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

by Johnstone, William W.

  The outlaw—Smoke assumed he was an outlaw—pointed to the sketch pad on the ground and grinned at Smoke. “Well, you shored did o-fend me, sissy-pants. Now pick that there pitcher book up offen the ground and gimme that drawin’ you just done of us.”

  Smoke drew himself up. “I most certainly will do no such thing…you ruffian.”

  The man slapped him.

  It was all Smoke could do to contain his wild urge to tear the man’s head off and hand it to him.

  Smoke fought back his urge and put a hand to his reddened cheek. “You struck me!” he cried. “How dare you strike me, you—you animal!”

  The man laughed as his friends walked across the plaza to join him. “What you got here, Jake?” one of them asked. “Looks to me like you done treed a girl dressed up in britches.”

  “I don’t know what the hell it is, Red. But he shore talks funny.”

  “Le’s see if he’ll fight, Shorty,” Jake said.

  The three of them began pushing Smoke back and forth between them, roughing him up but doing no real physical damage; just bruising his dignity some. A crowd had gathered around, most of the men drinking, and they were getting a big laugh out of the sissy being shoved back and forth.

  “Now, you all stop this immediately!” Smoke protested, putting a high note of fear into his voice. “I want you to stop this now…you hooligans!”

  “Oh, my!” the outlaw called Red said, prancing around, one hand on his hip. “We hooligans, boys!”

  Shorty reached out and, with a hard jerk, sent Smoke’s trousers down around his ankles. Red shoved Smoke, who hit the ground hard and stayed there.

  “I guess Cahoon was right, Shorty,” Red said. “He ain’t got a bit of sand in him.” Then he turned and gave Smoke a vicious kick in the side, bringing a grunt of pain from him.

  Forcing himself to do it, Smoke rolled himself up in a ball and hid his face in his hands. “Oh, don’t hurt me anymore. I can’t stand pain.”

  The crowd laughed. “Hell, Jake,” Red said. “We wastin’ our time. Sissy-boy ain’t gonna fight.”

  Not yet, Smoke thought.

  “Le’s make him eat some horseshit!” Shorty suggested.

  “Naw, I got a better idee. ’Sides, there ain’t fresh piles around. We done found out what we come to find out: He’s yeller.”

  “That shore was funny the time we made that drummer eat a pile of it, though!”

  Shorty then unbuttoned his pants and urinated on Smoke’s legs. The crowd fell silent; only Jake and Red thought that was funny.

  Smoke’s thoughts were savage.

  The three hardcases then left and the crowd broke up, with no one offering to help Smoke to his feet.

  Smoke hauled up his britches, found his sketch pad, and brushed himself off, then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he walked across the plaza. As he passed by the sheriff and the U.S. Marshal, Smoke whispered, “I think I’m in.”

  He stopped to brush dirt off his shirt.

  “Picked a hard way to do it,” the sheriff said. “I’d a never been able to lay there and take that.”

  “Let’s just say it’s going to be interesting when I come out of this costume,” Smoke whispered.

  “We’ll be there,” Wilde whispered. “There is a packet for you in your room. Good luck.”

  The packet contained a U.S. Marshal’s badge, his written federal commission, and a letter.

  On the night of Smoke’s seventh day in Trinidad, two hours after dusk, unless Smoke could get a signal out to tell them differently, the U.S. Marshals, and various sheriffs and deputies from a four-county area, beefed up with volunteers from throughout the area, would strike at Dead River. They would begin getting into position just at dusk. It would be up to Smoke to take out the guards at the pass. Do it any way he saw fit.

  And to Smoke’s surprise, the marshal had a plant inside Dead River, one that had been there for about six months.

  A woman. Hope Farris.

  It would be up to Smoke to contact her. The marshal had no way of knowing whether she was dead or alive; they had received no word from her in several months.

  They feared she might have been taken prisoner. Or worse.

  Good luck.

