Triumph of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “We got ’em all, Smoke. Most just gave up.”

  “Stay back,” Smoke cautioned. Then he slammed his boot sole against the door.

  It happeded in a blur. Smoke saw a thick-shouldered gunman facing the door and fired instinctively. The lout dropped his revolver and clasped his belly with both hands. Smoke shot him again. At once her looked to his left.

  With a long-legged stride, Clifton Satterlee moved across the carpet toward ta wide-eyed, visibly shaken Martha Estes. He had a .44 Colt Lightning in his left hand. Too, late, and knowing it, Smoke swung his Peacemaker toward Satterlee and fought to gain time with his voice.

  “Don’t move!”

  “Stop where you are.” Mac’s voice broke as he stormed into the room, eyes fixed on Satterlee.

  Satterlee swung his Lightning away from Martha and fired double-action. His bullet hit Mac in the notch of at the bottom of his throat. Quickly, Satterlee shot again. This .44 slug punched through Mac’s right lung and ripped out his back. Instantly, Clifton Satterlee grabbed Martha Estes and pulled her in front of him. Driven backward by the agony of his wounds, Ian MacGreggor stumbled into the corridor. He teetered on the bainister for a precarious moment. Then his legs went out from under him, and he caught himself with his elbows.

  Smoke did not have time to check the youngster and knew it. He faced Satterlee, who now held the muzzle of his Colt to Martha’s temple. “I’ll kill her. So help me, I will. Holster your iron and get out of my way. Let me go and she won’t be harmed.”

  Reluctantly, Smoke complied. Then he heard a miserable groan from Mac, and his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “You’re a dead man Satterlee. There’s no way you are getting out of here.”

  Satterlee cut his eyes to a large carpetbag on the floor. It bulged with his portable wealth. Two finely wrought pieces of Tua jewelry spilled from the open top. “I’m taking that and her and leaving.

  Smoke eyed the loot and returned his attention to Satterlee. “You killed that boy for nothing, Satterlee. More than for any other reason, I’m going to kill you for that.”

  Clifton Satterlee forced a nasty chuckle. “Not likely, Jensen. I’ve worked too hard for that.” Again his eyes shifted to his ill-gotten gains. “You make a try and the girl dies.”

  Suddenly, Martha Estes moaned and uttered a huge sigh. She went limp in the arms of Clifton Satterlee. The instant her head fell away from the gun barrel, Smoke Jensen drew with blinding speed and triggered a round. The slug hit Satterlee at the top of his nose and pulped the empire builder’s brain. He did not have time to send a signal to his trigger finger. He flew away from Martha Estes and sprawled across the bed.

  At once, Martha straightened and opened her eyes. A big smile adorned her face. “I thought you might do that,” she told Smoke a moment before she rushed to him and gave him a big hug.

  Gently Smoke disengaged her. “You’re safe now, Miss Martha. I’ll arrange for passage to your home. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Smoke stepped out into the hall and gazed down at the bloody, sweating, pale-faced Mac. Ian MacGreggor worked his throat, and his lips moved. He spoke in a low, wheezy voice. “I—I guess I’ll not be needing that gardening job.”

  Something stung Smoke’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly. “That was fool thing to do, Mac. But you did save a girl’s life. I’m proud of you.” No reason to hide the obvious from the boy. “I’ll see that your family gets your pay.”

  “Th—thank you, Smoke. It was—was an honor to fight at . . . your side.” That said, Mac heaved a mighty sigh and died.

  Eyes wet and burning, Smoke Jensen turned away to discover that Don Diego Alvarado and his remaining vaqueros had arrived. Smoke went to his friend. “Alejandro took a couple of bad ones.”

  “Yes, I saw. What about you?”

  “I’ll live. But . . . Mac didn’t make it. I’ll have to see that the Marshal’s Office sends his pay to his parents.”

  “It’s a beatiful day,” Martha Estes opined as she joined the two men.

  Still deeply moved by the death of Ian MacGreggor, Smoke looked across the early morning vista. The rising sun cast a pink hue on the white caps of the Sangre de Cristo range. No matter the cost, peace could return to Taos and the Tua pueblo. He nodded to Martha.

