Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Nobody paid any attention to Hizzonor.

  Sheriff Poley pointed at his lone deputy on duty that day. “Peter, get the women and the kids off the streets. Arm the men.”

  “Oh, crap!” York muttered.

  “I demand to know what is going on around here?” the mayor hollered.

  Nobody paid any attention to him.

  Smoke stopped the deputy. “Just hold on, partner.” To Sheriff Poley: “You’re gonna get a bunch of good men hurt or killed, Sheriff.”

  Poley stuck out his chest. “What the hell do you mean by that, Marshal?”

  “This is New Hampshire, Sheriff, not Northfield, Minnesota. Parts of Minnesota is still wild and woolly. When is the last time any man in this town fired a gun in anger?”

  That brought the sheriff up short.

  “Goddamn!” Mayor Mahaffery hollered. “Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on around here?”

  “Shut up,” York said to him.

  Hizzonor’s mouth dropped open in shock. Nobody ever talked to him in such a manner.

  “And keep it shut,” York added.

  “I’d guess the Civil War, Marshal,” Poley finally answered Smoke’s question.

  “That’s what I mean, Sheriff. Ten men, Sheriff. That’s all I want. Ten good solid men. Outdoorsmen if possible.”

  The deputy named a few and the sheriff added a few more. The stationmaster named several.

  “That’ll do,” Smoke halted the countdown. “Get them, and tell them to arm themselves as heavily as possible and be down here in one hour.” He glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. “When’s the next train come in?”

  “Two passengers today, Marshal,” Bob told him. “Northbound’s due in at eleven o’clock.”

  “They’ll hit the bank about ten-forty-five then,” Louis ventured a guess.

  “That’s the way I see it,” Smoke’s words were soft. “But when will they hit the Reynolds house? Before, or after?”

  * * *

  Farmer Jennings Miller and his wife had left the day before to visit their oldest daughter over in Milford. That move saved their lives, for the Miller farm was the one that had been chosen by Dagget for a hideout until it was time to strike.

  The outlaws had moved in during the last two nights, riding in by ones and twos, stabling their horses in the Millers’ huge barn.

  The outlaws had been hitting banks on their way east and had amassed a goodly sum of money. This was to be their last bank job before moving into Canada to lay low for as long as need be.

  And Davidson was paying them all extra for this job, and paying them well. The bank was only secondary; the primary target was Sally Jensen and the babies.

  Studs Woodenhouse had three men with him. Tie Medley had four from his original gang left. Paul Rycroft had brought two men with him. Slim Bothwell had three. Shorty, Jake, and Red. Brute Pitman. Tustin. LaHogue. Glen Moore. Lapeer. Dagget. Rex Davidson.

  Twenty-six men in all. Over one hundred thousand dollars in reward money lay on their heads.

  All were wanted for multiple murders, at least. The outlaws had nothing at all to lose.

  “Let’s start gettin’ the saddles on the horses,” Davidson ordered. He laughed. “One damn mile from the center of town, and nobody ever thought to look here. It was a good plan, Dagget.”

  “All I want is a shot at that damned John Reynolds,” Dagget growled. “I want to gut-shoot that fancy-talkin’ lawyer so’s it’ll take him a long time to die.”

  “They any kids in the Reynolds house?” Brute asked. “Say ten or eleven years old?”

  No one answered the man. He was along solely because of his ability to use a gun and his nerves of steel. Other than that, no one had any use at all for Brute Pitman.

  Not even his horse liked him.

  The outlaws began a final check of their guns. They were going in heavily armed, and Rex Davidson had said he wanted the streets to run red with Yankee bluenose blood: Men, women, and kids; didn’t make a damn to him.

  And it didn’t make a damn to the outlaws. Just as long as Davidson paid in cash or gold.

  They had gotten a third of the money. The other two-thirds they’d receive in Canada.

  Two men eased out of the cold house and slipped to the barn to curry and then saddle their mounts.