  “Yeah,” Smoke muttered, burning the note in the cutoff tin can that served as an ashtray. “I am sure going to need that.”

  He pulled out of Trinidad before dawn the next morning, after resupplying the night before. He headed west, avoiding the tiny settlements for the most part. But a threatening storm forced him to pull up and seek shelter in the small town of Stonewall.

  And Stonewall was not a place Smoke cared to linger long. The town and the area around it was torn in a bitter war between cattlemen and the lumber industry on one side and the homesteaders on the other side, over grazing and lumber interests.

  Smoke knew he would have to be very careful which saloon he entered that night, if any, for each side would have their own watering holes in this war. Finally he said to hell with having a drink and sketching anyone. He got him a room and stayed put.

  He pulled out before daylight, before the café even opened, and made his way to Lost Lake. There he caught some trout for breakfast, broiling them. Looking around, far above the timberline, Smoke could see the tough and hardy alpine vegetation: kinnikinnick, creeping phlox, and stunted grass.

  After a tasty breakfast and several cups of strong hot coffee, Smoke bathed quickly—very quickly—in the cold blue waters of Lost Lake.

  Shivering, even though it was the middle of summer, he dressed and had one more cup of coffee. He was still a good three days hard ride from the outlaw town, but he wanted to sort out all his options, and considering where he was going, they were damn few.

  And once again, the question entered his mind: Was he being a fool for doing this?

  And the answer was still the same: yes, he was. But if he didn’t settle it now, it would just happen again and again, and with a child coming, Smoke did not want to run the risk of losing another family.

  So it had to be settled now; there was no question about that.

  And, if the truth be told—and Smoke was a truthful man—there was yet another reason for his challenging the seemingly impossible. He wanted to do it.

  He followed an old Indian trail that cut between Cordova Pass to the east and Cucharas Pass to the west. He found what he hoped was White Wolf’s Ute camp and approached it cautiously. They seemed curious about this big strong-looking white man who dressed and behaved like a fool.

  Smoke asked them if they would like to share his food in return for his spending the night. They agreed, and over the meal, he explained where he was going but not why.

  The Ute chief, White Wolf, told him he was a silly man to even consider going into the outlaw town.

  And Smoke could not understand the twinkle in the chief’s eyes.

  He asked them what they could tell him about the town called Dead River.

  Smoke was stunned when White Wolf said, “What does the adopted son of my brother Preacher wish to know about that evil place?”

  When he again found his voice, Smoke said, “For one thing, how did you know I was not who I claimed to be, White Wolf?”

  Dark eyes twinkling, the chief of the small band of Utes said, “Many things give you away, to us, but probably not to the white man. The white man looks at many things but sees little. Your hands are as hard as stones. And while you draw well, that is not what you are.”

  Smoke did not offer to sketch the Indians, for many tribes believe it is not good medicine to have their pictures taken or their images recreated.

  Smoke told them of his true plans.

  They told him he was a very brave man, like Preacher.

  “Few are as brave and noble as Preacher.”

  “That is true,” White Wolf agreed. “And is my brother well?”

  “Slim Dugas just told me that Preacher and a few other mountain men are well and living up near Montana.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you. That is also truth. Preacher is living with the children of my sister, Woman-Who-Speaks-With-Soft-Voice. Because she married Preacher, the children are recognized as pure and are not called Apples.”

  Red on the outside, white on the inside. Indians practiced their own form of discrimination.

  “It is good to know they are true Human Beings.”

  “As you are, Smoke Jensen.”

  “Thank you. I have a joke for you.”

  “A good laugh makes a good meal even better.”

  “I was told that most people believe there is but one way in and one way out of Dead River.”

  The Indians, including the squaws, all found that richly amusing. After the laughter, White Wolf said, “There are many ways in and out of that evil place. There are ways in and out that the white man have not now and never will know, not in our lifetime.”

