* * *
Smoke led his small force away only scant minutes after the sun broke over the distant ramparts of the Sierra Nevada. He had told them that by the next day they would be high in the mountains. Another day after that they would be able to sweep down on Murchison’s gang and bring an end to it. His words received powerful support shortly before midmorning.
Four tired, harried-looking men rode toward them from up the trail. When they sighted the vigilantes, they halted and waited quietly. As Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont came within fifty yards of them, they raised their empty hands over their heads.
“We’re out of it,” their self-appointed leader informed the gunfighters. “We done quit the railroad police and left Murchison to his own ends. There was sixty of us when we started. Now there’s less than half.” His eyes narrowed. “Which one of you is Smoke Jensen?”
“I am,” Smoke told him, readying his hand to draw his. 45 Colt.
A chuckle, not a challenge, came from the former railroad bull. “You sure got ’em stirred up, Mr. Jensen. Got us all exercised, that’s for sure. Those boys up there are quaking in their boots. After what happened to that tent, we quit first thing this morning. An’ there’s about a dozen more ready to give it up, too.”
“Good to hear, gentlemen. You’re free to ride on. Only one thing,” he added, a hand raised to stop them. “We’d be obliged if you left all but five rounds of ammunition with us. We’re a little short as it is, and every round will be appreciated.”
Their leader snickered, a gloved hand over his mustache and full lips. “And, it sort of makes certain we can’t turn back and hit you in the rear, don’t it?”
Smoke nodded and joined his laughter. “That possibility did occur to me. So, what do you say?” His eyes narrowed to glittering slits of gray. “Lighten your load and ride free? Or open the dance right now?”
The jovial one quickly showed both hands, open and empty. “Ain’t got time to waltz, Mr. Jensen. We’ll just leave some cartridges with you and be on our way.”
Smoke’s smile held the breezy warmth of a June day. “ That’s mighty thoughtful of you. I’ll take you up on that and then we can ride on.”
In ten minutes it was done and the volunteer posse grew richer by two hundred thirty rounds. Smoke watched the deserters from Murchison’s cause from time to time until they rode out of sight. He showed a sunny mood to everyone as he picked up the pace.
* * *
Wilber Evers spoke around a hard knot of grief in his throat that night in the vigilante camp. “He was my brother. My brother, and they shot him down like a dog. One of... one of them took a rope to his kids and beat them. Raised welts on their backs.”
Another sorrow-softened voice responded. “Yeah, I know. You hear about Ruby Benson?”
“The widow Benson?” Evers asked.
“Yep. That’s the one. Only she’s not so much an old widow. She’s rather young. Anyway, some of these riff-raff came along from the railroad and told her to sell out the farm to Murchison. She refused. So they jumped her, had their way with her and left her a ruined woman. She—she’s my sister.”
“I’m sorry,” Smoke Jensen added his feelings to the discussion around the supper fire. “What did you reckon to do about it?”
“She described them to me. If I find them among those with Murchison, I’m gonna hang the lot of them.”
Smoke nodded. “Suits. Preacher hanged some rapists more than once. I know, because I was with him a couple of times. There’s even a story going around that he one time hanged a man who messed around with children.”
“Served him right, I say,” the brother of Ruby Benson growled.
“What else has been done that you know of for certain?” Smoke probed.
Several voices clamored for his attention. One bull bellow overrode the others. “ They burnt my barn and shot my cows. Scared my wife so much she delivered early. We lost the baby.”
“Do you know them?”
“Sort of. They had flour sacks over their heads, but two of them didn’t change clothes from earlier in the day. I’d know those two anywhere. They work at the depot in Parkerville. Name of Dawkins and Lusk. I meant to go shoot them when I ran into these other fellows and joined in on this little affair.”
Angry mutters went around the firepit. “I had myself primed to set my sights on one of Huntley’s bullies. He tormented me an’ my wife until I was forced to sell two freight wagons to Huntley’s outfit. I cussed myself as a yellow-belly ever since. When I heard there was trouble in Grass Valley, I hightailed it for there right away.” The gray-haired man stopped there and looked around for approval from his companions.
