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

by Johnstone, William W.

  “That will be fine, Mister North.”

  She had taken the news of her husband’s death calmly. Too calmly for Johnny. He sat his horse and looked at her.

  “You’re wondering why I’m behaving in such a calm manner, Mister North?”

  “The thought did pass my mind, ma’am.”

  “My husband told me before dawn this morning, as he was belting on a gun, that he was going into town. I felt then that I would never see him again. I did my grieving this morning.”

  Johnny nodded his head. He sat looking at the woman for a moment longer. Nice-looking woman; kind of trail worn, but that was to be expected, for this was a hard life for a woman. Then he thought of all the dance-hall floozies and hurdy-gurdy girls he had known down through the long and bloody years. Belle Colby, with her worn gingham dress, sunburned face, and work-hardened hands, seemed beautiful compared to them.

  Johnny cleared his throat and plopped his hat back on his head. “You gonna need help around here, ma’am,” he said. “If’n it’s all right, I’ll stick around and pull my weight and then some.”

  “That would be nice, Mister North,” Belle said with a tired smile. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  Johnny returned the smile and wheeled his horse, heading to the Sugarloaf.

  The crowd was respectable at Colby’s burying, but not near so many people showed up as had Adam’s planting. Most men, whether they would say it aloud or not—and it was the latter if they were married, felt that Colby had done a damn fool thing. And while most of them didn’t condone what Donnie had done, they probably would not have interfered. They might have done something similar had they been in Colby’s boots, but it would have been done with sawed-off express gun in their hands, not with a pistol in a fast-draw type of situation.

  Out here, a man had damned well best know his limitations and capabilities.

  And behave accordingly.

  Once again the Reverend Ralph Morrow conducted the funeral services, and once again he and Bountiful and lots of others stayed for lunch. That was no problem, for everyone who attended the services had brought some sort of covered dish.

  Like hangings, funerals also served as quite a social event.

  Louis Longmont was there, all fancied up in a tailored black suit…carefully tailored to hide the shoulder-holster rig he wore under the jacket.

  The aging gunfighters were all in attendance, gussied up in their best. They made no attempts to conceal their Colts, wearing them openly, low and tied down.

  Pearlie had stayed behind at the Sugarloaf, just in case some TF riders decided to use the occasion to come calling. With a funeral of their own in mind.

  Monte Carson and Judge Proctor were there, and so were Hunt and Willow Brook, Colton and Mona Spalding, Haywood and Dana Arden.

  Ed Jackson did not show. He figured he might lose a dollar or so by closing down his store.

  Besides, Ed felt that Colby had gotten exactly what he deserved. And the next time he saw that Smoke Jensen, Ed just might give him a good piece of his mind about the totally uncalled-for beating of a fine man like Tilden Franklin. Well…he’d think about doing that, anyways.

  “Going to stay on up here for a time?” Monte asked Johnny.

  “Thought I might. Belle has her hands full all day just tryin’ to look after Velvet, and I think me and Bob can pretty well handle it. And some of them old gunslingers come over from time to time, Belle says. Them old boys know a lot about farming and such.”

  Monte and Judge Proctor said their goodbyes to Belle and returned to Fontana.

  By late afternoon, most of those attending had left for home, since many had traveled miles to get there. About half of the old gunslicks had left, returning to the Sugarloaf to give Pearlie a break.

  Louis had returned with Monte and Judge Proctor, riding a magnificent black stallion.

  “Like to ride over and spend the night at our place?” Smoke asked Reverend Morrow. “It’s a lot closer than town, and we have the room. ’Sides, I’d like Sally and Bountiful to get to know each other.”

  After consulting with his wife, the young couple agreed. Those returning to the Sugarloaf made their way slowly homeward, Smoke and Sally and Ralph and Bountiful in buckboards, the rest on horseback.

  “It’s so beautiful up here,” Bountiful said, squeezing her husband’s arm. “So peaceful and lovely and quiet. I think I would like to live up here.”

