Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “What’s the plan, Smoke?” Louis asked.

  “You about ready to pull out?”

  “Is tomorrow morning agreeable with you?”

  “Fine. The sooner the better. I thought we’d take our time, ride across Kansas; maybe as far as St. Louis if time permits. We can catch a train anywhere along the way. And by riding, we just might pick up some information about Davidson and his crew.”

  “Sounds good. Damn a man who would even entertain the thought of harming a child!”

  “We pull out at dawn.”

  * * *

  Sally had not shown her family all the wires she’d received from Smoke. She did not wish to alarm any of them, and above all, she did not wish to alert the local police as to her husband’s suspicions about Davidson and his gang traveling east after her and the baby. Her father would have things done the legal way—ponderous and, unknowing to him, very dangerous for all concerned. John had absolutely no idea of what kind of man this Rex Davidson was.

  But Sally did. And Smoke could handle it, his way. And she was glad Louis and York were with him.

  York just might be the ticket for Martha out of the East and into the still wild and wide-open West. He was a good-looking young man.

  The servant answered the door and Martha entered the sitting room. Sally waved her to a chair with imported antimacassars on the arms and back. The day was warm, and both women fanned themselves to cool a bit.

  “I was serious about going west, Sally.”

  “I thought as much. And now,” she guessed accurately, “you want to know all about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  Where to start? Sally thought. And how to really explain about the vastness and the emptiness and the magnificence of it all?

  Before she could start, the door opened again, and this time the room was filled with small children: Sally’s nieces and nephews and a few of their friends.

  “Aunt Sally,” a redheaded, freckle-faced boy said. “Will you tell us about Uncle Smoke?”

  “I certainly will.” She winked at Martha. “I’ll tell you all about the High Lonesome and the strong men who live there.”

  * * *

  They pulled out at first light. Three men who wore their guns as a part of their being. Three men who had faced death and beaten it so many times none of them could remember all the battles.

  Louis had chosen a big buckskin-colored horse with a mean look to his eyes. The horse looked just about as mean as Smoke knew Drifter really was.

  Before leaving Denver, Smoke had wired Jim Wilde and asked for both York and Louis to be formally deputized as U.S. Marshals. The request had been honored within the day.

  So they were three men who now wore official badges on their chests. One, a millionaire adventurer. One, a successful rancher. One, a young man who was only weeks away from meeting the love of his life.

  They rode east, veering slightly south, these three hard-eyed and heavily armed men. They would continue a southerly line until reaching a trading post on the banks of the Big Sandy; a few more years and the trading post would become the town of Limon.

  At the trading post, they would cut due east and hold to that all the way across Kansas. They would stay south of Hell Creek, but on their ride across Colorado, they would ford Sand Creek, an offshoot of the Republican River. They would ride across Spring Creek, Landsman, East Spring, and cross yet another Sand Creek before entering into Kansas.

  Kansas was still woolly but nothing like it had been a few years back when the great cattle herds were being driven up from Texas, and outlaws and gunfighters were just about anywhere one wished to look.

  But the three men rode with caution. The decade had rolled into the eighties, but there were still bands of Indians who left the reservation from time to time; still bands of outlaws that killed and robbed. And they were riding into an area of the country where men still killed other men over the bitterness of that recent unpleasantness called by some the Civil War and by others the War Between the States.

  The days were warm and pleasant or hot and unpleasant as the men rode steadily eastward across the plains. But the plains were now being dotted and marred and scarred with wire. Wire put up by farmers to keep ranchers’ cattle out. Wire put up by ranchers to keep nesters out of water holes, creeks, and rivers. Ranchers who wished to breed better cattle put up wire to keep inferior breeds from mixing in and to keep prize bulls at home.

  But none of the men really liked wire, even though all could see the reasons—most of the time—behind the erecting of barbed wire fences.

