War of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Judge,” Smoke said, “can you get Robert declared insane?”

  “All I have to do is sign my name to a piece of paper. He’ll be taken to the state hospital for the insane.”

  One of Joe Walsh’s hands rode up and dismounted. “Say, Smoke, I just seen Dr. Turner headin’ north toward Hell’s Creek. He was putting the whip to that horse of his. He was shoutin’ and cussin’ as he drove. Damn near ran me down. I hollered and asked him what was the matter. He said he had to get to his brother. What brother’s he talkin’about? I didn’t know he had any kin out here.”

  “We just found out that he and Max Huggins are brothers,” Smoke told him.

  The cowboy’s eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open. “Holy crap!”

  Smoke turned to the judge. “Get all the legal action going that needs to be done, Judge. Committing Robert, and seeing to it that his estate is in Victoria’s hands.”

  “Easily done, Smoke. I’ll have the paperwork done in an hour and wire his banks back east. You get into his strongbox or files and find out where and how much. Have the papers sent to me.”

  Smoke walked back into the house.

  Sally had opened Victoria’s bodice and placed a cool cloth on the woman’s head. Her eyes were open and she seemed alert. Smoke pulled a chair up close to the couch.

  “I’m sorry, Vicky,” he said. “But I just didn’t know how else to tell you.”

  “It’s all right, Smoke. I’m glad you did. It answers a lot of questions I had in my mind. Now I can see the family resemblance.”

  Smoke told her what the cowboy had seen. “Judge Garrison is going to have him committed, and we’re going to get Robert’s estate in your hands. I need to know where he keeps his documents, bank books, and so forth.”

  “I’ll show you.” She fastened a few buttons on her bodice and sat up on the couch.

  “You best lay back down,” Smoke told her.

  “No.” She smiled and stood up. She was steady on her feet. “If I’m to be a western woman, I’ve got to learn to be strong.”

  Smoke returned the smile. “I thought you were leaving, heading back east?”

  “I’m staying,” Vicky said. “I want my daughter to be raised out here. The town needs another schoolteacher, and that is what I was trained to be.”

  Sal had entered the room. He took one look at Vicky’s open bodice and blushed. Turning his back to the woman, he said, “I sent Pete over to fetch your girl, ma’am. They’ll be along directly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. . . .”

  “Just Sal, ma’am.”

  Vicky buttoned up her bodice. “You may turn around now, Sal.”

  “Thank you. I feel sorta stupid standin’ here talkin’ to a wall.”

  “That was kind of you thinking of Lisa.”

  Sal blushed. “Wasn’t nothin’, ma’am.”

  “It is to me, I assure you. Well!” She patted her hair and got herself together. “I have to assume that Robert is not coming back. So I think what I’ll do is this: If you all will leave me alone for a time—Salty, will you look after Lisa for a few minutes? Good, thank you—I’ll have myself a good cry and then start putting my life back in order.”

  Sal was the first one out the door. Women made him nervous, unpredictable creatures that they were.

  “Man ought to be horsewhipped leavin’ a good woman like that one back yonder,” Sal said to Smoke as they all walked back to the office.

  Sally looked at Smoke and winked at him. “Sal, what are your plans when we leave here?”

  “Why . . . I don’t rightly know, ma’am. Why do you ask?”

  “The county is going to need a sheriff,” Smoke picked up on what his wife was leading up to. “And you’ve been a fine deputy. How’s about I recommend you to Judge Garrison.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Sure. But how ’bout these boys?” He jerked his thumb at Pete and Jim.

  “Well,” Smoke said with a smile, “I think Pete is going to try his hand at ranchin’, seeing as how he’s been tippy-toeing around the Widow Feckles, the both of them making goo-goo eyes at each other.”

  Pete’s face suddenly turned beet-red. “I just remembered something. I got to go see about my horse,” he said, and walked across the street.

  “How about you?” Sal asked Jim.

  “I like this deputy sheriffin’. Sure beats thirty a month and found sleepin’ in drafty bunkhouses. It’s fine with me, Sal.”

