Destiny Of The Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Barkeep, a beer for our friend,” Spitz said.

  “Coming right up,” the bartender said, sticking a mug under a barrel and pulling the lever. The mug filled with an amber liquid, then formed a two-inch foam on top. He handed it to Smoke, then took the nickel from Spitz.

  “Thanks,” Smoke said as he blew the foam off the head.

  “I was tellin’ the boys about our little run-in with the rustlers the other day,” Barrett said. He went back to his story. “So, here we were, the bullets flying by, zing, zing, zing,” he mimicked, using his fingers to show the flight of the bullets.

  “So what did you do next?” one of the others said.

  “Well, I did just like Smoke here taught us,” Barrett said. “I put the reins in my teeth”—he lifted the rawhide string that hung from his hat and bit down on it in demonstration—“then I filled both hands with guns and started firing away. Bang, bang, bang,” he said, marking each shot with his hands, formed into the shapes of pistols.

  At that moment, Manning came into the saloon and, seeing everyone gathered around the talker, he moved, unobserved, to the far end of the bar. He started to call the bartender down to him when he noticed the tall man drinking the beer.

  Damn! That’s Smoke Jensen!

  Manning moved slightly to put several people between him and the gunfighter. He didn’t know if Jensen would remember him from the encounter at the dance. After all, it was Waco who’d challenged Jensen. Still, he’d rather not take any chances.

  He listened to the loudmouth telling his story, realizing that he must be talking about an encounter with some of Brandt’s men.

  “By now,” Barrett said, “bullets were flying both ways. Bang, zing, bang, zing.”

  “Oh, man, I wish I’d been there,” one of the other cowboys said. “That sounds excitin’.”

  “It was exciting all right. But also scary. Remember, this is the third time I’ve run into them fellas,” Barrett said. “But this time they bit off more’n they could chew when they messed with Emil Barrett,” he said, pointing to his chest with his thumb. “I mean, we must’a killed, oh, I don’t know, six or seven at least. Hell, more’n that, because I got that many myself.”

  Suddenly Spitz laughed out loud. “Barrett, you are as full of shit as a Christmas goose,” he said. “In the first place, I’ve never known you to carry two pistols. And as clumsy as you are on a horse, you prob’ly couldn’t even stay on holdin’ the reins in your teeth.”

  “Damn, Spitz, you do know how to mess up a good story, don’t you?” Barrett complained, and Smoke and the others laughed.

  Spitz turned toward the bartender, then pointed to Smoke. “I’ll bet you don’t know who this is, do you?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman,” the bartender replied.

  “Well, sir, this here is Smoke Jensen,” Spitz said proudly. “I reckon you’ve heard of him, haven’t you? Purt’ near ever’body’s heard of Smoke Jensen.”

  “Indeed I have, sir,” the bartender replied. He looked at Smoke with an expression of awe. “Are you really Smoke Jensen?” he asked.

  Smoke felt somewhat embarrassed by all the attention, and he shot Spitz a glance that let him know he didn’t appreciate it. Chastised, Spitz looked away.

  Smoke nodded. “Yes, I’m Smoke Jensen,” he admitted with a sigh.

  “Well, sir, I am really pleased to meet you,” the bartender said. He wiped his hand with his apron, then extended it. “May I shake your hand?”

  Smoke hesitated just for a moment, then smiled and extended his own hand. That was when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone at the far end of the bar suddenly go for his gun.

  “Draw, Jensen!” the man shouted as he pulled his pistol.

  Jerking his hand back from the bartender, Smoke drew his gun and fired at about the same time the man at the end of the bar did. The two gunshots sounded as one, and puffs of smoke billowed out from the ends of the gun barrels.

  At about the same time the two shots were being fired, Spitz, Barrett, the bartender, and everyone else in the saloon were scrambling hard to get out of the way.

  The bullet that was fired at Smoke was close, very close. It smashed the beer mug Smoke had put down, then it plowed into the top of the bar, sending up a shower of splinters.

