Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man)

by Johnstone, William W.

  Smoke wheeled Drifter and rode into the timber without looking back.

  He headed across the country, taking the shortest route to Colby’s spread. During his ride, Smoke spotted men staking out claims on land that had been filed on by small farmers and ranchers.

  Finally he had enough of that and reined up. He stared hard at a group of men. “You have permission to dig on this land?”

  “This is open land,” a man challenged him.

  “Wrong, mister. You’re on Colby land. Filed on legally and worked. Don’t be here when I get back.”

  But the miners and would-be miners were not going to be that easy to run off. “They told us in Fontana that this here land was open and ready for the takin’.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The man at Beeker’s store. Some others at a saloon. They said all you folks up here were squattin’ illegal-like, that if we wanted to dig, we could; and that’s what we’re all aimin’ to do.”

  So that was Tilden’s plan. Or at least part of it, Smoke thought. He could not fault the men seeking gold. They were greedy, but not land-greedy. Dig the gold, and get out. And if a miner, usually unarmed, was hurt, shot in any attempt to run them off, marshals would probably be called in.

  Or…Smoke pondered, gazing from Drifter to the miners, Tilden might try to name a marshal for Fontana, hold a mock election for a sheriff. Colorado had only been a state for a little over two years, and things were still a bit confused. This county had had a sheriff, Smoke recalled, but somebody had shot him and elections had not yet been held to replace the man. And even an illegally elected sheriff would still be the law until commissioners could be sent in and matters were straightened out.

  Smoke felt that was the way Tilden was probably leaning. That’s the way he would play it if Smoke was as amoral as Tilden Franklin.

  “You men have been warned,” he told the miners. “This is private property. And I don’t give a damn what you were told in town. And don’t think the men who own the land won’t fight to keep it, for you’ll be wrong if you do. You’ve been warned.”

  “We got the law on our side!” a miner said, considerable heat in his voice.

  “What law?”

  “Hell, man!” another miner said. “They’s an election in town comin’ up tomorrow. Gonna be a sheriff for a brand-new town. You won’t talk so goddamned tough with the law lookin’ over your shoulder, I betcha.”

  Smoke gazed at the men. “You’re all greedy fools,” he said softly. “And a lot of you are going to get hurt if you continue with this trespassing. Like I said, you’ve been warned.”

  Smoke rode on, putting his back to the men, showing them his contempt.

  An hour later, he was in Colby’s front yard. Wilbur Mason had joined Colby by the corral at the sound of Drifter’s hooves. A bloody bandage was tied around Wilbur’s left arm, high up, close to the shoulder. But Smoke could tell by looking at the man that Wilbur was far from giving up. The man was angry and it showed.

  “Boys,” Smoke said. “You save anything, Wilbur?”

  “Nothing, Matt…Smoke. You really the gunfighter?”

  “Yes.” He swung down and dropped Drifter’s reins on the ground. “Do any of you know anything about an election coming up tomorrow in town?”

  “No,” they said together. Colby added. “What kind of election, Smoke?”

  “Sheriff’s election. Tilden may be a greedy bastard, but he’s no fool. At the most, there is maybe twenty-five of us out here in the high country. There is probably two or three thousand men in Fontana by now. Our votes would be meaningless. And for sure, there will be Tilden men everywhere, ready to prod some of you into a fight if you show up by yourselves in town. So stay out until we can ride in in groups.”

  “Who’s runnin’ for sheriff?” Wilbur asked.

  “I don’t know. A TF man for sure, though. I’ll check it out. Bob is staying with Sally, Colby. That all right with you?”

  “Sure. He’s a good boy, Smoke. And he’ll stand fast facin’ trouble. He’s young, but he’s solid.”

  “I know that. He said Adam was riding out to check the others…what’s the word so far?”

  “They’re stayin’, Smoke. Boy’s asleep in the house now. He’s wore out.”

  “I can imagine.” His eyes caught movement near the house. Velvet. “Keep the women close by, Colby. This situation is shaping up to be a bad one.”

