Warpath of the Mountain Man
Dear Readers,
Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”
I’ve never forgotten ater, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the last gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid mountain man, or John Barrone and his hard-working crew keeping America safe from terrorist lowlifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.
Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.
As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.
Respectfully yours,
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
VALOR OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
WARPATH OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2006 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Valor of the Mountain Man copyright © 2001 by William W. Johnstone Warpath of the Mountain Man copyright © 2002 by William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4305-7
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
VALOR OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
18
19
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21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
WARPATH OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
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2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
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25
Notes
VALOR OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
1
The territorial prison was an adobe brick building that stood in the middle of 180 acres between 14th East and 21st South in the town of Sugar House in the Utah Territory. Though built to house less than two hundred men, it was already crammed to the breaking point with some of the meanest men west of the Mississippi—from footpads to rapists to bank robbers to murderers, sooner or later they all ended up here.
In Cellhouse No. 1, over thirty men slept on cots in corridors between the cells, eating their meals in three shifts and using buckets for privies since the toilet facilities were so primitive.
The place was barely tolerable in the heat of summer, but now that the fall was upon the region and the nighttime temperatures often fell into the twenties, the situation was almost unbearable.
One of the hardest men in the group of very hard men indeed, Ozark Jack Berlin, leaned over the bucket full of piss and shit and spat out his food. He was a big man, standing three inches over six feet, with muscular shoulders as broad as an ax handle. His face was rough-featured, set under a full head of unruly black hair, with a nose that’d been broken more than once and lips that were thin and cruel.
“This stuff ain’t fit for man nor beast!” he groused to the half-breed Modoc Indian sitting on a cot next to his. The Indian had long black hair hanging down over his ears to his collar, and his reddish-bronze skin framed a hooked nose over full lips that he was constantly licking.
Blue Owl looked up from his plate, which was empty except for a small piece of biscuit he was using to sop up the gravy from the maggot-riddled horse meat. “If you no want yours, shove it over here,” he growled. “It’s better’n buffalo meat any day.”
Berlin handed Blue Owl his plate. “I tell ya’, Blue Owl, I think it’s ’bout time to bust outta this joint.”
Blue Owl didn’t answer, being busy shoving Berlin’s food into his mouth, but he cut his eyes to the side and nodded his agreement.
“I got me an idea how we can do it,” said Berlin.
Blue Owl grunted, his eyebrows raised.
“Today’s payday for the guards. I figger they’ll all head for town soon’s they get their money to spend it on whores an’ whiskey.”
Blue Owl nodded again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“That’ll only leave one man in Cellhouse No. 1, an’ a couple more in the other parts of the building. If’n we can get our hands on the guard’s gun, we can break into the armory an’ steal us some more weapons an’ take over the rest of the prison.”
Blue Owl burped loudly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Then what, Jack?” he asked. “We gonna walk all the way to Salt Lake City?”
Berlin smiled, shaking his head. “Naw. We’ll take the guards’ hosses an’ the supply wagons they keep around back, and head toward Colorado. They’s plenty of sodbusters an’ farmers ’tween here an there. We’ll just take what we need along the way.”
Blue Owl shrugged, flipping his hair out of his face with a thick, meaty finger. “Sounds all right to me. Anyway, it’ll beat sittin’ here an’ waitin’ to be hung.”
* * *
After the evening meal, prison guard Joe Johnson moved through the cell block, picking up plates and tin cups from the inmates. Following protocol set up by the warden, he wore no weapon while in the company of the criminals he was working with. He was watched by guard Billy Thornton, who was standing outside the bars of the cell block, a .44 Colt in a holster on his hip and an American Arms 12-gauge shotgun cradled in his arms.
It was a ritual they’d played out countless times, and Thornton was bored. He leaned against a wall and covered his mouth with a hand as he yawned.
He’d been up most of the night playing poker after his shift the night before, and hadn’t slept well when he’d finally crawled into his bed in the morning. As Joe Johnson leaned down to take Berlin’s plate from him, Berlin glanced over his shoulder and saw Thornton leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed.
Quick as a flash, Berlin grabbed the back of Johnson’s head and hit him in the throat with his closed fist.