  The bullet from Smoke’s gun hit Manning high in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. Manning looked at Smoke with an expression of surprise on his face, then slid down to the floor, leaving a track of blood on the wall behind him. He hit the floor, but remained in the sitting position. His arms flopped out to either side, with the pistol, still smoking, dangling by the trigger guard from his index finger.

  “I can’t believe I tried that,” Manning gasped.

  “Who are you?” Smoke asked. “Why did you try to shoot me?”

  “I figured you might recognize me,” Manning said. “And if you did, it would be too late.”

  “Recognize you? From where? Have we ever met?” Smoke asked, surprised by the response.

  “Sort of. It was at the dance in Corpus . . .”

  “You were the other one,” Smoke said, suddenly remembering and interrupting him. “You were the sensible one. Or at least, I thought you were. What got into you, man? What on earth made you pull on me like you did?”

  “I seen you shaking the bartender’s hand and I figured that would give me just enough of an edge.”

  Manning coughed, and flecks of blood sprayed from his mouth.

  “Somebody get a doctor,” someone said.

  Manning tried to chuckle, though the chuckle turned into another blood-producing cough. “Ain’t no need ’a that,” he said. “I’m done for. I know it ’n you know it.”

  “Who are you?” Smoke asked.

  “The name is Manning.” The shooter held up his left hand, showing that it had only three fingers. “But some folks just call me Three-Finger.”

  “Why did you try to kill me, Manning?”

  “ ’Cause that little pissant Waco Jones is always braggin’ as to how he is goin’ to kill you. I figured if I did it first, it would shut him up. So I took a gamble.”

  “Wasn’t a very good gamble,” Smoke said.

  “No, I don’t reckon it was,” Manning said. He chuckled again, though this time the chuckle was harder to manage. “Do me a favor, will you? If you see Waco, tell him I’ll be waitin’ for him in hell.”

  The doctor and the sheriff came in then, arriving at about the same time.

  They were too late. Manning was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Manning had not gone to Benevadis alone. Leon Pettis made the ride with him, and he was as shocked as anyone else when Manning suddenly drew his gun against Smoke Jensen. Pettis stayed away from Manning as he was dying, afraid that Manning might see him and say something to him that would let everyone else know that they were together. And he instinctively knew that this wasn’t the place to be seen with Manning.

  Pettis waited until most of the crowd had gathered around Manning’s body, then left the saloon, mounted his horse, and left town, covering the fourteen miles to Concepcion in just over an hour. It was late afternoon when he got there. Waco was sitting in front of the Gato Rojo playing a solitary game of mumblety-peg on the wooden porch. He looked up when Pettis dismounted. The horse was breathing hard, and lathered in the white foam of sweat.

  “Son of a bitch, Pettis, look at your horse,” Waco said. “What’d you ride him so hard for?”

  “I need to talk to the major,” Pettis said. “Is he inside?”

  Waco glanced toward the batwing doors and nodded. “Yep, same as always,” he said. “Him ’n Sarge are back there sittin’ at their table.”

  Pettis tied off his horse.

  “Hey, didn’t Manning go with you?” Waco asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Waco chuckled. “What’d you do, have a race back with that old Three-Finger fool? How far back is he?”

/>   “He’s dead,” Pettis called over his shoulder as he pushed through the swinging doors.

  “What?” Waco shouted, picking up his knife and getting to his feet as he followed Pettis inside.

  Pettis went straight to the bar and ordered a whiskey, then tossed it down and ordered another before he turned to face Brandt.

  “What do you mean he’s dead? How did it happen?” Waco asked. His voice was loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the saloon, including Brandt, who looked up from the card game he was playing.

  “Who is dead?” Brandt asked.

  “Manning is dead,” Pettis replied. “The fool tried to draw against Smoke Jensen.”

  “No,” Waco said, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that. He told me once that he considered drawing against another man to be playing games. And he said he would never play games.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re partly to blame for it,” Pettis said.