  They did not seek out others as they rode toward the east and faraway New Hampshire. Every third or fourth day, late in the afternoon, if a town was handy, they would check into a hotel and seek out a shave and a bath. If not, they would bathe in a handy stream and go unshaven until a town dotted the vast prairie.

  “Ever been to this New Hamp-shire, Louis?” York asked the gambler.

  “Never have, my friend. But it is an old and very settled state. One of the original thirteen to ratify the Constitution. The first settlement—I can’t recall the name—was back in 1623. But I can assure you both, if we ride in like this, armed to the teeth and looking like buccaneers on horseback, we are,” he smiled, “going to raise some eyebrows.”

  “How’s that?” York asked. “We don’t look no different than anybody else?”

  Louis laughed pleasantly and knowingly. “Ah, but my young friend, we are much different from the folks you are about to meet in a few weeks. Their streets are well-lighted with gas lamps. A few might have telephones—marvelous devices. The towns you will see will be old and settled towns. No one carries a gun of any type; many villages and towns have long banned their public display except for officers of the law. And thank you, Smoke, for commissioning us; this way we can carry firearms openly.

  “No, York, the world you are only days away from viewing is one that you have never seen before. Smoke, my suggestion would be that we ride the trains well into Massachusetts and then head north on horseback from our jumping-off place. I would suggest Springfield. And get ready for some very strange looks, gentlemen.”

  “I’m beginnin’ not to like these folks and I ain’t even met none of ’em yet,” York groused. “Don’t tote no gun! What do they do if somebody tries to mess with ’em?”

  “They are civilized people,” Louis said, with more than a touch of sarcasm in his statement. “They let the law take care of it.”

  “Do tell,” York said. “In other words, they ain’t got the sand to fight their own fights?”

  “That is one way of putting it, York,” the gambler said with a smile. “My, but this is going to be a stimulating and informative journey.”

  Louis cantered on ahead.

  “Smoke?” York asked.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s a telephone?”

  18

  “They’re in Salina,” Sally read from the wire. “Smoke, York and Louis Longmont.”

  “The millionaire?” John sat straighter in his chair. “Mr. Longmont is coming east by horseback!”

  Sally put eyes on her father. She loved him dearly, but sometimes he could be a pompous ass. “Father, Louis is an adventurer. He is also one of the most famous gunfighters in all the West. He’s killed a dozen men on the Continent, in duels. With sword and pistol. He’s killed—oh, I don’t know, twenty or thirty or maybe fifty men out west, with guns. He’s such a gentleman, so refined. I’ll be glad to see him again.”

  John wiped his face with a handkerchief. In one breath, his daughter spoke of Louis killing fifty men. In the next breath, she spoke of him being so refined.

  Not normally a profane man, John thought: What kind of goddamned people are going to be staying in my house!

  * * *

  Louis lay on his blankets and watched Smoke unroll a warbag from the pack animal. He laughed aloud when he saw what his friend was unpacking: a buckskin jacket, one that had been bleached a gray-white and tr
immed ornately by a squaw.

  “You have a touch of the theatrical in you, my friend,” Louis observed.

  “I got to thinking we might as well give the folks a show. I had it stored in Denver.”

  “Going to be interesting,” Louis smiled, pouring another cup of coffee and turning the venison steaks.

  York returned from his bath in the creek, his trousers on but shirtless. For the first time, Smoke and Louis noticed the old bullet scars that pocked the young man’s hide.

  “You’ve picked up a few here and there,” Louis noted.

  “Yeah.” York slipped into his shirt. “Me and another ranger, name of McCoy, got all tangled up with some bad ones down in the Dos Cabezas mountains; I hadn’t been with the Rangers long when it happened. McCoy got hit so bad he had to retire from the business. Started him up a little general store up near Prescott. But we buried them ol’ boys where they fell. I was laid up for near’bouts a month. ’Nother time I was trackin’ a bank robber up near Carson Mesa. He ambushed me; got lead in me. But I managed to stay in the saddle and rode on up into Utah after him. I nailed him up near Vermillion Cliffs. Picked up a few other scratches here and there.”

