Vengeance of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Pearlie said, “But what about Smoke? How’ll he know what happened to us? He’s expectin’ us back at camp in the morning.”

  Puma smiled. “Don’t you worry none about that. I’ll tell him what you done and where you’re gone to. Now git goin’ if’n you want to make it in time fer breakfast.”

  The two men lifted Cal into the saddle, and Pearlie climbed on behind, his arms around the younger man. “Just a minute,” Cal said, feeling his empty holster. “Where’s my Navy?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Pearlie said, “I’ll get you another one.”

  Cal shook his head. “No. That was Smoke’s gun when he came up here with Preacher. It means somethin’ special to me, an’ I won’t leave without it.”

  Puma dug in the snow where Cal had fallen until he found the pistol. He brushed it off and handed it to the teenager. “Here ya’ go, beaver. You might want to check your loads ’fore you put it in your holster.” He glanced back, surveying the outlaws’ bodies lying around camp. “Looks like you mighta used a few cartridges in the fracas earlier.”

  Pearlie grinned as they rode off. “That we did, Puma. That we did.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sundance stood in the middle of a small clearing, hands on his hips, surveying the carnage surrounding him. It was a little past dawn and he, Jeremiah Gray Wolf, Lightning Jack Warner, and two of his hired guns from the Mexican border came here when they heard an explosion and gunshots the previous night.

  The two Texas cowboys riding with him were standing to one side, trying not to look at the mutilated bodies covered with a thin layer of snow, slowly rotting in early morning light despite low temperatures so high in the mountains. Their faces pale and drawn, both men appeared to be about to lose their breakfast over the grisly sight, bloody remains scattered everywhere, fire-blackened corpses sprawled in patches of pink snow.

  “Gray Wolf,” Sundance snarled, his voice thick with anger, “scout around camp to see if you can tell how many men did this.”

  “Okay, boss, but it’s gonna be tough. The tracks’re messed up and the snow’s startin’ to melt.”

  Sundance fixed him with a hard stare, “Don’t give me any of your goddamn excuses, just do it!”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lightning Jack squatted beside One-Eye Jordan’s mutilated corpse. It lay atop that of another man who’d been blown into several pieces by the force of a dynamite explosion. Jordan’s body, cut virtually in half by double-barrel shotgun loads, was intermingled with various parts of other bodies.

  Lightning Jack thumbed back his hat and stood up. “These boys died hard, Sundance, real hard.”

  Sundance made a face. “You know any easy way to die, Jack?”

  Lightning Jack grunted. “Sure. Shot in the back when I’m ninety years old by a mad husband while I’m humpin’ his twenty-year-old wife.” His eyes narrowed as he looked around at other bodies lying in the snow. “But that don’t appear too likely if we stay on this mountain huntin’ Smoke Jensen.”

  Sundance glared at his companion. “You figuring on leavin’, Jack?”

  Jack shrugged. “No. This Jensen’s startin’ to piss me off. I plan to dust him through and through, then piss on his lifeless carcass.”

  Sundance gave a tight smile. “Good.” He glanced at the two Texas gunmen, talking quietly off by themselves. “How ’bout you two?” he asked. “You boys havin’ any second thoughts ’bout the job I hired you to do?”

  Both men shuffled their boots in the snow, refusing to meet Sundance’s gaze. “Uh, no boss. We’re in fer the duration,” one of the cowboys mumbled, although he didn’t sound all that convinced. “It’s just that . . .” he hesitated, looking at his partner. “Well, this Jensen’s done kilt some of the toughest men I ever rode with, an’ it don’t appear that any of them managed to get a shot into him while he was doin’ it.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking down at his feet. “Me and Josh here was just thinkin’, maybe it’d be better if’n we went back down to the base of the mountain an’ waited fer him to come outta these hills.”

  Sundance asked sarcastically, “An’ just how long do you two think we’d have to wait?”

  The other cowboy, Josh, said hopefully, “Not too long, boss. Winter’s comin’ an’ he’ll have to come down sometime fer supplies an’ such. Nobody could live through a winter in these mountains without stockin’ up on vittles and necessaries.”