  “I sure will be glad to have me a hot cup of coffee,” Tie bitched.

  “You want to take a chance on smoke being seen from the chimney?” Dagget asked him.

  “I ain’t complainin’,” Tie replied. “I just wish I had a cup of coffee, that’s all.”

  “Coffee on the train,” Rex told them all. “And probably some pretty women.”

  “Yeah!” several of the outlaws perked up.

  “And maybe some children,” Brute grinned.

  The outlaw seated next to Brute got up and moved away, shaking his head.

  22

  Good men, Smoke thought, after looking at the men that had been chosen. Not gunfighters, but good, solid, dependable men. Their weapons were not what Smoke would have chosen for his own use, but they seemed right in the hands of local citizens. Their pistols were worn high, in flap holsters; but they wouldn’t be called upon to do any fast-draw work.

  Smoke looked outside. The streets of the town were empty. The storeowners had locked their doors but left the shades up, to give the impression that all was well.

  “You men are going to protect the bank and other buildings along Main Street,” Smoke told the locals. “When you get the bastards in gunsights, pull the damn trigger! We don’t have time to be nice about it. You’re all veterans of the Army. You’ve all seen combat. This is war, and the outlaws are the enemy. The sheriff has deputized you, and I’ve given you federal commissions. You’re protected both ways. Now get into the positions the sheriff has assigned you and stay put. Good luck.”

  The men filed out and began taking up positions. Some were hidden behind barrels and packing crates in alley openings. Others were on the second floor of the buildings on both sides of the street.

  The sheriff and his deputy, the chief of police and his one man on duty, armed themselves and took their positions.

  Smoke, Louis, and York swung in their saddles and began a slow sweep of the town.

  * * *

  At the Reynolds home, the twins had been taken down into the basement, where a warm fire had been built, and they were being looked after by Abigal and her daughter-in-law.

  “I say, Father,” Walter asked, his hair disheveled and his face flushed with excitement, “whatever can Jordan and I do?”

  “Stand aside and don’t get in the way,” the father ordered, picking up a double-barreled shotgun and breaking it down, loading it with buckshot. He did the same to two more shotguns and then loaded a lever-action rifle. He checked the loads in the pistols Smoke had given him and poured another cup of coffee. Cowboy coffee. John was beginning to like the stuff. Really pepped a man up!

  He shoved two six-shooters in his belt, one on each side. Then he took up another notch in his belt to keep his pants from falling down.

  “Who is that man running across the street?” Walter asked, peering out the window.

  John looked. “This isn’t a man, Son. That’s Martha, in men’s jeans.”

  “Good Lord, Father!” Jordan blurted. “That’s indecent!”

  John looked at the shapely figure bounding up onto the front porch. He smiled. “That’s . . . not exactly the way I’d describe the lass, boy.” He opened the door and let her in.

  Martha carried a Smith & Wesson pocket .32 in her right hand. She grinned at John. “You know me, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve always been somewhat of a tomboy.”

  “Sally is guarding the back door, Martha. She is . . . ah . . . also in men’s britches.”

  “Yes.” Martha grinned. “We bought them at the same time.” She walked back to the rear of the house.

  Sally was sitting by the rear window, a rifle in her hand. She had a shotgun leaning up against t
he wall and wore a six-gun belt around her waist.

  “Can you really shoot all those guns?” Martha asked.

  “Can and have, many times. And if you’re moving west, you’d better learn how.”

  “I think today is going to be a good day for that.”

  “The Indians have a saying, Martha: It’s a good day to die.”

  “I say, Father,” Jordan asked, “wherever do you want us to be posted?”

  John looked at his two sons. He loved them both but knew that they were rather on the namby-pamby side. Excellent attorneys, both of them. But in a situation like the one about to face them all, about as useless as balls on a bedpost.

  John laughed at his own vulgarity. “I think it would please your mother very much, boys, if you would consent to guard them in the basement.”

  They consented and moved out. Smartly.