  And Louis knew then what Smoke had already learned: York was a man to ride the river with. There was no backup in the Arizona Ranger.

  York looked up from the cooking steaks. “Where you plannin’ on us pickin’ up the steam cars, Smoke?”

  “I’ll wire Sally from Kansas City and see how she’s doing. If she’s doin’ all right and doesn’t feel like the baby’s due any day, we’ll ride on to St. Louis and catch the train there.”

  The three waited in Kansas City for two days. Sally felt fine and the baby was not due for a month. She urged him to take his time.

  Smoke, York, and Louis rode out of Kansas City the next morning, riding into Missouri. It would be days later, when the trio rode into St. Louis and Smoke wired Keene, that he would learn Sally had been taken to the hospital the day after his wire from Kansas City. Sally and babies were doing fine.

  “Babies!” Smoke shouted, almost scaring the telegraph operator out of his seat.

  “Babies?” Louis exclaimed.

  “More ’un one?” York asked.

  “Boys,” the stationmaster urged, “don’t shoot no holes in the ceiling. We just got ’er fixed last month.”

  * * *

  They arranged bookings for their horses and themselves, and chugged out of St. Louis the next morning. It was the first time Smoke or York had ever seen a sleeping car, and both were amazed at the luxury of the dining cars and at the quality of the food that was served.

  When the finger bowl was brought around, Louis had to leave his seat to keep from laughing when York rolled up his sleeves and washed his elbows in it.

  “Ain’t you got no soap to go with this thing?” York asked the colored man.

  The Negro rolled his eyes and looked heavenward, maintaining his composure despite the situation.

  * * *

  The train stopped in Ohio and the three got off to change trains. It was an overnighter, so they could exercise their horses, get their ground-legs back, and take a genuine bath in a proper tub. All were getting just a little bit gamey. The three big men, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with their boots and spurs and western hats, twin six-shooters tied down low, drew many an anxious look from a lot of men and more than curious looks from a lot of ladies.

  “Shore are a lot of fine-lookin’ gals around these parts,” York observed. “But kinda pale, don’t y’all think?”

  Smoke and York stood on the shores of Lake Erie and marveled at the sight of it.

  “Never seen so damn much water in all my life!” York said, undisguised awe in his voice. “And would you just look at them big boats!”

  “Ships,” Louis corrected. He pointed to one flying an odd-looking flag. “That one just came down the St. Lawrence. That’s a German flag.”

  “How’d it git here?” York asked.

  “Across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Lord have mercy!”

  * * *

  When they stomped and jingled back into the fancy hotel, a platoon of cops were waiting for them.

  A captain of the police approached them, caution in his eyes and his step. “Lads, I can see that you’re U.S. Marshals, but are ye after someone in our city?”

  The cop was Irish through and through. “No,” Smoke said. “But neither have we bothered anyone here.” He looked at the mass of cops and smiled. “Kinda reminds me of that time I took on ’bout twenty-five guns at that silver camp.”

  “You fought twenty-five desperados all by yourself?” the captain asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How did it turn out?”

  “I killed them all.”

  “You . . . killed them all!”

  “Yep.”

  Several news reporters and one photographer had gathered around, for real cowboys and western gunslingers were rare in Cleveland.

  “Might I ask your name, sir?” the captain inquired.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  Pandemonium set in.

  * * *

  Smoke, Louis, and York were given the keys to the city. All three answered an almost endless barrage of questions and endured dozens of cameras popping and clicking at them. A hasty parade was called, and the men rode up and down the city’s streets in an open carriage.

  “Goddamnedest thing I ever heard of,” York muttered. “What the hell have we done to deserve something this grand?”

  “You’re an Arizona Ranger, York,” Louis leaned over and told him. “And a gunfighter, just like Smoke and myself.”

