Vengeance of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Okay, boss. I’ll holler if’n anyone tries to rob the bank,” he replied, grinning around his plug of tobacco.

  Monte walked down the street toward Louis Longmont’s saloon, his gunfighter’s eyes scanning buildings and the citizens of Big Rock he was sworn to protect. He was about to put them in more danger than they had ever been in before.

  Walking slowly through batwing doors, he paused for a moment out of habit, to let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness.

  A deep voice called from the gloom. “You may enter, Monte. There isn’t anyone here waiting to bushwhack you.”

  Monte grinned. Louis, an expert gunman himself, had recognized and appreciated his caution when entering a room without knowing who might be waiting inside. “That’s mighty easy for you to say, Louis. You ain’t walkin’ around town with a tin target pinned to your chest.”

  Louis shook Monte’s hand without rising from his corner table, one reserved for the owner of the saloon and gambling house. “Can I have André fix you something to eat, or are your taste buds permanently ruined by eating that fire-food down at Maria’s cantina on the edge of town?”

  Monte raised his eyebrows. “Sure, I’d love some grub, long as it ain’t frogs or snails or any of those other French delicacies your man is always trying to push on me.”

  Louis chuckled and called over his shoulder. “André, how about fixing the sheriff some real Western cuisine? Something like a beefsteak, burnt black and charred, fried potatoes, and some of those vine-ripened tomatoes we were saving for someone special.”

  Monte added, “And a pot of coffee. Hot, black, and strong. We’re gonna need it.”

  Louis cocked his head, staring into his friend’s eyes. “Bad news? Not about Smoke, I hope.”

  Monte handed him the letter. “Here, read this and then we’ll talk.”

  Louis took the paper and read out loud. “To Sheriff Monte Carson, Big Rock, Colorado. From Texas Ranger’s branch office in San Antonio. Dear Sheriff Carson, In answer to your inquiry of last week, there has been some news of the gunfighter Sundance Morgan. He and a gang of about twenty or thirty men are alleged to have robbed a stage line office in South Texas and killed the stationmaster, his wife, the stage driver and shotgun guard, and a passenger. Apparently, three female passengers were taken with the men when they fled. The stationmaster’s daughter, a girl of thirteen, managed to hide and escape serious injury when the station and stage were set on fire. She didn’t see much, but remembers the name Sundance being mentioned several times by the bandits. When they left, she said they rode off to the north. She says she also heard the name Smoke Jensen mentioned. Regards, Ranger Captain Ted Longley.”

  Louis looked up from the paper just as André placed a plate with a large steak, potatoes, tomatoes, and a hunk of fresh-made bread in front of Monte. A young man brought out a silver coffee server and placed it along with two china cups and saucers in front of them.

  Louis folded the letter neatly and laid it on the table. “Looks like Smoke was right. This Sundance character is on the prod for him, and has an abundance of help.”

  Monte nodded around a mouthful of steak. “Yep,” he mumbled, “my guess is that they’ll be here within a week. That letter is dated ten days ago, so the gang could be over halfway here by now. I don’t figger Sundance is gonna let any grass grow under his feet lookin’ for Smoke. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.”

  Louis poured them both coffee, adding a dollop of fresh cream and two spoonfuls of sugar to his cup. He took a sip, then pulled a long black cigar out of his vest pocket and lit it with a lucifer. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he pointed it at Monte and said, “And, unless I miss my guess, you have a plan for when the gang arrives in Big Rock.”

  Monte grunted and held up his hand. “Just let me finish this steak and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  While the sheriff ate, Louis leaned back and smoked his cigar, thinking about all the times he and Smoke had pulled iron together. He wished Smoke had dealt him into this hand, but he supposed he respected the man’s desire not to get any of his friends hurt because of his actions.

  Finally, Monte was through with his meal. “Jesus, Louis, but that André can cook a mean steak. If you ever want to get rid of him, he can come live with me and the missus.”

  Louis grinned. “Not likely, Monte, not while I still have teeth an’ can chew. Now, tell me what you have planned for Sundance if he and his men ride into Big Rock.”