  “Yes, it is right nice day.” She’s right, it’s beautiful, Smoke mused. Almost as beautiful as the Sugarloaf.

  * * *

  Sally and Bobby Jensen greeted Smoke’s triumphant return to the Sugarloaf with unbounded joy. After a long, energetic embrace, Smoke looked around and then kissed Sally on one cheek.

  “It doesn’t look like anything has changed. What did you do while I was gone?”

  Sally pursed her lips, fought to banish her sour memories, then answered. “I had a visit fron an old school friend.”

  “That’s nice. Did you have a good time?”

  “Like heck,” Bobby put in. “Her kids sure are a bunch of brats.” In spite of Sally’s sharp look, Bobby went on. It’s the truth. And you’re always after me to tell the truth, Smoke. An’ to be man enough to stand up for it.”

  Smoke put and arm around each of his family and started for the porch, hugging them tightly. “So, tell me about this friend of yours, Sally. And don’t forget the brats.”

  NEW YORK TIMES AND

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  FLINTLOCK

  A Time for Vultures

  Across the West, badmen know his name. The deadliest

  bounty hunter on the frontier, Flintlock is armed with his

  grandfather’s ancient Hawken muzzleloader, ready to put

  the blast on the face of injustice. As William and J. A.

  Johnstone’s acclaimed saga continues, Flintlock will

  discover an evil too terrifying and deadly to even name.

  WHEN A MAN SAYS HE’S GOING

  TO KILL YOU, BELIEVE HIM

  The stench of death hangs over Happyville. When

  Flintlock rides into town, he sees windows caked in dust,

  food rotting on tables, and a forgotten corpse hanging at

  the gallows. Citizens of Happyville are dead in their

  beds, taken down by a deadly scourge, and Flintlock

  must stay put or risk spreading the killer disease. His

  quarantine is broken by Cage Kingfisher, a mad

  clergyman who preaches the gospel of death. He orders

  his followers to round up the survivors of Happyville and

  bring them home to face the very plague they fled. To save

  them, Flintlock must send Kingfisher to Hell. But the

  deadly deacon has a clockwork arm that can draw a pistol

  faster than the eye can blink. It will take the Devil to bring

  him down. Or the frontier legend they call Flintlock.

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter One

  “I don’t like it, Sam,” O’Hara said, his black eyes troubled. “Those women could be setting us up. Their wagon wheel looks just fine from here.”

  Sam Flintlock shook his head. “You know what I always tell folks about you, O’Hara?”

  “No. What do you always tell folks about me?”

  “That you let your Indian side win through. I mean every time. If you were looking at them gals with a white man’s eyes you’d see what I see . . . four comely young ladies who badly need our help.”

  Now there were those who said some pretty bad things about Sam Flintlock. They called him out for a ruthless bounty hunter, gunman, outlaw when it suited him, and a wild man who chose never to live within the sound of church bells. At that, his critics more or less had him pegged, but to his credit, Flintlock never betrayed a friend or turned his back on a crying child, an abused dog, or a maiden in distress. And when the war talk was done and guns were drawn he never showed yellow.

  Thus, when he saw four ladies and a dog crowded around what lo
oked to be a busted wagon wheel, he decided he must ride to their rescue like a knight in stained buckskins.

  But his companion, the half-breed known only as O’Hara, prone to suspicion and mistrust of the doings of white people, drew rein on Sam’s gallant instincts.

  “Well, my Indian side is winning through again,” O’Hara said. “It’s telling me to stay away from those white women. Sam, it seems that when we interfere in the affairs of white folks we always end up in trouble.” He stared hard at the wagon. “There’s something wrong here. I have a strange feeling I can’t pin down.”

  “You sound like the old lady who hears a rustle in every bush.” Flintlock slid a beautiful Hawken from the boot under his left knee and settled the butt on his thigh. “This cannon always cuts a dash with the ladies and impresses the menfolk. Let’s ride.”

  The four women gathered around the wagon wheel watched Flintlock and O’Hara ride toward them. They were young, not particularly pretty except by frontier standards, and looked travel-worn. Colorful boned corsets, laced and buckled, short skirts, and ankle boots revealed their profession, as did the hard planes of their faces. Devoid of powder and paint, exhausted by the rigors of the trail, the girls showed little interest in Flintlock and O’Hara as potential customers.

