Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Behind him and to his right he heard a curse, a shot, and a short cry of pain. He turned his head for a second, spotting Οl’ Wolf some distance behind him, both hands filled with guns.

  Smoke walked on, now slipping into the dark and narrow passageway the hired guns had sprung out of. He stopped just short of the street, listening.

  “I’ll give a sack of gold for every dead Jensen supporter!” he heard Cosgrove scream. “A sack of gold, men, do you hear me? A sack of gold.” The voice was slightly muffled, so Smoke figured Cosgrove was safely behind walls.

  Boots sounded on the boardwalk and the entrance was suddenly filled with men from the Triangle JB.

  “Is it a good day to die, boys?” Smoke threw out the question a second before he opened fire.

  Twenty-three

  The booming of the .44s was enormous in the narrow space, and the alley became thick with gunsmoke. Smoke dropped to his belly and crawled under a building, leaving the Triangle JB men moaning and groaning on the ground. He inched his way toward the street, stopping just before he reached the high boardwalk in front of a saloon that he knew belonged to Fat Fosburn. Above him, the floor was heavy with pacing boots. He rolled over on his back and listened to the muffled talk.

  “Goddamnit, there ain’t but seven or eight of them. What the hell are we waitin’ for?”

  “I just caught me a glimpse of Kit,” another said. “Damn turncoat! I can’t figure what got into him.”

  The voice came from right above Smoke. He emptied one .44 into the floor above him, then swiftly rolled to his left, screams of anguish ripping from several men inside the saloon. Smoke was to the rear of the building and running up the littered way before the men in the saloon could gather their senses and start pouring lead into the floor.

  He forced open the door to a barbershop, closing and locking it behind him, then ran to the front of the establishment. The door was bolted and the shades drawn halfway down. Kneeling down by the front and peeping out, Smoke quickly reloaded and caught his breath.

  By now, all those backing him up would be in town and ready to force the hands of the Big Three. Smoke and Van Horn had cut the odds down some, but those supporting Jenny were still badly outnumbered … by how much was something none of them with Smoke knew.

  Smoke had inflicted some damage by shooting through the floor back at the saloon. Maybe one or two men had caught lead. But so far, no class gun-hand had showed himself, and there were about a dozen or so of them still on the payroll of Fosburn, Cosgrove, and Biggers.

  Back of Wong’s Chinese Cafe, Pasco came face to face with a slick who called himself the Lordsburg Kid. He’d killed a couple of Mexican sheepherders and raped one Mexican girl. The Kid thought he was hell on wheels with a gun.

  “Damn greaser!” the Kid hissed at Pasco. “Anybody who’d work with sheep is scum.”

  “Oh?” Pasco said easily. “My cousin, Carbone, used to herd sheep as a boy. I do not think you would say that to him. If he’s still alive, that is,” he added.

  “You ain’t Carbone.”

  “This is true. I am better than my cousin, amigo. Faster, and a much more accurate shot.”

  “You’re a damn greasy liar!”

  Pasco drove the Kid’s center shirt button all the way out his backbone with one slug. The Kid never even cleared leather. Pasco stood over the body and shook his head. “You should have learned some manners from madre and padre, amigo. Now it is too late.”

  He walked on.

  “Jenkins!” Van Horn called to a particularly vicious gunhand he remembered had said some terrible things about Miss Jenny.

  Jenkins turned and grinned at Van Horn, his teeth yellow and rotted. “Why, you damned old wrinkled-up worthless coot! I doubt you even got the strength to pull them wore out old Remingtons from leather. Will them things still fire?”

  “Why don’t you try me and see, Jenkins?”

  Jenkins laughed at him and grabbed for iron. Van Horn shot him twice in the belly and left him dying in the alley. “Some folks nowadays just ain’t got no respect for their elders and betters,” Van Horn grumbled. “No tellin’ what it’ll be like a hundred years from now.”

  Wolf Parcell clamped a gnarled old hand on the neck of a Biggers’ rider and drove his head against the outside wall of a building. Several times. On the fourth try, the gunhand’s head drove clear through the wood and Wolf left him dangling there by the neck, the toes of his boots dragging the ground.

