Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “We don’t operate that way in the East,” Walter said, a note of disdain in his voice.

  “I reckon not. But the only thing Dead River was east of was Hell. And anybody who thinks they can put out the fires of Hell with kindness and conversation is a damn fool. And fools don’t last long in the wilderness.”

  John verbally stepped in before his son found himself slapped on his butt out in the front yard. “A young lady named Martha will be along presently. She had some foolish notion of traveling back west with you and Sally. She wants to teach school out there.”

  “Fine with me.” He looked at Sally. “Has she got the sand and the grit to make it out there?”

  “Yes. I believe she does.”

  “Tell her to start packing.”

  “But don’t you first have to get the permission of the school board?” Jordan asked.

  “Ain’t got none,” Smoke slipped back into the loose speech of the western man. “Don’t know what that is, anyways.”

  Sally laughed, knowing he was deliberately using bad grammar.

  And cutting her eyes to her mother, she knew that Abigal did, too.

  But her father appeared lost as a goose.

  And so did her brothers.

  “Well, sir,” Jordan began to explain. “A school board is a body of officials who—”

  “—sit around and cackle like a bunch of layin’ hens and don’t accomplish a damn thing that’s for the good of the kids,” Smoke finished it.

  Abigal smiled and minutely nodded her head in agreement.

  With a sigh, Jordan shut his mouth.

  Smoke looked at him. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “Why, yes, I am.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Do I detect a note of disapproval in your voice, Son?” John asked.

  “Might be some in there. I never found much use for lawyers. The ones I knowed, for the most part, just wasn’t real nice people.”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that?” Walter stuck out his chin. What there was of it to stick out.

  Smoke took a sip of coffee poured from the freshly made pot. Made by Sally and drinkable only by Smoke. Jordan said it was so strong it made his stomach hurt. Walter poured half a pitcher of cream in his, and John took one look at the dark brew and refused altogether.

  “I reckon I might,” Smoke replied. But first he rolled another cigarette. “Man chooses a life of crime, he does that deliberate. It’s his choice. Hell with him. You ladies pardon my language. On the other side of the coin, a man breaks into another house and starts stealing things, the homeowner shoots him dead, and they’ll be those in your profession who’ll want to put the property-owner in jail. It don’t make any sense. And now, so I read and hear, you folks are beginning to say that some criminals was drove to it, and the courts ought to take into consideration about how poor they was. Poor!” he laughed. “I was a man grown at thirteen; doing a man’s work and going to school and looking after my sick mother, all at once. My daddy was off fighting in the war—for the gray,” he added proudly. “Not that he believed in slaves, because he didn’t. War wasn’t fought over slaves nohow.

  “We didn’t have any money. Tied the soles of our shoes on with rawhide. Ate rabbit stew with wild onions for flavor. Shot them when we had the ammunition; trapped them and chunked rocks at them when we didn’t.

  “Or didn’t eat at all,” he added grimly. “But I never stole a thing in my life. Some of our neighbors had more than they needed; but I didn’t envy them for it, and if I caught myself covetin’ what they had, I felt ashamed.

  “Y’all got a big fine house here, and I ’spect you all got lots of money. But how many times have you turned a begger-man away from your back door without givin’ him a bite to eat? That don’t happen often out where me and Sally live. If that man is able, we hand him an axe and tell him to chop some wood, then we’ll feed him. If he ain’t able, we’ll feed him and see to his needs. There ain’t no need to talk on it a whole lot more. Y’all know what I’m talkin’ about. But if I find somebody tryin’ to steal from me, I’m gonna shoot him dead.”

  Smoke stood up. “I’m gonna take me a ride around your pretty town.” He looked down at John. “We’ll talk after supper.”

  He stepped off the porch and around the stables, his spurs jingling.

  John smiled, then he laughed. “I like your man Smoke, Sally. I didn’t think I would, but I do. Even though, or perhaps because, he is a man of conviction.”