  Flintlock touched his hat. “Can I be of assistance, ladies?”

  A brunette with bold hazel eyes said, “Wheel’s stuck, mister.”

  “I’ll take a look,” Flintlock said.

  One time in Dallas he’d watched John Wesley Hardin swing out of the saddle in one graceful motion and he hoped his dismount revealed the same panache. And it might have had not the large yellow dog decided to attack his ankle as soon as his foot touched the ground. The mutt clamped onto Flintlock’s booted ankle, shook its head, and growled as though it was killing a jackrabbit.

  “Git the hell off me,” Flintlock said, shaking his leg.

  The little brunette grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and yelled, “Bruno! Leave the gent alone!”

  But the animal seemed more determined than ever to bite through Flintlock’s boot and maul his flesh. Bruno renewed his attack with much enthusiasm and considerable savagery.

  All four women pounced on the dog and tried to drag the snarling, biting creature away while Flintlock continued to shake his leg and cuss up a storm. As the epic struggle with the belligerent Bruno became a cartwheeling, fur-flying free-for-all, O’Hara’s voice cut through the racket of the melee.

  “Sam! Riders!”

  A moment later guns slammed and O’Hara reeled in the saddle. He snapped off a shot, bent over, and toppled onto the grass. His horse, its reins trailing, trotted away. Flintlock, dragging Bruno like a growling ball and chain, stepped around the horse and looked toward the tree line. Four riders were charging fast, firing as they came. Cursing himself for choosing fashion over common sense and leaving his Winchester in the boot, he threw the Hawken to his shoulder and triggered a shot. Boom! Through a cloud of gray smoke he watched a man throw up his hands, his revolver spinning away from him. The rider tumbled backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard, throwing up a cloud of dust. Flintlock dropped the Hawken and clawed for the Colt in his waistband.

  Too late!

  A big, bearded man drove his mount straight at Flintlock and the impact of horse and man sent Flintlock flying and convinced Bruno that he’d be a lot safer somewhere else.

  Winded and sprawled on his back, Flintlock stayed where he was for a moment, then he sat up and looked around for his fallen Colt.

  There! A few yards to his right.

  He staggered to his feet and for his pains, the bearded man charged again. He swung his left foot from the stirrup and kicked Flintlock in the head, the boot heel crashing into his forehead. For a moment, it seemed that the world around him was exploding in blinding arcs of scarlet and yellow fire.

  Flintlock’s head tilted back and he caught a glimpse of the sky spinning wildly above him . . . and then his legs went out from under him and he saw nothing . . . nothing at all.

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock regained consciousness to a pounding headache and a sharp pricking in his throat. From far off, at the end of a long tunnel, he heard a woman’s voice.

  “What the hell are you doing, Buck?”

  Buck Yarr stopped, his bowie knife poised. “Gonna cut that heathen thunderbird offen his throat, Biddy. Make me a tobaccy pouch, it will.”

  “Morg wants him alive,” the woman said. “You know who he is?”

  “Don’t give a damn who he is,” Yarr said.

  “He’s the outlaw Sam Flintlock,” Biddy said. “Morg thinks maybe there’s a price on his head, his head and the breed’s.”

  Yarr said, “Morg didn’t tell me that. I want the thunderbird. Now git the hell away from me lessen you aim to watch the cuttin’.”

  “I seen a cuttin’ or two before and they didn’t trouble me none,” Biddy said. “One time down Forth Worth way I seen Doc Holliday cut a man, damn near gutted him. But Morg wants that Flintlock one alive.”

  “All I want is some skin, Biddy. He’ll still be alive after I’m done.”

  “He’ll be dead after you’re done, Buck. Look, there’s Morgan, ask him your own self,” Biddy said.

  Flintlock opened his eyes. He tried to move but his arms were tightly bound to one of the wagon wheels. A few feet away O’Hara, his bloody head bowed, was tied to another. Opposite Flintlock, a kneeling man in greasy buckskins held a wicked, broad-bladed knife, his mouth under a sweeping red mustache stretched in a grin. The man’s hat—a tall, pearl gray topper, its high crown holed by a bullet—caught Flintlock’s attention.