  “Might have a hard time supporting a church up here, Bountiful.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But you could do what you’ve always wanted to do, Ralph.”

  He looked at her, beautiful in the sunlight that filtered through the trees alongside the narrow road.

  “You would be content with that, Bountiful? A part-time preacher and a full-time farmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure of several things, Ralph. One is that I’m not cut out to be a preacher’s wife. I love you, but that isn’t enough. Secondly, I’m not so sure you’re cut out to be a preacher.”

  “It’s that obvious, Bountiful?”

  “Ralph, nothing happened back East. It was a harmless flirtation and nothing more. I think you’ve always known that. Haven’t you?”

  “I suspected. I should have whipped that scoundrel’s ass while I was feeling like it.”

  He spoke the words without realizing what he had really said.

  Bountiful started laughing.

  “What is so…” Then Ralph grinned, flushed, and joined his wife in laughter.

  “Ralph, you’re a good, decent man. I think you’re probably the finest man I have ever known. But you went into the ministry out of guilt. And I think that is the wrong reason for choosing this vocation. Look at us, Ralph. Listen to what we’re saying. We’ve never talked like this before. Isn’t it funny, odd, that we should be doing so now?”

  “Perhaps it’s the surroundings.” And for a moment, Ralph’s thought went winging back in time, back almost eight years, when he was a bare-knuckle fighter enjoying no small amount of fame in the ring, open-air and smokers.

  The young man he’d been fighting that hot afternoon was good and game, but no match for Ralph. But back then, winning was all that Ralph had on his mind, that and money. And he was making lots of money, both fighting and gambling. The fight had gone on for more than thirty rounds, which was no big deal to Ralph, who had fought more than ninety rounds more than once.

  And then Ralph had seen his opportunity and had taken it, slamming a vicious left-right combination to the young man’s head.

  The young man had dropped to the canvas. And had never again opened his eyes. The fighter had died several days later.

  Ralph Morrow had never stepped into another ring after that.

  He and Bountiful had known each other since childhood, and it was taken for granted by all concerned that they would some day marry. Bountiful’s parents were relieved when Ralph quit the ring. Bountiful was a bit miffed, but managed to conceal it.

  Both had known but had never, until now, discussed the obvious fact that Ralph simply was not cut out to be a minister.

  “What are you thinking, Ralph?”

  “About the death I caused.”

  “It could just as easily have been you, Ralph,” she reminded him. “You’ve told me a thousand times that the fight was fair and you both were evenly matched. It’s over, Ralph. It’s been over. Stop dwelling on it and get on with the matter of living.”

  Quite unlike the strait-laced minister, he leaned over and gave Bountiful a smooch on the cheek. She blushed while the old gunfighters, riding alongside the buckboards, grinned and pretended not to notice.

  After supper, the young couples sat outside the cabin, enjoying the cool air and talking.

  “How many acres do you have, Smoke?” Ralph asked.

  “I don’t really know. That valley yonder,” he said, pointing to the Sugarloaf, “is five miles long and five miles wide. I do know we’ve filed on an
d bought another two thousand acres that we plan to farm. Right now we’re only farming a very small portion of it. Hay and corn mostly. Right over there—” again he pointed, “is seven hundred and fifty acres of prime farm land just sittin’ idle. I think we overbought some.”

  “That acreage is just over that little hill?” Bountiful asked.

  “Yes,” Sally said, hiding a smile, for it was obvious that the minister and his wife were interested in buying land.

  “We’ll ride over in the morning and take a look at it, if you’d like,” Smoke suggested.

  “Do you have a proper saddle for Bountiful?” Ralph asked.

  “We’re about the same size,” Sally told him. “She can wear some of my jeans and ride astride.”

  Bountiful fanned her suddenly hot face. She had never had on a pair of men’s britches in her life. But…this was the West. Besides, who would see her?

  “I don’t know whether that would be proper for a minister’s wife,” Ralph objected.

  “Don’t be silly!” Sally said, sticking out her chin. “If it’s all right for a man, why should it be objectionable for a woman to wear britches?”

