Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “What do we do now? Wait until nightfall?” Malcolm asked.

  “No. I don’t know what Templeton is doing here, but I don’t like the looks of it. If we wait until nightfall it might be too late. We’re going to have to go in now.”

  “Have you got any ideas?”

  “I can approach the cabin from the side, but before I go in, I’m going to need something that will divert their attention from the front door.”

  “What if I break the back window?” Malcolm suggested.

  “No,” Smoke said. “I can approach the cabin from the side because there’s no window. But if you come from the back, there’s no cover, and they might see you.”

  “I can get as far as that big rock without being seen,” Malcolm said, pointing to a boulder about twenty yards behind the cabin.

  “That won’t do you any good. You can’t break it from there.”

  “Sure I can,” Malcolm said with a smile. “I not only boxed when I lived in New York, I also played baseball. If I can find the right sized rock, I can throw it through the window from there.”

  “All right,” Smoke said. “You get in position behind the cabin, I’ll approach the side. When I give you the signal, you count to five, then throw it. That’ll give me the opportunity to get around front at the same time you break the window.”

  “Wait. Let me find the right rock,” Malcolm said, looking at the scattering of pebbles on the floor of the arroyo. “Ah, this one will do.” He picked up one about half the size of a baseball.

  The two men left to go to their chosen positions. Smoke got to the side of the cabin before Malcolm reached the boulder, so he waited as the young rancher worked his way up the gulley toward the big rock. As Smoke waited, he tried to hear what was going on inside the cabin, but the logs were so thick they blocked out any sound from inside.

  Lucy looked up as the three men came back into the cabin. Seeing a third man gave her some hope.

  “Has the ransom been paid? Have you come to get me?” she asked anxiously.

  “Ha! Yeah, it’s been paid, all right,” Carr said. “Five thousand dollars. I got twenty five hundred and Briggs, he got the other twenty five hundred.”

  “Then you’re going to let me go?”

  “Yeah,” Briggs said. “After,” he added, grabbing his crotch.

  When Malcolm nodded that he was in position, Smoke gave him the signal to begin counting, then moved quickly to the front of the cabin, counting softly. A moment after he reached the number five, he heard the sound of crashing glass, then someone called out, “What the hell?”

  Pulling his pistol, Smoke kicked open the door then fell to the floor inside, rolling away from the door with his gun at the ready. Because they had been startled by the breaking window, all three men had their pistols in their hands.

  “It’s Jensen!” Briggs shouted as he fired.

  The bullet sped by Smoke’s ear and plunged into the plank floor beside him. Even as Briggs shot at Smoke, Templeton rushed by him, fleeing the cabin. For the moment, Smoke had to let Templeton go. He was busy with the two men trying to kill him.

  Four more shots were fired inside the little cabin, and Smoke fired two of them. Briggs went down with a hole in his forehead and Carr went down with a bullet in his heart.

  Malcolm was running around to the front of the building just as Templeton came running out.

  “Hold it!” Malcolm shouted.

  Templeton turned and shot at him, but Malcolm dived to the ground and rolled, avoiding the bullet. Not until then did Malcolm pull the pistol he was carrying. “Shoot kinesthetically,” he told himself.

  He pointed the gun and fired, then saw Templeton get a surprised expression on his face, slap his hand over a bleeding hole in his chest, and go down

  Getting up, Malcolm ran over to him and kicked the pistol away from the fallen man, but that wasn’t necessary. Templeton was already dead.

  Malcolm looked toward the cabin, and with gun in hand, started toward it.

  Inside the cabin, Smoke regained his feet and approached each of the downed men to make certain neither of them offered any more danger.

  None did.

  He looked up as Malcolm entered the cabin with a smoking gun in his hand. “Templeton?” Smoke asked.

  “Dead.”

  They looked around for Lucy. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a pair of wide-open, frightened blue eyes staring back at them. She was bound, head and foot, by ropes.

  “Malcolm! Mr. Jensen!” Lucy said. “I have never been happier to see anyone in my life!”