  Monte shook his head, frowning. “Not if, Louis, but when. I know that snake will come here lookin’ for Smoke first. He don’t know the area, and I doubt if he’s smart enough to find out where Smoke’s ranch is without trying here first.”

  Louis smoothed some ash into a pewter ashtray on the table. “You aren’t planning to try to handle twenty to thirty men with just you and your three deputies, are you?”

  “No, not exactly. I intend for the good citizens of Big Rock to take care of Sundance Morgan and his gang. With your help, if you’re willin’.”

  Louis smiled and puffed his cigar until the end glowed red, sending blue clouds of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. “Monte, I think I know what you have in mind, and I like it.”

  “Meet me on the field where we had the Fourth of July picnic, at five o’clock. I’m callin’ a town meeting.”

  He reached in his pocket for money, but Louis waved a dismissive hand. “No, Monte, the meal’s on me. I’ll close the saloon and have all my employees come with me. We’ll need every gun we can get.”

  * * *

  The fall sun was inching toward the horizon, casting long, cool shadows by the time the town’s inhabitants had all gathered at a large field just beyond the city limits. Every store and commercial establishment was closed, with handwritten notes in most windows, “Gone to the meeting.”

  Monte stood on a small wooden bandstand and addressed the crowd. “Good citizens of Big Rock, we’ve got trouble headed our way, and unless we stand together, we’re gonna be in for a tough time.”

  Al Jamison, owner of the livery stable, was standing in the front row. He held up his hand like a kid in school. Monte nodded at him. “Al?”

  “What kinda trouble, sheriff?”

  “You all remember that little fracas we had here a few years back, when Tilden Franklin attacked the town? Well, one of the gunmen he hired at the time, man name of Sundance Morgan, is on the prod and wants some revenge for what happened that day.”

  A lady in the middle of the crowd cried, “Is he comin’ for you, Sheriff Carson?”

  Monte shook his head. “No. Matter of fact, he’s not coming for anyone in this town. He’s got him a gang of thirty or so men and he aims to kill Smoke Jensen.”

  Al Jamison spoke again. “But Smoke ain’t here. He headed on up into the mountains. Left several days ago with Miss Sally. He tole me he was taking her to the train to go back East and he was goin’ huntin’ up in the high lonesome.”

  Monte spoke louder, to make himself heard over the murmur of the crowd. “That’s true. Trouble is, Sundance Morgan don’t know that. I figger he and his men will head here to find out where Smoke’s ranch is, and to see if he happens to be in town.”

  A man near the front of the crowd shouted, “If that’s so, why do you think the town’s in for trouble? Seems to me, the onliest one in trouble is Smoke Jensen.”

  Monte scowled. “Cyrus, just what do you think thirty of the toughest desperados this side of Texas are going to do when they get to town and find out Smoke Jensen ain’t here? Go to church, maybe?”

  Monte gave the crowd time to stop laughing at the blushing Cyrus, then he continued. “Hell no, they’re not. They’ll try to ride roughshod over this town and all its citizens. At the very least, they’ll shoot up the place to send Smoke a message about how tough they are.”

  He paused a moment, then pointed at a young lady carrying a parasol. “Mary, you want bullets around town while Jeremy and his friends are playin’ in the street? Or do w
e just lock ourselves in our houses and let this Texas trash come up here and scare us into being cowardly moles, hidin’ in the dark until they go on their way?”

  “Hell no,” a couple of men shouted, to be joined after only a few moments by most of the others. Soon everyone quieted and one asked, “Monte, sounds like you have some idea about what we oughta do ’bout these skunks that’re on their way up here.”

  Monte held his hands over his head to quiet the townspeople. “I do. I’ve been thinkin’ on it and I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way for us to survive this invasion by gunfighters, is to be ready for them when they hit the outskirts of town.”

  A voice shouted from the crowd. “Whatta you mean, ready for ’em?”

  “From this day on, I want every person in town, ’cepting the children, to go armed at all times. I want volunteers to station themselves on top of some of the buildings where they can command a good line of fire into the street.”