  “Velvet’s just a kid, Smoke!” her father protested. “You don’t think…” He refused to even speak the terrible words.

  “She looks older than her years, Colby. And a lot of very rough people are moving into this area. Tilden Franklin will, I’m thinking, do anything to prod us all into something rash. He’s made his intentions toward my wife public. So he’s pulling out all the stops now.”

  Both Colby and Wilbur cursed Tilden Franklin.

  Smoke waited until the men wound down. “How’s your ammo situation?”

  “Enough for a war,” Colby said.

  “Watch your backs.” Smoke swung into the saddle and looked at the men. “A war? Well, that’s what we’ve got, boys. And it’s going to be a bad one. Some of us are not going to make it. I don’t know about you boys, but I’m not running.”

  “We’ll all stand,” Wilbur said.

  Smoke nodded. “The Indians have a saying.” His eyes swept the land. “It’s a good place to die.”

  8

  Smoke touched base with as many small ranchers and farmers as he could that day, then slowly turned Drifter’s head toward the town of Fontana. There was no bravado in what he was about to do, no sense of being a martyr. The area had to be checked out, and Smoke was the most likely candidate to do that.

  But even he was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Long before he topped the crest overlooking the town of Fontana, he could see the lights. Long before the rip-roaring town came into view he could hear the noise. Smoke topped the crest and sat, looking with amazement at the sight that lay beneath and before him.

  Fontana had burst at the seams, growing in all directions within three days. From where he sat, Smoke could count fifty new saloons, most no more than hurriedly erected wooden frames covered with canvas. The town had spread a half mile out in any direction, and the streets were packed with shoulder-to-shoulder humanity.

  Smoke spoke to Drifter softly and the big, mean-eyed stallion moved out. Smoke stabled Drifter in the oldest of the corrals—a dozen had suddenly burst forth around the area—and filled the trough with corn.

  “Stay away from him,” he warned the stable boy. “If anyone but me goes into that stall, he’ll kill them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. He gazed at Smoke with adoration-filled eyes. “You really the gunfighter Smoke Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on your side, Mister Smoke. Name’s Billy.”

  Smoke extended his hand and the boy gravely shook it. Smoke studied the boy in the dim lantern-light of the stable. Ragged clothes, shoes with the soles tied so that they would not flop.

  “How old are you, Billy?”

  “Eleven, sir.”

  “Where are your folks?”

  “Dead for more years than I can remember.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you before. You been here long?”

  “No, sir. I come in a couple weeks ago. I been stayin’ down south of here, workin’ in a stable. But the man who owned it married him a grass widow and her kids took over my job. I drifted. Ol’ grump that owns this place gimme a job. I sleep here.”

  Smoke grinned at the “ol’ grump” bit. He handed the boy a double eagle. “Come light, you get yourself some clothes and shoes.”

  Billy looked at the twenty-dollar gold piece. “Wow!” he said.

  Smoke led the boy to Drifter’s stall and opened the gate, stepping inside. He motioned the boy in after him. “Pet him, Billy.”

  Billy cautiously petted the midnight-black stallion. Drifter stopped eating
for a moment and swung his big head, looking at him through those yellow, killer-cold, wolf-like eyes. Then he resumed munching at the corn.

  “He likes you,” Smoke told the boy. “You’ll be all right with him. Anyone comes in here and tries to hurt you, just get in the stall with Drifter. You won’t be harmed.”

  The boy nodded and stepped back out with Smoke. “You be careful, Mister Smoke,” he warned. “I don’t say much to people, but I listen real good. I hear things.”

  They walked to the wide doors at the front of the stable. “What do you hear, Billy?”

  Several gunshots split the torch- and lantern-lit night air of Fontana. A woman’s shrill and artificial-sounding laughter drifted to man and boy. A dozen pianos, all playing different tunes, created a confusing, discordant cacophony in the soft air of summer in the high-up country.

  “Some guy name of Monte Carson is gonna be elected the sheriff. Ain’t no one runnin’ agin him”

  “I’ve heard of him. He’s a good hand with a gun.”