  “Good. It’s settled then. Judge Garrison has papers declaring the election of Cartwright to have been illegal, and the man has no more authority. He’s going to post election notices starting tomorrow. And you’re going to be the only candidate.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Sal asked, clearly startled at the rapid turn of events.

  “Retire from law enforcement and hang around to see the fun. A badge is too restrictive for me, Sal. I like room to roam.”

  “In other words, you’re gonna take the fight to them.”

  “Why, Sal,” Smoke said with a serious look on his face, “you know I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “He occasionally tells tall tales, too, Sal,” Sally told him.

  “Judge Garrison did what?” Max jumped to his feet.

  “Declared my election as sheriff illegal and they had an election down to Barlow yesterday,” Cartwright said. “Sal is the new sheriff.”

  “He can’t do that. We weren’t advised of any election.”

  “Yes, we were.” Cartwright held out a piece of paper. “One of the boys found this tacked to a tree just outside of town.”

  Max snatched the paper from him and squinted. “Hell, you can’t read it without a magnifying glass!”

  “That’s sure enough the truth and that’s what I done, too. It’s a legal paper, telling the citizens of Hell’s Creek about the election.”

  Max sat down and cussed. Loud and long. He wadded up the notice and hurled it across the room. He had never before been stymied at every turn, and it was an unpleasant sensation that he did not like.

  “Well, you can still be town marshal of Hell’s Creek.”

  “Big deal,” Cartwright said sarcastically. “We got no protection now, Max. We don’t know what’s goin’ on in Barlow now that your brother moved in with you. And the boys is gettin’ right edgy.”

  “About what, Paul?”

  “They’re wantin’ to hit the town now and get out. The bank’s in place, ain’t it?”

  “Not yet. Monday morning is still the target date. We’ll double our money if we wait until everybody there has dug up the money they’ve buried or pulled it out of mattress ticks. Tell the boys to calm down.”

  Cartwright left and Max turned in his chair, looking out his office window. His main concern right now was what he was going to do with Robert. His younger brother was getting unpredictable. He was like a goose, waking up in a new world every morning. Most of the time he was lucid, but other times he was crazy as a loon. Of course, he had always known his brother was nuts, walking a very fine line between genius—which he was—and insanity—which he certainly was.

  But he was family, and family looked out for each other. As best they could, that is.

  “You just sign right here, Victoria,” Judge Garrison said, “and Robert’s estate will be under your control.”

  Victoria signed and she became executor over Robert Turner’s estate, thus insuring that she and Lisa would not be thrust penniless into the world.

  Sal was now the officially elected and legal sheriff of the county, and Smoke had turned in his badge.

  While Smoke respected the law, he was also well aware that there were hard limits placed upon it when dealing with the lawless. As a private citizen, he had shed himself of those limits. Now he could meet Max Huggins and Red Malone on an equal footing.

  Smoke bought supplies at Marbly’s General Store—including a sack of dynamite—and made ready to hit the trail. In addition
to his .44 Winchester, he carried a Sharps .56 in another saddle boot. Two days after the election, Smoke kissed Sally good-bye and swung into the saddle. Star was ready to go; the big black was bred for the trails and was growing impatient with all this inactivity.

  “I won’t ask how long you’ll be gone,” Sally said.

  “Two or three days this time around. I’ll be back in time to see the bank open.”

  He headed north, toward Hell’s Creek, to see what mischief he could get into. He had heard rumors that Big Max Huggins thought himself to be unbeatable as a bare-knuckle fighter. Smoke knew that the man could be formidable; just his size would make him dangerous. But Smoke also knew that many big men rarely knew much about the finesse of fighting, depending mostly on their strength and bulk to overwhelm their opponents.

  The trick would be to catch Big Max by himself. Smoke didn’t trust anyone left in Hell’s Creek not to shoot him after he whipped Max—and he knew he could whip him. He’d take some cuts and bruises doing so, for Max was a huge and powerful man. But Smoke had whipped men just as big and just as tough; men who knew something about boxing.