  “Me?” Waco sputtered. “How the hell do you come up with the idea that I’m partly to blame?”

  “Tell us what happened,” Brandt said.

  Pettis told how the two of them had split up once they got to the saloon.

  “We figured we could learn more that way by each of us listenin’ in to different conversations. So, Manning was standin’ down to the end of the bar and I was way on the other side of the room when I heard Manning shout out for Smoke Jensen to draw.” Pettis tossed the rest of his drink down, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I swear, I ain’t never seen nothin’ as fast in my life. I mean, one moment he was standin’ there, holding the barkeep’s hand, and the next moment, the next breath even, his gun was in his hand and blazin’ away. It was like the gun was there all along.”

  “What do you mean, he was holdin’ the barkeep’s hand?” Stone asked.

  “The barkeep was shakin’ hands with Smoke Jensen,” Pettis explained. “And that’s when Manning took his chance and draw’d down on him.”

  “I still don’t know what the hell would make him do somethin’ like that,” Brandt said.

  “ ’Cause he figured that, what with Jensen’s hand bein’ busy and all, it would give him an edge. Leastwise, that’s what he said just a’fore he died.” Pettis glared at Waco. “And what he also said was that he done it ’cause you’re always braggin’ as to how you are goin’ to kill Jensen. He said he figured that if he beat you to it, it would shut you up.”

  “Damn, he should’a known better than to try to beat Jensen, even if Jensen was holdin’ someone’s hand,” Preston said. “Can’t nobody beat Smoke Jensen, and anyone who tries is just committin’ suicide.”

  “He can be beat,” Waco said. “All it takes is the right man, and he can be beat.”

  “Yes, well, enough about the big, bad gunfighter and how fast he is,” Brandt said. “What I want to know is, did you find out anything while you were in Benevadis? Or was your ride over there and back a total waste of time?” He stared pointedly at Pettis.

  “Yeah, I found out somethin’,” Pettis said. “They’re braggin’ and takin’ on as to how they’ve whupped us the last two times they’ve run up against us. More’n once I heard one of ’em say they wish we would just come on after them so we could have us an all-out battle, like in a real war.”

  “Well, then, what do you say, let’s go get the sons of bitches!” Waco shouted, banging his fist on the bar. “Only when we do, Smoke Jensen is mine!” He pointed his finger at everyone in the saloon. “Do all of you understand that? Smoke Jensen is mine!”

  “You think you can take him, do you, Waco?” Preston asked.

  “I know I can take him,” Waco answered resolutely. “All it takes is skill, which I got, and guts enough not to be afraid of him.”

  “Waco, you are as big a fool as Manning was,” Stone said. “And if you don’t watch yourself, you’re goin’ to wind up just like him, which is deader’n shit.”

  Stone’s observation elicited laughter from several of the others, and that made Waco angry at being the butt of the joke. He was gratified to see, however, that when he showed his anger by glaring at them, they were unable to meet his gaze.

  “But Waco is partly right, ain’t he, Major? We’re goin’ to do somethin’, ain’t we?” Preston asked. “I mean, I don’t want to go challenge Jensen to a duel or anything like that. But it seems to me like we ought to do somethin’ to kind of take the wind out of their sails before they get too big for their britches.”

  Brandt looked back at Pettis. “You were over there, you heard them talking. Do they have an army, like Kunz said?”

  Pettis nodded. “Yes, sir, they got ’em an army all right. And they’re all organized and ever’thing. From what I was able to figure out by listenin’ to them talk, they’ve got themselves broke down into several different groups, with leaders and sharpshooters and riders and the like in each of the groups. It’s like they got one big army with a lot of really little armies.”

  “It’s called a table of organization,” Brandt explained.

  “So then, you figure they really did know what they was talkin’ about?” Pettis asked.

  Brandt nodded, and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment or two.

  “Damn, imagine that. I mean, ole Captain King havin’ his own private army,” Preston said.

  “You got ’ny thought, Major?” Stone asked.