  Malcolm rushed over to her and began untying her. As soon as her hands were untied, she threw her arms around Malcolm and began smothering him with kisses.

  Smoke chuckled. “If you folks don’t mind the interference, I’ll untie her feet.”

  “Did they do anything to you?” Malcolm asked. “What I mean is . . . uh . . . did they?”

  “No,” Lucy said. “But they were about to, just before you got here.”

  Malcolm smiled in relief that she had not been harmed, and also at the idea of playing a role in saving her.

  “Well, there’s no sense in being a hero, unless you can be a hero who arrives just in the nick of time,” Malcolm said.

  “Oh, the money!” Lucy said.

  “What money?”

  Lucy pointed to the bodies of Briggs and Carr. “The ransom money. They have it. But even though the ransom was paid, they weren’t going to let me go.”

  “You don’t even have to think about that,” Malcolm said. “You’re safe now, and I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Big Rock

  Curly Roper was standing at the bar in the Brown Dirt Cowboy, staring into a mug of beer as he tried to decide what he should do next. He no longer had a job, and was pretty sure none of the local ranchers would hire him, not after having worked for Garneau. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t just that he had worked with Garneau.

  Roper had been pretty much a troublemaker all along, often getting into fights, sometimes getting drunk and destroying private property. There was nothing left for him around Big Rock.

  “Roper!” a loud high-pitched voice called.

  He knew at once who it was.

  “Roper, I’m talking to you.”

  Roper turned toward Jeremiah Priest.

  “The colonel’s not very pleased with you, Roper.”

  “I don’t care whether he’s pleased or not,” Roper said. “I don’t work for the colonel no more.”

  “It ain’t you quittin’that’s got him upset. It’s how you done it. Word is, you went to see Smoke Jensen, and you told him about a huntin’ cabin. A cabin that the colonel wanted to keep private, just for his own men.”

  “What if I did?”

  “Well, then that means that me ’n you are goin’ to have to come to some sort of a settlement.”

  “I got nothing to say to you, or do with you.”

  “Yeah, you do. I’m callin’ you out, Roper.”

  “You can call me out all you want. I ain’t drawin’ on you.” Roper doubled up his fists. “But if you’d like to settle this with your fists, why, I’d be glad to oblige you.”

  “I said, draw,” Priest repeated in a cold, flat, voice. The others in the saloon knew there was about to be gunplay and quietly, but deliberately, moved to get out of the way of any flying lead.

  Roper held his hand out in front of him. “Look here. I’m takin’ off my gun belt, and I’m layin’ it on the bar.” He held both hands up in the air. “Now, as you can see, I ain’t wearin’ no gun. So whatever you got in mind, you can just forget about it.”

  “Go ahead and pull your gun from the holster,” Priest offered. “I won’t draw till you got it in your hand.”

  “I told you, I ain’t goin’ to get into no gunfight with you.”

  Roper picked up his drink, hoping by that action to show his defiance. What he showed in
stead was his fear, for his hand was shaking so badly he had to put the mug back down before all the beer splashed out.

  “Pull that gun, Roper.”

  Roper reached out toward his gun and holster. Instead of pulling the gun, he pushed the belt across the bar, and it fell with a loud thump to the floor on the other side of the bar.

  “What gun?” Roper asked with a nervous smile.

  “Somebody give him one,” Priest said coldly. He pulled his lips into a sinister smile. “Mr. Roper seems to have dropped his.”

  “I don’t want a gun,” Roper said.

  When no one offered Roper a gun, Priest pointed to the cowboy standing at the far end of the bar. “Give him your gun,” Priest ordered. “You aren’t going to be using it, are you?”

  “He don’t want a gun,” the man said.

  “Oh, I think he does.”

  “Listen, Priest, we can all see that Roper don’t want to fight. Why don’t you just leave it be?”

  “I said, give him your gun.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to do that. If I give him a gun, you’ll kill him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t want no part of it.”

