War of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why would we do that?” Robert asked.

  “Because I intend to destroy Hell’s Creek, that’s why.”

  Because with the wagons they would have to come within a half mile of Hell’s Creek, Smoke wrapped the horses’ hooves in sacking when they got close. Out of habit, he checked his guns, loading them up full. The action did not escape the eyes of the doctor and his wife. Lisa had fallen asleep in the back of the wagon, lying on a soft comforter and wrapped up in a blanket, for the night was cool.

  “Rumor has it you’ve killed twenty-five men, Smoke,” Robert said.

  “Closer to two hundred, I reckon,” Smoke corrected.

  “Two hundred!” the doctor blurted out. “Two hundred men?”

  “Killed twenty-five when I was about nineteen or twenty, I think I was. They raped my wife and then killed her and our son. I tracked them down to a silver camp on the Uncompahgre and read to them from the Scriptures, so to speak.”

  “You were only nineteen?” Vicky breathed the question.

  “Maybe twenty. I don’t remember.”

  “So young,” Robert muttered.

  “Oh, I dropped my first man when I was about seventeen, I think I was. After Pa died an old mountain man named Preacher took me in and raised me. It was a shooting just west of the Needle Mountains. They call the place Rico now. Two men braced me in the trading post. Pike and another man. Never did know his name. I killed them both.”

  Robert and Victoria listened in silence, their mouths open in shock and fascination, their expressions much like one would wear while gazing at a rattlesnake.

  “Me and Preacher, we rode over to what’s now called Pagosa Springs—that’s Indian for healing water. Two men called me out over there. Man named Haywood and another fellow who was Pike’s brother.” Smoke tied another piece of sacking in place. “I dropped Haywood and let Pike’s brother live. I only shot him twice, in the leg and the arm.

  “Me and Preacher rode on over to La Plaza de los Leones; that’s on the Cuchara River. It’s now called Walsenburg. You see, I was looking for the men who killed my brother and my pa. Killed seven that day and hung one. Casey was his name.

  “We drifted on over to Canon City, looking for a man named Ackerman. He found us, him and five of his gang. Killed five, left one alive.”

  “Lord Jesus,” Robert said softly. “That’s thirty-three men.”

  “Oh, I haven’t even gotten started yet,” Smoke said. “Me and Preacher, we spent the winter back at Brown’s Hole, then come spring we drifted out again. That summer I met Nicole and we got married. Sort of. Within a year it all fell to pieces. Bounty hunters got lead in Preacher and I thought they’d killed him. They did kill Nicole and the baby. That’s when I rode up to the silver camp with hate in my heart.”

  “And there have been many more dead men since then?” Robert asked.

  “More than I can count, Robert. They just keep coming at me. It was early spring in ... oh, ’74 I think it was. I rode over into Idaho looking for the rest of the men who killed my pa and my brother. Town called Bury. I was going by the name of Buck West.”

  The horses’ hooves muffled; the small party moved out.

  “A man called Big Jack braced me at a trading post. His partner buried him out back. I rode on. I had ten thousand dollars on my head at that time, and a lot of bounty hunters were hard after me.

  “It was in Challis that two gunhands called me out in the street. I think their names were Carson and Phillips. After I killed them, the marshal asked me to leave. I don’t blame him, and I left.

  “I rode into Bury with no one knowing who I really was. I was looking to kill the last of the three men who killed my pa and brother: Josh Richards, Wiley Potter, and Keith Stratton. Sally was teaching school there. I saw my sister Janey for the first time in ten years. She was Richard’s mistress. She didn’t recognize me right off.

  “I was walking Sally back to her home when two gunhandlers braced me on the street. Dickerson and Russell. I dropped them both.

  “Things turned both tragic and funny after that. Sally lost her job school-teaching and went to live in a whorehouse.”

  “A whorehouse!” Victoria almost shouted the word. “Sally in a whorehouse?”

  Smoke chuckled. “Yep. Oh, she didn’t work there. She just lived there.”

  “My heavens!” Robert muttered.