  Sundance shook his head in disgust. “You idiots. Jensen is a mountain man. Do you know what that means?”

  When they failed to answer, he went on. “You could stick Jensen buck naked in the middle of a blizzard without a horse or a gun and he’d be sittin’ by a fire, covered with furs, eatin’ deer meat before you could get back down the mountain.”

  Jeremiah Gray Wolf looked up, no longer studying tracks, and nodded. “He’s right, boys. My people have a name for these old mountain men. They call them ghosts of the mountains, an’ sing songs about them at tribal gatherings.”

  Lightning Jack frowned down at him. “You sayin’ we don’t stand a chance agin’ him, Gray Wolf?”

  Gray Wolf straightened, looking around at the heavy, snow-clad forests surrounding them. “No, they can be killed only if your heart is strong and your medicine is powerful.” He pointed to bloodstained snow near his feet. “They’re flesh and blood, just like us, an’ they bleed if you manage to put a slug in one, like this one here did.”

  Sundance and Lightning Jack ambled over to where he stood, followed reluctantly by the pair of Texans. “What do you see?” Sundance asked.

  Gray Wolf squatted, pointing to tracks and blood in the snow. “Looks like one of the attackers was hit hard, maybe even killed. He spilled a lot of blood before he was moved.”

  Sundance’s forehead wrinkled. “You say one of the attackers. That mean there was more’n one?”

  Gray Wolf pursed his lips as he studied the tracks. “Yeah. At least two, maybe three. Look here,” he bent down and pointed at hoof prints. “This bronc’s a pony, an’ he ain’t wearing any shoes.”

  “You mean an Injun is helpin’ Jensen?” asked Lightning Jack, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Gray Wolf shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be an Indian, or could be another mountain man. Some of the ancient ones ride in the Indian way, on ponies without shoes.”

  “Damn!’” Sundance slapped his thigh with an open palm. “I was afraid of that! Jensen’s got himself some help.” Before he could say anything else, a shout rang out while a rider galloped down the trail toward them, waving his arms in the air.

  As the rider’s horse slid to a stop in mushy, melting snow, Lightning Jack stepped to Sundance’s side and spoke softly in his ear. “That there’s Jack Robertson, boss. He was ridin’ with Bull and Moses Washburn’s group.”

  The sweating cowboy, chest heaving, jumped out of his saddle and ran over to Sundance. His eyes bugged wide at the sight of the devastation around him and the mutilated bodies lying like so much cordwood. “Jesus and Mary . . .” he whispered, sleeving sweat off his forehead.

  Sundance glanced over his shoulder at the corpses, then back at Robertson. “You’ve seen dead men before. Now, what’s so all-fired important for you to leave your bunch and come runnin’ up here like your tail’s on fire?”

  Robertson shook his head, gulping to swallow bile rising in his throat at the sight of his comrades blown to hell. “Well, Bull sent me down here to tell you what’s happened farther up on the mountain.”

  An impatient Sundance frowned, “Okay, get on with it, what the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “Micah Jacob had his throat cut an’ he was ridin’ no more’n ten feet behind me when it happened, an’ I didn’t see nor hear a damn thing!”

  Sundance clenched his teeth. “So? Look around you, boy. We got a whole passel of men killed here, not just one rider.” He spat disgustedly on the ground. “You mean Bull sent you down just to tell me that?”

  “No sir, that’s not all. We he
ard some gunfire last night over to the north trail, an’ rode over there this mornin’ after breakfast to see what was goin’ on.” He took a deep breath, looking at the other outlaws. “We found El Gato an’ his three Mex’s as dead as doornails.”

  Sundance cursed, “Goddammit! How’d they die?”

  “One of the Mexicans had a stake through his gut, went all the way through him and stuck out the back. The other two had their throats cut while they were sleepin’. They was still in their bedrolls.”

  “How about El Gato and Chiva?” asked Lightning Jack.

  Robertson’s face paled as he remembered what he had seen at their camp. “El Gato had been beaten to death. His ear was torn plumb off and his face looked like he’d been kicked by a bee-stung stallion. His ribs was caved in and his privates was squashed and mashed ’til you couldn’t hardly tell what they was. His jaw was drove up into his brain and his neck was broken half in two, hardly holdin’ his head on at all.”