  Smoke agreed and finished his meal, belching loudly and patting his full belly. The Indians all belched loudly and smiled, the sign of a good meal. And the squaws were very pleased.

  Smoke passed around several tobacco sacks, and the Indians packed small clay pipes and smoked in contentment. Smoke rolled a cigarette and joined them.

  “You still have not told me how you knew I was the adopted son of Preacher, White Wolf.”

  The chief thought on that for a moment. “If I told you that, Smoke, then you would know as much as I know, and I think that would not be a good thing for one as young as you.”

  “It is true that too much knowledge, learned before one is ready, is not a good thing.”

  White Wolf smiled and agreed.

  Smoke waited. The chief would get to the matter of Dead River when he was damn good and ready.

  White Wolf smoked his pipe down to coals and carefully tapped out the ashes, then handed the pipe to his woman. “It has been a fine game for us to slip up on the outlaw town and watch them. All without their knowing, of course,” he added proudly.

  “Of course,” Smoke agreed. “Anyone who does not know the Ute is as brave as the bear, cunning as the wolf, and sharp-eyed as the eagle is ignorant.”

  The braves all nodded their heads in agreement. This white man was no fool. But they all wished he would do something about his manner of dress.

  “A plan has come to me, White Wolf. But it is a very dangerous plan, if you and your braves agree to it.”

  “I am listening, Smoke.”

  “I met with a man in Trinidad. I believe he can be trusted. He is a government man. His name is Jim Wilde.”

  “I know this man Wilde,” White Wolf said. “He carries Indian blood in his veins. Co-manche from Texas place. He is to be trusted.”

  “I think so, too. Could you get a message to him?”

  “Does the wind sigh?”

  Smoke smiled. Getting his sketch pad, he sketched the campfire scene, leaving the faces of the Utes blank but drawing himself whole. On the bottom of the sketch, he wrote a note to Wilde.

  “If you agree to my plan, have this delivered to Wilde, White Wolf.”

  “If we agree, it will be done. What is this thing that you have planned?”

  “Times have not been good for you and your people.”

  “They have been both good and bad.”

  “Winter is not that far away.”

  “It is closer tonight than it was last night, but not as close as it will be in the morning.”

  “There are guns and much food and clothing and warm blankets in the outlaw town.”

  “But not as many as in the town of Trinidad.”

  “But the people of Trinidad are better than the people in Dead River.”

  “A matter of opinion. But I see your point. I think that I also see what you have in mind.”

  “If you agree, some of your people will surely die, White Wolf.”

  “Far better to die fighting like a man than to grovel and beg for scraps of food from a nonperson.”

  Only the Indians felt they were real people. Most whites had no soul. That is the best way they could find to explain it.

  “I know some of how you feel. I do not think you want the buildings of the town.”

  White Wolf made an obscene gesture. “I spit on the buildings of the outlaw town.”

  “When the battle is over, you may do with them as you see fit.”

  “Wait by the fire,” Smoke was told. “I will talk this over with my people.”

  Smoke sat alone for more than an hour. Then White Wolf returned with his braves and they took their places.

  “We have agreed to your plan, Smoke.”

  They shook hands solemnly.

  “Now it depends on the government man, Jim Wilde.”

  “I will send a brave to see him at first light. Once he has agreed, then we will make our final plans.”

  “Agreed.”

  They once more stuffed their pipes and smoked, with no one talking.

  White Wolf finally said, “There is a young squaw, Rising Star. She does not have a man. She is very hard to please. I have thought of beating her for her stubbornness. Do you want her to share your robes this night?”

  “I am honored, White Wolf, but I have a woman and I am faithful to her only.”

  “That is good. You are an honorable man.”

  “I’ll pull out at first light. I’ll be camped at the head of Sangre de Cristo creek, waiting to hear from you.”

  White Wolf smiled. “It will be interesting to see if the white men at the outlaw town die well.”

  “I think they will not.”

  “I think you are right,” White Wolf agreed.