  “You got no choice, friend. You’ll either give him your gun so I can kill him, or you can keep the gun, and I’ll kill you. Now, which one is it goin’ to be?”

  “Now, just wait a minute here! I don’t know what kinda beef you got with Roper there, but I got none with you, and you got none with me!” the cowboy said, holding out his hands to stop Priest from doing anything.

  “Give him the gun, or use it yourself,” Priest said again.

  The cowboy paused for just a moment longer, then he looked over at Roper.

  “This ain’t my doin’, Roper. I want you an’ ever’one in here to know this ain’t none of my doin’.” The cowboy took his gun out of the holster, put it on the bar, then gave the gun a shove. It slid down the bar, smashing through a few of the glasses that had been abandoned by drinkers who, when the trouble started, had stepped away from the bar.

  The pistol stopped just in front of Roper.

  “Pick it up,” Priest said to Roper.

  Roper looked at the pistol. He chewed his bottom lip, while sweat broke out on his forehead. “I . . . I ain’t goin’ to do it. You ain’t goin’ to have no excuse to shoot me.”

  “Do it,” Priest said again.

  “No, I ain’t goin’ to, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do that will make me fight you.”

  Priest jerked his pistol from his holster and pulled the trigger. There was a flash of light, then a roar of exploding gunpowder, followed by a billowing cloud of acrid blue smoke.

  Shouts of disapproval came from everyone in the saloon who thought Priest had shot Roper. But when the smoke drifted away, they were able to see what had actually happened. Roper was holding his hand to the left side of his head with blood spilling through his fingers. Priest’s bullet had clipped off a piece of his earlobe.

  “Are you goin’ to fight or not?”

  “I told you, I ain’t goin’ to fight you!” Roper yelled angrily.

  A second shot sounded and flesh flew from his right earlobe.

  “Pick up the gun!”

  “No!” Roper shouted back, covering both ears. Blood streamed through the fingers of both hands. “You people! Do something! Stop him! Can’t you see he’s goin’ to kill me?”

  “What’s goin’ on in here?” a new voice said and, looking toward the swinging doors, everyone saw Deputy Worley standing just inside the door with a gun in his hand.

  “This ain’t none o’ your business, Deputy,” Priest said.

  “Deputy, this man is trying to force me into a gunfight,” Roper said.

  “Is that right?” Worley asked.

  “Hell, Deputy, I’m just tryin’ to give him a little backbone is all,” Priest said.

  “All right, Priest, take your gun out. Do it real slow. Then drop it on the floor.”

  “Deputy, if I take my gun out, it ain’t goin’ to be slow. Now, why don’t you just back on out of here and leave the two of us to settle our difference of opinion?”

  “No, Deputy, don’t go!” Roper said.

  “Do what I told you, Priest. Take your gun out and drop it on the floor!”

  “I warned you, Deputy. There can’t nobody say I started this here fight between me ’n you.”

  “There ain’t goin’ to be no fight. You are going to pull your pistol out and drop it like I told you, then me ’n you are goin’ to jail till whatever is goin’ on here is all settled,” Worley said.

  Priest drew, fired, and replaced his gun in his holster so quickly that some in the room, who were looking at Worley, trying to gauge his reaction to what was going on, didn’t even see what happened.

  There was the sound of a gunshot, a look of shock and pain on Worley’s face, then his pistol clattered to the floor. With his hand over his wound, he took a couple steps forward, then collapsed.

  There were gasps and shouts of surprise from the others in the saloon.

  Priest turned his attention back to Roper. “All right. Now it’s just me ’n you again. Pick up that gun.”

  Roper made no move toward the gun, so Priest fired again, sending a bullet crashing into Roper’s kneecap. Roper shouted out in pain, then bent over to grab it. “You’re crazy!”

  “Pick up the gun,” Priest said calmly.

  Roper stared at Priest through fear-crazed, hate-filled eyes. Suddenly, the fear left his eyes. They became flat and void, as if he had already accepted the fact that he was a dead man. He had one emotion left, and one emotion only, and that was absolute, blind fury. He let out a bellow of rage that could be heard all up and down Center Street, from the undertaker’s establishment all the way down to the stagecoach depot.

