Guns of the Mountain Man Read online

  A slug from his right-hand gun took Tom Blakely in the neck, punching a hole through his Adam’s apple, ripping out his windpipe. He dropped his shotgun and grabbed for his neck, as if he could somehow hold in the blood and air that was pumping out in a scarlet, frothy stream.

  The slug from Smoke’s left gun hit Joe high in the chest, spinning him halfway around in his saddle, his horse jumping and crow-hopping at the sudden noise. As the animal bucked, Joe, a bloody grin on his face exposing teeth stained red, raised the rifle again.

  At the same time, the short man in the duster ran a few steps out into the street, drawing his pistol.

  As Smoke fired both his Colts again, two holes appeared in Joe’s head, one under each eye, shattering his cheekbones and blowing the back of his head off.

  He and his brother hit the dirt at about the same time, both dead as stones.

  Mickey O’Donnel got off two quick shots, one passing over Smoke’s head, the other burning a grove in his right thigh.

  Monte dove onto his stomach, his shotgun out in front of him. He fired both barrels, hoping to distract Mickey from shooting at Smoke.

  One barrel missed, but the other load of .00-buckshot hit Mickey just above his right knee, tearing his leg completely off and spinning him around to fall in a heap, screaming in pain.

  Smoke jerked his bandanna off and held it against his leg as he hobbled over toward the fallen men. He knew at a glance Tom and Joe were done for, so he continued over to Mickey.

  He and Monte arrived at the same time. Monte knelt and put his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, trying to hold him still as he writhed on the ground, moaning and crying in pain.

  “Dear Lord, save me! Help me, Jesus!” the man cried, using the holy names for probably the first time in his adult life.

  Blood was spurting from his leg in a thick, crimson stream as if from a pump, and Smoke knew he had only moments to live.

  “Who sent you?” he hollered, trying to get the man’s attention.

  After a couple of seconds, the man quieted, futilely holding his leg as if he could hold in the blood that was leaving his body and taking his life with it.

  His eyes cleared momentarily, and he looked up at Smoke. “Count your days, Jensen. Cain is coming. . . .”

  Then his eyes clouded and there was no life behind them as the man went limp and the blood coming from his leg slowed to a trickle, stopping completely as he died.

  * * *

  Another man, hidden in an alley across the street, quietly holstered his pistol. Damn, he thought, I never even saw Jensen draw his pistols ’fore he was blowin’ Tom an’ Joe to hell an’ gone.

  He watched as Smoke and Monte stood over Mickey while he bled to death. It’s too late fer them, he thought. I’d do better to ride on back to Fontana and tell Cain what happened.

  He slipped back through the alley to where he had his horse tied up and jumped into the saddle, spurring the animal toward Fontana as fast as he could ride.

  When he got there, he wasted no time in rushing into the saloon.

  Cain was at his usual table, and he looked up as the man burst through the batwings.

  “Ah, Jimmy,” he said, calling to the man. “How did it go in Big Rock?”

  Jimmy, sweating profusely from both his ride and from having to face Cain and tell him they failed, walked to his table.

  “You ain’t gonna believe this, Mr. Cain, but Jensen got Mickey an’ Tom and Joe. They’s all deader’n stones.”

  “What? How did that happen?” Cain asked, his face turning beet red.

  “It was somethin’ to see. There Tom an’ Joe was, they rifles and shotguns in they hands, pointin’ ’em at Jensen, when suddenly his hands were full of six-guns an’ he blasted ’em outta they saddles ’fore they could pull the triggers.”

  “You’re tellin’ me they had the drop on Jensen an’ he was still able to draw an’ fire before they could shoot?”

  “Yes sir! That Jensen’s quicker’n a rattlesnake, an’ twice as mean.”

  “What about Mickey?”

  “He was able to get off a couple’a shots—one of ’em hit Jensen in the leg—’fore the sheriff blowed his leg clean off with a shotgun. He bled to death right there in the street with Jensen and the sheriff watchin’ him die.”

  Cain shook his head. “And you, what did you do to help?”

  Jimmy’s face flushed scarlet. “There weren’t nothin’ I could do, boss. It all happened so fast, it was over ’fore I could draw an’ fire.”

  In a lightning motion, Cain reached out and slapped Jimmy across the face, almost knocking the man off his feet.

  “Get your gear and clear out of here, Jimmy. I don’t allow no cowards to ride with me!”