  A woman with a soft, almost timid voice said, “What about those of us who don’t know how, or don’t want to use a gun, Mr. Carson? What can we do to help the town?”

  Monte smiled. “You’re right, Miss Kathy, lots of folks don’t know nothin’ ’bout shooting other folks. After all,” he spread his arms, “this is a civilized town.”

  At that comment, most of the citizens laughed, realizing that Colorado in the late 1880s was anything but civilized.

  “Anyway,” Monte went on, “those of you who don’t want to use firearms can help the men on lookout by bringing them water and food and such so they don’t have to leave their posts every time they get the urge. A few of you, and the children, can help out by staying a couple of miles out of town on that ridge down there to the south, and rushing back here to give the rest of us some warning when they see the others comin’. Thirty men on horseback will kick up quite a dust cloud and they should be visible long before they get here.”

  “What about those of us who want to help, but don’t no money nor job so’s we can buy a gun?” asked a grizzled, poorly dressed old-timer known to spend most of his time hanging around the saloon, cadging drinks.

  Louis Longmont climbed on the bandstand next to Monte. “I will provide every man in this town with a pistol, rifle, or shotgun who will agree to use it to protect his fellow citizens.” He pointed to Gus McRae, owner and operator of the shop with the largest selection of firearms in town. “Gus, you have my pledge, in front of the entire town. I will stand good for any guns you sell for this purpose. Just keep a list and I’ll settle with you after all this is over. That includes ammunition, too.”

  “Wait just a minute.” A sour-faced woman stepped forward, pushing and shoving her way through the crowd. When she arrived in front of the platform on which Monte and Louis stood, she pointed at them with a bony finger. “Why should the good, law-abiding citizens of Big Rock go out of their way to help a known gunfighter and killer like Smoke Jensen?” She faced the crowd. “I’m asking you women out there, especially those of you in the Sunday school class that I teach, to go home to your husbands and tell them you won’t abide their taking part in this violence.” After she spoke, her face turning red and beading with sweat although the early evening air was cool, she stood there, hands on hips, looking righteous in her anger.

  Monte looked down on her with a pitying expression. “Oh, I can see your point, Miz Jones, I surely can.” He looked out over the gathering of his friends and neighbors. “Why should we go out of our way to help Smoke and Sally Jensen? What have they done for us that should make us stand behind them in their need?”

  He searched the faces for a moment, then pointed to Reverend Jackson. “Reverend, tell the good folks here about the fund for widows and orphans.”

  The man’s naturally deep and sonorous voice boomed when he spoke. “Well, right after Smoke founded Big Rock, and Miss Sally had her folks get a bank set up that has, over the years, given most of you loans to set up your businesses or buy crop seed and horses in bad times, Smoke came to me and gave me ten thousand dollars.” There was a murmur from the group, most of whom would never see that amount of money in their entire lives. “He said it was cash he’d been paid for going after a few outlaws a while back, reward money. He said he wanted it to do some good, so he gave it to me and told me to parcel it out to anyone I thought needed a helping hand. No restrictions other than they needed it.” He paused for a moment and rubbed his cheek as he thought. “Oh, one more thing. He asked me to keep quiet about it, said he didn’t want anyone to know where it came from, other than the church and good folks of Big Rock.”

  Monte said, “Thank you, Reverend. Now, how about you saying a few words, Miss Goodlaw.”

  Priscilla Goodlaw, the schoolmarm, raised her face and took off her bonnet so she could be heard. “Miss Sally Jensen came to me right after I arrived from New York. It seems she and Smoke had paid my way out here and guaranteed my salary for five years, plus they built the schoolhouse out of their own funds and provided most of the books and other teaching materials that I use to teach your children how to spell and cipher. Miss Sally also takes over the class when I’m sick and can’t teach, as most of you know, and she gives me money each and every month to give to those kids I see who don’t have enough to eat, or who don’t have proper clothes or shoes to come to school in. She made me promise to give the money to the children in private so they wouldn’t have to be embarrassed about taking charity, and to never tell them where it came from.”