  “Morg, the whore says I can’t cut on this man,” Yarr said. “What do you say?”

  Morgan Davis was a tall, cadaverous man with black hair and penetrating black eyes. He affected the sober dress and measured speech of a country parson but the Colt in the shoulder holster under his left arm gave the lie to that image.

  “Not now, Buck,” Davis said. “I’ve heard of this ranny. His name is Sam Flintlock on account of the old smoke pole he carries and he makes his living as a bounty hunter and bank robber. There’s some say he’s real sudden on the draw-and-shoot and has killed a dozen men. Others say he’s just plumb loco and talks to his dead kinfolk, but I ain’t so sure about that. He looks like a mean one though, don’t he?”

  “He ain’t so tough,” Yarr said. “I want the big bird on his throat. Slice it offen him and make a pouch for myself.”

  “It will make a fine pouch, a crackerjack pouch, Buck,” Davis said, patting the man on the shoulder. “But hold off on the cutting until we see if there’s a price on his head. If he’s wanted dead or alive, then he’s all yours. But if the law wants him in one piece, then you can wait until after he’s hung.”

  “Long wait.” Yarr looked sulky.

  Davis smiled. “Be of good cheer, Buck. There’s a settlement close to Guadalupe Peak with a tough sheriff. We can take Flintlock and the breed there. If there’s a dodger on them, once the lawman pays the reward I’m sure we can talk him into a quick hanging.”

  “What town? What sheriff?” Yarr said. “I steer clear of lawmen.”

  “Town’s called Happyville and the sheriff’s name is Barney Morrell,” Davis said. “Me and Barney go back a ways, to the time me and him rode with the Taylor brothers and that hard crowd during their feud with the Suttons. Barney killed a couple men and then lit out for the New Mexico Territory ahead of a Sutton hanging posse. He married a gal by the name of Lorraine Day and for a spell prospered in the hardware business. But Barney never could settle down for long and he worked as a lawman in Fort Worth and Austin and then, the last I heard, became the sheriff of Happyville.”

  “He still there?” Yarr said.

  “I haven’t heard otherwise,” Davis said.

  “Then I guess I’ll wait.” Yarr slid his knife into its sheath. “But there’s one thing I need to get straight, Morg.”

 
; “What’s that?”

  “I want to cut this man afore he’s hung. Don’t set right with me to go slicing a big bird offen a dead man’s throat. It ain’t proper.”

  Davis nodded. “I’m sure that can be arranged, Buck. Easy thing to cut a man before he gets hung.”

  “What about the sheriff? What’s his name?”

  “I’ll take care of Barney. Kick back a share of the reward money and he’ll cooperate.”

  Buck Yarr grinned, slapped off Flintlock’s hat, grabbed him by the hair, and shook him. “Hear that, musket man? You’ll get your throat cut afore a noose is tightened around it. I wonder how that will feel? Bad painful, I think. Real bad painful.”

  Flintlock’s wrists were knotted to the wagon wheel at either side of his head. But to his joy his legs were untied. He measured the distance between the toe of his right boot and Buck Yarr’s chin. Perfect! Gritting his teeth, he powered his leg upward, arching his back to increase the force of the kick.

  The result was all he hoped it would be.

  With a sickening thud, like a rifle butt hitting a log, the toe of his boot hit Yarr just under his chin. The man’s head snapped back, his mouth spurting strings of blood and saliva. Kneeling on one knee and off balance, he fell heavily onto his right side.

  “Never trust a wolf until it’s been skun, idiot,” Flintlock said, staring at the groaning man with merciless eyes.

  Yarr was hurting but he wasn’t done.

  Big and strong and snarling like a wounded animal, he got to his feet and charged Flintlock, his knife raised for a downward, killing thrust.

  “Buck, no!” Davis yelled.

  The enraged man ignored him, but the knife blow never came. Somewhere in Yarr’s primitive, reptilian brain he decided that a stabbing was a much too merciful death. His eyes glittering, he switched his attention to the thunderbird on Flintlock’s throat. Giggling, he concentrated on his task. The point of his knife pierced skin and drew a thin rivulet of blood and then slowly, carefully, like an eager bride cutting her wedding cake, he began to . . . saw.