Johnson’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened as he gulped for air like a fish out of water. As the skin of his face turned blue and he dropped to his knees, his hands at his throat, Berlin turned and called to Thornton.
“Hey, Billy. Somethin’s wrong with Joe. He’s choking!”
Thornton came to attention, looked into the cell block, and saw his friend Joe on his knees, his face blue and his mouth open and gasping as he jerked wide eyes back and forth.
Thornton quickly grabbed the keys to the cell door off his belt and shoved the bars open. He ran to Joe’s side and went down on one knee to see if he could help.
Blue Owl stepped up behind Thornton, put his hands together, and swung them like a club into the back of Thornton’s neck.
The guard dropped as if he’d been poleaxed.
Berlin grabbed the shotgun before it could hit the dirt floor of the cell, and Blue Owl slipped the .44 Colt from Thornton’s holster as he fell facedown on the ground.
Berlin ran toward the cell door, shouting over his shoulder to one of the men standing there as Johnson finally gasped his last breath, “Grab them keys, boys. We’re gettin’ outta here!”
Sam Cook, in prison for raping and killing two women, took the keys off the unconscious Thornton’s belt and followed Berlin and Blue Owl through the door. Behind him, the other thirty men in the cell block scrambled to their feet and rushed after them.
Berlin slowed to a walk as he rounded the corner in the corridor leading from Cellhouse No. 1. He eared back the hammers on the shotgun and pointed it ahead of him as he walked toward a desk at the end of the corridor.
Bob Colton, head guard, was sitting behind the desk, finishing his supper of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. He looked up, and almost choked on his chicken leg when he saw Ozark Jack Berlin stalking toward him with the double-barreled shotgun aimed at his gullet.
“Howdy, Bob,” Berlin said amiably. “How ’bout you take that hogleg outta your holster and put it on the desk there?”
Colton swallowed, and gingerly pulled his pistol out of his holster and placed it on the desk in front of him.
“Don’t do nothing stupid, Ozark,” he croaked through a suddenly dry throat.
“Stupid would be stayin’ here to be hanged, Bob. Now, get to your feet and walk on back into the cell back there, or I’ll spread your guts all over the wall.”
As Colton walked down the corridor, Berlin called, “Sam, put him in the cell with the others and lock the doors.”
* * *
Less than thirty minutes later, Berlin, Blue Owl, and the other thirty men were in the prison armory, where they had armed themselves with pistols, shotguns, and rifles, and were stuffing their pockets with boxes of ammunition.
Two other guards who happened upon the group were stripped of their weapons and placed in the cell house with the others.
The prisoners then made their way to the stables, saddled up ten horses, hitched up a couple of teams to two supply wagons, and raced out of the prison gates. The day-shift guards continued to sleep in their barracks, unaware of the prison break.
As the escapees rode down the trail away from the town of Sugar House toward the mountains in the distance, Blue Owl inclined his head toward the men riding in the wagons. “We ain’t gonna make much time with them wagons, Ozark. What’re we gonna do?”
Berlin shrugged. “There’s plenty of farms ’tween here and the high country. We’ll just stop along the way and take what horses and supplies we need.” He grinned, exposing blackened teeth. “After all, who’s gonna stop us?”
2
Warden Joshua M. Stevens came out of a sound sleep with his heart hammering as someone pounded on his door.
His wife, Sofie, blinked her eyes and stared at him in fear at the harsh sound.
“Josh, what’s that noise?” she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes.
“Go back to bed, dear,” he said, climbing out of bed and pulling on a robe. “It’s just someone at the door. I’ll take care of it.”
On the way to answer the door, Stevens paused to pick up a Colt off a dining room sideboard. Being the warden of a prison that housed hundreds of desperados made a man cautious—especially when awakened in the middle of the night.
“Who is it?” Stevens called from behind the closed and locked door, earing back the hammer on his pistol. Over the years, he’d made plenty of enemies, some of whom had vowed revenge when they got released.
“It’s Brock Jackson, Warden,” the answer came.
Brock was the assistant warden, Stevens’s second in command at the prison.
Stevens eased the hammer down on the Colt and opened the door.