  “Either that was rotten wood or that boy’s shore got a hard head,” Wolf muttered.

  Bad Dog just couldn’t resist it. He had spotted a man on the roof of a hardware and guns store and quietly notched an arrow. The man finally presented him with the target he wanted, and Bad Dog let the arrow fly. It embedded about six inches into the left cheeks of the man’s big ass. The gunslick dropped his rifle and went to bellerin’ loud enough to wake the dead. A man ran out the back of Darlin’ Lill’s Saloon, both hands filled with guns, and Bad Dog gave him a Cheyenne present. The man dropped silently, an arrow through the heart.

  The gunhand on the roof was trying to climb down, hollering and squalling each time he moved his left leg. Bad Dog put an arrow into his right leg and the man fell off the ladder to land hard in the alley. He did not move.

  Slim Waters stepped into the rear of the Cards and Wheels Club, both hands filled with guns. He toed open the door leading from the main room to the storage area and stepped inside.

  “This here’s for Miss Jenny, boys,” he announced, and started shooting.

  Kit Silver stood facing five men, the class gun-slick Val Davis among them.

  “You’re a fool, Kit,” Val told him.

  “Maybe,” Kit replied. “But you’re dead.” Kit smiled and grabbed iron.

  Shady Bryant faced three top guns, his hands by his side. “Well, boys,” he told them, “I reckon this is my last hurrah. Let’s make it a good one.” Then he laughed, jerked his guns, and went to work, this time, on the right side.

  Smoke heard the roaring reports of guns and knew it was root hog or die time. He smashed out the window of the barbershop — remembering that he must be sure to use some Big Three money to replace it — and yelled, “Here I am, boys. You want that sack full of gold, come get me!”

  Smoke ran out the back of the shop and around the corner just as men ran out of buildings and sought cover where they could find it and started pumping lead into the barbershop.

  Standing by the comer of a building, Smoke dropped two before the men realized he wasn’t in the barbershop and started throwing lead at him.

  By that time, Smoke had crawled under a building and was working his way toward daylight on the other side of the establishment.

  He paused to reload, shoved the Colts behind his belt, and pulled the sawed-off revolving shotgun from his shoulder. He checked the barrel for blockage. At short range, the ten-gauge was an awesome weapon. Smoke crawled out from under the building and looked at the backs of three men, Ned Harden and Haywood among the group — two of the more odious gunhandlers Smoke had ever had the misfortune to encounter. They would do anything, to anybody, at anytime. All that was about to stop — abruptly.

  “You boys looking for me?” Smoke called, getting a good grip on the sawed-off, for its recoil could rip it from the grasp if a man wasn’t ready for it.

  The trio spun around, eyes wide and mouths open. “Jesus God!” Harden yelled, spotting the cut-down revolving shotgun.

  There was about fifteen feet between them. Smoke started pulling and cocking and blasting. It was a good ten feet from the corner of the alleyway to the mud and dirt of the street, and that’s where all three landed. Or what was left of them.

  Smoke reloaded the hand cannon and listened for a few seconds. The shooting had stopped from inside the Cards and Wheels Club and from behind the apothecary shop. He had no way of knowing the outcome.

  Kit Silver had taken five out with him. The gun-fighter sat with his back to a building, four s
lugs in him; but he was not dead yet. He smiled at Val Davis, who lay mortally wounded, looking at him. The others with him were dead.

  “Why’d … you do it, Kit?” Val asked.

  “Felt like it. Felt good, too. Sorry you’ll never get to know what it’s like to do something right for a change.”

  “You’ve killed me!”

  “Sure looks like it, don’t it?”

  Val put his head on the ground and died.

  Kit shook his head. “I hope I live long enough to die among better company than this,” he said.

  The interior of the Cards and Wheels Club looked like a slaughterhouse when Pasco backtracked and entered the place. Slim was still alive, but just barely.

  “I won’t lie to you, Slim,” Pasco said. “It’s bad.”

  “Yeah, I know. In the side pocket of my jacket. A napkin. Get it for me, will you?”

  “A napkin?”

  “Got … something wrapped up in it.”