  “Ol’ boy on the SRP payroll braced me. I don’t remember his name. I had to kill him. It was that day that Janey recognized me as her brother.” Smoke cut his eyes and turned his head. He held up a hand for the wagons to stop.

  “What’s the matter?” Robert asked.

  “Something out there,” Smoke said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Star’s ears just came up. A horse is a good as a dog about warning you.”

  They all heard the clop of horses’ hooves and watched as two men rode out of the darkness and up to their wagon.

  Both of the men had guns in their hands, the hammers jacked back.

  “Well, now,” one said. “Ain’t this a sight? The doctor and his pretty wife tryin’ to slip out, and Smoke Jensen leadin’ them. Look here, Jensen. Look down the barrel of the gun that’s gonna kill you!”

  12

  All Robert or Vicky would remember in the retelling of the event was a series of roaring gunshots. What they did not know was that at the sound of the horses’ hooves, Smoke had wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and filled both his hands with .44’s.

  And neither Robert nor Vicky had seen the third man; but Smoke had.

  It was all over in two heartbeats. Three men lay dead or dying on the ground. Robert started to climb down from the wagon.

  “Sit down!” Smoke’s words were sharp. “Pick up those reins and whap those horses on the butt. We’ve got to move and do it fast.”

  “But those men ...” Robert protested.

  Smoke knee-reined Star up to the wagon. When he spoke, his words were low and savage. “Mister, do you want to see your wife and little girl spread-eagled on the ground, being raped, over and over again, until dawn?”

  “No. Of course not! But ...”

  “Then shut up and drive this wagon.” Smoke slapped one horse on the butt and the team jumped forward, the doctor hanging onto the reins. “Go, Vicky!” Smoke shouted. “Stay on this road south. Don’t get off of it. I’ll catch up in about an hour. Move!”

  Smoke jumped off Star and grabbed the outlaws’ rifles from the saddle boots. He jerked off their gunbelts and swiftly loaded the two Winchesters and the Henry up full.

  “You gotta help me!” one gut-shot outlaw moaned. “I’m hard-hit.”

  “That’s your problem,” Smoke told him. “You were going to kill me, remember?”

  “You’re a heartless bastard, ain’t you, Jensen?”

  “No,” Smoke replied, levering a round in each chamber of the rifles. “Just a realist, that’s all. Now either shut up or die; one or the other.”

  He left the man moaning in the road and, leading Star, got himself into position in the rocks above the road, in the center of the curve, several sticks of capped and fused dynamite beside him. He made him a little smoldering pocket of punk to light the fuses and waited. He could hear the pounding of hooves, the riders coming hard.

  He lit a fuse and judged his toss, placing the charge about fifty feet in front of the laboring horses. The dynamite blew and the horses panicked, throwing riders in all directions. Most of them landed, rolled, and came up on their boots, running for cover. Several lay still, badly hurt and unconscious.

  Smoke worked the lever on the Henry as fast as he could and knocked down half-a-dozen riders. He grinned when he saw where many of the gunhands had taken shelter. He poured dirt over the smoldering punk to kill it and left his position, working his way back and then up to about a hundred yards above the road.

  He lit another stick of dynamite and tossed it in the middle of a rock pile above the men, then another stick. The explo
sions jarred the rocks loose and sent them bouncing and crashing onto the men below.

  Smoke ran for Star, jumped into the saddle, and was gone into the night. It would take the outlaws anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours to round up their horses.

  When he caught up with Robert and Vicky, he halted the parade.

  “What did you do back there?” Robert asked, his eyes wide. “We heard explosions and shots.”

  “I showed them the error of their evil ways and put them on the path of righteousness.”

  Vicky laughed out loud.

  “In other words, you killed them?”

  “Lord knows, I sure tried. We’ll go on for a few miles and then stop and make camp.”

  “But those men of Hell’s Creek ... they’ll be after us, won’t they?”

  “Not that bunch,” Smoke assured the doctor. “I took the guts right out of them back yonder.”

  Five miles farther, off the road and camped in a little draw, Smoke drank his coffee and ate a cold sandwich. Lisa had tried to stay awake but finally closed her eyes and was sound asleep.