  “But Mr. Cain . . .”

  Cain let his hand fall onto the butt of his pistol. “One more word, an’ I’ll shoot you down right where you stand.”

  13

  George Hampton glanced over at Johnny North riding next to him as they approached the outskirts of Fontana. “I don’t know as how this is such a great idea, Johnny,” he said, sleeving fear-sweat off his forehead.

  Johnny returned his stare, “Don’t worry about it, George. We’re just a couple’a cowboys ridin’ through town. They don’t need to know why we’re here.”

  “What if your idea is right, and this Lazarus Cain Smoke was askin’ ’bout and his gang are holed up here?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Then we’ll have a sociable drink an’ be on our way. They won’t know we’re gonna tell Smoke where they’re hidin’.”

  The first thing both men noted as they entered the city limits was the amount of horse droppings in the street and their apparent freshness. This didn’t look like the virtual ghost town it had become after the Tilden Franklin affair of a few years back.

  “Uh oh, Johnny, looky there,” George said as they rode past the rundown livery stable barn. It was full of horses, with not a single stall unoccupied. “Looks like there’s quite a few men here.”

  Johnny’s eyes narrowed as he looked around the town, seeing a number of men lounging on the boardwalks or pitching horseshoes in the alleyways. “Smoke said he thought Lazarus was ridin’ with about fifteen or twenty men. Seems to me to be more like forty or fifty hanging around here from the number of hosses I can count.”

  At the saloon there wasn’t room to tie up their horses, the double hitching rail in front already being full, so they walked down a few yards and tied up in front of the general store.

  “Look in there,” George said. “Them shelves is plumb full’a goods an’ things.”

  “Don’t exactly appear as if these gents’re passin’ through, does it?” Johnny remarked. “Matter of fact, it looks like they is plannin’ on settin’ up home here.”

  Johnny led the way through the batwings of the saloon, trying not to show any surprise at the number of men sitting around at the tables drinking and playing cards. About the only thing the place lacked was a piano player in the corner to bang away on the yellowed, stained keys.

  When Johnny got to the bar, he ordered beer for himself and Hampton.

  As the bartender placed foaming glasses in front of them he stared at Johnny for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “You look a mite familiar, friend,” Bob Blanchard said. “Do I know you?”

  Johnny snorted and took a deep swig of his beer. “Partner, I don’t know who in the hell you are, or who you know,” Johnny said in a harsh voice. Then he leaned forward and added, “And you know what else, mister? I don’t really give a damn, either.”

  Blanchard’s face paled at the implied threat, and he took a step back, his hands held out in front of him. In the West, it was sometimes a fatal mistake to show too much interest in who a man might be or where he hailed from, and it was certainly considered impolite to ask unless the information was volunteered.

  “I’m sorry, mister. Didn’t mean no disrespect,” Blanchard stammered, sweat forming on his brow.

  �
��None taken,” Johnny muttered, and he turned to lean his back against the bar and survey the other patrons.

  He immediately saw the man Cal said had shot him. He was sitting at a corner table that was full of hard-looking men who were drinking whiskey like there was no tomorrow.

  The tall, skinny, mean-looking man glanced up and his eyes met Johnny’s for a second before Johnny looked away.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the man Smoke said was named Cain get to his feet and amble toward him at the bar.

  Cain took a position next to Johnny and held out his hand to Blanchard, who quickly put a glass of whiskey in it.

  “Howdy, stranger,” Cain said, leaning on the bar as he stared at Johnny.

  Johnny gave him a look, his face blank. “Howdy.”

  “What brings you and your friend to Fontana?” Cain asked casually, as if the answer didn’t really matter all that much to him.

  Johnny turned until he was facing Cain. “What’s it to you, mister?”

  Cain shrugged. “Well, I’m kind’a the head man around here, an’ we don’t particularly cotton to strangers hangin’ around.”

  Johnny gave him a cold half-smile. “We’re not exactly hangin’ around. My friend and I are on our way north, and stopped off to water our mounts an’ wash the trail dust outta our mouths. Is there any law agin that in these parts?”

  Cain wagged his head. “Not if that’s all you’re plannin’ on doin’.”

  “Good,” Johnny said and turned back to the bar, ignoring Cain.

  “I didn’t catch your name, mister,” Cain said, his voice harder, as if he wasn’t used to being ignored.