  Sally came in and checked on her father. She grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder. “You look tough as a gunslinger, Father.”

  “I feel like an idiot!” He grinned at her. “But I do think I am capable of defending this house and all in it against thugs and hooligans.”

  “There isn’t a doubt in my mind about that, Father. Don’t leave your post. I’ll handle the back.”

  Probably with much more proficiency and deadliness than I will handle the front, he thought.

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek and winked at her.

  “Don’t let them get on the porch, Father,” she cautioned the man. “When you get them in gunsights, let ’er bang.”

  He laughed. “I shall surely endeavor to do that, darling!”

  * * *

  Smoke rode alone to the edge of town, and the huge barn to the southeast caught his eyes. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of the house, and the day was cool enough for a fire. He wondered about that, then put it out of his mind. He turned Drifter’s head and rode slowly back to town.

  The town appeared deserted.

  But he knew that behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of the homes, men and women and kids were waiting and watching. And the people of the town were taking the news of the outlaws’ arrival calmly, obeying the sheriff’s orders without question.

  Smoke, York, and Louis, all in the saddle, met in the center of town.

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

  The gambler checked his gold watch. “Ten-fifteen, and not a creature is stirring,” he said with a small smile.

  “Unless they’re hidin’ awful close,” York said, rolling a tight cigarette, “they’re gonna have to make their first move damn quick.”

  Smoke looked around him at the quiet town. “They’re close. Maybe no more than a mile or two outside of town. I’ve been thinking, boys. Jim Wilde told me that those ledger books of Davidson’s showed him to be a very rich man; money in all sorts of banks . . . in different banks, under different names, Jim guessed. The assumed names weren’t shown. So why would he be interested in knocking off a bank? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “You think the primary target is Sally and the babies?” Louis asked.

  “Yes. And something else. John Reynolds told me that Dagget has hated the Reynolds family for years, even before he got into trouble and had to leave.”

  “So John and Abigal might also be targets.”

  “Yes.”

  “This Dagget, he have any family still livin’ in town?” York asked.

  Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’d bet he does.”

  “But Dagget would still know the town,” Louis mused aloud.

  “Yes. And he would know where the best hiding places were.”

  “And he just might have supporters still livin’ here,” York interjected.

  “There is that, too.”

  The men sat their horses for a moment, quiet, just listening to the near silence.

  “Me and Louis been talkin’. Smoke, we’ll take the main street. You best head on over toward the Reynolds place.”

  Smoke nodded and tightened the reins. “See you boys.” He rode slowly toward the Reynolds house.

  York and Louis turned the other way, heading for the main street of town.

  Smoke put Drifter in the stable behind the house but left the saddle on him. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he walked around the big house on the corner. The house directly across the street, on the adjacent corner, was empty. The home facing the front porch was occupied. John had said the family had taken to the basement. To the rear and the left of the Reynolds house, looking from the street, the lots were owned by John; in the summers, neat patches of flowers were grown by Abigal.

  Smoke stood on the front porch, the leather hammer thongs off his .44s, the Henry repeating rifle, loaded full with one in the chamber, held in his left hand. Without turning around, he called, “What’s the time, John?”

  “Ten-thirty, Son,” John called through the closed front door.

  “They’ll hit us in about ten minutes. Relax, John. Have another cup of coffee. If you don’t mind, pour me one while you’re at it. I’ll keep an eye on the front.”

  The man is utterly, totally calm, John thought, walking through the house to the kitchen. Not a nerve in his entire body. He looked at his daughter. Sally was sitting in a straight-back chair by a kitchen window, her rifle lying across her lap. She looked as though she just might decide to take a nap.

  “Coffee, girls?”

  “Thanks, Father. Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  Calm, John thought. But then, he suddenly realized, so am I!

  Amazing.

  * * *

  “Why hasn’t the Army been notified?” Mayor Mahaffery demanded an answer from the sheriff.

