did most of the men in the room. “No, that’s perfectly all right. I’m payin’ a hundred a month or any part thereof, and there’s a bonus of a thousand dollars a man when the job’s over.”

  “I got one more question,” the man added.

  Slaughter frowned impatiently. “Yeah?”

  The man grinned. “Where do I sign up?”

  As the others in the room laughed, Slaughter held up his hands. “Let me warn you before you all rush up here to join our little group. This is no cakewalk. The men we’r
e goin’ up against are tough and are also good with their guns. A lot of you won’t be coming back OR collecting the money. It’s a dangerous job and that’s why the pay is so high.”

  “Mr. Slaughter,” another man across the room said, “livin’ in this town is dangerous, an’ we ain’t exactly gettin’ paid for it. I’m ready for damn near anything that’ll get me a stake so I can get outta here ’fore winter sets in.”

  “All right, those of you who are interested, the drinks are on me. The rest of you can leave with no hard feelings.”

  Not one of the men left the room. The pay Slaughter was offering was three times what they could earn doing anything else other than mining, and these were not the sort of men to break their backs digging in the mountains around Pueblo hoping to find enough gold or silver for beans and bacon.

  Slaughter turned to the bartender. “Set ’em up an’ keep ’em comin’ till I say enough.”

  “Yes, sir!” the barman answered, taking several bottles of amber-colored liquid off the shelves behind him.

  None of the men noticed the rather seedy-looking man dressed in buckskins standing outside the batwings, leaning back against the wall and whittling on a stick as if he had nothing better to do with his time.

  * * *

  As Smoke led his friends toward Big Rock, Louis twisted in his saddle and spoke to Pearlie, riding behind him. “How are you doing with that wound? Is it showing any signs or symptoms of suppuration?”

  Pearlie stretched his neck and moved his left arm around in a circle to see if there was any pain or soreness. He’d taken a bullet that skimmed along the skin over his left shoulder blade, burning a furrow half an inch deep but not penetrating any deeper. Though the wound wasn’t serious, Smoke and the others were worried about infection.

  “No, Louis, it seems to be healin’ up right nice. A tad stiff, but no more’n you’d expect.”

  As he spoke, Pearlie noticed Cal had a wide grin on his face.

  “What’a you find so funny, Cal?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, a thought just sort’a occurred to me,” the boy answered.

  “Since when did you start thinkin’, Cal?” Pearlie asked. “You ain’t got a brain in that empty head of your’n.”

  “Well, it just seemed kind’a funny to me,” he answered. “The four of us rode through them outlaws, guns blazin’ and goin’ off all around us, an’ you the onliest one got shot.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . maybe I ain’t the only lead magnet around now. It might just be that you’re gonna take my place as the one always seems to take a bullet ever’ time we git in a fight.”

  Smoke and Louis looked at each other, smiling. It was good to see the boys back to normal, bitching and arguing with each other as only the best of friends could.

  “I don’t see it that way, Cal,” Pearlie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Way I see it, this here bullet I took was probably headed for you, sure as hell, an’ I just sort’a got in the way.”

  “You sayin’ you took lead that was meant for me?”

  Pearlie nodded. “Yeah, so that means you owe me for savin’ you the misery of gittin’ shot again.”

  Cal stared at Pearlie through narrowed eyes. “If’n that’s so, an’ I ain’t sayin’ it is, mind you, I bet I know what you think I ought’a give you for savin’ me.”

  “What’s that, Cal?”

  “I bet lettin’ you have my share of the first batch of bear sign Miss Sally makes when we git home would square things.”

  Pearlie pursed his lips as he considered this. “Well, now, that just might make things right between us.”

  Cal shook his head, grinning. “Forgit it, Pearlie. I been thinkin’ on those bear sign for the past hundred miles. The worst thing ’bout bein’ away from home all these weeks has been missin’ Miss Sally’s cookin’, so you ain’t gittin’ none of MY bear sign, no, sirree!”

  As he listened to the boys banter back and forth, Smoke thought, I miss you too, Sally, but it’s not your cooking I miss the most!

  28

  Jim Slaughter lay in bed next to the whore he’d bought for the night and listened to her snore softly. Finally, unable to sleep, he sat up in bed, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and lit a cigarette.

  He leaned back against the headboard, smoking and drinking and thinking about Monte Carson. He realized he should have known there was something not quite right about the man the day they’d robbed the Army payroll, years ago . . .

  * * *

  Jim Slaughter sat on his dun stud in the early morning hour, hoping the fog that was just lessening with the coming of dawn wouldn’t mess up his plans.