It came quickly. “Ain’t nothin’ yeller about you, Paul. Why, we was right pleased to see you join us.”
Paul drew himself up and came to his boots. “Well, I thank ye, Lester. Boys, I think I’ve got enough jawin’ for one night. I’m for my bedroll. We got a bushel of work to do tomorrow.”
Smoke Jensen silently agreed and pushed away from the circle of gabbers. What he had heard angered and disturbed him. All of their atrocities considered, he doubted that Murchison and his gang would be inclined to give up easily.
20
Crouched in a jumble of rocks, Smoke Jensen cracked a satisfied smile. After hearing the accounts of those victimized on Murchison’s orders, he decided to try a different approach. He did not wait as long as he had for the previous night visits to the gangster camp. He wanted the men up and moving around. Smoke had selected his spot carefully and settled in to observe.
Tensions had thickened, what with so many fellows forced to rub elbows for so long, he marked first. No longer did they all crowd around a large, central fire. Seven smaller blazes lighted the night, with men grouped in twos and threes, with a solitary loner at one. Smoke settled on him for his first dirty trick of the night. That determined, he slid away into the darkness around the camp.
After he had circled the campsite, he paused to relocate his target. Then, holding a deep breath, he ghosted up on the unsuspecting thug hunkered down by the fire. With panther swiftness, Smoke whipped an arm around the brute’s neck and gave a sudden yank. Unseen by the comrades of the hard case, Smoke whisked him out of sight.
Using a trick of the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers, Smoke increased the pressure of his arm until he stifled the thug into unconsciousness. Then he hefted the limp form over one shoulder and carried him away. Far away. When next the man woke up, he would find himself tied to a tree in a strange place, well out of sight of the camp he had last seen. Smoke Jensen made certain it would be on the route to be taken by Murchison and the gang the next morning. Making sure that the rope that his captive could not escape on his own, Smoke returned to wipe out all trace of his presence.
“That went so smooth, there’s no reason not to try for another one,” Smoke muttered to himself.
He found another one easily enough. A city dude had gone out in the trees to relieve himself. And, naturally, he plain got lost. In his wandering, he blundered into Smoke Jensen. That quick he became the next to disappear without a trace.
* * *
Unaware of the doings of Smoke Jensen, and the fact that Smoke now crouched in some rocks not thirty feet away, Cyrus Murchison and his partners discussed his decision to move on to Carson City.
“We could go back to the main line,” Murchison said agreeably. “Only those miserable sons of perdition are between us and it. No, Titus, Heck, it will take longer, but to continue on horseback is the wisest choice.”
Titus Hobson answered testily. “I say the wisest thing would have been to stay in San Francisco. You own the mayor and the city fathers. And, between us, we own nearly all the judges. The chief of police plays poker with us and gets drunk in that gentlemen’s club of yours. There’s no way Longmont or Jensen can show any proof of our involvement in anything illegal. They can’t bring any charges.”
For the first time, Cyrus Murchison found it necessary to reveal his real
fear. “You said it yourself, Titus. Smoke Jensen is a gunfighter. The best there is. And there’s not a hair’s breadth between him and Longmont. Listen to me, your life depends on it. Those two are not in the habit of bringing charges . . . except the ones in their six-guns.”
Hobson paled. “You mean, they’ll just . . . kill us?”
“Precisely. For men like them, justice comes out of the barrel of a gun. No, we’ll keep on overland. The Central’s tracks have been extended into Carson City. We can get reinforcements there. Then we’ll return to California and wipe out these interfering scum.” Cyrus Murchison came up on his scuffed, dusty, although once highly polished, boots. Buoyed by his self-delusion, he spoke lightly. “It is time to turn in. I’m looking forward to a sound night’s sleep.”
“I wish you the joy of it,” Titus Hobson grumbled, uncomfortable at being reminded he was the one to identify exactly what Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont were.
A sudden shout stopped them. “Chief! Chief, there’s two of us missin’.”