  “And is more than willing, just anytime at all, to back up those convictions, Father.”

  “Yes,” John’s words were dryly given. “I just bet he is.”

  * * *

  “That’s the way it shapes up, John Reynolds,” Smoke finished telling his father-in-law.

  The men were in the study, the door closed. Sally was the only woman present. Her brothers had not been included in the discussion. It was after dinner, and the men had smoked their cigars and had their brandy.

  John looked at York; the young Arizona Ranger met his gaze without flinching. He looked at Louis Longmont; the man was handling a rare book from John’s library, obviously enjoying and appreciating the feel of the fine leather. There was no doubt in John’s mind that the gambler had read it.

  He cut his eyes to his son-in-law. “Of course you are going to inform our local police department of this?”

  “No.”

  “But you must!”

  “No, I must not. I don’t want these men tried in some damn eastern court of law and have them serve five to ten years and then walk scot-free. And you know far better than I that is exactly what would happen, John.”

  “Then what do you propose to do, Son?”

  “I propose to notify your local police when we see them ride into town. Louis has alerted people along the way, people who work both sides of the law. Davidson is not going to ride all the way here from Colorado. Neither is Bothwell or Rycroft or Brute or any of the others. They’ll be coming in on trains, one by one, and pick up horses as close to here as possible. I got a hunch they’re going to try to tree this town.”

  “Tree?”

  “Hold it hostage. You can’t do that to a western town; folks there would shoot you so full of holes your mother wouldn’t recognize you. But an eastern town is different. You don’t have a loaded gun in this house and damn few others do, either. But I am about to correct that little problem.”

  “How?” John asked, seemingly stunned by the news.

  “I gave York some money this afternoon. He rode over to Brattleboro and picked up some weapons.”

  “You are going to arm the boys and me?”

  “No.” Smoked dashed that. “I’m going to arm Sally.”

  Her father looked crestfallen.

  “John,” Louis asked. “have you ever killed a man?”

  “What? Why . . . no.”

  “Any of your sons ever used a gun in anger?”

  “Ah . . . no.”

  “That’s why we’re not arming you, John,” Smoke told him. “It isn’t that we don’t believe you’re one hundred percent man. It’s just that you’d be out of your element. You, and ninety percent of the people in this town. Oh, a lot of men in this town fought in the War Between the States and were heroes, I’m sure. But that was war, John. I’d be very surprised if one of them could ambush a man and shoot him in cold blood.”

  “Yes,” the lawyer agreed. “So would I.”

  “There you have it, Mr. Reynolds,” York said. “You’d be thinkin’ about them bein’ human bein’s and all that. Well, these people ain’t worth a cup of puke.”

  “How quaintly put,” John muttered. “And you have other officers coming in to assist you, right?

  “What for?” Smoke asked.

  “Well, how many outlaws will there be?”

  “Oh . . . probably twenty or so. We’ll handle it.”

  John jumped up. “Are you serious?” he shouted.

  “Hell, Mr. Reynolds,” York said,
“that ain’t but six or seven apiece. I recall the time down near the Painted Rock me and two other guys fought off a hundred or more ’paches. Kilt about forty of ’em.”

  He turned his head and winked at Louis.

  “But those were savages!” John protested, not sure whether he believed the ranger’s story or not.

  Louis said, “Believe you me, John, Davidson and his bunch are just as savage as any Apache that ever lived.”

  Then Smoke told the man about some of the methods of torture Rex and Dagget enjoyed at Dead River.

  The lawyer left the room. A few seconds later, they could hear him retching in the water closet.

  “I believe you finally convinced him,” Sally said.

  John returned to the study, his face pale. “Son,” he said to Smoke, “I’ll start cleaning my shotguns and my rifle.”

  21

  The nights were cool and the days were pleasantly warm as autumn slipped into the northeast. Smoke, for the most part, stayed close to the Reynolds house; York and Louis spent their days riding around the countryside, ranging from the Vermont line to the west, up to Claremont to the north, over to Manchester to the east, and down to the state line to the south.