“What the hell are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” Stevens asked irritably as he showed the man in.
Jackson twirled his hat in his hand nervously as he entered the warden’s drawing room.
“There’s been a prison break, Josh,” he said without preamble.
Stevens’s heart began to pound again at the news. “Anyone injured?” he asked.
Jackson nodded, his eyes grim. “One of the guards, Joe Johnson, was killed. Another, Billy Thornton, was knocked unconscious, but he’s recovering.”
“Tell me what happened while I boil some coffee,” Stevens said curtly, walking toward the kitchen.
After a fire was lit in the stove, Stevens took a cigar out of a box and lit it, sitting at the kitchen table.
“Ozark Jack Berlin and that breed Blue Owl killed Johnson, and when Thornton went in to help, they knocked him out and took his weapons.” Jackson shrugged. “After that, they got the drop on the other night-shift guards, broke into the armory, and stole some weapons and ammunition, then took horses and wagons out of the stables and hightailed it toward the mountains.”
“How many got out?”
“Over thirty . . . all from Cellhouse No. 1,” Jackson answered.
“Damn! Those are the worst men we’ve got,” Stevens said, a worried look on his face.
“You’re right about that, Josh. There ain’t a one of ’em that wouldn’t cut the throat of a baby if it meant they’d go free.”
Stevens sighed. “Anybody told Mrs. Johnson about Joe yet?” he asked.
“I sent one of the guards who’s a good friend over to break the news to her.”
As the coffee began to boil, Stevens got to his feet and poured them each a cup.
“Well, I’ll get dressed and head on over to the telegraph office. I’ve got to notify the governor as soon as it’s light.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We don’t have enough men to go chasing them, not and still guard the prison. You’d better get on over to the Army post and see if they’ll send a patrol out after them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Brock . . .”
“Yes?”
“Tell the captain over there to send plenty of good men. Let him know what kind of galoots they’ll be going up against.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Ten miles east of Salt Lake City, Ozark Jack Berlin held up his hand as his men crested a small ridge looking down on a valley below. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, sending bright orange and red rays over the farm below.
There was a main house, a large barn, and off to one side a bunkhouse. In a corral next to the barn, about fifteen horses could be seen.
Berlin nodded. “Looks like just what we need, boys,” he growled.
His men pulled out their weapons and leaned over their horses as Berlin led the charge down the side of the hill.
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br /> As they galloped down the slope, a man and a woman appeared on the porch of the house. The man gave a yell and the woman disappeared back inside. Men began to boil out of the bunkhouse, some still in their long underwear and pulling their boots on.
The battle was over quickly, the seven hands and the ranch owner no match for thirty hardened gunmen. Within minutes, eight men lay dead on the ground, along with one of Berlin’s men.
Berlin, breathing heavily, pointed to the corral and barn. “Get them hosses saddled an’ see what else you can find in the barn and bunkhouse,” he called. “We need some clothes an’ supplies, an’ don’t forget to get their guns and ammunition ’fore we leave.”
Blue Owl cut his eyes toward the house, where the woman had disappeared. “You go ahead, Boss. I got me some business in the house.”
Berlin grinned. “Save a little for the rest of us, Blue Owl. Don’t cut her up till we get our turn.”
Blue Owl stared at him. “But Ozark, that’s half the fun.”
“You can cut her when the rest of us are done, but it’s been a long time since most of us have had a woman, so take it easy.”
Blue Owl nodded as he turned his horse’s head toward the house.
* * *
Later, Berlin took stock of what they’d found. Most of the men were able to get out of their prison coveralls and into jeans and shirts, though some were too big to fit into the clothes of the farmer and his hands. They also found enough horses in the corral and barn to get all of the men on horseback and off the wagons, along with more guns, rifles, shotguns, and even some dynamite the farmer used to bust up tree stumps.
All of the food was taken from the house. Then, with the farmer’s wife’s body still lying on the bed in their bedroom, Berlin put a torch to the house.
As they walked their horses toward the distant mountains, Berlin said, “A couple’a more farms like this, an’ we should have enough supplies and horses to get us through the mountains an’ into Colorado.”