Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Cal snorted, coming awake and raising his head. “You folks gonna jaw all night?” he asked, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

  “Cal’s right, men,” Smoke said. “We need to make an early start and it figures to be a long day tomorrow. Let’s call it a night.”

  18

  The next day, Smoke’s band had their breakfast eaten and the horses fed and were on their way by dawn. The air was bitterly cold and snow was still falling, though lightly. The new snow that fell during the night was making rough going for their mounts, and it took them almost two hours to find where the railroad tracks crossed their path.

  As they approached the tracks, Guthrie rode ahead and got down off his horse to look at the rails.

  “Which way should we go?” Cal asked. “What if they stopped the train ’fore it got this far?”

  Guthrie straightened up from where he was squatted next to the rails. “Looky here, men,” he said. “The snow on the tracks is only half as deep as on the bank next to ’em. The train must’ve come through here late yesterday or early last night. That means we ought’a head south, toward Pueblo.”

  Smoke stood up in his stirrups and looked to the south. “Your reasoning is impeccable, Sergeant,” he said. “And from the looks of that smoke on the horizon, someone’s got a large fire going down that way.”

  The group followed his gaze, and could see distant plumes of smoke rising in the air.

  “You think it’s the outlaws?” Jed asked, unconsciously fingering the butt of his pistol.

  Guthrie shook his head. “I doubt they’d be that stupid, but if they was smart, they’d wouldn’t’ve been in prison.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Smoke said. “Let’s ride.”

  * * *

  Their going was faster since they were keeping their mounts on the railroad tracks, so it only took them three hours to come within sight of the fire they’d seen.

  Smoke held up his hand when they crested a ridge overlooking the scene below. They could see the train engine and its cars sitting still, covered with a layer of snow. Off to one side was a large fire, with stacks of wood from the tender behind the engine piled high next to the flames. Figures could be seen lying on the ground close to the fire, covered with blankets, trying to keep warm.

  “That don’t look like the outlaws,” Guthrie said, peering through his Army binoculars.

  “No,” Smoke agreed, shielding his eyes from the sun overhead with his palm. “I think it’s the passengers.”

  “Let’s hope they’re still alive,” Sally said, spurring her horse into a gallop down the hill.

  The men hurriedly followed, not wanting her to get there first in case there was going to be gunplay.

  * * *

  When they arrived, they found the engineer of the train going from blanket to blanket, encouraging the women lying there to drink water he’d warmed in buckets next to the fire.

  “Oh, thank God you’ve come,” he called when he saw the riders. “I got some sick womenfolk here that need tending to.”

  Sally jumped down from her horse and ran to assist him. “Smoke, get some coffee going and see if you can make some beef soup with that steak we had left over from breakfast.”

  The engineer stood up, stretching his back. “That’d be right nice. We ain’t had no food nor coffee for mite near twenty-four hours. I been trying to keep ’em alive with hot water, but they need something more’n that in their stomachs.”

  The women looked pitiful. Most had ugly black bruises and cuts on their faces, and some were missing teeth; all of them looked as though they’d been badly mistreated.

  “Those bastards!” Sally muttered when she saw what had been done to the women.

  The engineer walked over to Smoke and said in a low voice, “There’s three of ’em that didn’t make it. I got their bodies in one of the cars, covered with blankets.”

  “Why’d they let you live?” Guthrie asked. “That ain’t like them to leave witnesses.”

  The engineer gave a lopsided grin. “They didn’t intend to, that’s for sure. One of ’em had me covered, and was just waitin’ to plug me, when I surprised him and jumped off the train whilst it was still moving.”

  Jed glanced around at the women. “I guess they figured the women wouldn’t survive the night as cold as it was, and didn’t want to waste ammunition on them.”

  “You’re probably right,” the engineer agreed. “When I saw them take off, I snuck back along the tracks until I got to the train. After I did what I could for the women, I took some wood outta the tender and made us a fire to keep us warm and to melt some snow to heat up some water to drink.”