  Pasco opened the napkin. One of Jenny’s doughnuts. Slim held out his hand and grinned, the blood leaking from one corner of his mouth. He took a bite and chewed contentedly. “Mighty good, Pasco. Mighty good.” He swallowed, closed his eyes, and his head lolled to one side.

  “Damn!” Pasco said.

  Shady Bryant lay with his hands still gripping the butts of his guns. Three dead gunhands lay in front of him. A young man who called himself the Red River Kid and fancied himself a fast gun stood looking at the scene. He shook his head and took off his gunbelt, slinging it over one shoulder. He started walking toward where their horses were picketed. The farm back in East Texas looked real good to him right now.

  “Is that you, Red River?” a man called, sitting on the ground, his back to the outside wall of a privy. Bullets had broken both his legs.

  “Never heard of him,” the kid called over his shoulder, and kept right on walking. “My name’s Frank Sparks.”

  “I’d a shot him yesterday,” the wounded gunfighter spoke to the slight breeze that wound around the buildings of Red Light. “But if I’d a done what he’s doin’ twenty years ago, I damn sure wouldn’t be in this fix now.” The wounded gunslick watched the young man walk across the meadow. “Good luck, kid,” he called weakly. “And to hell with this,” he muttered. He pulled his guns from leather and tossed them into the tall grass.

  Smoke walked into the Golden Plum, through the back door, and said, “Give me a beer, Jeff. I do believe I’ve worked up something of a thirst.”

  Jeff looked at him. “You’re hit, Mister Jensen.”

  “Bullets burned my arm and scratched my side. Nothing serious.”

  Wolf and Bad Dog stomped in from the back, followed by Van Horn, who was supporting the badly wounded Kit Silver.

  “Slim and Shady’s dead,” the old gunfighter announced. “It’s down to us, now.”

  “No, it isn’t,” the voice came from the rear of the saloon, which was getting quite a bit of traffic. Moses stood there holding a rifle, a pistol belted around his waist. Clemmie and her girls stood behind him, all of them armed with various types of weapons.

  “You put that ornery Silver on a pallet over here, Van Horn,” Clemmie said, looking at Kit. “Me and that rounder go ‘way back together. He’s too damn mean to die.”

  Kit grinned at the madam as he was placed on a hurriedly made pallet of blankets.

  Chung and Wong were next, both of them armed with long-barreled, ten-gauge goose guns. Wong said, “So sorry I could not bring some good Chinese food.” He held up the shotgun. “Could not carry this and food at the same time.”

  Chung said, “Battle lines have been drawn, Mister Smoke Jensen. We are now all on this side of street, enemies on other side.”

  “Have drink of rye, Mister Jeff,” Wong said. “Like cowboys do.”

  “You ain’t never had a drink of rye in all the time I’ve known you. And you sure ain’t gonna like it,” Jeff warned.

  Wong broke over the goose gun and loaded it up. “Warm belly, though. Might not get another chance for some time.”

  “He certainly has a point there,” Smoke agreed.

  Jeff smiled and set out shot glasses and bottles. “Serve yourselves, boys. I’ve got to get my guns!”

  Twenty-four

  Above the town, on the slopes and ridges leading to the mine, the townspeople waited, watched, and listened. Most families had packed picnic lunches, and several of the saloon owners had transported barrels of beer and cases of whiskey and set up makeshift bars for the thirsty. No loving creature not directly involved in the fight had been left behind in the town. Pet cats were in boxes or crates, and dogs were on leashes. Chickens were in coops. Hens went right on laying eggs.

  Across the narrow street, Cosgrove, Biggers, and Fosburn crouched behind the heavily barricaded front of the mayor’s office and tried to make some sense out of what had happened and what was happening. All three had finally gotten it through their heads that this day was going to be the turning point in their lives — one way or the other.

  Fosburn sat with his back to a wall. He had two guns strapped around his tubby waist and a rifle across his knees. His hair was disheveled and his face was dirty. His eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle. Of the three, Fosburn had turned realist.

  “We were too greedy,” the mayor spoke in quiet tones. “We had it all but wanted more. Now look where that’s got us.”

  “Shut up,” Jack Biggers snarled at him.