  “You pig-faced, scum-sucking—” Roper made a mad, desperate, and clumsy grab for the gun.

  Priest watched, smiling broadly. He waited, not only until Roper had the gun in his hand but actually brought it to bear.

  For just an instant, but an instant only, Roper thought he might have a chance, and he raised his thumb to cock the pistol. His thumb didn’t even reach the hammer before Priest fired.

  Unlike the other bullets that had been used to tantalize, enrage, and torture Roper, the bullet was energized to kill, hitting him in the neck. Surprised by the suddenness of it, he dropped his gun, unfired, and clutched his throat. He fell back against the bar, then slid down, dead before he reached the floor.

  Priest looked around the saloon, a broad smile on his face. “Is there anyone in here who feels that I didn’t give these two men a fair chance?”

  When nobody responded, Priest walked over to the bar and picked up Roper’s beer. “I may as well drink this.” He laughed. “Roper sure as hell ain’t goin’ to be finishin’ it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Carro de Bancada

  The aroma of cooking meat wafted over the ground as Cal and Pearlie turned a quarter of a steer on a spit over a fire. The meat had been salted, peppered, and basted with a spicy sauce, and the forty men, women, and children gathered in Malcolm’s front yard visited, laughed, and made comments as to how good everything smelled. A piano had been brought over from Sugarloaf, and Johnny McVey had been invited to the party to provide the music.

  There was a dual reason for the gathering. All the neighbors had come to celebrate Lucy’s safe return, as well as the announcement that Malcolm and Lucy were soon to be married.

  “I reckon we don’t have to worry none about you goin’ back to New York now, do we, Malcolm?” Tom Keefer asked.

  Malcolm put his arm around Lucy and drew her to him. “Now, if I’ve come two thousand miles to find someone like this, why in the world would I want to go back to New York?”

  The others laughed.

  “No reason at all, Malcolm,” Logan said.

  “Hey!” Pearlie called. “This meat’s done if you folks are ready to eat.”
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  “Ready to eat?” Keefer said. “I been smellin’ that meat cookin’ so long I’m near ’bout ready to come over there and start gnawin’ on it while it’s still on the spit.”

  “Come on, Johnny. You’re the only one who’s been working,” Malcolm said. “So you get to go first.”

  “Hey, what if I start playing my Jew’s harp?” Logan asked. “Could I go next?”

  “I’ve heard you with that thing,” Otto Speer said. “I think if you promise not to play it, you should go first.”

  Again there was laughter, but the laughter was interrupted when Keefer called out, “There’s riders comin’! A lot of ’em!”

  “At least four of them,” Logan said. “Maybe we’d better get our guns, and get the women and kids out of here.”

  “No, wait,” Smoke said. “I know those men. That’s Taylor, Gately, Anderson, and Calloway. They’re working for Garneau, but I don’t think they mean trouble.”

  “They sure ain’t ridin’ in a way that would make you think they’re lookin’ for trouble,” Keefer said.

  The four riders came up to the yard, then stopped.

  “Hello, Gately,” Smoke said. “What brings you boys over here?”

  “We’ve all left the Frenchman.” Gately looked over at Woodward. “Mr. Woodward, it was the Frenchman what took your daughter. There didn’t any of us know about it for a while. Then, Curly Roper, he found out, an’ he quit. Then, this mornin’, the Frenchman sent Priest into town.”

  “And Priest killed Roper and the sheriff,” Anderson said.

  “What? Monte has been killed?” Smoke asked in shock.

  “It wasn’t the sheriff,” Taylor said. “It was one of his deputies. Worley.”

  “Smoke!” Sally said, grabbing Smoke’s arm.

  “Was Worley a friend of yours, Mr. Jensen?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes, he was.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you about the deputy,” Taylor said. “But, I reckon you already know that Curly Roper was a friend of mine.”