  “Yes, I’ve got a thought,” Brandt finally said. “The way I see it, if they’ve got an army, that means they have declared war against us. And if they want a war, then by damn a war is what we will give them.”

  “Just what kind of war are you talkin’ about?” Stone asked.

  “The kind of war they call hell,” Brandt said.

  “All right,” Waco said. “Let’s take it to ’em. I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’ around.”

  Brandt glared at Waco again, showing his impatience with the young man’s brashness. Then he turned his attention to Stone.

  “Sergeant, do you remember our operation against Buffington, Missouri, back during the war?”

  “Yes, sir, I remember it very well,” Stone said.

  “Would you say it was effective?”

  Stone smiled. “Yes, sir. It was damn effective,” he said.

  “I’ve always been a strong believer in the idea that if something worked once, it will work again,” Brandt said. “Gather up everything we will need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stone replied.

  Three days later Brandt stood in front of the sheriff’s office. Nearly sixty men were gathered in the street and, though they were normally raucous and out of control, they now stood quietly, awaiting his orders. That Brandt could form such miscreants into an efficient military organization spoke highly of his military skills.

  During his court-martial, Brandt’s defense attorney tried to point out to the judge and jurors that by incarcerating him, the Army would be losing a tactical genius.

  Later, when Brandt was found guilty and sentence was passed, the judge made reference to the defense attorney’s suggestion that Brandt had a brilliant military mind.

  “That Major Brandt has a superb military mind is not, nor has it ever been, in dispute. The court recognizes and acknowledges his brilliance. However, rather than being an ameliorating fact, I find it disturbingly more condemning.

  “A malevolent man of ordinary intelligence can do much evil. But the harm done by a man who is both brilliant and evil is incalculable. Major Brandt, you, I believe, are just such a person. And were I to assess anything less than the maximum penalty allowed me under military law, I would be guilty of malfeasance. Therefore, I sentence you to death by hanging, subject only to appeal to the commanding general of the Army.”

  When Brandt’s case went before General Sherman for his review, he, perhaps remembering his own march through Georgia, commuted the death penalty, sentencing Brandt to fifteen years in prison.

  Because Brandt’s death sentence had been commuted, the prosecution didn’t even
try for a death sentence for Sergeant Wiley Stone, sentencing him instead to the same fifteen years’ confinement that faced Brandt.

  “We will ride to our objective in military formation, and we will carry out our mission with discipline and efficiency,” Brandt said, addressing his men. “Now, boots in saddles. We ride out in five minutes.”

  It was already dark when Brandt’s army rode out of Concepcion, and the staccato beat of more than sixty horses echoed by from the buildings and houses on either side of the street. By now, nearly all of the citizens had left town, even the business owners, leaving behind what goods they couldn’t take with them. The few who remained stood in their dark houses now and peered around the curtains and shades as the men rode out.

  At first, there was some excitement in the town, as they thought Brandt and his men were leaving for good. There were a few, though, who knew exactly what Brandt’s plans were, and they shared that knowledge with the others, so that those who watched the raiders leave did so with a feeling of frustration, depression, and helplessness.

  Riding at the head of the column, Brandt called his men to a halt. It was just after midnight and they had been riding for some three hours. The hill where Brandt, halted them was about two hundred feet high and from there; they had an excellent view of the layout of the Santa Gertrudis Ranch. To the right, as they looked down from the hill, was Casa Grande. Every window in the big house was dark, indicating that all were in bed. The two-story edifice loomed large and gleaming in the light of the full moon.

  To the left of the big house was the kitchen that served the cowboys, and across from the kitchen was the bunkhouse. Then came the barn, the lot, and several other outbuildings. Finally, to the left, a full quarter of a mile away from the big house, were more than a score of small houses. Some of the houses had swings hanging from trees; others had small carts, indicating that children lived there.

  “What is that town?” Preston asked, pointing to the houses.

  “It isn’t a real town,” Brandt replied. “It’s what’s left of a Mex village that King moved up here so he would have workers on his ranch. They call it King’s Settlement.”