Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Exhibiting a skill at gunfighting unusual for a young lawyer, Brian held off three men with a coolness lacking in many a more experienced shootist. Disoriented by the wavering flames and billows of smoke, the trio of rascals threw wild shots in the general direction of Brian.

  He obliged them by gunning down one of their number and smoothly replacing his spent revolver with the third of his quartet. The .45 Peacemaker in Brian’s hand bucked and snorted and sent another hard case off to explain himself to his Maker. The third experienced a momentary flash of brilliance. He emptied his hands and thrust them high over his head.

  Brian stepped in and smacked the man behind one ear. He dropped like a stone. Taking a deep breath, Brian turned to find another enemy. Disappointment flashed on his face as two reprobates fled from the conflict, thoroughly defeated. That left only Heck Grange, Cyrus Murchison, and Titus Hobson, who had once more regained consciousness.

  Forced back on their own resources, the three candidates for hell reverted to their basic savagery. Heck Grange put a bullet through the left shoulder of Brian Pullen. A second later, he found himself facing Smoke Jensen. This would be nowhere as easy. Heck cocked his .44 Frontier Colt and the hammer dropped on a spent primer.

  Frantically, he let go of the weapon and clawed for another thrust into the waistband of his trousers. Smoke Jensen waited for him. The muzzle came free and Heck Grange saw a momentary glimmer of hope. Then Smoke Jensen filled his hand with a .45 Peacemaker and triggered a round.

  Smoke’s bullet hit Heck in the meaty portion of his shoulder. Rocked by the slug, the chief lawman of the railroad grimly completed his intended action. Flame leapt from the muzzle of his six-gun. A solid impact rocked Smoke Jensen and he stumbled to the left, a sharp pain in his side. Gradually that numbed as he centered his Colt on the chest of Heck Grange. Smoke eared back the hammer of his Peacemaker a fraction of a second before a chunk of firewood, hurled by Titus Hobson, crashed into the side of his head.

  Stars and vivid colors exploded inside the skull of Smoke Jensen. His six-gun blasted harmlessly into the ground at the feet of Heck Grange. That gave Grange a chance to fire again. The hot slug broke skin on the side of Smoke Jensen’s neck. A sheet of blood washed warmly downward. Through the throbbing in his head, Smoke tried to steady himself.

  Concentrating desperately, he willed his vision to return. Heck Grange swam erratically in the involuntary tears that filled Smoke’s eyes when he could at last see. He steadied his hand and eared back the hammer. The Peacemaker roared once more. Heck Grange’s knees buckled and he went down hard.

  He caught himself with his free hand and cried out at the pain that lanced through his body from his wounded shoulder. Once again he tried to finish off Smoke Jensen. The six-gun in Smoke’s hand spoke first.

  Hot lead spat from the muzzle and caught Heck Grange in his left nostril. Grange reared backward and kept on going to land on the back of his head, which had been blown off along with his hat.

  Smoke spared the hard case no more time. He felt dizzy and light-headed. Dimly he saw Louis Longmont turn toward Titus Hobson as though wading under the ocean. Hobson also moved in slow motion. He pulled a .44 Colt Lightning from his Coggshell Saddlery shoulder holster and fired almost immediately.

  His bullet struck Louis Longmont in the upper right thigh. Louis went to one knee, although he continued his swing. His own six-gun bucked in his hand and the slug sped true. The eyes of Titus Hobson went wide and white when pain exploded in his chest. He tried to cycle the double-action revolver again. This time the projectile missed Longmont entirely.

  Weakened by rapid blood loss, Louis Longmont fired his last bullet and missed. He sank to his side on the ground. Head still whirling, Smoke Jensen went to the side of his friend. Hobson, light-headed from his wound, came at the two of them, firing recklessly. Smoke returned the favor and his bullet tore a chunk from the heaving side of Hobson. The Colt Lightning struck an expended cartridge and a expression of shock washed Hobson’s face white.

  Smoke Jensen knew that he had fired his last round. When the wounded Hobson recovered himself, he snatched up another stick of firewood and advanced on Smoke. Determined to save the life of his friend, Smoke Jensen drew his war-hawk and readied himself. Hobson, though unsteady on his feet, gave him little time for that.

  Titus Hobson swung the billet like an ax handle. It swished past over the head of Smoke Jensen, who had ducked. Smoke feinted with the tomahawk and the fighters separated. They appeared to be nothing more than two vicious predators quarreling over a choice bit of carrion. Smoke carefully kept himself between Hobson and Louis. Titus Hobson tried a fake on Smoke Jensen.

  It failed and the war-hawk sailed by dangerously close to the face of Hobson. They backed off. Smoke risked a glance at Louis and saw the light in those gray eyes begin to dim.

  “Louis, if you can hear me, cover that wound and use your belt for a tourniquet. Do it now!”

  His concern for Longmont almost cost Smoke that fight that moment. Titus Hobson lunged and swung the wrist-thick stick at the side of Smoke’s head. Smoke spun and parried the blow, did a quick reverse, and cleaved the length of wood in half. Hobson let out a startled yelp and jumped back.

  “Damn you, Smoke Jensen. Damn you straight to hell.”

  Smoke laughed at Hobson. His side had become a continuous lightning strike. Quickly he changed hands with his war-hawk. The movement confused Titus Hobson and he stood blinking. That hesitation proved enough for Smoke Jensen. Swiftly he swung the deadly ‘hawk and felt the solid impact as the keen edge sank into flesh and bone near the base of the neck of Titus Hobson. Muscles and tendon severed, Hobson’s head drooped to the opposite side at an odd angle.

