Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ah . . . man, you best be careful with them guns,” York cautioned. “You packin’ enough for an army. Are you fixin’ to start a war around here?”

  “That is my hope, York.”

  “Yeah?” Somehow, that did not come as any surprise to York. There was something about this tall man that was just . . . well, unsettling. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, hot, strong, and black. He looked at the tall man. Naw, he thought, it couldn’t be. But he sure looked like all the descriptions York had ever heard about the gunfighter. “Who are you, man?”

  Smoke pulled a badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “I’m a United States Deputy Marshal. And as far as I’m concerned, York, all those warrants against you are not valid. And when we get out of here, I’ll see that they are recalled. How does that sound to you?”

  York took a sip of coffee. Oddly, to Smoke, he had shown no surprise. “Sounds good to me, Marshal.” He stood up and pulled a gold badge out of his pocket and pinned it on his shirt. “Buddy York is the name. Arizona Rangers. I was wonderin’ if you plan on corralin’ this town all by your lonesome.”

  “That’s a good cover story of yours, Ranger,” Smoke complimented him.

  “Well, took us six months to set it up. The dodgers that are out are real. Had to be that way.”

  “I gather you have warrants for some people in here?”

  “A whole passel of them, including some on Dagget.”

  “There is a large posse on the way in. They’ll be here just at dusk. The Utes have taken care of the guards along the road.”

  York looked up at the sky. “That’s a good hour and a half away, Marshal.” He was grinning broadly.

  “That’s the way I got it figured, Ranger. Of course, you do know that you have no jurisdiction in this area?”

  “I’ll worry about that later.”

  “Consider yourself deputized with full government authority.”

  “I do thank you, Marshal.”

  “You ready to open this dance, Ranger?” Smoke sat down on a log and buckled on his spurs. He looked up as York opened another bag and tossed him a black hat, low crowned and flat brimmed. “Thanks. I am ever so glad to be rid of that damned silly cap.” He tried the hat. A perfect fit.

  “You did look a tad goofy. But I got to hand it to you. You’re one hell of a fine actor.”

  Both men stuffed their pockets full of shells.

  Rifle in hand, York said, “What is your handle, anyways?”

  “Smoke Jensen,” the tall, heavily muscled man said with a smile.

  York’s knees seemed to buckle and he sat down heavily on a log. When he found his voice, he said, “Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ!”

  “I’m new to the marshaling business, Ranger. I just took this on a temporary basis.” Then he explained what had happened at his ranch, to his wife.

  “Takes a low-life SOB to attack a lone woman. I gather you want Davidson and Dagget and them others all to yourself, right?”

  “I would appreciate it, Ranger.”

  “They’re all yours.”

  Smoke checked his guns, slipping them both in and out of leather a few times. He filled both cylinders and every loop on his gunbelt, then checked the short-barreled pistol he carried in his shoulder holster. Breaking open the sawed-off shotgun, he filled both barrels with buckshot loads. Smoke looked on with approval as the ranger pulled two spare .44s out of his warbag and loaded them full. He tucked them behind his belt and picked up a Henry repeating rifle, loading it full and levering in a round, then replacing that round in the magazine.

  “I’ll tell you how I see this thing, Ranger. You don’t have to play this way, but I’m going to.”

  “I’m listenin’, Smoke.”

  “I’m not taking any prisoners.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it myself.”

  The men smiled at each other, knowing then exactly where the other stood.

  Their pockets bulging with extra cartridges, York carrying a Henry and Smoke carrying the sawed-off express gun, they looked at each other.

  “You ready to strike up the band, Ranger?”

  “Damn right!” York said with a grin.

  “Let’s do it!”

  13

  Marshal Jim Wilde’s posse had an hour to go before reaching Dead River when Smoke and York stepped into the back of the saloon. Inside, the piano player was banging out and singing a bawdy song.

  “How do we do this?” York asked.

  “We walk in together,” Smoke whispered.

