Rage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “You want to see ‘cold,’ Marshal, I’ll show you . . . aw, what the hell. Three fool kids who thought they were good with a gun are dead because of a cold-hearted son of a bitch who offered an unauthorized bounty for my head.”

  Hurley’s chief lawman narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about the law to say whether a reward is authorized?” “I’m not wanted for anything, anywhere. Phineas Lathrop is a high-binder who’s set on taking over a large chunk of Colorado in the High Lonesome, and he doesn’t care how many people get killed in the process. Also, I’m a Deputy U. S. Marshal.”

  “I’ve known other killers with a badge,” the law said nastily.

  “D’you think I’m cut of the same cloth?” Harshness gave a rasp to Smoke’s voice.

  Marshal Gib Brewster turned even paler, if that was possible. “You might be.”

  “I’ll guarantee that I’m not. If that’s not enough, send a wire down the line for Sheriff Monte Carson, from Big Rock, Colorado. He’s following me up with a posse. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. Meanwhile . . .” The marshal went for his sixgun, only to find himself staring at the muzzle of Smoke’s. He swallowed hard and reached for his handcuffs instead. “Meanwhile, you’ll sit out the answer in my jail.”

  Smoke shrugged, relaxed his grip, and reversed the Colt in his hand, offering it to the lawdog. “I’m on Lathrop’s trail, Marshal. Every day’s delay I’ll take a mite personal.” Flustered at how easily the notorious gunfighter had acquiesced, the marshal didn’t even bother with the manacles. “Th’name’s Gib Brewster. I’m marshal here, as you seem to know, Mr. Jensen. You just come along and I’ll try to make your stay as short and comfortable as possible.”

  Deep lines etched into the face of Phineas Lathrop by worry eased and smoothed out as a beautific smile spread on his face for the first time in five days. He cut his eyes to the informant who had brought him the splendid news.

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “Yep. I was in the saloon when the shootin’ started. Man said he was Smoke Jensen. The marshal took him off to jail until his story could be checked out.”

  “Did Jensen mention my name?”

  “I don’t know. First cap busted off, I dived for the door.”

  Lathrop mulled that over. “At least you’re honest enough to admit that. Would it be any problem to get men close enough to that jail to—ah—visit the prisoner without anyone knowing?”

  “Mr. Lathrop, you could march a brass band up to the back of that building any night. Marshal Brewster sleeps like a log. He ain’t got a jailer. Handles ev’rything himself.”

  “Better and better.” Lathrop paused, making quick plans. Then he asked his key question. “Why is it that you brought this to me?”

  “I was in town the day you came ridin’ through, too. I heard about your big gamble from some of the boys. I . . . well, I thought you might hire me on.”

  “Good man! And prudent, too. I can always use someone like you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some preparations to make.”

  After a brief, detailed conference with Banning and Dorne of the late Wade Tanner’s crew, and O’Fallon and Killian of O’Boyle’s gang, Lathrop wished them good luck and sent them on their way.

  “Where are they going?” Victor Middleton asked testily. He wanted only to get on to the promised sanctuary.

  “I sent them to deal with Smoke Jensen. There’s nothing he can do from inside a jail cell. It’ll be like shooting fish in a bathtub.”

  Unaccustomed to the wilderness, Connor O’Fallon and Brian Killian, who had won the toss and led the way to the back of the Hurley jail, were unaware that nature had built-in alarm systems. Their advance along the alley was preceded by a wave of sudden silence.

  When the usual symphony of crickets and katydids went silent, Smoke Jensen became instantly alert. Conscious of possible danger close at hand, the big, rangy gunfighter flattened himself against the bars at a right angle to the small window, high up in the outside wall. He listened intently. In a scant second he received confirmation: the scuff of a bootheel in the darkness outside.

  Moving soundlessly on stockinged feet, Smoke climbed onto the narrow bunk and peered through the tiny barred window. His eyes already adjusted to darkness, he quickly made out the figure of a man who made a clumsy attempt at moving silently toward the jail. Then he saw another, on the opposite side of the passageway. Beyond him, a moment later, he made out a third form.