  He had ten men with him, some still wearing remnants of the gray uniforms of the Confederacy and some wearing the blue of the Union. His gang wasn’t made up of men who had any political ideals. Most were men who had been on the owl-hoot trail long before the North and South decided to settle their differences on the battlefield.

  He pulled out a battered gold pocket watch and checked the time. The special train carrying the Army payroll was scheduled to be in Fort Smith, Arkansas, at ten in the morning. It was now half past eight, so it should be along any minute now. He didn’t like planning the robbery so close to the fort, but it was the only suitable location for miles, so he’d have to chance having the fort send out a posse after them. Of course, if there were no guards from the train left to spread an alarm, he didn’t have much to fear from any pursuit.

  He grabbed his binoculars and looked down the sloping hillside at the twisted, blackened metal of the tracks where they’d dynamited them just before dawn. The section was at the end of a sharp curve in the tracks, and should be invisible to the engineer of the train until it was too late to stop the speeding locomotive.

  His informant at Fort Smith had said this payroll, meant for the troops stationed at nearby forts guarding the Indian Nations, should total forty or fifty thousand dollars. The information had cost Slaughter fifty dollars, but was well worth it if true. The informant, a sergeant in the supply division, had also said there would be no more than eight guards on the train.

  Slaughter glanced over his shoulder at the men sitting in their saddles, waiting his command. They were all experienced gunmen, some who hired out to various ranches involved in range wars, some stagecoach robbers, and a couple who’d had experience robbing trains in the past. It was a mixed bunch, men he’d hired with the promise of a big score and lots of money to split up afterward.

  He looked to the east and could just make out through the morning mist what looked like smoke from an engine over the horizon.

  “Get ready, men,” he called. “Load ’em up six and six an’ don’t worry none if some blue-belly gets in front of one of your bullets. We’re gonna get that payroll no matter how many guards they have guarding it. In fact, I wouldn’t be too concerned if none of the guards live through the robbery.”

  One of his men eased a flea-bitten gray horse up next to Slaughter. “You didn’t say nothin’ about killing a bunch of guards when you talked about this,” the man said.

  “What’s your name again?” Slaughter asked.

  “Monte. Monte Carson,” the man replied, his eyes meeting Slaughter’s directly. The outlaw sensed there was no backing down in this man.

  “What did you expect, Carson? You think we were gonna ride down there to that train and hold out our hands and them guards were gonna just hand over the Army’s money without a fight?”

  Carson hesitated. “No, but I figured if we got the drop on ’em there wouldn’t be no need of killin’ ’em.”

  Slaughter turned back to his binoculars. “You let me worry about leadin’ this here gang, Carson. You just fill your hands with iron and follow me, all right?”

  Carson nodded and reined his horse back to the rear of the group of men, a worried look on his face.

  Minutes later, a steam locomotive pulling a passenger car, boxcar, and caboose pulled into view. Sla
ughter pulled his bandanna up over his nose and motioned for his men to get ready. The dance was about to begin.

  The train raced around the curve in the tracks, steam and smoke pouring from its smokestack as if the engineer was intent on making up lost time. Hell, Slaughter thought, he must be doing twenty-five miles an hour!

  Suddenly the engineer must have seen the ruptured tracks, for the screech of metal on metal as he applied full brakes could be heard even from where Slaughter and his men sat.

  “Shag your mounts, boys,” Slaughter cried, holding his reins in his left hand and a Colt Army .44 in his right as he put the spurs to his horse and galloped toward the slowing train.

  The engine was still speeding when it hit the torn tracks, veered sharply to the left, and tipped over. It plowed up thirty feet of Arkansas soil before it finally stopped with the engineer’s and fireman’s bodies hanging unconscious in the broken and twisted engine compartment.

  The passenger car just behind the engine was also on its side with several bodies strewn along the furrow in the dirt where it’d been dragged. Four or five men dressed in Army blue were staggering from the wreckage, wobbly on their legs as they tried to figure out what had happened.

  Slaughter’s men rode down on them, guns blazing. The soldiers quickly scattered and took cover behind the wrecked car. A man in the boxcar eased open the door, poked the barrel of a rifle out, and began to return the outlaws’ fire.

  One of Slaughter’s men went down hard, a bullet having torn his throat out. His name was Johnny Rodriguez and he was from somewhere in Mexico. He’d been real proud of the long handlebar mustache that was now soaked in blood.

  As bullets from Slaughter’s men peppered the wall of the boxcar, the man inside pulled the door shut with a clang. Two of the soldiers behind the passenger car fell backward, wounded by gunfire, while another of Slaughter’s men tumbled from his horse to be trampled by the men racing behind him. His broken, twisted body was thrown around like a child’s rag doll before it came to rest in the dirt.

 

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