  “Why didn’t you just start the engine and head on into Pueblo?” Guthrie asked.

  “The bastards shut down the engine and drained all the water out so’s it wouldn’t run no more. Can’t make steam for the engine without water.”

  Smoke turned to Cal and Pearlie. “Boys, get the shovels off the packhorse. If we can shovel enough snow into the boiler we should be able to get the engine running again.”

  “That’s gonna take a heap of snow,” the engineer said, scratching his head.

  “Well, we can’t leave you out here in this weather,” Smoke said, “and those women look like they’re going to need medical care as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  While Sally and the engineer spooned beef soup and coffee into the women, Smoke and the rest of the men took turns shoveling snow as fast as they could into the boiler of the engine. It took until almost nightfall before the engineer said they had enough to get him to Pueblo.

  While he started a fire in the engine to melt the snow and make steam, Smoke pulled Sally aside. “Sally, I want you to ride to Pueblo with the train. The doctor in town is going to need your help fixing up these poor women.”

  Sally nodded, her face grave. “Yes. Some of them are in pretty bad shape.”

  Then she turned back to Smoke, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Smoke, you ride with your guns loose and be careful.”

  He nodded, squeezing her tight. “I will.”

  She leaned back and stared into his eyes. “But whatever you do, plant the men who did this. They don’t deserve to live another day!”

  “You can bet on that,” Smoke said with feeling.

  Just before the train took off, Smoke asked the engineer if he saw which way the outlaws went when they rode off.

  He nodded. “Yep. They took off to the southwest. That’s about the only way they could go, since the passes to the north are gonna be plugged with snow until the spring melt.”

  Smoke glanced over his shoulder in the direction the men had taken. It was toward Big Rock and the Sugarloaf, and a lot of ranches owned by friends of his lay in the outlaws’ path.

  “Would you do me a favor when you get to Pueblo?” he asked.

  “Sure thing, mister. Whatever you want.”

  “Send a telegraph to the U.S. marshal’s office in Denver. Tell them to get as many men down here as fast as they can. I have a feeling there’s gonna be blood all over the mountains before we’re though with these sons of bitches.”

  The engineer nodded. “You’re right about that,” he said. “I’ve been out here a long time, and I’ve never seen men as hard as them.”

  19

  Ozark Jack Berlin and his men were tired, and becoming increasingly irritable from the constant cold they were enduring in the mountains. Most of the men were used to sleeping in hotels and eating at cafés and boardinghouses. None were accustomed to living outdoors, and certainly not under conditions such as they’d endured the last couple of weeks.

  When the horse of one of the members of Jack McGraw’s squad bumped the flank of Dan Gilbert’s mount, Gilbert drew his pistol, and was on the verge of shooting the man when Berlin drew his gun and fired in the air.

  “Goddamnit!” Berlin shouted, lowering the pistol until it pointed at Gilbert’s face. “I’m the leader of this here gan
g, an’ nobody draws a gun unless I tell ’em to!” he shouted, earing the hammer on his Colt back.

  Gilbert, his face ashen, slowly raised his hands. “I’m sorry, Boss. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Berlin shook his head. “Put that thing away ’fore I cram it up your ass, Dan,” he said, holstering his own weapon.

  After Gilbert complied, Berlin addressed his men. “I know we’re all tired an’ saddle-sore. We need fresh mounts an’ fresh grub, an’ soon as we come to a ranch, we’ll get both. But until then, keep your tempers in check or I’ll give you something to be mad about.”

  The men all nodded agreement, some pulling their coats tighter around them against the chill in the air from the north wind blowing down out of the mountains. Luckily, they were riding southward, so the wind was against their backs and not in their faces, which made it only marginally more bearable.

  Berlin jerked his horse’s head around and rode on down the trail, satisfied he’d kept his men in line for the present. But he knew he’d better find them fresh horses and a place to get out of the weather soon, or he was going to have a revolt on his hands, one a few harsh words and the threat of his pistol wouldn’t keep quiet.