  “If you say so,” York told him. “Seems like a whole bunch to do about nothin’ if you ask me.”

  “Shakespeare felt the same way,” the gambler told him, smiling.

  “No kiddin’? Seems to me I heard of him. Ain’t he from down around El Paso?”

  * * *

  They chugged east the next morning, Smoke and York glad to be out of the hustle and bustle of it all. Louis waved good-bye to a dark-haired young woman who smiled and blushed as the train moved out of the station.

  Louis settled back in his seat. “Ah, boys, the freshness and vitality of youth never ceases to amaze me.”

  Smoke grinned. “I noticed you left the party very early last night, Louis. She certainly is lovely.”

  But Louis would only smile in reply to questions.

  They rolled on through the day and night, across Pennsylvania and into New York. In New York’s massive and confusing station, they were met by a large contingent of New York’s finest and personally escorted to the train heading to Springfield, with numerous stops along the way.

  “It ain’t that we don’t respect fellow officers, boys,” the commander of the police unit said. “It’s just that your reputations precede you.” He looked at Smoke. “Especially yours, son.”

  “Yes,” a fresh-fashed cop said. “Were it up to me, I would insist you remove those guns.”

  Smoke stopped, halting the parade. He turned to face the helmeted cop. “And if refused? . . .”

  The young cop was not in the least intimidated. “Then I would surely have to use force, laddy.”

  Louis and York joined Smoke in a knowing smile. Smoke said, “You have a pencil in your pocket, officer. I can see it. Would you jerk it out as quickly as you can?”

  The older and more wiser of the cops—and that was just about all of them—backed up, with many of them holding their hands out from their sides, smiles on their faces. A half-dozen reporters had gathered around and were scribbling furiously. Photographers were taking pictures.

  “So we’re going to play games, eh, gunfighter?” the young cop asked.

  “No. I’m going to show you how easy it is for a loudmouth to get killed where I come from.”

  The young officer flushed, and placed his thumb and forefinger on the end of the pencil, and jerked it out.

  Smoke swept back his bea
ded buckskin jacket, exposing his guns. He slipped the hammer-thong of his right hand .44. “Want to try it again?”

  The young officer got exactly half of the pencil out of his pocket before he was looking down the muzzle of Smoke’s .44.

  “Do you get my point, officer?”

  “Ah . . . ’deed, I do, sir! As one fellow officer to another, might I say, sir, that you are awfully quick with that weapon.”

  Smoke holstered. It was unlike him to play games with weapons, but he felt he might have saved the young man’s life with an object lesson. He held out his hand, and the cop smiled and shook it.

  The rest of the walk to their car was an easy one, with chatter among men who found they all had something in common after all.

  * * *

  It was growing late when they finally detrained in Springfield. They stabled their horses and found a small hotel for the night.

  The weeks on the road had honed away any city fat that might have built up on Louis and had burned his already dark complexion to that of a gypsy. They were big men, all over six feet, with a natural heavy musculature; they were the kind of men that bring out the hostility in a certain type of man, usually the bully.

  And with the knowledge that Sally and the babies—twins, Smoke had discovered when he wired during a train refueling stop—were now in danger, none of the men were in any mood for taking any lip from some loudmouth.

  They elected to have their supper in the hotel’s dining room to further avoid any trouble. As had been their custom, they wore their guns, and to hell with local laws. None of them knew when they might run into Davidson or Dagget or their ilk.

  Louis had bought York a couple of suits in St. Louis, and Smoke had brought a suit with him. Longmont was never without a proper change of clothes; if he didn’t have one handy, he would buy one.

  When the men entered the dining room, conversation ceased and all eyes were on them as they walked to their table, led by a very nervous waiter. With their spurs jingling and their guns tied down low, all three managed to look as out of place as a saddle on a tiger.

  The three of them ignored several comments from some so-called “gentlemen”—comments that might have led to a fight anywhere west of the Mississippi—and were seated without incident.