“I don’t see a damn thing,” Cletus said, squinting into the sun’s glare off melting snow on slopes leading toward the pass.
“Neither do I,” Smoke told him. “I just figure it’ll be a good idea to stay watchful.”
Bob and Duke drew their rifles, levering shells into the firing chamber, resting the buttplates against their thighs as their horses carried them higher. Cletus remained unconvinced for the present, leaving his rifle booted.
“Could be all you smell is a skunk,” Cletus argued, when nothing moved on either side of the pass.
“Maybe,” Smoke said softly, his experienced eye roaming back and forth across steep slopes dotted with smaller pirion pine trees and still barren aspen, it being too early in the spring for new leaves. “Skunks come in several shapes. I’m lookin’ for the two-legged variety. They’ve got a different smell.”
The sounds of hooves filled a silence. Smoke left his rifle in its boot, opening his coat to be able to reach for both Colts in case he needed them in a hurry.
Then he saw the source of his concerns, five or six Apache warriors by the cut of their hair, brandishing rifles, rounding a cutbank near the top of the pass. They rode to the crest of the trail and halted their multicolored ponies, fanning out, blocking the pathway of Smoke and his neighbors.
“Son of a bitch!” Cletus exclaimed, pulling his Winchester free. “How the hell did you know, Smoke?”
Smoke halted his horse without answering Cletus, judging the distance, measuring how much drop a slug would take reaching an Indian more than three hundred yards away. A .44 caliber rifle cartridge held a considerable amount of gunpowder, properly loaded with the maximum number of grains, but unlike a Sharps, its range was far more limited and the bullet had a tendency to fall at shorter distances, requiring a higher aim and a piece of luck.
Only now, Smoke unbooted his Winchester, when it became all too clear the Apaches were after their horses and money, blocking the roadway through El Vado Pass. He chambered a shell. “I’ll aim over their heads once,” he told the others, “a warning shot to convince ’em we’re willin’ to fight our way through if we have to. Maybe we can scare ’em off. We’ve got ’em outnumbered. I’d be willing to bet these are young renegades, not older warriors with a lot of fighting experience. Let’s hope they back off.”
Aiming well above the warriors’ heads, he triggered off a booming shot that echoed off the slopes. The result was not what he expected.
All five Apaches jumped their ponies forward, shouldering rifles, racing down the trail to engage the enemy. Smoke took it in stride, levering another round. “Start droppin’ as many as you can, soon as they’re in range,” he said, placing his rifle sights on a warrior’s blanketed chest. He heard war cries and the thunder of unshod hooves.
Smoke fired, feeling the Winchester slam into his shoulder. The Apache disappeared from his sights almost instantly, performing a backflip off the rump of his galloping pinto.
Cal fired before Smoke could aim again, and to Smoke’s surprise a squat Apache warrior toppled to the ground, rolling in snowmelt slush and mud, arms and legs like the limbs of a limp rag doll, until he tumbled to a halt at the base of a pinon pine.
“Nice shot,” Smoke told the boy, when only three Indians remained in the reckless charge.
“I allowed fer the drop like you showed me,” Cal said as he worked another cartridge into place, his horse prancing underneath him following the explosion so near its ears.
A fierce war cry ended the instant Smoke pulled the trigger and an Apache tossed his rifle in the air to reach for his throat while he was falling backward. Before anyone could fire another shot, the last two Indians swerved their ponies around, drumming heels into the little horses’ sides to race back up to the top of the pass.
Without a word, Smoke urged his Palouse forward, keeping one eye on the fallen warriors and the other on the pass. When he came to the first downed Indian, he saw a pulpy round hole in the Apache’s neck and a circle of blood growing around his head. He would be dead in a matter of minutes.
The Apache Cal had shot had a mortal wound near his heart, and while he was still breathing slowly, his life would end soon. Cal rode up just then, peering down at what he’d done.
“Jesus,” the boy whispered, losing some of the pink in his cheeks. “Looks like I killed him.”
The others rode up to inspect Cal’s handiwork.
“You done yerself proud, boy,” Pearlie said. “Couldn’t have done no better myself at half that distance.”
“You sure as hell can shoot, son,” Bob said. “I had you figured to be a little bit on the young side to have any nerve, but I was damn sure wrong.”