  “Well…” Ralph said weakly. Forceful women tended to somewhat frighten him.

  “Have you ever read anything by Susan B. Anthony, Bountiful?” Sally asked.

  “Oh, yes! I think she’s wonderful, don’t you?”

  “Yes. As well as Elizabeth Cady Stanton. You just wait, Bountiful. Some day women will be on an equal footing with men.”

  “Lord save us all!” Smoke said with a laugh. He shut up when Sally gave him a dark look.

  “Do you think the time will come when women will be elected to Congress?” Bountiful asked.

  Ralph sat stunned at the very thought.

  Smoke sat grinning.

  “Oh my, yes! But first we have to work very hard to get the vote. That will come only if we women band together and work very hard for it.”

  “Let’s do that here!” Bountiful said, clapping her hands.

  “Fine!” Sally agreed.

  “But how?” Bountiful sobered.

  “Well…my mother knows Susan B. very well. They went to school together in Massachusetts. I’ll post a letter to Mother and she can write Miss Anthony. Then we’ll see.”

  “Wonderful!” Bountiful cried. “I’m sure Willow and Mona and Dana would be delighted to help us.”

  Smoke rolled a cigarette and smiled at the expression on Ralph’s face. The man looked as though he might faint at any moment.

  The ladies rose and went chattering off into the cabin.

  “My word!” Ralph managed to blurt out.

  Smoke laughed at him.

  “Boss!” Pearlie stilled the laughter and sobered the moment. “Look yonder.” He pointed.

  In the dusk of fast-approaching evening, the western sky held a small, faint glow.

  “What is that?” Ralph asked. “A forest fire?”

  “No,” Smoke said, rising. “That’s Peyton’s place. Tilden’s hands have fired it.”

  6

  There was nothing Smoke could do. Peyton’s spread was a good twenty-five miles away from Sugarloaf, his range bordering Tilden’s holdings.

  It was not long before the fire’s glow had softened, and then faded completely out.

  “Peyton refused our offer of help,” Buttermilk said. “Some of us offered to stay over thar with him. But he turned us down flat.”

  “We’ll ride over in the morning,” Smoke said. “At first light. There is nothing we can do this evening.”

  “Except wonder what is happening over there,” Ralph stated.

  “And how many funerals you gonna have to hold,” Luke added.

  Peyton, his wife June, and their kids had been forced to retreat into the timber when it became obvious they were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. The family had made it out of the burning, smoking area with the clothes on their backs and nothing else.

  They had lain quietly in the deep timber and watched their life’s work go up, or down, in fire. They had watched as the hooded men shot all the horses, the pigs, and then set the barn blazing. The corral had been pulled down by ropes, the garden trampled under the hooves of horses. The Peyton family was left with nothing. Nothing at all.

  They could not even tell what spread the men had come from, for the horses had all worn different or altered brands.

  The family lay in the timber long after the night-riders had gone. They were not hurt, not physically, but something just as important had been damaged: their spirit.

  “I tried to be friends with Tilden,” Peyton said. “I went over to his place and spoke with him. He seemed to be reasonable enough, thanked me for coming over. Now this.”

  “They turned the wagon over,” June said, her eyes peering into the darkness. “Broke off one wheel. But that can be fixed. There’s lots of land to be had just north of here. I won’t live like this,” she warned. “I will not. And I mean that.”

  “I got a little money. I can buy some horses. We’ll see what we can salvage in the morning.”

  “Nothing,” June said bitterly. “Nothing at all.”

  “And you don’t have any idea who they were?” Smoke asked Peyton.

  Dawn had broken free of the mountains only an hour before. Smoke and some of his old gunhawks had left the Sugarloaf hours before first light, stopping along the way at the other small spreads.

  “No,” Peyton said, a note of surrender in his voice.

  The Apache Kid returned from his tracking. “Headin’ for the TF spread,” he said. “Just as straight as an arrow that’s where they’re headin’.”

  “So?” June demanded, her hands on her hips. “So what? Prove that them riders come from the TF. And then even if you do that, see what the law will do about it.”