  A gurgle came from deep in his throat and his eyes rolled up. The foreshortened piece of wood fell from numb fingers and Titus Hobson spilled onto the ground, taking Smoke Jensen’s tomahawk with him. Smoke took time only for two quick, deep gulps of air, then turned to Louis.

  Louis Longmont sat upright now, shoulders drooped, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. His leg wore a tightly drawn belt above the wound and a square of impeccably white linen kerchief covered the bullet hole. He raised his head and cut his eyes to Smoke Jensen.

  “You know, we’re getting too old for this sort of thing, mon ami.”

  “Speak for yourself, Louis,” Smoke panted. Then he remembered Cyrus Murchison.

  Quickly as his injured body would obey, Smoke Jensen turned to his left to find Cyrus Murchison on his knees, trembling hands raised in abject surrender. His lips quivered as he spoke.

  “I—I’ve never seen anyone fight so ferociously. D-Don’t hurt me. I’m giving myself up. I’ll fight the charges in court.” A sardonic smile replaced the fear in the man. “And I’ll win, too.”

  Smoke Jensen looked from him to Louis Longmont, then cut his eyes to Brian Pullen. Pullen’s expression told Smoke volumes. Smoke sighed. “With his money, he likely will win.” Then he returned to the matter at hand. “Let’s patch one another up and take in our prisoner. There’s been enough blood shed in the Donner Pass.”

  * * *

  A day’s journey to the east and those who had come out of the Donner Pass alive turned south. At the insistence of Smoke Jensen, they had brought along the bodies of Quo Chung Wu, Titus Hobson, and Heck Grange. The rest they buried as well as they could. Two more long, hard days to the south put them alongside the tracks of the California Central Railroad.

  Cyrus Murchison proved entirely cooperative. He instructed Smoke Jensen in how to rig a signal that would stop the first westbound train. Half a day went by before the distant wail of a steam whistle announced the approach of the daily express run. To the relief of them all, the signal worked.

  “We could be in a tight spot rather fast,” a weakened Louis Longmont advised from the travois on which he rode as he and the others studied the hard faces of the crew.

  “We still have a few things going for us, old friend,” Smoke Jensen advised
him lightly.

  “Such as what?”

  “We do have their boss as a prisoner,” Smoke suggested.

  “That is precisely what I see as the source of our problems,” Louis stated drily.

  Smoke showed no reaction. “Let’s see what they say . . . or do first.”

  The engineer braced them first. “Isn’t that Mr. Murchison you have trussed up like a Christmas goose?” Smoke Jensen allowed as how it was indeed. “What the hell is that all about?” the locomotive driver demanded.

  This time, Louis Longmont replied. “He is under arrest.”

  “By whose authority?” the truculent engineer snapped.

  Smoke took a step forward. “By mine. We are going to board your train and ride to San Francisco and turn him over to the police.”

  A defiant curl came to the thick lips of the trainman. “You will, like hell.”

  Smoke flashed his badge. “I think we will. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. If I’m forced to, I’ll simply commandeer the train, throw your ass in irons and run it myself.”

  Two burly switchmen grumbled at this, yet they made no move to interfere. That quickly decided the engineer. “All right, all right. You can board. But you’ll have to ride in a chair car. Ain’t got no fancy coach hooked up.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Murchison won’t mind,” Smoke quipped.

  * * *

  They arrived in San Francisco an hour before sundown. The huge red-orange globe rested a finger’s width above the flat, glassy sea and sent long shafts of magenta over the rippling water of the bay. The first order of business was to take Cyrus Murchison to the police station. Smoke surrendered him directly to the chief of police and listed the charges.

  After a sad journey to the Golden Harmony temple in Chinatown with the body of Quo Chung Wu, Smoke, Louis, and Brian headed for the bordello. Two of their hired protectors met them on the porch. A minute later, Lucy Glover dashed out to join them.

  “I was afraid something had happened to you,” she blurted, staring directly into the face of Brian Pullen.

  It instantly became obvious to Smoke and Louis that the pair shared mutual stars in their eyes. Smoke cleared his throat. That broke the thick web of enthrallment. Reluctantly, Lucy and Brian turned their attention to the big man with a white bandage on his neck.

  “Brian and I have been talking about the future of this—er—establishment. I have decided to ask you to continue in charge of the—ah—operation. Louis is going to stay in San Francisco and make arrangements to sell my latest acquisition.”

  Shock and worry clouded Lucy’s face. “You’re going to sell?”

  Smoke chuckled softly. “Yes, and as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “Don’t you realize that this place can make a fortune for you?”

  “Granted,” Smoke declared. “And if my dear Sally ever found out about it, she would have a fit.”

  “But—but, what will I—I and the girls—do after it’s sold?”

  “The girls can pool their resources and make a bid. Anything reasonable will be considered. For your own part, if I’m not mistaken, young woman, you have a career change ahead in the near future.”

  Lucy Clover cut her eyes from Smoke Jensen to Brian Pullen, who blushed furiously. “You’re right, Smoke, if I have anything to say about it,” the young lawyer said softly.

  The two gunfighters chuckled indulgently. Then Smoke Jensen ended their embarrassment. “I’ll just gather my things and be on my way.”

  Lucy was shaken. “You’re leaving so soon?”

  “I have to. I’ve been away from the Sugarloaf too long.”

  “But your wounds,” Lucy and Brian protested together.

  Smoke gave Lucy a sunny smile. “They’ll heal better in the High Lonesome. Especially with Sally there to pamper me.” He turned to Louis Longmont. “Louis, it’s been good working with you again. After you have this out of the way, come up to the Sugarloaf for a while. The latch-string is always out.”

  “I appreciate, that, mon ami, and I will give the invitation serious consideration. For now, then, I will only say adieu.”

  “Farewell, old friend, and ride an easy saddle.”

  With that, Smoke Jensen was gone.