  The men slipped the thongs off their six-guns and eased them out of leather a time or two, making certain the oiled interiors of the holsters were free.

  York eased back the hammer on his Henry and Smoke jacked back the hammers on the express gun.

  They stepped inside the noisy and beer-stinking saloon. The piano player noticed them first. He stopped playing and singing and stared at them, his face chalk-white. Then he scrambled under the lip of the piano.

  “Well, well!” an outlaw said, laughing. “Would you boys just take a look at Shirley. He’s done shaven offen his beard and taken to packin’ iron. Boy, you bes’ git shut of them guns, ’fore you hurt yourself.”

  Gridley stood up from a table where he’d been drinking and playing poker—and losing. “Or I decide to take ’em off you and shove ’em up your butt, lead and all, pretty-boy. Matter of fact, I think I’ll jist do that, right now.”

  Smoke and York had surveyed the scene as they had stepped in. The barroom was not nearly filled to capacity. . . but it was full enough.

  “The name isn’t pretty-boy, Gridley,” Smoke informed him.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, mayhaps you right. I’ll jist call you shit! How about that?”

  “Why don’t you call him by his real name?” York said, a smile on his lips.

  “And what might that be, punk?” Gridley sneered the question. “Alice?”

  “First off,” York said. “I’ll tell you I’m an Arizona Ranger. Note the badges we’re wearing? And his name, you blow-holes, is Smoke Jensen!”

  The name was dropped like a bomb. The outlaws in the room sat stunned, their eyes finally observing the gold badges on the chests of the men.

  Smoke and York both knew one thing for an ironclad fact: The men in the room might all be scoundrels and thieves and murderers, and some might be bullies and cowards, but when it came down to it, they were going to fight.

  “Then draw, you son of a bitch!” Gridley hollered, his hands dropping to his guns.

  Smoke pulled the trigger on the express gun. From a distance of no more than twenty feet, the buckshot almost tore the outlaw in two.

  York leveled the Henry and dusted an outlaw from side to side. Dropping to one knee, he levered the empty out and a fresh round in and shot a fat punk in the belly.

  Shifting the sawed-off shotgun, Smoke blew the head off another outlaw. The force of the buckshot lifted the headless outlaw out of one boot and flung him to the sawdust-covered floor.

  York and his Henry had put half a dozen outlaws on the floor, dead, dying, or badly hurt.

  The huge saloon was filled with gunsmoke, the crying and moaning of the wounded, and the stink or relaxed bladders from the dead. Dark gray smoke from the black powder cartridges stung the eyes and obscured the vision of all in the room.

  The outlaws had recovered from their initial shock and had overturned tables, crouching behind them, returning the deadly hail of fire from Smoke and Arizona Ranger York.

  Smoke had slipped to the end of the bar closest to the batwing doors, and York had worked his way to the side of the big stage, crouching behind a second piano in the small orchestra pit. Between the two of them, Smoke and York were laying down a deadly field of fire. Both men had grabbed up the guns of the dead and dying men as they slipped to their new positions and they now had a pile of .44s, .45s, and several shotguns and rifles in front of them.

  A half-dozen outlaws tried to rush the batwings in a frantic attempt to
escape and were met by a half-dozen other outlaws attempting to enter the saloon from the outside. It created a massive pileup at the batwings, a pileup that was too good for Smoke to resist.

  Slipping to the very end of the long bar, Smoke emptied a pair of .45s taken from a dead man into the panicked knot of outlaws. Screaming from the men as the hot slugs tore into their flesh added to the earsplitting cacophony of confusion in the saloon.

  Smoke grabbed up an armload of weapons and ran to the end of the bar closest to the rear of the saloon. He caught York’s attention and motioned to the storeroom where they had entered. York nodded and left his position at a run. The men ran through the darkened storeroom to the back door.

  Just as they reached the back door it opened and two outlaws stepped inside, guns drawn. Smoke and York fired simultaneously, their guns booming and crashing in the darkness, lancing smoke and fire, splitting the heavy gloom of the storeroom. The outlaws were flung backward, outside. They lay on the ground, on their backs, dying from wounds to the chest and belly.