  * * *

  Just before noon, when Berlin was thinking about stopping for a fire and some lunch, he noticed a trail of smoke rising over the next hill.

  He signaled his men to keep the noise down, and he rode ahead to scout out the situation. Just before he got to the edge of the hill, he got down off his horse and walked until he could see below.

  There was a ranch house, with smoke coming from a chimney. There were no horses visible, and the corral near the house was empty, but there was a large barn fifty yards from the house, and he figured the livestock would be in there due to the recent snow. What looked to be a bunkhouse was next to the barn, with the snow undisturbed around it.

  He got back up on his horse and rode back to his men. “We’re in luck, boys. There’s a ranch down there an’ it looks ripe for the pickin’.”

  “How many you think we’re going up against?” Blue Owl asked.

  Berlin shook his head. “I don’t know. The bunkhouse looks empty, an’ there ain’t no smoke comin’ from its chimney, so I suspect the rancher has let most of his hands go for the winter.”

  “If that’s so, shouldn’t be too many to worry about,” Jack McGraw growled, pulling his pistol from its holster and checking the loads.

  “Well, we’re gonna be careful anyway,” Berlin said. “Jack, you and Wiley take your squads around to the east an’ come at ’em from that direction. I’ll take my men an’ Blue Owl’s and Sam’s an’ head straight down the hill. Wait for my signal, then we’ll go in with guns blazin’.”

  “Yessir, Boss,” Jack McGraw said as he turned his mount to lead his men off to the left along the ridge overlooking the cabin below.

  Berlin built himself a cigarette, lit it with a lucifer he struck on his saddle horn, and settled down to wait for McGraw and Gottlieb to get their men in position.

  By the time he’d finished his smoke, he reckoned the men were ready. He drew his pistol and eared back the hammer. “Let’s go!”

  He spurred his horse into as fast a gallop as the deepening snow would allow, and led his men down the hill toward the house below.

  The people in the house must have heard or sensed something, because while Berlin and his men were still a hundred yards from the house, the door opened and a man with a rifle stepped out on the porch. When he saw the gang of men riding hard toward him with pistols and rifles drawn, he drew a bead and fired.

  George Goodwin, a heavyset man whose particular specialty was robbing stages, was hit dead center in the chest and blown backward over his horse’s rump.

  Before the man could fire again, a fusillade of bullets from the gang spun him in a circle and dropped him on the porch in front of the door to the house.

  Seconds later, a woman wearing an apron and a long dress crawled out onto the porch, took a quick look at the man, then picked up his rifle.

  She jacked a shell into the chamber and began to fire as fast as she could work the lever. Two more of Berlin’s men went down with shoulder and leg wounds before McGraw’s men came riding around the corner of the house. McGraw, who carried a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, let the woman have it with both barrels, catching her in the chest and somersaulting her backward to lie half inside the doorway, her guts spread all over the porch.

  “Check out the house,” Berlin called to McGraw, then turned to Blue Owl. “Take your men and make sure the bunkhouse is empty.”

  While they were doing that, Berlin took his men and rode over to the barn. He carefully pulled open the big double doors, and found fifteen horses in stalls in the enclosure, along with two mules.

  “All right,” he said to himself, “fresh horses.”

  * * *

  When he got to the house, he was met by McGraw. “The house is empty, ain’t nobody else around.”

  Berlin turned just as Blue Owl entered the door. “Same thing with the bunkhouse. Don’t look like it’s been used for a few weeks or more.”

  Berlin nodded. “We’re in luck. This must be a small operation an’ the rancher just hires hands for brandin’ and calvin’ when he needs ’em.”

  Blue Owl glanced at the bodies on the porch. “It’s a cinch he ain’t going to need them no more.”

  “Throw those bodies out into the snow so’s we can close that door,” Berlin said. “An’ send a couple of men out there to see if our wounded are still kickin’.”