  The two Texans glanced at each other, eyebrows raised. One said softly, awe in his voice, “El Gato was one mean hombre.”

  The other whispered, “It ’pears Jensen was a mite meaner.”

  “And Chiva?” reminded Lightning Jack impatiently.

  Robertson shook his head. “Oh, he’s alive all right, if’n you can call it that. The muscles in his ankles have been cut, and he cain’t walk nor stand up. And . . .”

  “Go on,” urged Sundance.

  “Well, it ain’t my place to say so, but I think he’s gone a little loco, scared crazy, you might say.”

  “Whatta ya’ mean?”

  “He just sits there, rockin’ back and forth, kinda foamin’ at the mouth, an’ when he hears any kinda sound, he jumps like he’s scared to death and starts to cry and wail in Spanish. If you ask me, I think Jensen done scared the hell outta that boy and he ain’t never gonna be right in the head again.”

  Sundance said, “Damn! I can’t believe Chiva saw something that scared him that bad . . .”

  Before he could say another word, a loud thump sounded from Robertson. Blood and tissue erupted from the front of his shirt and he was thrown backwards to land spread-eagled in the snow. A hole as big as a fist tunneled through his chest. Just as he hit the ground, the loud, booming sound of a Sharps Big Fifty echoed across the slopes.

  The remaining men all dove to the ground in the watery mush and melting snow. As they looked around, their guns drawn and ready, Lightning Jack yelled, “There he is, up yonder!” pointing up the mountain.

  In the distance, a small figure dressed in buckskins could be seen holding his rifle up, and the faint sound of an Indian yell filtered down through early morning mist. “Yi-yi-yi-ahhh!”

  “Goddamn,” said Sundance, “that shot must’ve been almost fifteen hundred yards.”

  Lightning Jack scrambled up on hands and knees until he was behind a thick ponderosa pine. “Yeah, an’ I don’t think it was a lucky hit, neither.”

  The other men rolled and crawled and ran wildly until they were also behind cover, shoulders hunched against the next shot, hoping it would be one of the others and not them.

  Sundance muttered, “Damn!” as he took a deep breath. He jumped to his feet and ran to his horse, pulling his Henry rifle out of its saddle boot and positioning himself behind his mount. He jacked a round into the chamber, aimed over the saddle, and began to fire.

  The mountain man could be heard laughing as bullets dug up earth and mud less than a third of the way upslope. Puma Buck put his Sharps to his shoulder and fired, the. 50 caliber bullet hitting Sundance’s horse in its shoulder. The force of the slug knocked the horse sideways, killing it instantly, throwing it on top of Sundance, who began to scream for help from his followers.

  No one moved. Lightning Jack peered cautiously around his tree. “Maybe Bull or one of the others will hear the shots and come to help us.”

  Jeremiah Gray Wolf muttered under his breath without raising his head behind a fallen log. “Not if he’s got any sense at all, he won’t!”

  One of the Texans, rattled by Sundance’s cries for help, called out, “Hey, Lightning Jack, you think maybe we ought a clear on out an’ head back down the mountain?”

  Jack shook his head. “Ain’t no use, boys. Jensen’s bound to have our back trail covered.” He paused, sweat pouring off his face despite the chill of the early morning air. “No . . . the only way off this mountain is over Jensen’s dead body.”

  The Texan glanced at his partner, eyes wide. “Or stretched out facedown across a saddle!”

  * * *

  Smoke raised his head above a bush where he was hiding and peered through binoculars down the slope toward a group of men working their way up a trail toward him. They were headed north-east, toward the peak, and if he didn’t stop them now, they would soon discover his fortress.

  George Stalking Horse was leading, leaning over his saddle horn, studying the ground for any sign of tracks. He was followed by the Southerners, spread out three abreast, their rifles resting on saddle horns, eyes flickering back and forth for any sign of danger. Toothpick brought up the rear, the butt of his Greener ten-gauge resting on his thigh.

  Through his glasses, Smoke could see they were almost even with one of his traps. He worked the lever on his Henry repeating rifle, shucked a shell into the chamber, and brought it to his shoulder. The range was too far for an accurate shot, but close enough for what Smoke had in mind.