  “York, you take the north end of town,” Smoke said. “I’ll take the south end.” He was speaking as he was stripping the weapons from the dead men.

  York nodded his agreement and tossed Smoke one of two cloth sacks he’d picked up in the storeroom. The men began dumping in the many guns they’d picked up along the way.

  “Find and destroy the heathens!” a man’s strong voice cut the night. “The Philistines are upon us!”

  “Who the hell is that?” York whispered.

  “That’s Tustin, the preacher. Has to be.”

  “A preacher? Here?” The ranger’s voice was filled with disbelief.

  The gunfire had almost ceased, as the outlaws in the saloon could not find Smoke or York.

  “Oh, Lord!” Tustin’s voice filled the night. “Take these poor unfortunate bastards into the gates of Heaven and give us the strength and the wherewithal to find and shoot the piss outta them that’s attackin’ us!”

  “I ain’t believin’ this,” York muttered.

  Smoke smiled, his strong white teeth flashing in the night. “Good luck, York.”

  “Same to you, partner.”

  Carrying their heavy sacks of weapons and cartridge-filled belts, the men parted, one heading north, the other heading south.

  York and Smoke both held to the edge of the timber as they made their way north and south. The town’s inhabitants had adopted a panicked siege mentality, with outlaws filling the streets, running in every direction. No one among them knew how many men were attacking the town. Both York and Smoke had heard the shouts that hundreds of lawmen were attacking.

  Just before Smoke slipped past the point where he could look up and see the fine home of Davidson, he saw the lamps in the house being turned off, the home on the hill growing dark.

  And Smoke would have made a bet that Davidson and Dagget had a rabbit hole out of Dead River, and that both of them, and probably a dozen or more of their most trusted henchmen, were busy packing up and getting out.

  Just for a moment, Smoke studied the darkened outline of the home on the hill. And then it came to him. A cave. He would be a hundred dollars that King Rex had built his home in front of a cave, a cave that wound through the mountain and exited out in the timbered range behind Dead River. And he would also bet that White Wolf and his braves knew nothing of it. It might exit out into a little valley where horses and gear could be stored.

  Cursing in disgust for not thinking of that sooner, Smoke slipped on into the night, seeking a good spot to set up a defensive position.

  He paused for a moment, until York had opened fire, showing Smoke where the ranger had chosen to make his stand. And it was a good one, high up on the right side of the ridge overlooking the town, as Smoke stood looking north. With a smile, Smoke chose his position on the opposite side of the street, above the first store one encountered upon entering the outlaw town.

  Below him, the outlaws had settled down, taking up positions around the town. Smoke could see several bodies sprawled in the street, evidence of York’s marksmanship with his Henry.

  A handful of outlaws tried to rush the ranger’s position. Hard gunfire broke out on either side and above York’s position. White Wolf’s Utes were making their presence known in a very lethal manner. For years, the outlaws had made life miserable for the Utes, and now it was payback time. With a vengeance.

  A horseman came galloping up the street, toward the curve that exited the town. The man was riding low in the saddle, the reins in his teeth and both hands full of six-guns. Smoke took careful aim with a rifle he’d picked up in the saloon and knocked the man out of the saddle. The rider hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up on his feet. A dozen rifles spat lead. The man was hit a dozen times, shot to bloody rags. He dropped to the roadway, his blood leaking into the dirt.

  The horse, reins trailing, trotted off into an alley.

  Smoke hit the ground, behind a series of boulders, as his position was found and rifles began barking and spitting in the night, the lead ricocheting and whining off the huge rocks, spinning into the night.

  A Ute came rolling down the hill crashing against the boulder behind which Smoke was hiding. Smoke rolled the brave over and checked his wound—a nasty wound in the brave’s side. Smoke plugged it with moss and stretched the Indian out, safe from fire. The Ute’s dark eyes had never left Smoke’s face, and he endured the pain without a sound.