  There was no sign of Davidson or any of his men, and Smoke began to wonder if he had figured wrong. But there was still that nagging suspicion in his gut that the outlaws were on their way and that they would make their move before the first snow. And the first possible snow, John had said, would probably come around the middle of November.

  The twins were growing fast. They were fat and healthy babies, who laughed and gurgled and hollered and bawled and messed their diapers.

  It was fascinating to John to watch the gunslinger with the big rough hands handle the babies with such gentleness. And the twins responded to the firm gentleness, apparently loving the touch of the big, rough-looking man who, or so it seemed to John Reynolds, never took off his guns.

  The sheriff of the county and the chief of police of the town came to see Smoke, demanding to know what was going on: Why had the three come to town? What were they still doing in town?

  Smoke answered that he had come to town to see his wife’s family, and that he was still in town waiting for the babies to get big enough to travel.

  Neither the sheriff nor the chief believed Smoke’s explanation. But neither the sheriff nor the chief wanted to be the one to call him a liar.

  For exercise, Smoke took a wagon out into the timber and spent the better part of several days chopping wood. He chopped enough wood to last the Reynolds family most of the winter, and he stacked it neatly.

  On one cool and crisp afternoon in November, Louis rode over and chatted with Smoke, who was currying Drifter. York lounged nearby, the thongs off the hammers of his .44s. Only Smoke and Sally noticed that.

  “Four of them left St. Louis a week ago,” Louis said, leaning up against a stall wall. “My man was certain that one of them was Davidson. They bought tickets for Boston. Six hard-looking western men pulled out of New York City day before yesterday, after buying some fine horseflesh. Some others pulled into Pittsburgh on the river more than a month ago, bought supplies and horses, and left within a week. Still another group rode the cars from Nebraska to St. Louis, bought horses, and left weeks ago. It’s taken my people some time to put all this together.”

  Louis’s people, Smoke had learned, included not only foot-padders and whores, but paid members of the Pinkertons.

  “So we can look for them by the end of the week,” Smoke said, continuing to curry Drifter. “But Davidson is too smart to come riding into town in a gang, shooting the place up. From what you’ve said, I gather we’ll be looking at twenty to twenty-five men.”

  “At least,” the gambler agreed. “I’d guess close to thirty.” Smoke was silent for a moment, trying to recall a news article he’d read several weeks back. Then it came to him.

  “There was an Army depot robbed down in Maryland several weeks back. Did either of you read that article?”

  Louis snapped his fingers. “Yes! I did. Uniforms and military equipment taken. Smoke, do you think—?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. That would probably be the group who left St. Louis weeks ago.” He was thoughtful. “Let’s play it that way. I sure wish we had Jim Wilde and a few of the boys up here with us.”

  “Yes. That would be nice,” Louis concurred. “But it’s too late to get them here. Do we still play it close to the vest?”

  Smoke sighed. “Louis, I’ve been thinking about that. I can’t put these peoples’ lives in danger. They’ve got a right to know what and who is about to enter this area. As bad as I hate to do it, when the so-called Army patrol is sighted, I’m going to level with the sheriff and the chief of police.”

  “And Mr. Reynolds?” York asked.

  “I’ll do that as soon as he comes in from the office.”

  * * *

  John Reynolds listened, his face impassive. When Smoke concluded, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m glad you decided to confide in me, Son. I felt that you would, after further thought, take the lives of the people of this community under deeper consideration.”

  “John, listen to me,” Smoke urged. “Where is the nearest military unit based?”

  “Why . . . New York State, I’m sure. But we have a fine militia here in New Hampshire. I’ll get right on it the first thing in the morning. I’ll wire the governor and he’ll see to it immediately.”

  John did not see the look that passed between the three gunfighters.