Heck Grange came upright. “Did you see any sign of Smoke Jensen?”
“Nope. Nothin’. Just some tracks where the boys was. They’ve plum disappeared.”
* * *
Early the next morning, Smoke Jensen changed his tactics. In the faint gray light that preceded sunrise, he led the posse of vigilantes out at a fair pace. “We’re through chasing Murchison and his mob of butchers,” he informed his companions. “Today we get ahead of them and see how they enjoy an ambush.” Expectant smiles answered him. “With a good early start, we can swing wide and bypass their present camp.”
Everyone rode with high spirits. As the day grew brighter, Smoke increased the pace. Every hour, they dismounted and walked their horses for ten minutes. Many of those who lacked experience with saddle mounts marveled at the stamina that this provided their animals. Shortly before the noon hour, Smoke called a halt.
He gestured to where the sheer hillsides closed in on the trail. It narrowed and the grade grew much steeper. “Up there a ways is the place we’ll start. Some of you see if you can locate any fallen logs. Make sure they’re not bigger around than a man’s body and not too dried out.”
“Why don’t we cut what we want?” Tyler Estes asked.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Estes. The less we have to spend on this the better,” Smoke informed him. “Those of you with shovels come with me. I’ll show you what to do.”
They worked quickly and well. Smoke supervised the building of an even dozen nasty surprises for Murchison’s hirelings. Two long, narrow pits had been dug parallel to the trail, covered with leaves and brush. At a point farther along, where the mountain’s breast overhung the narrow trace, Smoke saw an ideal place for a particularly nasty trap. He set men to work weaving a large net from vines and ropes.
While they did that, Smoke himself climbed to the top of the lip and sprawled out flat. Working by feel, he drove the pointed end of an arm-thick limb into the soil. He draped a double twist of lariat over the beam it formed and lowered it to the ground. Then he returned to the busy weavers.
“When you get that done, fill it with rocks and attach these ropes at the top to keep it closed. Then stick brush in the net, to make it look like a big bush.”
“Then what?” Estes asked.
“We attach the trip line.” Smoke turned away to check on other progress while he let them figure that one out.
Three and a half hours later, the project neared completion. Smoke Jensen made a final, careful check, then gathered the volunteers. “Everyone pick a position up above the last trap. Make sure you have a clear field of fire. And be careful going up there. You don’t want to set off one of those things on yourself.”
“You can say that again,” Tyler Estes blurted out. When he had taken in the scope of what Smoke had in mind, his eyes bugged and the usually timid barber had thrilled in the blood lust that heated him at the thought of all these awful things going off in the midst of that gang of thugs. He remained impressed as he worked his way up above the deadly ambush site.
“Do you expect them to fall for this?” Louis Longmont asked, a critical eye roving over the concealed traps and trip lines.
Smoke gave it some thought. “For most of it. It depends on how well those boys can shoot up there whether we break them right here.” Smoke cast a glance at the sun. “Either way, we’ll know soon enough.”
* * *
Cyrus Murchison and his army of gunslingers set out a leisurely two hours after sunrise. Everything went well for the first three hours. Then the two men in the lead flew from the backs of their horses, driven off by a long, supple sapling that had been bent back behind a pile of rocks along the trail. They landed hard, both breaking ribs. One of them snapped a leg.
“That damn well ties it!” Heck Grange shouted. “We’ll be forever getting to the top of the pass now. How many more of these things are out there waiting for us?”
Cyrus Murchison responded with an air of indifference. “Tell the men to go slow and we’ll find out. But keep them going.”
With the column on the move again, Murchison settled down to a gloomy contemplation of exactly how many such traps they would find. And worse, how much harm would be done.
* * *
Nervous, and made more cautious, the band of thugs continued on toward the top of the pass. No more hidden dangers had shown up by the time Murchison’s henchmen stopped for their nooning. Titus Hobson had managed to convince himself that someone other than Smoke Jensen had rigged that trap. An Indian, perhaps, to catch some form of game. He shared his thought with Cyrus Murchison. Oddly, Murchison found himself agreeing. Until now he had harbored the sneaking suspicion that the two wily gunfighters had gotten ahead of them, yet he said nothing to Hobson. Half an hour further along the trail he quickly learned to regret that decision.