  Monte grinned and said, “Thank you, Miss Goodlaw.” Turning his eyes back to the group, he said, “I could go on for hours about all the things Smoke and Sally Jensen have done for Big Rock—all the drunks and down-and-outers he’s taken out of my cells and put to work on his ranch so’s they could feed their families, all the children that’ve gotten ponies to ride to school and back on, all the businesses he’s bailed out of trouble when times were lean. But I won’t. If there’s anybody in this town,” he inclined his head downward toward Miz Jones, “other than Miss Fiona there, who don’t know who this town’s best citizen and best friend is, then they ought to move on down the line, ’cause they’ve been livin’ here with their heads buried in the sand. I say we do this not so much for Smoke Jensen, though God knows he deserves it, but for Big Rock and ourselves. If it ever gets known that our town can be treed by a bunch of sorry gunslicks who ride the owlhoot trail, then we might as well burn down the buildings ourselves and settle somewhere else, ’cause it’ll happen again.”

  The crowd let out a cheer and some of the men threw their hats in the air. Fiona Jones whirled and hurried off toward her house, where she lived alone. It was rumored only her cats could put up with her sour disposition.

  Monte said, “See my deputy, Jim, for your assignments and stations. He’ll also keep track of who’s gonna be on lookout for the gang’s arrival.”

  Louis shouted, “After you talk to Jim, come on over to my place for a free round of beer.”

  This caused a louder cheer than before and a general movement back toward town, especially of the men.

  Monte put his hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Thanks for your help, Louis.”

  “Don’t mention it, Monte. I owe Smoke my life, on several occasions.” He grinned. “And even more important than that, he’s my friend.”

  The two men walked back toward town, where, together, they would plan how best to defend their small community and make it a fortress against Sundance Morgan and his gang.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Smoke Jensen was enjoying his time alone in the up-high. The sight of wild game, the explosion of color in the late-blooming fall wildflowers, and the extreme wildness of the high country recharged his soul and brought him inner peace.

  “Horse,” he said to his mount as they traversed the mountainside, packhorses trailing behind, “this is surely the most beautiful country God ever made.”

  Horse snorted and waggled his ears, as if in agreement with his master.

  Smoke
rode with his Henry rifle slung across his saddle horn, eyes scanning the mountain above him for just the right place to make his stand. The air was crisp and cold, but not bitterly so, and smelled of pine needles and fresh snow on the way. Patches of ice-covered snow had gathered in shady areas, but most of the trail was still clear, with occasional small boggy mud holes from previous ice-melts.

  Smoke had removed his buckskin shirt and hat, taking advantage of the bright afternoon sun to tan his hide even darker than it already was. He didn’t want any pale skin to reflect moonlight and give his position away in the nighttime fighting he knew was coming.

  On the second day after he left Puma Buck’s camp, he found what he was looking for. A natural fortress only a few hundred yards below the top of the mountain. Backed on three sides by sheer rock walls extending skyward, the place had a level meadow dotted with large ponderosa pines and a ridge in front. From there, the ground fell off at a steep angle downward to end along a single trail up the mountain.

  There were few trees or boulders large enough to provide cover for his enemies between his fort and the path the men would have to take to get to him. He had a clear line of fire, and the grade was too steep for the outlaws’ horses to climb with riders on their backs. They would have to approach him on foot, if they dared.

  Leaving Horse down below on the trail, he pulled and tugged his packhorses up the hill, one at a time. Once there, he unloaded some of his supplies. He whistled as he unpacked his gear. After he had it all laid out on the ground, he planned how he wanted it distributed and set various rifles and guns and bundles of dynamite in different spots. He knew he was likely to take some lead in the upcoming fight and he feared he might not be as mobile as he wanted to be. It was essential that he have weapons in several locations because he didn’t know where he might be if he got hit.

  He made a mark, a blaze with his knife, down low on each of the trees behind which he hid weapons. His bright mark on the wood would show up well in either moon or starlight. With each bundle of dynamite he secreted some lucifers wrapped in wax paper to keep them dry in the event of snow.