  “Now, June,” Peyton said.

  The woman turned around and walked off, her dress dirty and soot-covered.

  “What are you gonna do?” Smoke asked Peyton.

  “Pull out. What else is there to do?”

  “We’ll help you rebuild, just like we’re doing with Wilbur Mason.”

  “And then what?” Peyton demanded. “What happens after that? I’ll tell you,” he blurted out. “The same thing all over again. No. I’ll find me some horses, fix that busted wheel, and take off. This land ain’t worth dyin’ over, Smoke. It just ain’t.”

  “That’s not what you told me a few weeks back.”

  “I changed my mind,” the man replied sullenly. “I don’t feel like jawin’ about it no more. My mind is made up. We’re taking what we can salvage and pullin’ out. Headin’ up north of here. See you men.” He turned and walked off, catching up with his wife.

  “Let him go,” Charlie said to Smoke. “He’s not goin’ to last anywhere out here. First time a drought hits him, he’ll pack up and pull out. The locust come, he’ll head out agin, always lookin’ for an easy life. But he’ll never find it. You know yourself it takes a hard man to make it out here. Peyton’s weak, so’s his woman. And them kids are whiners. He’ll leave the land pretty soon, I’m figurin’. He’ll get him a job in some little store, sellin’ shoes and ribbons, and pretty soon he’ll find something wrong with that job. But it ain’t never gonna be his fault. It’ll always be the fault of someone else. Forget him, Smoke. He ain’t got no good sand bottom to him.”

  Smoke hated to say it, but he felt Charlie was right in his assessment of Peyton. Tilden had burned Wilbur Mason out; that had just made Wilbur and his family all the more determined to stay and fight.

  “Good luck, Peyton!” Smoke called.

  The man did not even turn around. Just waved his hand and kept on walking.

  Somehow that gesture, or lack of it, made Smoke mad as hell. He wondered if he’d ever see Peyton or his family again. He thought, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t lose any sleep over the loss.

  The few other small rancher-farmers in the high country met that afternoon on a plateau just about halfway
between Smoke’s Sugarloaf and the beginning of the TF range. And it was, for the most part, a quiet, subdued gathering of men.

  Mike Garrett and his two hands; Wilbur Mason and Bob Colby; Ray Johnson and his hired hand; Nolan Edwards and his two oldest boys; Steve Matlock, Smoke and his gunhands.

  And Reverend Ralph Morrow, wearing a pair of jeans and checkered shirt.

  “Ralph is gonna buy some land from me,” Smoke explained. “Farm some and ranch a little. Preach part time. The minister come up with a pretty good idea, I’m thinking. But we’ll get to his idea in a minute. Anybody got any objections to Ralph joinin’ our group?”

  “I ain’t got no objections,” Ray said. “I’m just wonderin’ if, him bein a preacher and all, will he fight?”

  Ralph stepped forward. “Some of you might know me. For five years, I went by another name. I fought under the name of the Cincinnati Kid.”

  Matlock snapped his fingers. “I read about you in the Gazette. You kilt a man…ah…”

  He trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

  “Yes,” Ralph said. “I killed a man with my fists. I didn’t mean to, but I did. As to whether I’ll fight. Yes. For my family, my land, my friends. I’ll fight.”

  And everyone there believed him. Still, one had to say, “But, Reverend Morrow, you’re a minister; you can’t go around shootin’ folks!”

  Ralph smiled…rather grimly. “Smoke and Charlie and some of the boys are going to help me build my cabin, first thing in the morning. You let some sucker come around and start trouble, you’ll see how fast I’ll shoot him.”

  The laughter helped to relieve the tension.

  And Reverend Ralph Morrow suddenly became just “one of the boys.”

  “How about that other idea, Smoke?” Wilbur asked.

  Smoke walked to the edge of the flats. He pointed down at the road. “That road, right there, connects Danner and Signal Hill. Seven, eight miles further down, you got to cut south to get to Fontana. Right?”