  He elevated the barrel to forty-five degrees to give him maximum distance and squeezed the trigger gently. His big gun exploded and slammed back into his shoulder, spurting fire and smoke.

  The .44 caliber slug plowed into a large boulder next to the trail, ringing loudly, sending sparks and rock chips flying.

  At the sound, the outlaws’ horses shied to the left, toward the edge of a cliff, whinnying and crow-hopping in fear.

  A man on the outside shouted as his mount’s legs broke through the thin layer of sticks and leaves Smoke had placed over his dug-out area, and pitched sideways off the mountain ledge. Both the man’s and horse’s screams could be heard echoing off nearby ridges for several seconds as they fell, pinwheeling in freefall. A loud crash from below silenced the horrible sounds.

  One of the Southerners spurred his horse into a gallop, trying frantically to escape. The bronc’s front leg sank into a hole, causing him to swallow his head and somersault forward. His rider sailed ahead, twisting and turning in midair. He landed on his head, the fall snapping his neck and breaking his back in two places, killing him instantly.

  The remaining Southerner, enraged at his comrades’ deaths, put the spurs to his mount and charged up the trail, firing his rifle from his waist as he rode, screaming a rebel yell at the top of his lungs.

  Smoke stepped out from his bush, drew his Colt, and took an unhurried shot while bullets from the charging man’s rifle pocked dirt and mud at his feet.

  The slug from Smoke’s Colt took the gunnie in the middle of his forehead, blowing blood, brains, and hair into the air. The lifeless body slumped forward, remaining in the saddle as the horse galloped past.

  Toothpick looked down at his Greener, useless at this range, even if his nearsighted eyes could see far enough to aim it. George Stalking Horse asked softly, “Toothpick, what’ll we do now? That scattergun ain’t no use to us an’ I don’t carry nothing but a pistol.”

  Toothpick grinned, shaking his head. “Only one thing to try. Follow my lead, and kill the sonofabitch if you git the chance.”

  He stood, walking out onto the trail in plain sight. When he was away from cover he threw the shotgun to the side and called out, “Hey, Jensen. I’m unarmed. Come on down and let’s have a parley.”

  Smoke shouted back, “Have your Indian friend come out and throw down his weapons and we’ll talk.”

  George Stalking Horse stepped from the bushes at one side of the trail and tossed his pistol out in front of him.

  The two outlaws watched with hooded eyes as Smoke rode down t
oward them, Colts in each hand. He stopped his horse a short distance away and holstered his guns. “Okay gents, what’s on your minds?”

  Toothpick said, “The way I heard it, you never did shoot an unarmed man, so I guess that makes us your prisoners.”

  Smoke gave a slow smile and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You got two choices. Fight or die where you stand.”

  Toothpick held out his arms and looked around, grinning. “Fight? With what? I done throwed my shotgun away.”

  Smoke nodded at the knife in Toothpick’s scabbard. “I hear you think you’re pretty good with that blade. Want to give me a try?”

  “Sure, mister. I ain’t never found nobody I couldn’t cut to ribbons.”

  Smoke stepped out of his saddle. He pointed to the Indian. “You, stand in the middle of the trail. If you make a move, I’ll kill you.”

  George Stalking Horse gulped, “Yes sir.”

  Toothpick pulled his knife slowly out of his belt, kissed the blade, and held it low in front of him in a classic knife-fighter’s stance.

  Smoke drew his own knife and began to circle Toothpick, shifting the knife from hand to hand, his eyes boring into the outlaw’s.

  The two men closed, arms and hands moving faster than the eye could follow, swiping and slashing, blades twanging and sparking as they hit. After a moment Smoke stepped back, breathing hard, blood flowing from a three-inch gash on his forearm.

  “How’d you like that, Mister Smoke Jensen? I’m gonna cut you up, you bastard.”

  Smoke slowly raised his arm to his mouth and licked the wound, blood trickling from his lips. “If your blade was as fast as your mouth, I’d be worried. As it is, I can see I’m gonna have to give you a lesson in manners.”