Smoke gave Cal a nod, all that was needed to praise him for the time being. Later, he would tell the boy how steady his aim and nerves had to be to make that kind of shot at a moving target from two hundred yards away.
Riding further up the trail, Smoke gazed down at his first victim briefly. A bullet hole ran through the warrior’s side, exiting near his backbone. “This one’s gonna die slow. Maybe, if his friends come back for him after we’re across this pass, it’ll be a lesson to them.”
Pearlie was grinning, looking at Cal. “I’m right proud of this young ’un. His color ain’t all come back just yet, but fer that kind of shootin’, I’m gonna overlook a little bit of change in his face. Damn nice work, son.”
Sixteen
Jessie Evans had promised he would put a stop to that damn Englishman’s interference. John Tunstall was complaining to the sheriff, the territorial governor, and almost everyone else about cattle rustling in Lincoln County, and the killings, even though there was no real evidence as to who was responsible. Witnesses were hard to come by. But when Jimmy Dolan said he wanted the Englishman taken care of right then, after another complaint had reached Sheriff Brady this morning, there wasn’t anything to do but get the job done immediately.
Today, riding with two new gunmen he’d recently hired, Tom Hill and Billy Morton, they were headed to Tunstall’s ranch to scare him out of the country or silence him. Jessie would have been more comfortable bringing extra men with him, however, word had it that Tunstall had only five or six green kids working for him and with Dolan screaming his head off to put the Englishman in his place, either headed back to England or in a six-foot hole in the ground, Jessie decided the three of them could handle it rather than ride all the way out to Bosque Redondo to pick up a few more shooters. On the road to Tunstall’s ranch, Jessie told Billy and Tom what he wanted done.
“Look for any excuse to kill him,” Jessie said, “an’ if any of them wet-noses reach for a shootin’ iron, blow ’em away. We gotta get this done right. Jimmy’s madder’n hell about all them letters Tunstall’s been writin’.”
“Why do we need an excuse?” asked Billy, a narrow-eyed man who had a reputation in West Texas as a backshooter. “Let’s just ride up to the house an’ kill the son of a bitch. Mr. Dolan don’t have to know. We can say he went for a gun.”
“There may be too many witnesses,” Jessie replied. “If we have to, we’ll take him off somewheres at gunpoint an’ do the job where nobody’s watchin’.”
“It don’t make a damn bit of difference to me,” said Tom Hill, another Texan who made his living in the gunfighter’s trade. “Unless he’s got himself surrounded by some good men with a gun, I say we just shoot the sumbitch an’ be done with it, so we can earn our money.”
Jessie saw no need in planning it until they saw what they were up against at Tunstall’s place. “We’ll wait till we get there to make up our minds. Don’t worry none ’bout his cowboys. I’ve seen a few of ’em. Hardly more’n school boys. John Chisum is another matter. He’s payin’ top wages for men who can shoot. He aims to turn this into a killin’ contest. Dolan told me Buck Andrews is on Chisum’s payroll now, an’ so is Curly Tully. Them two boys is dangerous as snakes. I’ve knowed Buck for years, an’ when he sets out after a man, he’d best be real careful. Curl
y can be worse’n Buck, if the money’s right. Curly ain’t scared of no man on earth, an’ he ain’t opposed to killin’ a man in his sleep if he gets the chance. Chisum’s got plenty of money behind him, an’ that’s what’s gonna make this dangerous as hell. Soon as Chisum gets an army of shooters behind him like he’s doin’ now, all hell’s gonna break loose.”
Billy looked behind them, resting his palms on his saddle horn while his horse trotted down the two-rut lane leading to Tunstall’s place. “Don’t none of them names scare me,” he said in an offhanded way. “A man’s just a man when the shootin’ starts.”
Tom grunted and nodded once, sighting along the horizon as he spoke. “Billy’s right. Just show us the bastards you want killed, an’ we’ll do the rest. Couldn’t help but notice you got Bill Pickett on your payroll. Now there’s what I call a crazy mean son of a bitch. I was with him on a little job up in Fort Worth a few years ago. Didn’t know who he was back then. We was hired to help clear some hard cases out of a saloon in Hell’s Half Acre, when the law wouldn’t do it on account of they was scared of ’em. Pickett come in the back way with that scattergun, an’ when he started shootin’, wasn’t much left but blood and shredded meat all over the floor. Hell, I was half scared he was gonna shoot me, the way he was blastin’ lead all over the place. Buck Andrews an’ Curly Tully are bad men with a gun, but they ain’t never run into the likes of Bill Pickett.”