  “Better than you?” There was doubt in Billy’s voice at that.

  “No,” Smoke said.

  “The boss of this area, that Mister Tilden Franklin, is supposed to have a bunch of gunhands comin’ to be deputies.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I ain’t heard.”

  “What have you heard about me?”

  “I heard two punchers talkin’ yesterday afternoon, over by a tent saloon. Circle TF punchers. But I think they’re more than just cowboys. They wore their guns low and tied down.”

  Very observant boy, Smoke thought.

  “If they can angle you in for a backshoot, they’d do it. Talk is, though, this Mister Franklin is gonna let the law handle you. Legal-like, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Smoke patted the boy’s shoulder. “You take good care of Drifter, Billy. And keep your ears clean and open. I’ll check you later.”

  “Yes, sir, Mister Smoke.”

  Smoke stepped out of the stable and turned to his left. His right hand slipped the thong off the Colt’s hammer. Smoke was dressed in black whipcord trousers, black shirt, and dark hat. His spurs jingled as he walked, his boots kicking up little pockets of dust as he headed for the short boardwalk that ran in front of Beeker’s General Store, a saloon, and the gunsmith’s shop. Smoke’s eyes were in constant motion, noting and retaining everything he spotted. Night seemed to color into day as he approached the boom-town area.

  A drunk lurched out from between two tents, almost colliding with Smoke.

  “Watch where you’re goin,’ boy,” the miner mush-mouthed at him.

  Smoke ignored him and walked on.

  “A good time comes reasonable,” a heavily rouged and slightly overweight woman said, offering her charms to Smoke.

  “I’m sure,” Smoke told her. “But I’m married.”

  “Ain’t you the lucky one?” she said, and stepped back into the shadows of her darkened tent.

  He grinned and walked on.

  Smoke walked past Beeker’s store and glanced in. The man had hired more help and was doing a land office business, a fixed smile on his greedy, weasel face. His hatchet-faced wife was in constant motion, moving around the brightly lighted store, her sharp eyes darting left and right, looking for thieving hands.

  Other than her own, Smoke mentally noted.

  He walked on, coming to the swinging doors of the saloon. Wild laughter and hammering piano music greeted his ears. It was not an altogether offensive sound. The miners, as a whole, were not bad people. They were here to dig and chip and blast and hammer the rock, looking for gold. In their free time, most would drink and gamble and whore the night away.

  Smoke almost stepped inside the saloon, changing his mind just at the very last moment. He stepped back away from the doors and walked on.

  He crossed the street and stepped into Louis Longmont’s place. The faro and monte and draw and stud poker tables were filled; dice clicked and wheels spun, while those with money in their hands stared and waited for Lady Luck to smile on them.

  Most of the time she did not.

  Smoke walked to the bar, shoved his way through, and ordered a beer.

  He took his beer and crossed the room, dodging drunks as they staggered past. He leaned against a bracing and watched the action.

  “Smoke.” The voice came from his left.

  Smoke turned and looked into the face of Louis Longmont. “Louis,” he acknowledged. “Another year, another boom town, hey?”

  “They never change. I don’t know why I stay with it. I certainly don’t need the money.”

  Smoke knew that was no exaggeration on the gambler’s part. The gambler owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory. He owed several businesses in San Francisco, and he owned a hefty chunk of a railroad. It was a mystery to many why Louis stayed with the hard life he had chosen.

  “Then get out of it, Louis,” Smoke suggested.

  “But of course,” Louis responded with a smile. His eyes drifted to Smoke’s twin Colts. “Just as you got out of gunfighting.”

  Smoke smiled. “I put them away for several years, Louis. Had gold not been found, or had I chosen a different part of the country to settle, I probably would never have picked them up again.”

  “Lying to others is bad enough, my young friend, But lying to one’s self is unconscionable. Can you look at me and tell me you never, during those stale years, missed the dry-mouthed moment before the draw? The challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others who seek a better and more peaceful way? The so-called loneliness of the hoot-owl trail? I think not, Mister Jensen. I think not.”