  More at home in the city, the nearer pair came forward in relative silence. Smoke watched them with cold amusement. When they reached the plastered-over stone wall, they paused, fists on hips, and stared upward at the black rectangle of the window. One whispered in the ear of the other, who shook his head.

  Smoke figured that they knew that any attempt to climb the wall would make noise. Apparently that had been the subject of their conference. One of them turned and made a come-here gesture to the third skulker. That one seemed to melt into the shadows and advanced with the perfect quiet of a frontiersman. When he reached the two beneath the barred window, they put their heads together and discussed the situation.

  With some agitation, and breathy complaint, the duo who had come first got to their knees and bent forward. The third man slipped off his spurs and climbed onto their backs. Smoke ducked back as the figure rose up the wall. A face appeared in the opening above Smoke. The barrel of a sixgun soon followed.

  Acting with legendary speed, Smoke Jensen reached up with both hands and snatched the revolver out of the hands of his would-be assassin. He fisted the weapon with equal swiftness and fired point-blank into the man’s face. He fell away without a sound.

  Not so his companions. “Jeez, he done shot Dorne,” one blurted.

  “How’d he do that?”

  “I don’t know. But we gotta get out of here, fast.”

  Bootheels pounded on the hard-packed alley. Smoke Jensen raised himself and sighted in on the nearest retreating back. “Hold it right there,” he shouted.

  They were having none of that. Smoke fired and clipped Brian Killian high in the left shoulder. Suddenly another man appeared in the mouth of the alley with four horses. Stumbling, Killian reached his mount and painfully dragged himself into the saddle. Connor O’Fallon seemed to vault to the back of his animal.

  “Where’s Dorne?”

  “He ain’t comin’,” O’Fallon informed Banning. “Let’s get out of here. That damned Jensen’s got a gun.”

  At the range of one block, Smoke held off any further gunplay. Behind him, the steel door to the cellblock rattled and banged open. Pale white, Gib Brewster waddled down the corridor, his face working in agitation, emphasized by the flickering light of a coal-oil lamp.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on in here? Where’d you get that gun? Who’d you shoot at?” The words spilled from his mouth in a rush.

  “One at a time, Marshal. Say, I bet they call you Pearly.”

  “God damn you, Jensen. Answer my questions.”

  “First off, three men tried to kill me. I took the gun away from the one who climbed up to the window and shot him. Then I sent some lead along with the ones who ran off.”

  “I’ll take that gun now. I thought we had an agreement.”

  “We did.”

  “Then answer me this: how do I know they didn’t come to break you out of here?”

  Smoke Jensen crossed to the inside bars and handed the sixgun to the lawman. He chuckled as he considered that question. “Tell me this, Pearly. Does it make sense to you that I’d shoot the men who came to help me?”

  The logic of this deflated the bluster in Gib Brewster. “Well, I’ll have to admit, it’s not too reasonable. Now, you settle down while I go out and look into this.”

  “Marshal, I gave you that iron willingly enough. In light of maybe some other boys coming here to do me harm, what say you let me have it back?”

  “Nope. Can’t do that. Officially, you’re a prisoner.�
��

  “Damn,” Smoke muttered, after the lawman left to check the body.

  Morning brought Smoke Jensen hard biscuits and gluey gravy. It also brought a telegram from Monte Carson. Gib Brewster looked almost disappointed when he came to Smoke Jensen’s cell. He stared pointedly at the untouched breakfast.

  “Telegram came. Just like you said it would. ‘I verify person you are holding as U. S. Marshal Smoke Jensen. He is in pursuit of Phineas Lathrop, Victor Middleton, Arnold Cabbott, and Abe Asher, along with a gang numbering some thirty-five men. They are wanted in Colorado for murder, arson, and numerous other crimes. Please give Marshal Jensen your fullest cooperation. I am bringing a posse on and will provide paperwork that didn’t get done before Marshal Jensen went in pursuit of the gang. He is to wait there for me.’ And it’s signed, ‘Monte Carton.’ So, I guess I gotta let you out.”

  Keys jingled and the lock rattled. Pin hinges squeaked noisily as Brewster threw open the door. He continued to block Smoke’s exit with his bulky body. Finally he drew long, spatulate, deathly pale fingers across his brow.

  “Thing I can’t figger is, how you gonna stop that many men?”