Jessie knew all too well how dangerous Pickett could be, and along with Roy Cooper, Ignacio Valdez, and the pistoleros he’d hired from below the Mexican border, Chisum would be up against so many killers, he wouldn’t have time to bid on any beef contracts, And while he never said so publicly, Jessie knew he was a match for any of them, including Pickett…
He’d tested his guns against some of the best in El Paso and Juarez, Laredo, and other tough border towns.
Crossing a gentle rise in the prairie, Jessie signaled a halt when he saw a buggy and five mounted men coming toward them. The cowboys were pushing a herd of loose horses. He recognized John Tunstall at once, even from a distance.
“Yonder he is, the feller drivin’ the buggy. This is as good a place as any, boys. Fill your fists with iron an’ we’ll charge straight toward ’em, throwin’ lead. That’ll scare off his young cowboys, an’ we’ll shoot Tunstall right here.”
Tom and Billy drew pistols. Jessie pulled his .44 and dug spurs into his horse’s sides. Firing a few rounds in the air long before they were in range, Jessie led his men toward John Tunstall and five riders… Even from here Jessie could see three of them weren’t carrying guns.
Two cowboys swung off, spurring for the top of a rock ridge to the east. The others milled back and forth for a moment near the buggy, then they rode off to the south as hard as they could ride, leaving Tunstall alone in the middle of the road.
Jessie grinned as he bore down on the buggy. This was going to be even easier than he’d thought. Tunstall’s men deserted him without firing a shot, proving they were the young cowards he had known they would be.
The Englishman reined his buggy to a halt He carried no gun Jessie could see. He watched Jessie and his men gallop up without showing any sign of fear. Tunstall wore a brown suit and a bowler hat, his usual attire. Jessie pulled his mount to a stop a few yards from the carriage.
“What was all the shooting about, Mr. Evans?” Tunstall asked as he looked at their drawn pistols. “You have frightened my men and scattered our horses. Please explain your actions.”
Jessie found it hard to believe Tunstall could be so calm in the face of three armed men who were his enemies. “Your boys did scatter like quail, Tunstall. Don’t appear they’ve got much in the way of backbone.”
“I ordered them to leave, to keep them from being injured if this were a robbery.”
“Ain’t no robbery,” Jessie told him, “You’ve been complainin’ to Sheriff Brady an’ to Governor Wallace an’ the soldiers at Fort Stanton about cattle rustlin’. You’ve wrote a bunch of damn letters accusin’ Mr. Murphy and Jimmy Dolan of bein’ behind it all. Somebody’s gotta stop you from writin’ all them goddamn letters, Tunstall, accusin’ the wrong people, makin’ ’em look bad when they ain’t done nothin’ to you. You took the wrong side in this here cattle war, Tunstall. John Chisum is a goddamn thief an’ a liar.”
Tom was looking at the rocky ridge. “Two of them yellow-bellied bastards are watchin’ us from up yonder. Me an’ Billy could ride up there an’ run ’em off.”
“Ain’t gonna be necessary,” Jessie replied, thumbing back the hammer on his Colt. “Mr. Tunstall just pulled a gun on me. Got no choice but to defend myself.” He aimed for Tunstall’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The sharp report startled Tunstall’s buggy horse— it lunged forward as a small hole puckered in his suit coat a few inches above his heart, the bullet’s force pinning him to his buggy seat for a few seconds. Billy grabbed the buggy horse’s bridle to keep it from running off.
Tunstall slumped forward clutching his chest, blood pumping from his wound. He mouthed a few silent words, hands tightening around his reins in a trembling grip.
“That oughta be the end of them letters,” Jessie said as he swung down to the ground. “Hold my horse,” he told Tom. “Let’s see if Mr. Tunstall is packin’ a gun.”
He found a small-caliber revolver hidden inside the Englishman’s coat. “Lookee here, boys. Mr. Tunstall was armed. Even though he’s the same as dead right now, he’s gonna fire a couple of shots at us.”
Jessie aimed the pistol at the ground, firing twice, again spooking the horses. Then he placed the revolver in Tunstall’s right hand and pushed him back against the buggy seat.