  Smoke stayed off the road, keeping to the mountain trails, enjoying the aloneness of it all. He rested and ate an early lunch above a peaceful valley, exploding with summer colors. Deer fed below him, and once he spotted a grizzly ambling along, eating berries and overturning logs, looking for grubs. Squirrels chattered and birds sang their joyful songs all around him.

  Then suddenly it all stopped and the timber fell as silent as a tomb. The deer below him raced away and the grizzly reared up on his hind legs, testing the air. The bear dropped down to all fours and skedaddled back into the timber.

  Smoke had picked a very secure position to noon, with Star well hidden. He did not move; movement would attract attention faster than noise.

  Soon the horsemen came into view, about a dozen of them, riding through the valley. Smoke moved then, getting his field glasses out of the saddlebags and focusing in on the men, being careful not to let the sun glint off the lenses.

  He knew some of them—or had seen them before. They were hired guns—hired by Max Huggins. The men were riding heavily armed, carrying their rifles across the saddle horns. Smoke could see where many of them had shoved extra six-shooters behind their belts.

  The route they were taking would lead them straight to the farm complex of Brown and Gatewood and the others. Those families had taken enough grief from Huggins and Red Malone and their ilk, Smoke thought, returning to Star and stowing the binoculars.

  He decided he’d trail along behind the hired guns and add a little spice to their lives as soon as he was sure what they were up to.

  Smoke decided not to wait when he saw the men reach into their back pockets and pull out hoods. They reined up and slipped the hoods over their faces.

  They were about three miles from the farm complex. No man elects to wear a hood over his face unless he’s up to no good; but still Smoke held his fire. He was looking down at a pack of trash, that he knew. But so far they had done nothing wrong.

  He left them, riding higher into the timber and getting ahead of the gunslingers. On a ridge overlooking the valley where Brown and the others were rebuilding, Smoke swung down from the saddle and shucked the Sharps .56 from its boot. He got into position and waited.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The raiders came at a gallop, riding hard and heading straight for Brown’s farm, guns at hand.

  Smoke leveled the Sharps and blew one outlaw from the saddle, the big slug taking the man in the chest and flinging him off his horse, dead as he hit the ground.

  Brown, his wife, and their two sons had been working with guns close by. The four of them, upon hearing the booming of the .56, dropped their hammers and shovels and grabbed their rifles, getting behind cover. They emptied four saddles during the first charge, and that broke the attack off before it could get started. The outlaws turned around and headed back north. They had lost five out of twelve, and that had not been in their plans.

  They were about to lose more.

  They headed straight for Smoke’s position, at a hard gallop. Smoke leveled the Sharps, sighted in, and squeezed the trigger. Another hooded man screamed and fell from the saddle, one arm hanging useless by his side, shattered by the heavy .56 caliber slug. He stood up and Smoke finished him.

  The hooded raiders were riding in a panic now, not knowing how many riflemen were hidden along the ridges. Smoke lifted the Sharps and sighted in another, firing and missing. He sighted in another man and this time he did not miss. The raider pitched forward, both hands flung into the air, and toppled from the saddle.

  Smoke walked back to his horse, booted the rifle, and mounted up, riding down to see if any of the outlaws on the ground were still alive. Two of them were, and one of them was not going to make it. The second man had only a flesh wound.

  Smoke jerked the hoods from them and glared down at the men. “You’ll live,” he told the man with the flesh wound. He cut his eyes to the other man. “You won’t. You got anything you’d like to say before you die?”

  Brown and his family had gathered around. The sound of the galloping horses of the farmer’s neighbors coming to their aid grew loud. Soon the men of the entire complex had gathered around the fallen raiders.

  “How’d you know?” the dying man gasped out the question, his eyes bright with pain, his hands holding his .56-caliber-punctured belly.

  “I didn’t,” Smoke told him. “I was having lunch on the ridges when you crud came riding along.”