  Smoke sighed heavily. “I can but try. Actually, Pearly, I’m glad there’s a posse coming on behind me, should be less than a day from here. With Monte will be a young eastern reporter by the name of Ollie Johnson. When they get here, you tell them which way I went.”

  Brewster nodded affably. “I’ll do that. I heard once that you took on twenty men, singlehanded. That right?”

  “No, Pearly, it was only sixteen.”

  “Damn it, Jensen, you stop callin’ me Pearly.”

  “All right, Marshal Brewster. I’ll thank you for my guns now.”

  “Gib’s all right, twixt you an’ me, Mr. Jensen,” Brewster mumbled in embarrassment.

  “Call me Smoke. Now, I do have to be going.”

  “Right enough. An’ if you get back this away, you look me up, right?”

  “Count on it, Gib.”

  Half an hour later, Smoke Jensen set off from the livery. Actually, Monte accompanying that posse bothered him. Monte was slowing down a bit, and Smoke didn’t want his old friend to take the risks involved in tracking down Lathrop. So he wasted no time in departing Hurley. He had been given the direction taken by Lathrop’s gang and set his course northward. Although he admitted he needed help to corral so many hard cases, he sort of hoped that the posse, with Ollie Johnson, would not catch up too soon. He had grown to like the hery young journalist, and didn’t enjoy the thought of anything happening to him, either.

  Lathrop’s trail led northward, then cut sharply west to the neighboring town of Burley, Wyoming. Smoke Jensen mused over the names of these two communities as he ambled Dandy down the main street. Saloons and barbershops being the best sources of information, Smoke rubbed his clean-shaven jaw and decided on the Gold Bucket Saloon.

  “Yep. There’s a method to our madness, I reckon you could say,” a talkative bartender confided to Smoke, when asked about the similarity of names.

  “I thought there might be, with the two towns only five miles apart.”

  “Well, now, we used to be one town. But political differences between the leading families turned to real rancor over some long-forgotten matter. Half the folks moved out, settled here.”

  “Let me guess the name of the original town,” Smoke offered dryly. “Hurley-Burley.”

  A cackle of laughter assured him he had hit it right.

  “Right on the nail head! He-he! We took half the folks, an’ half the name, too.”

  “Original, to say the least,” Smoke quipped.

  The short, big-headed apron studied Smoke to detect any hint of sarcasm. Then, with eyes narrowed, he asked, “Hear there was a big shooting over Hurley way. Know anything about it?”

  Smoke hesitated, eyes searching the faces of the other occupants, who had cut off their conversations at mention of the shootout. He avoided the direct gaze of the barkeep, sighed, and answered quietly, “Not much. What did you hear?”

  “Some gunfighter came to town, or so they say. He was evidently on the prod and called out three youngsters from here in Burley. Killed them all.”

  Unable to allow such distortion to survive longer, Smoke contradicted the barman. “That isn’t the way it happened.”

  “I say it is,” a young voice came from behind Smoke.

  “Well, it’s not. The three of them called out someone they thought was a wanted man. They drew first. He happened to be better.”

  “I say you’re a liar, mister. Who was this gunfighter who was supposed to be faster than Buck, and Larry, and Hal?” “Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said quietly.

  “Horseshit! Smoke Jensen ain’t nowhere near here. I say what we oughtta do is go over to Hurley and get justice done for our dead friends. What do you say, boys?” he asked three other young toughs like the ones who had forced Smoke to kill them.

  During the entire exchange, the bartender had been cutting his eyes from the prodders to Smoke and back. He looked hard at the craggy jaw, calm demeanor, and cool gray eyes, then at the nervous twitches and tics of the halfgrown saddle tramps. His brows suddenly knit, lids lowered to slits, as he spoke through pursed lips.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to go over there, Harper.” “Oh, yeah? Why not, Doolie?”

  “Because I think the man you’re lookin’ for is standin’ right here.”

  The one he called Harper choked off another taunting challenge and gaped for a moment, digesting the meaning of Doolie’s words. “No. Can’t be. This is just a bag of wind with no brain behind it. He ain’t no gunfighter. He’s a nobody.”