“Now then,” Jessie said, grinning a one-sided grin with no humor in it. “What we got here is a case of self-defense, an’ you boys can testify Mr. Tunstall’s gun fired two times.”
“I seen it with my own two eyes,” Tom replied casually.
“I was lookin’ right at him when he tried to kill you,” Billy said. “Plain and simple, Jessie. You didn’t have no choice but to defend yourself. I’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles as high as your head.”
“Only thing to worry ’bout,” Tom said, glancing back to the ridge, “is them two. They seen what happened.”
Jessie climbed back on his horse. “Too far away. Nobody can be sure who they saw, or exactly what happened from so far off.”
“We can ride up there an’ kill ’em,” Tom suggested. “I see one wearin’ an old top hat looking down at us now.”
Jessie looked at the ridge again. “I remember him. He came to Bosque Redondo lookin’ for a job with us. I ran him off ’cause he was too young. Seems like he said his name was William Bonney.”
“If we ain’t gonna kill ’em, let’s clear out,” Billy said, “No tellin’ who else might come along.”
Jessie gazed down at John Tunstall. Tunstall was still able to breathe, although now blood was coming from his mouth and nose in rivulets. “We did what we set out to do. Jimmy’s gonna be real glad to hear Mr. Tunstall won’t be writin’ no more of his damn letters.”
Tom and Billy swung their horses away from the buggy, but they waited when Jessie sat his horse. Jessie stayed a moment longer, watching blood pool on the floorboards of the buggy.
“What’s wrong, boss?” Tom asked.
“Just thinkin’. I say it’s time we quit messin’ around. I say we kill every son of a bitch who does business with Mr. John Chisum, no matter who it is.”
“Suits me,” Billy remarked. “I thought that’s what we was gettin’ paid to do anyways.”
“Murphy ain’t got enough starch in him,” Jessie said. “If he wants to end this war real quick, he’ll just turn us loose to burn a little gunpowder.”
“One of us oughta keep an eye on John Chisum’s ranch,” Tom suggested. “Anybody who shows up to buy cattle, we kill ’em. Won’t be long till word spreads that it’s dangerous, buyin’ beef from Chisum.”
Jessie th
ought about it. “That’s one hell of a good idea, Tom. I’ll ask Jimmy. The first sumbitch who comes to Chisum’s spread buyin’ cattle, we kill ’em soon as they get out of earshot of the ranch.”
Billy was watching the ridge. “I still claim we’d be a lot smarter to ride up there an’ kill them two.”
Jessie wagged his head. “Leave ’em be. Sheriff Brady ain’t gonna believe ’em anyways.”
“Whatever you say, Jessie. You’re the boss.”
Jessie led his men away from the buggy at a trot, in no real hurry to leave the scene. Down deep, he knew he had just put out one of the major fires causing trouble in Lincoln County, and when word of it reached Chisum and some of his friends, this cow war would soon be over.
At the top of the rise, he looked backward. The two cowboys who rode for Tunstall were riding their horses carefully down to the buggy. “That oughta teach ’em a lesson,” he said under his breath, kicking his horse to a short lope.
Seventeen
Smoke took Cal aside while the others sat around their fire eating beans and fatback. Cal had been behaving strangely since he’d shot the Apache, riding along in what appeared to be a moody silence. As soon as Smoke got the boy off in the dark, he gave him a questioning look.
“What’s eatin’ on you, Cal?”
Cal couldn’t look Smoke in the eye, gazing up at the stars for a time. “I reckon it’s rememberin’ that Indian I shot back yonder, Mr. Jensen, remembering what he looked like with that big hole in him… knowin’ I done it.”
“Killin’ a man is never easy,” Smoke said gently. “Sometimes it’s necessary. Those Apaches were coming after us, and if one of ’em had gotten off a lucky shot, one of us might have been killed. You did what you had to do in order to save your friends and that’s part of accepting the responsibility of being a man.”
Cal shoved his hands in the front pockets of his denims. “I wasn’t scared or nothin’ like that. I reckon I hadn’t oughta admit it, but it sorta made me sick when I seen what I done. I wish I could be more like you, Mr. Jensen. I’ve seen what you done to bad men, like them boys who rode with Sundance Morgan. I seen how you stay calm, like it don’t rattle you none when you kill somebody.”
Battle of the Mountain Man Page 9