  “How long is this going to take, sir?” York was the one who asked.

  “Oh, several days, I’m sure. The governor has to sign the orders mobilizing the unit, then the men have to be notified and moved into place . . .” He fell silent with a curt wave of Smoke’s hand. “What is it, Son?”

  “We don’t have time, John. Not for all that. Can you contact the governor tonight and have him notify the Army?”

  “I’m . . . why, certainly. And tell the Army what?”

  “Of our suspicions.”

  “I’ll get a wire off immediately.” He shrugged into his coat and called for his buggy. He looked at Smoke. “I’ll handle this part of it, Son. Be back in half an hour.”

  When he returned, his face was long. “The governor is taking an early Thanksgiving vacation.” He grimaced. “A very early Thanksgiving vacation. I sent a wire to the commanding officer of the Army post over in New York State. He’s in Washington, D.C., for some sort of hearings. Son, we appear to be hitting a stone wall every way we turn in this matter.”

  “I got a bad feelin’ about this thing,” York said. “I got a feelin’ it’s gonna break loose on us tomorrow.”

  “And those are my sentiments, as well,” Louis agreed. “What is your opinion of the sheriff and the chief of police, John?”

  “Oh, they’re good men. But with only a small force between them.”

  Smoke and Louis and York had already checked on the cops in the town and county. A very small force. Five men, to be exact. But they all agreed the cops and deputies checked out to be good, stable men. But not gunfighters.

  The hall clock chimed. It was growing late. “We see them first thing in the morning,” Smoke said.

  “I’ve packed my things,” Louis said. “I’ll stay here, with your permission, John.”

  “Of course, of course. I insist that the both of you stay.” He glanced at York, received a nod, then looked at Smoke. “We’ll see the sheriff and the chief first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  The sheriff was very indignant. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have leveled with us first thing, Marshal,” he said to Smoke.

  “Because by doing that, you would have alerted the militia and the Army and deputized every man in the county. And that would have scared them off.”

  “So? That would have been a bad thing?”

  “In a way, yes. They would have just laid back and hit you when you stood the men down and se
nt them home. How many men can you muster? Good men, Sheriff.”

  “Jensen, we don’t have gunfighters in this town. We have shopkeepers and schoolteachers and farmers and small businessmen. And a nice fat bank,” he added grimly.

  “How fat?” Louis inquired.

  The sheriff hesitated. But Louis Longmont was known worldwide, not only for his talents with a gun and with cards, but also as a very rich man. “Very fat, Mr. Longmont. And need I remind you all that today is the last day of the month?”

  Payday for most working people. The bank would have pulled in more money to meet the demand.

  “They planned it well,” Smoke said, as much to himself as to the others. “How well do the people listen to you, Sheriff?”

  The question caught the lawman off guard. “Why . . . I don’t know what you mean. They elected me.”

  “What I mean is, if you told them to stay off the streets today, would they heed your words?”

  “I feel certain they would.”

  The door to the office burst open and a flustered-looking stationmaster stepped in.

  “What’s the matter, Bob?” Chief of Police Harrison asked.

  “I can’t get a wire out in any direction, Harrison. My unit is dead as a hammer.”

  Louis snapped his fingers. “They’re planning on using the train to get away. Remember all the horses I was told they’d bought, Smoke? They’ve stashed them along the railway, and they’ll ride the train north to their horses.”

  “Huh? Huh?” the stationmaster asked, his eyes darting from man to man.

  “And the uniforms they stole were not meant to be used here,” Smoke added. “They’ll be used as a getaway after they’ve ridden the train north. And it will be north. When they get close to the Canadian line, they’ll peel out of those uniforms and ride across as civilians, after splitting up.”

  The mayor of Keene had stepped in while Louis was talking. “What’s all this?” George Mahaffery asked. “I’m trying to get a wire out to my sister in Hanover, Bob. Old Sully tells me the wires are down. What’s going on here?”