  “Oh, he’s right,” Major Cosgrove said. “I don’t have to like what he says, but I’m forced to agree with him. I do have to add this: none of us counted on Smoke Jensen.”

  “Make a deal with him,” Fat said.

  “I don’t think that is possible at this stage,” Major said. “The three of us have but two options left us — win or die.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Biggers almost shouted the words. “There can’t be more than seven or eight of them over there. They’re all in the saloon. We’ve still got about thirty-five hardcases and we have them surrounded. Why are we talking about dying and making deals?”

  Fosburn stood up and walked to the shattered front window. “Smoke Jensen?” he called.

  “I hear you,” Smoke’s voice rang out.

  “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “You let me ride out with my money from the bank. I’ll sell you my ranch at a fair price. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “You don’t have a ranch,” Smoke’s words were loud and clear. “None of you do.”

  The Big Three exchanged glances. Fosburn shouted, “What the hell are you talking about, Jensen?”

  “You men stole the land you’re running cattle on. You killed the original land owners or ran them off. But you never properly filed on the land you stole. The quit claim and other deeds were forged. And bad ones at that. My wife has had two dozen lawyers and Pinkertons seeking out survivors and relatives. She bought the land from them. It’s all legal. Your interests in the mine will go to the survivors and relatives of those you killed or ran out. Law suits are being filed now. U.S. Marshals are on the way here now with warrants and other legal papers. Neither you nor Biggers have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. You’re both dead broke. No deals.”

  Biggers and Fosburn were too astonished to speak. They stared at one another open mouthed.

  “But I’m still rich, you bastard!” Major hollered. “You men working for me hear that? I’ve still got sacks and sacks of gold. And there’s gold on Jenny Jensen’s ranch. Up in the mountains. The richest vein in all of Montana. I’m giving it to you hired guns. You hear me? I’m writing out papers now. But you’ve got to kill the Jensens and all associated with them to get it. You’ll all be worth millions if you do that. Think about it. You’ll never have to work again. Never again have to sleep on the ground or worry about where your next meal or next dollar is coming from. You’ll have fancy food and the best drinks and the fanciest women. For the rest of
your lives!” he screamed.

  “That’s right, boys,” the calm voice of Van Horn drifted out of the Golden Plum. “And all you got to do to earn it is kill me, Pasco, Bad Dog, Wolf Parcel, Kit Silver, and Smoke Jensen. Then you got to kill all the men out at Miss Jenny’s ranch, and that includes Little Jimmy Hammon. Them’s some bad ol’ boys out yonder. And then you got to kill Miss Sally and Miss Jenny. And after that, you got to explain to the judges and the lawyers and the Pinkertons and the U.S. Marshals what happened to us all. Think about that.”

  “That’s nothing!” Major yelled. “Without bodies, no one can prove a thing. Take the saloon, men. Take it, and be worth millions, or ride out with holes in your drawers and patches on your boots.”

  “They’s still the townspeople,” Patmos said to Whisperin’ Langley.

  “Kill ’em all and dump their bodies down a mineshaft and blow it closed,” Whisperin’ whispered.

  “Hell,” Bobby Jewel said. “They’s five hundred or so people in this town.”

  “So what?” Jim Pell said. “We take the saloon, then the ranch, and have some fun with the women out there, then we kill Biggers, Fosburn, and Cosgrove, and we have it all!”

  “Yeah,” Sam Jackson said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Pass the word,” Whisperin’ said. “We take the saloon. Now!”

  “They’re fools,” Wolf said from his position in the saloon. “There ain’t enough of them left to overpower us. We’ll stack them up like cordwood out yonder in the street and back there in the alley.”

  “But they’ll try,” Smoke said. “They’ve got big money in their eyes now.”

  “Even if they should succeed,” Kit said from the pallet, his voice weak, but his guns were loaded up and by his side, “they’ll turn on Biggers and Fosburn and Cosgrove and kill them, too. All the real gunfighters has gone. Them with any honor at all has left or changed sides. That’s pure scum out there now. Half of those bums out yonder have killed their own mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters for one reason or another. A horse turd has more value than all them out there put together.”