  “Tell us the rest of the story,” Victoria urged.

  “Where was I?” Smoke asked.

  “Killing people,” Robert muttered.

  Smoke suppressed a chuckle. He had a hunch the doctor was made of stronger stuff than he appeared. “Well, on the day in Bury that my real identity got known, I was trapped in the town. I’d just left the whorehouse talking with Sally and was coming up an alley when I was braced. That ol’ boy let it be known that he was gonna collect that thirty thousand dollars that Potter and Richards and Stratton had put on my head. After I shot that fella, I told him to be sure and tell Saint Peter that none of this was my idea.”

  Robert was shaking his head but listening intently.

  “Before I got out of that alley, another gunny braced me. I left him on the ground and got back to my horse. I put the reins in my teeth and charged the mob that was comin’ up the street, led by a crooked sheriff name of Reese.

  “Drifter—that was my horse—killed one with his hooves and I shot another gunhand name of Jerry. Me and Drifter scattered gunhands all over the main street of Bury, left that town, and linked up with Preacher and a bunch of old mountain men that was camped up in the mountains outside of town. Let me see . . . there was Preacher, Tennysee, Audie—he was a midget—Beartooth, Dupre, Greybull, Nighthawk—he was an Indian . . . a Crow—Phew, Dead-lead, Powder Pete, Matt—he was a Negro. Matt was the youngest of the bunch and he was about seventy.

  “We blew the road bank in and trapped those in the town. Wasn’t but two ways in or out, and we closed them both. We gave the citizens a chance to leave and a lot of them did. In the days that followed, before I met a bunch in a ghost town, we got Sally and the wilted flowers out and then I went headhunting.”

  “How many men did you kill during those days?” Victoria asked.

  “Any who tried to kill me, Vicky. A half a dozen or so, I imagine. On that day we burned down Bury and I met Richards and his bunch in that ghost town, the first man to brace me was a man called Davis. Then Williams and Cross. Then a hired gun name of Simpson faced me. Then there was Martin and a man I didn’t know. Rogers and Sheriff Reese came after me. I plugged Rogers and Reese’s horse crushed him. I shot Turkel off a rooftop and Britt shot off part of my ear.” He lifted one hand. “This part. I dropped three more. Britt, Harris, and Smith. Then Williams got lead in me and I blew Rogers to hell with a shotgun. Brown come up and I dropped him.

  “I used my knife to pick the lead out of my leg and wrapped a bandana around it. I believe there were three more left. I plugged two and used a rifle to blow a hired gun name of Fenerty out of it.”

  Smoke’s voice softened as memories filled him, taking him back years. Robert and Victoria could practically feel the pain of those years as they strained to hear him.

  “All right, you bastards!” Smoke yelled, tall and bloody in the smoky main street of the ghost town. “Richards, Potter, Stratton. Face me, if you’ve got the nerve.”

  The sharp odor of sweat mingled with blood and gunsmoke filled the still summer air as four men stepped out into the bloody, dusty street.

  Richards, Potter, and Stratton stood at one end of the street. A tall bloody figure stood at the other. All their guns were in leather.

  “You son of a bitch! ”Stratton screamed, his voice as high-pitched as a woman’s. “You ruined it all. Damn you!” He clawed for his pistol.

  Smoke drew, cocked, and fired before Stratton could clear leather.

  Potter grabbed for his gun. Smoke shot him dead, holstered his pistol, and waited for Richards to make his play.

  Richards was sure he could beat Smoke. He had not moved. He stood with a faint smile on his lips, staring at Smoke.

  “You ready to die?” Smoke asked the man.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Richards’s hands were steady. There was no fear in his voice. “Janey gone?”

  “Yeah. She took your money and pulled out.”

  Richards smiled. “That’s one tough babe, Jensen.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Been a long run, hasn’t it, Jensen?”

  “It’s just about over.”

  “What happens to all my holdings?”

  “I don’t care what happens to the mines. The miners can have them. I’m giving all your stock and the lands they gaze on to decent, honest punchers and homesteaders.”

  A puzzled look spread over Richards’s face. He waved his hand at the carnage that lay all around them. “You did ... all this for nothing?”