  Sheriff Poley puffed on his pipe before replying. “Wire is down, George. ’Sides, Mr. Reynolds tried to get in touch with the governor last night. He’s on a vacation. Tried to get in touch with the commander of that Army base over in New York State. He’s in Washington, D.C. Relax, George, we’ll handle it.”

  George pulled a Dragoon out of his belt, the barrel about as long as his arm.

  Sheriff Poley looked at the weapon dubiously. “Is that thing loaded, George?”

  “Certainly, it’s loaded!” Hizzoner replied indignantly. “I carried it in the war!”

  “What war?” Poley asked. “The French and Indian? Git away from me before you try to fire that thing, George. That thing blow up it’d tear down half the building.”

  Muttering under his breath, George moved to another spot in the office.

  “Look at those guys,” Deputy Peter Newburg said, awe in his voice.

  “What guys?” Poley asked.

  “Mr. Longmont and that Arizona Ranger, York. They’re just standing out on the sidewalk, big as brass. Got their coats pulled back so’s they can get at their guns. That York is just calm as can be rolling a cigarette.”

  “Hell, the gambler is reading a damn newspaper!” George spoke up. “They behave as though they’re just waiting for a train!”

  “In a way,” Poley said, “they are.”

  “What time is it?” George asked.

  Sheriff Poley looked at him. “About a minute later than the last time you asked.”

  Before George could tell the sheriff what he could do with his smart remarks, the deputy said, “The gambler just jerked up his head and tossed the paper to the street. He’s lookin’ up Main.”

  “Here they come!” a lookout shouted from atop a building. “And there’s a mob of them!”

  Louis and York separated, with York ducking behind a horse trough and Louis stepping back into the shallow protection of a store well. Both had drawn their guns.

  Tie Medley and his bunch were leading the charge, followed by Studs Woodenhouse and his gang, then Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their followers. Bringing up the rear were Tustin, LaHogue, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Davidson, Dagget, Lapeer, Moore, and Brute were not in the bunch.

  Louis yelled out, “You men on the roof
, fire, goddamnit, fire your rifles!”

  But they held their fire, and both Louis and York knew why: They had not been fired upon. It was the age-old myth of the fair fight; but any realist knows there is no such thing as a fair fight. There is just a winner and a loser.

  Louis stepped out of the store well and took aim. His first shot knocked a rider from the saddle. York triggered off a round and a splash of crimson appeared on an outlaw’s shirtfront, but he stayed in the saddle. A hard burst of returning fire from the outlaws sent Louis back into the store well and York dropping back behind the horse trough.

  The outlaws took that time to ride up to the bank and toss a giant powder bomb inside; then they charged their horses into an alley. When the bomb went off, the blast blew all the windows out of the bank front and sent the doors sailing out into the street.

  Smoke and dust clouded the street. The outlaws tossed another bomb at the rear of the bank building and the concussions could be felt all over the town. The outlaws rode their horses into the back of the bombed-out bank building, and while a handful worked at the safe, the others began blasting away from the shattered front of the building.

  The suddenness and viciousness of the attack seemed to stun the sheriff, the chief, and the local volunteers. From the positions chosen by the lawmen, there was nothing for them to shoot at; everything was happening on their side of the street.

  Pinned down and fighting alone, Louis lost his composure and shouted, “Will you yellow-bellied sons of bitches, goddamnit, fire your weapons!”

  Of course the locals were not cowardly; not at all. They just were not accustomed to this type of thing. Things like this just didn’t happen in their town.

  But Louis’s call did get their attention, which was all he wanted.

  “Call me a yellow-bellied son of a bitch, will you?” Mayor George muttered, his ears still ringing from the bomb blasts. Before anyone could stop him, George charged out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Kneeling down, he cocked the Dragoon and squeezed the trigger.

  The force of the weapon discharging knocked Hizzoner to the sidewalk. His round missed any outlaw in the bank, the slug traveling clear through the wall and into the hardware store, where it hit the ammunition case and set off several boxes of shotgun shells.