  8

  Smoke angled down the slopes and onto the flats, then cut northwest, reaching his campsite by late afternoon. He made his camp and waited.

  And waited.

  It was three full days before a brave from White Wolf’s band made an appearance.

  He handed Smoke a note, on U.S. Marshal’s stationery. Jim Wilde had agreed to the plan and complimented Smoke on enlisting the Utes.

  He told the brave what the scratchings on the paper meant.

  “Yes,” the brave said. “The Co-manche lawman told me the same thing. All the rest of your plan is to remain the same. Now I must return and tell him when you plan to enter the outlaw town.”

  Smoke had calculated the distance; about a day and a half of riding over rough country. “Tell Wilde I will enter the town day after tomorrow, at late afternoon. Do you know a place near the town where you could hide some guns for me?”

  The brave thought for a moment, and then smiled. “Yes. Behind the saloon with an ugly picture of a bucket on the front of it. The bucket is filled with what I think is supposed to be blood.”

  “The bloody bucket?” Smoke guessed.

  “Yes! Behind the little building where the men go to relieve themselves there is a rotting pile of lumber. I will put them under the lumber.”

  “Good. What is your name?”

  “Lone Eagle.”

  “Be very careful, Lone Eagle. If you’re caught, you will die hard.”

  The Ute nodded. “I know. The Co-manche lawman says that two hours after dark, on the seventh day of your entering the outlaw place, we shall attack. And White Wolf says that you need not worry about the guards. Concern yourself only with the town. It might take the main body of men an hour to fight their way to your location.”

  “Tell White Wolf thank you. It will be a good coup for you all.”

  The brave nodded. “The outlaws in the town have not been kind to my people. They have seized and raped some of our young girls. Twice, they have taken young braves and have been cruel beyond any reason. One they cut off his feet and left him to die, slowly. They called it sport. On the night of the seventh day, we shall have our sport with the outlaws.”

  Smoke nodded, repeating what he had said to the chief, “They shall not die well, I am thinking.”

  The Ute smiled, very unpleasantly. “We are counting on that.”

  Then he was gone, b
ack to his pony hidden in the deep timber.

  The outlaws of Dead River had had their way for years, torturing, raping, robbing and looting, enslaving the innocent and ravaging the unsuspecting for several hundred miles, or more, in any direction. Now they were about to have the tables turned on them. And Smoke knew the more fortunate ones would die under his guns or the guns of the posse.

  It would be very unpleasant for those taken alive by the Utes.

  For the Utes knew ways of torture that would make the Spanish Inquisitioners green with envy. Dying well was an honor for the Indians, and if a prisoner died well, enduring hours and sometimes days of torture, they would sing songs about that person for years, praising his courage. That person who died well would not be forgotten.

  The Indians had nothing but contempt for a man who begged and cried and died in dishonor.

  They had their own code of honor and justice, and the whites had theirs. There were those who said the red man was nothing but a barbaric savage. But he had learned to scalp from the European white man. The Indians were different; but they would not steal from within their own tribe. The white man could not say that. War was a game to the Indians—until the white man entered the picture and began killing in war. For the Indians, for centuries, counting coup by striking with a club or stick was preferable to killing.

  So it is very questionable who was the savage and who was the instructor in barbarism.

  Smoke had lived with the Indians and, in many ways, preferred their lifestyle to the white ways. Smoke, as did nearly anyone who learned their ways, found the Indians to be honest, extremely gentle, and patient with their children or any captured children, of any color. The Indians lived a hard life in a hard land, so it was foolish to think their ways to be barbaric. They were, Smoke felt, just different.

  Smoke felt nothing for the outlaws in the town. He knew the truth in the statement that whatever befalls a man, that man usually brought the bad onto himself. Every person comes, eventually, to a fork in the road. The direction that person takes comes from within, not from without, as many uninformed choose to believe when slavering pity on some criminal. The outlaw trail is one that a person can leave at any time; they are not chained to it.