  Someone moaned, the sound painfully inching up the dusty street.

  “I did it for my pa, my brother, my wife, and our baby son.”

  “But killing me won’t bring them back!”

  “No. But it will insure that you never do anything like that again.”

  “I can truthfully say that I wish I had never heard the name Jensen.”

  “You’ll never hear it again after this day, Richards.”

  “One way to find out, Jensen.” He drew and fired. Richards was snake-quick but he hurried his shot, the lead digging up dirt at Smoke’s boots.

  Smoke’s shot hit the man in the right shoulder, spinning him around. Richards grabbed for his left-hand gun and Smoke fired again, the slug striking the man in the chest. He struggled to level his pistol. Smoke shot him again, the slug hitting Richards in the belly. Richards sat down hard in the street.

  Smoke walked up the street to stand over the man. Richards reached out for the pistol that had fallen from his numb hand. Smoke kicked it away.

  Blood filled the man’s mouth. The light began to fade around him. Richards said, “You’ll ... meet ...”

  Smoke never found out whom he was supposed to meet. Richards toppled over on his face and died.

  Robert and Vicky were silent for a few moments after Smoke had finished his story.

  Vicky said, “And after that?”

  “I got Sally and we took off, heading for Colorado. We’ve been there ever since.” Smoke tossed the dregs of his coffee into the night. “We best get some sleep. We still got a pull ahead of us come morning.”

  Smoke led the wagon and buggy into Barlow. The group was met with cheers from the onlookers. Draper was there with his camera, taking pictures.

  “I must admit,” Robert said, “I rather like the welcoming committee.”

  Sally rushed out of the hotel and the two women hugged each other. With Lisa in tow, the ladies disappeared into the hotel. They had a lot of catching up to do.

  “I’m teaching the women of the town who don’t know much about guns to shoot,” Sally told her friend. “Classes are this afternoon. Do you have any jeans?”

  “Britches?” Vicky looked horrified.

  “Sure. It’s a changing world, Victoria. We’ll get you some at Marbly’s.”

  “Everything’s been quiet, Smoke,” Sal said, walking up. He shook hands with the doctor,
his eyes sizing the man up. He took note that the doctor did not wear a gun.

  “Do I pass inspection?” Robert asked with a smile.

  “Won’t know that until the shootin’ starts.”

  “I’ve done more than my share of hunting, I assure you,” Robert replied stiffly.

  “Deer don’t shoot back,” Sal said, then walked off.

  Robert looked around him. The people standing around them were all friendly-looking and he had shook a lot of hands. He also had noticed that every man was armed. Every man. Including the editor of the Bugle. No doubt about it, the doctor thought. This town is braced for trouble.

  “Mrs. Jensen told us what you were doing yesterday, Smoke,” Tom Johnson said. “We fixed up an office for Dr. Turner. It’s right next to his house.”

  Smoke grasped the doctor by the shoulder. “You and Victoria get settled in, Robert. Big doings come Saturday night.” He smiled. “The town is throwing a party.”

  Forty-eight hours before the dance and box supper, Smoke met the northbound stage and knew he’d hit pay dirt when two nattily-dressed men stepped off to stretch their legs. They were the only two passengers on the stage. Northbound business had dwindled since Smoke had arrived in Barlow and pinned on a badge. The two men were dressed like dandies but their eyes, cold and emotionless, gave them away.

  Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier.

  Smoke had talked with the driver several days before, setting things up, and the driver nodded his head at Smoke’s glance. “It’s gonna be about an hour ’fore we pull out, boys,” he called. “I got to change this cracked brake lever and one of the pads. Yonder’s the saloon. I’ll give a hoot and a holler when I’m ready to go.”

  The team was led away, team and coach heading for the barn.

  Henri and Paul headed for the saloon. One of the Circle W hands, Wesson, had agreed to his part in the action. He walked toward the men and slammed a shoulder into the big German.

  “Watch were you’re goin’, stupid!” Wesson said.

  “Get out of my way, you ignorant lout!” the German replied.

  “What the hell did you call me?” the hand faced him.