  He went over to the fireplace and put another couple of logs on the fire. “Gottlieb, you an’ your men get in the kitchen an’ see ’bout fixin’ us up some grub while I warm this place up a little.”

  * * *

  Later, after the wounded had been taken care of and the men had all eaten, Berlin sat in front of the fireplace and stretched his legs out on an ottoman close to the fire.

  “Blue Owl, figure out a schedule an’ send some men out to keep watch. We don’t want any surprise guests while we rest up.”

  “The men ain’t going to like going back out in that cold, Boss,” Blue Owl said.

  Berlin turned hard eyes on the half-breed. “They’ll like it even less if they don’t do what I say. The people of Pueblo must know the train’s overdue by now. If they send out search parties, or somehow manage to get in touch with one of the towns we went through, they’re gonna be sending men out after us. You want’a be asleep when they come callin’?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Keep the watches short so’s they don’t get too cold. I noticed a case of whiskey in the kitchen. That ought’a keep ’em warm enough till they can get back here under cover.”

  “Jack, you really think they’re that close on our trail?” Blue Owl asked.

  Berlin shook his head. “No. I figure we got five or six days ’fore we really have to worry about anyone on our back trail. But my momma didn’t raise no fools. I don’t intend to be caught nappin’ if they’re closer than I think.”

  “You’re right. It don’t never hurt to be careful,” Blue Owl said as he turned to give the orders.

  “Especially if somebody else is freezin’ their butts off watchin’ out for me,” Berlin mumbled to himself as he took another sip of his coffee.

  20

  Sam Cook shivered and slapped his hands against his sides while standing guard over the ranch house. He took a couple of quick sips of the whiskey he’d been given, but other than burning all the way down to his stomach, it didn’t seem to help much.

  This escape ain’t exactly going the way I thought it would when we busted outta that prison, he thought to himself. He was more than a little pissed off that Ozark Jack Berlin had assumed he was the leader of the gang, without so much as a vote among the members, or even discussing it with anyone.

  What gives that son of a bitch the right to boss me around? he asked himself for the fiftieth time. Hell, I’m ju
st as tough as he is, maybe even more so, and I’m a damn sight smarter, thought the man who’d been arrested and sentenced to prison for beating a bartender almost to death for giving him watered-down whiskey.

  He was also angry because of the squad members he’d been allotted. They were a motley crew at best, and there wasn’t a one of them he’d trust to watch his back in a fight. Johnny “Four Fingers” Watson, a common footpad and burglar, had no expertise with a gun at all; Murphy Givens, in prison for shooting a man in the back, was certainly no prize when it came to courage or willingness to fight face-to-face; Josiah Breckenridge, a half-black son of a bitch, was big enough, standing over six feet tall and weighing in at over two hundred pounds, but he had the intellect of a six-year-old, hence his conviction for soliciting the services of a white woman on her way to church one Sunday morning when he was already drunker’n a skunk; Sylvester “Sly” Malone was perhaps the only man who knew which end of a gun the bullets came out of, but he had a real problem with whiskey, preferring it to water at all times, and never without one or two bottles in his saddlebags, usually more than half empty. Not exactly a man to inspire confidence in a leader, Cook thought as he tried to figure out what he should do. The other member of his squad, Phil Blackman, was laid up in the cabin with a hole in his leg from the assault on the ranch.

  That damned Berlin is bringing too much attention to us, he thought as he sipped his whiskey and walked around in circles trying to stay warm. Pretty soon, we’re gonna have half the lawmen in the territory on our trail, and it’s just a matter of time before we’re all dead or back in that rattrap of a prison, he told himself.

  Finally, he made a decision. He had to break with Berlin before the fool got them all killed. His squad had been given the watch from midnight until dawn, what he’d heard cowboys call the dog watch because you had to be dumber’n a dog to take it.

  He climbed on his horse and rode slowly over to round up the rest of his men to see what they thought of his idea.