An agonized scream echoed along the high, enclosing walls of the gorge that led to the high pass of the Sierra Nevada. Its eerie wail jerked Cyrus Murchison out of his dark ruminations and sent a chill down his spine. Up ahead, he saw a thigh-thick log swish back and forth, after striking the lead rider. Jagged flakes of quartz protruded from the face, three of them dripped blood.
Unthinkingly, Murchison spoke his thoughts aloud. “Hideous. It’s hideous. They—they’re nothing but barbarians.”
Heck Grange took charge. “Dismount! Walk your horses and look where you are going.”
Severely shaken, his face pale, Cyrus Murchison did as the rest. He reached the spot where the man lay dead, his blood a pool around his crumpled form, when a rope twanged musically ahead and four saplings swished out to slap men and horses in the face. The hard cases shouted in alarm and jumped to the side of the trail. Fragile brush crackled and gave way under their weight. Their yells changed to screams of agony as they impaled themselves on sharpened stakes in the bottom of shallow trenches.
A voice came from one thug behind Murchison. “That does it. I’m getting out of here.”
Murchison whirled. “No, wait. Stay with us. There can’t be much more of this.”
“Any more is too damn much for me, Mr. Murchison. You can send my pay to my house.”
An idea struck Cyrus Murchison. “Anyone who deserts won’t get paid!” he shouted.
“Who cares? At least we’ll be alive,” another truculent voice replied.
Four men took to their horses, turned tail, and fled without a backward look. Cyrus Murchison cursed and stomped his boot on the hard ground. Up ahead a trigger tripped and a loud roar filled the air. Hundreds of large rocks rained down on the men and horses below.
Whinnies of the frightened critters filled the air as the stones bruised and cut their hide. Dust rose in thick clouds. The rumble of bounding boulders drowned out the shrieks of pain from the injured hard cases. Those the farthest along the trail broke free only to be met with a wall of powder smoke. Bullets cracked through the air. Thugs died horribly.
Belatedly, those behind recovere
d and drew weapons. They surged forward, yelling to their fellow stupefied comrades over the tumult to keep moving forward. The thrust became a rallying point, which grew into a concerted charge. Six-guns and rifles blazing, they mounted and dashed at the ambush, indifferent to any possible traps that remained.
By sheer force of numbers, they stormed through the weak center of the hidden vigilantes. In a matter of seconds the last of Murchison’s shattered column thundered over a rise and out of sight. Louis Longmont came out of the rocks where he had forted up. Smoke Jensen appeared on the slope opposite him. He quickly read the question on the face of Louis.
“We go after them, of course,” Smoke said duly.
* * *
“We can’t keep going on,” Titus Hobson raged at Cyrus Murchison. “They’ve been ahead of us at every turn. Look at those poor wretches we found along the trail this morning. This is suicidal.”
Murchison fought to remain calm. “No, it’s not. We got through them, didn’t we? The thing is, we’re nearly at the summit. When we get there we’ll dig in and make them come to us.”
“I think it’s a dangerous mistake,” Titus objected.
Basically a coward at heart, Titus Hobson had been a schoolyard bully as a child. He used his strength and size to intimidate smaller children. Later, as a prospector, he had developed his brawn to an impressive degree. His bulging muscles, craggy face, and bushy brows made it easier to cow those who sought to oppose him. His confidence grew, and with it, his wealth. Not until this wild flight into the wilderness had he been effectively challenged.
Now it frightened him witless. He had been close enough to the unfortunate lout who took the log in the chest to have blood splatter on his shirt and face. He knew Smoke Jensen was too dangerous for them to provoke. Why had he let Cyrus drag him into this? Yet he knew that Murchison was also dangerous. A man all too quick to use the final solution of death to end any opposition. Titus knew he dare not let his true feelings be seen too clearly. He tried to placate Murchison before this discussion took a hazardous turn.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 47