  Smoke made the sign for brother and the Indian, flat on his back returned the gesture. Gunfighter and Indian smiled at each other in the gunfire-filled night above the outlaw town.

  Smoke picked up his rifle as the Indian, who had never let go of his rifle, crawled to a position on the other end of the line of boulders. Smoke tossed him a bag of cartridges and the men began lacing the town with .44 rifle fire. The .44s, which could punch through a good three inches of pine, began bringing shouts and yells of panic from the outlaws in the town below.

  Several tried to run; they were knocked down in the street. One outlaw, his leg twisted grotesquely, tried to crawl to safety. A slug to the head stopped his strugglings.

  Smoke spoke to the Ute in his own language. “If they ever discover how few we are up here, we’re in trouble, brother.”

  The Ute laughed in the night and said, “My people have always fought outnumbered, gunfighter. It is nothing new to us.”

  Smoke returned the laugh and began working the lever on his Henry, laying a line of lead into a building below their position. The sudden hard fire brought several screams of pain from inside the building. One man fell through a shattered window to hang there, half in and half out of the building.

  The Ute shouted a warning as a dozen outlaws charged their position, the men slipping from tree to tree, rock to rock, working closer.

  Smoke quickly reloaded the Henry and laid two .44s on the ground beside him, one by each leg. There was no doubt in his mind that the outlaws would certainly breach their position, and then the fighting would be hand to hand.

  Smoke heard the ugly sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone, and turning his head, he saw the Ute fall backward, a blue-tinged hole in the center of his forehead. With his right hand, Smoke made the Indian sign for peaceful journey and then returned to the fight.

  He took out one outlaw who made the mistake of exposing too much of his body, knocking the man spinning from behind a tree; a second slug from Smoke’s rifle forever stilled the man.

  Then there was no time for anything except survival, as the outlaws charged Smoke’s position.

  Smoke fought savagely, his guns sending several outlaws into that long darkness. Then his position was overrun. Something slammed into the side of his head, and Smoke was dropped into darkness.

  14

  He was out for no more than a few seconds, never really losing full consciousness. He felt blood dripping down the side of his face. He was still holding onto his guns, and he remembered they were full. Lifting them, as a dozen shape
s began materializing around him in the night, Smoke began cocking and pulling the triggers.

  Hoarse screams filled the air around him as the slugs from his pistols struck their mark at point-blank range. Unwashed bodies thudded to the ground all around him, the dead and dying flesh unwittingly building a fort around his position, protecting him from the returning fire of the outlaws.

  Then, half-naked shapes filtered silently and swiftly out of the timber, firing rifles and pistols. By now, the remaining outlaws were too confused and frightened to understand how a man whom they believed to be dead from a head wound had managed to inflict so hideous a toll on them.

  And then the Utes came out of the timber, and in a matter of seconds, what had been twenty outlaws were no more than dying, cooling flesh in the still-warm mountain air slightly above Dead River.

  The Utes vanished back into the timber, as swiftly and as silently as they had come.

  Smoke reloaded his guns, pistols, and rifles, and slung the rifles across his shoulders. He wrapped his bandana around his head and tied it, after inspecting his head-wound with his fingers and finding it not serious; he knew that a head wound can bleed hard and fast for a few moments, and then, in many cases, stop.

  He loaded his pistols, then loaded the sawed-off shotgun. Then he began making his way down the hill, back into the town of Dead River. He was going to take the fight to the outlaws.

  He stopped once to tie a white handkerchief around his arm, so not only the Indians would know who he was but so the posse members would not mistakenly shoot him.

  He slipped down to the building where the outlaw was still hanging half out of the window and quietly checked out the interior. The building was void of life. Looking up the street, he could see where he, York, and the Utes had taken a terrible toll on the population of the outlaw town. The street, the alleys, and the boardwalks were littered with bodies. Most were not moving.

  He did not know how much time had transpired since he and Ranger had opened the dance. But he was sure it was a good half hour or forty-five minutes.