  “What’d you gonna do with me?” the other outlaw whined.

  “Shut up,” Smoke said. “You get on my nerves and I might just decide to hang you.”

  “That ain’t legal!” the man hollered. “I got a right to a fair trial.”

  Cooter snorted. “Ain’t that something now? They come up here attackin’ us, and damned if he ain’t hollerin’ about his right to a fair trial. I swear I don’t know where our system of justice is takin’ us.”

  “Wait a few years,” Smoke told him. “I guarantee you it’ll get worse.”

  “I need a doctor!” the gut-shot outlaw hollered.

  “Not in ten minutes you won’t,” Gatewood told him.

  “What’d you mean, you hog-slop?” the outlaw groaned the words.

  “’Cause in ten minutes, you gonna be dead.”

  He was right.

  23

  Smoke helped gather up the weapons from the dead raiders. Brown and the others in the farming complex now had enough weapons and ammo to stand off any type of attack, major or minor.

  “They got their nerve comin’ back here,” Cooter said as they dug shallow graves for the outlaws.

  “And we’ll keep comin’ back,” the outlaw trussed up on the ground said. “Until all you hog-farmers are dead.” He had regained his courage, certain he was facing death and determined to face it tough.

  “You’re wrong,” Smoke told him, stepping out of the hole and letting one of Cooter’s boys finish the digging. “Take a look at these men around you, hombre. Even without my guns, they’d have stopped the attack. I don’t know whose idea this was, but I doubt if it was Max’s.”

  The young man on the ground glared at him but kept his mouth closed.

  Smoke had an idea. “Can you read and write, punk?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Can you read and write?”

  “Naw. I never learned how. What business is that of yours?”

  Smoke walked to his horse, dug in the saddlebags, and found a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. He wrote a short note and returned to the outlaw. Folding the paper, he tucked it into the raider’s shirt pocket and buttoned it tight.

  “That’s a note for Big Max. You give it to him, and to him alone. I’ll know if you’ve showed it to anyone else. ”That was a lie, but Smoke figured the outlaw wouldn’t. “You understand?”

  “You turnin’ me loose?”

  “Yea
h. With a piece of advice. And here it is: Get gone from this country. Give the note to Max and then saddle you a fresh horse, get your kit together, and haul your ashes out of Hell’s Creek. We know Max and Red are going to attack the town. That is, if the old arrest warrants on his head don’t catch up with him first. And they might.” Another lie. “The town is ready for the attack, hombre. Ready and waiting twenty-four hours a day. We know the bank is tempting. But don’t try it; don’t ride in there with them. The townspeople will shoot you into bloody rags. There’s nigh on to six hundred people in and around Barlow now. Six hundred.” That was also a slight exaggeration. “And there are guards standing watch around the clock, ready to give the call. It’s a death trap waiting for you.”

  “You say!” the outlaw sneered, but there was genuine fear in his voice that all around him could detect.

  Smoke jerked the man to his feet, untied his hands, and shoved him toward his horse, who had wandered back toward its master after running for a time. Pistols and rifle and all his ammo had been taken from the raider.

  “Ride,” Smoke told him. “And give that note to Max.”

  The man climbed into the saddle and looked down at Smoke. “I might take your advice. I just might. I got to think on it some.”

  “You’d be wise to take it. I’m giving you a break by letting you go.”

  “And I appreciate it.” He tapped the pocket where Smoke had put the message. “All right, Smoke. I’ll give this to Big Max, and I’m gone. You’ll not see me again unless you come around a ranch. That’s where you’ll find me . . . punchin’ cows.”

  “Are there any kids in Hell’s Creek? Any decent women?”

  The man shook his head. “None at all. There ain’t nothin’ there ’ceptin’ the bottom of the barrel—if you know what I mean.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks.” The man rode north, toward Hell’s Creek.

  Smoke swung into the saddle. “Before you boys bury that crud, go through their pockets and take whatever money you find. You earned it.”

  “Don’t seem right, takin’ money from the dead,” Bolen said.