  There was nothing for Smoke to say, for Louis was right. He had missed those death-close moments. And Sally knew it too. Smoke had often caught her watching him, silently looking at him as he would stand and gaze toward the mountains, or as his eyes would follow the high flight of an eagle.

  “Your silence tells all, my friend,” Louis said. “I know only too well.”

  “Yeah,” Smoke said, looking down into his beer mug. “I guess I’d better finish my beer and ride. I don’t want to be the cause of any trouble in your place, Louis.”

  “Trouble, my friend, is soniething I have never shied away from. You’re safer here than in any other place in this woebegotten town. If I can help it, you will not be backshot in my place.”

  And again, Smoke knew the gambler was telling the truth. Smoke and Louis had crossed trails a dozen times over the years. The man had taken a liking to the boy when Smoke was riding with the Mountain Man Preacher. In the quieter moments of his profession, Louis had shown Smoke the tricks of his gambler’s trade. Louis had realized that Smoke possessed a keen intelligence, and Louis liked those people who tried to better themselves, as Smoke had always done.

  They had become friends.

  Hard hoofbeats sounded on the dirt street outside the gambling tent. Smoke looked at Louis.

  “About a dozen riders,” Smoke said.

  “Probably the ‘deputies’ Tilden Franklin called in from down Durango way. They’ll be hardcases, Smoke.”

  “Is this election legal?”

  “Of course not. But it will be months before the state can send anyone in to verify it or void it. By then, Franklin will have gotten his way. Initial reports show the gold, what there is of it, assays high. But the lode is a narrow one. I suspect you already knew that.”

  “I’ve know about the vein for a long time, Louis. I never wanted gold.”

  A quick flash of irritation crossed Louis’s face. “It is well and good to shun wealth while one is young, Smoke. But one had best not grow old without some wealth.”

  “One can have wealth without riches, Louis,” Smoke countered.

  The gambler smiled. “I believe Preacher’s influence was strong on you, young man.”

  “There could have been no finer teacher in all the world, Louis.”

  “Is he alive, Smoke?”

  “I don’t
know. If so, he’d be in his eighties. I like to think he’s still alive. But I just don’t know.”

  Louis knew, but he elected to remain silent on the subject. At least for the time being.

  Boots and jangling spurs sounded on the raw boards in front of Louis’s place. And both Louis and Smoke knew the time for idle conversation had passed.

  They knew before either man sighted the wearers of those boots and spurs.

  The first rider burst into the large tent.

  “I don’t know him,” Louis said. “You?”

  “Unfortunately. He’s one of Tilden’s gunhands. Calls himself Tay. I ran into him when I was riding with Preacher. Back then he was known as Carter. I heard he was wanted for murder back in Arkansas.”

  “Sounds like a delightful fellow,” Louis said drily.

  “He’s a bully. But don’t sell him short. He’s hell with a short gun.”

  Louis smiled. “Better than you, Smoke?” he asked, a touch of humor in the question.

  “No one is better than me, Louis,” Smoke said, in one of his rare moments of what some would call arrogance; others would call it merely stating a proven fact.

  Louis’s chuckle held no mirth. “I believe I am better, my friend.”

  “I hope we never have to test that out of anger, Louis.”

  “We won’t,” Louis replied. “But let’s do set up some cans and make a small wager someday.”

  “You’re on.”

  The gunfighter Tay turned slowly, his eyes drifting first to Louis, then to Smoke.

  “Hello, punk!” Tay said, his voice silencing the piano player and hushing the hubbub of voices in the gaming tent.

  “Are you speaking to me, you unshaven lout?” Louis asked.

  “Naw,” Tay said. The leather thongs that secured his guns were off, left and right. “Pretty boy there.”

  “You’re a fool,” Smoke said softly, his voice carrying to Tay, overheard by all in the gaming room.

  “I’m gonna kill you for that!” Tay said.

  Those men and women seated between Tay and Smoke cleared out, moving left and right.

  “I hope you have enough in your pockets to bury you,” Smoke said.