  Bartender Doolie sidled to one end of the bar, eyes fixed on everyone involved. “Why don’t you ask him his name?” “Yeah. What is your name, Mister Mouth?”

  “Smoke Jensen.” Smoke’s voice echoed in the deadly silent room.

  Harper blinked, then paled. He worked his mouth but no sound came out. One of Harper’s companions finally found his voice. “You really are Smoke Jensen?”

  “I am.”

  “Well—ah—well, then, Mr. Jensen, I gotta apologize for my friend here. Ya see, Harper ain’t got all his smarts. Puts his mouth in gear before his brain is engaged.”

  “You shut your mouth, Willie Lowe,” Harper screamed. “I can apologize for myself.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out, his eyes closed to summon calm. “I’m right sorry I doubted your word, Mr. Jensen. Uh—what—ah— what did them boys do?”

  “Exactly what I said. They pushed and I pushed back. End of story.”

  “Yeah,” a chagrined Harper agreed. “For them.”

  “It don’t have to repeat itself,” Smoke prompted. “Right! You’re absolutely right, Mr. Jensen. Matter of fact, we was just leavin’—right, boys?” Three heads nodded in unison. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jensen. Have a good afternoon.”

  Smoke breathed deeply as the last one left the saloon. At least he had prevented a shootout this time.

  Twenty-five

  Tall columns, with black bottoms and white anvil-heads, climbed tens of thousands of feet into the azure sky to the northwest. Like scouts ahead of a military movement, long, roiling fingers of the gathering mass tumbled across the vast dome of blue. Smoke Jensen eyed the building storm with a wary eye. All hell could break loose at any time, he knew.

  Although not as tempestuous as their brothers of the plains, these mountain thunderstorms could unleash enough violence to claim their relationship. So far, the leading edge of this jumble of cumulo-nimbus skirted diagonally across the trail Smoke followed. It didn’t yet look dangerous enough to take his mind off the gnawing certainty that he knew the destination sought by Phineas Lathrop. The problem was, he couldn’t put a name to it. A muted rumble of distant thunder brought his attention back to the building storm.

  Fully a third of the horizon to the north and west now lay robed in green-tinged black. The clouds towered up and seemed to bend out over
him. A huge, rain-bloated thunder-head glided over the sun. Eye-hurting in their brightness, silver shafts splintered outward around its edge as the solar orb tried to exercise dominance. This was getting serious, Smoke Jensen realized. He raised the collar of his sheepskin jacket as a jet of cold air squirted out of the forward wall of the tempest and rushed down the canyon where Smoke rode.

  At once, Smoke began to look for some place to take shelter. As a youth, he had traveled all of this country with Preacher. He knew of abandoned fur trappers’ cabins, large rock overhangs, and an occasional cave. It was this latter he sought now. If he had reckoned his position right, a series of small caves dotted the canyon walls some short ways ahead.

  The mutter of far-off thunder grew louder. Flashes of lightning could be seen in the overcast that spread toward him at an alarming rate. He touched blunt spurs to Dandy’s flanks and urged more speed. The big roan stallion walled his eyes and twitched nervous ears. Smoke could physically sense the change in pressure.

  Without warning, the sky split apart in the manner attributed to Judgment Day. A white bolt caved into half a dozen wicked forks with the sound of ripping sailcloth. The odor of ozone hung heavily long after the cannon blast of thunder rumbled away down the canyon. Dandy needed no more urging. The frightened animal set out at a fast lope. Smoke Jensen screwed the hat tighter onto his head, his eyes busy searching for any sign of the anticipated caves.

  Large, fat drops, still bearing the chill of early spring, began to pelt Smoke’s back and slap him in the face. They fell like balls of mercury attached to silver strings. The crops were reasonably far apart at first, then the downpour thickened and their size grew smaller. Visibility began to reduce for Smoke. If he didn’t find a cave soon, he realized, he would be caught out in this tumult.

  A freight train sound rushed at him from the left. Two minutes and half a mile sped by when Smoke thought he could make out a small, black dot against the buff and gray of the canyon wall. He drew nearer and located the narrow ledge that formed a path to the entrance of a cave. Quickly he reined in and dismounted. Already soaked to the skin, Smoke led his jittery mount up to the hoped-for shelter.