  Johnny emptied his glass and held it out to the bartender for a refill. “That’s ’cause I didn’t throw it,” he replied, forcing boredom into his tone.

  Cain made a slight motion with his head and a man with a heavy growth of whiskers stepped from a nearby table and squared off facing Johnny, his hands hanging next to his pistols.

  “Mr. Cain asked you what your name is, mister. You’d better be tellin’ him or I’m gonna have to make you.”

  Johnny looked back over his shoulder at the gunny. “First of all, I don’t take orders from nobody, not even your Mr. Cain,” Johnny growled as he turned to face the man. “And second, if you even twitch toward that hogleg on your hip, you’ll be dead before you clear leather.”

  “You talk awful big, stranger,” the man answered.

  “If you think it’s only talk, jerk that smokewagon and go to work, sonny boy,” Johnny said in a hoarse whisper, unhooking the leather hammerthong on his Colt.

  The man’s face turned red, and he grabbed for his gun.

  In a flash, Johnny’s hand appeared before him filled with iron, the pistol making a harsh click as he eared back the hammer, the barrel inches from the astonished gunman’s face.

  “Now, this can go one of two ways,” Johnny snarled. “You can unhand that gun and go sit back down to your card game, or I can scatter what little brains you have all over the saloon floor.” He gave a tiny shrug with his shoulders. “Your call, sonny boy.”

  Cain quickly stepped between the two men, smiling, his hands out as if to make peace.

  “Whoa, mister. I can see you’re pretty handy with that sixkiller. My name’s Lazarus Cain, an’ I’m askin’ you nicely what yours is.”

  Johnny holstered his Colt. “Johnny North.”

  Cain frowned. “Johnny North? I thought you were dead.”

  Johnny smirked. “Not likely.”

  Cain turned to the crowd in the saloon who were watching the action intently. “Men,” he said in a loud voice. “This here is Johnny North, one of the most famous gunfighters of a few years back.”

  He put his hand out and Johnny took it. “Pleased to meet you, Johnny. I’ve heard a great deal about you, though not in recent times,” Cain said in a friendly tone.

  Johnny picked up his beer and took a deep swallow. That had been a close call, but he was glad to see he hadn’t lost any of his quickness. It had been some time since he’d drawn on anyone.

  “Times have been slow. I worked the Lincoln County war a few months back, but there hasn’t been much call for my services since then,” he said, referring to when he and Smoke had intervened with John Chisum in New Mexico.

  Cain nodded. “I heard about that little fracas. Unfortunately, I was busy elsewhere an’ didn’t get to see it.”

  Johnny gave a half-smile. “It was interestin’ for a while, then it just got boring. Chisum didn’t have the stomach to really clear out the opposition, and he made peace a little too soon for my taste.”

  Cain laughed. “Well, Chisum is a businessman, and they often have goals that are different from men like us.”

  Johnny didn’t answer, but continued to stare at Cain, waiting for him to get to the point.

  Cain pursed his lips, as if considering what to say next. After a moment, he said, “I’ve got a little operation goin’ on here that you might be interested in, Johnny.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Johnny asked.

  “Before I say any more, why don’t you introduce me to your companion?”

  “This here is George Hampton, from down Texas way,” Johnny said.

  George nodded at Cain, then turned back to his beer as if ignoring their conversation.

  “Is he . . . in the business?” Cain asked.

  Johnny smirked. “In a small way, but it’s just a sideline for him. He’s got a small spread down near Del Rio, an’ he’s just makin’ some spare cash to buy a herd. His got wiped out by tick fever from some stock he . . . appropriated across the border.”

  Cain laughed. “Appropriated stock will sometimes do that, especially Mexican steers.”

  Hampton nodded without looking up. “Yeah, an’ there ain’t no one to go to for a refund, neither.”

  Cain laughed again.

  “Well, if you boys are lookin’ for work I may be able to oblige you. Like I say, I’ve got a deal workin’ here that may pay off handsomely.”

  Johnny shook his head. “Maybe in a couple of weeks. We’re on our way over to Pueblo to see a man about something else. If you’re still around here when we finish up with that job, we’ll stop by on our way back south.”

  A suspicious look crossed Cain’s face. “And just who are you goin’ to see in Pueblo?”

  “A man name of Wells, Joey Wells,” Johnny answered. “He’s an old friend of George’s, an’ he asked us to help him with a little problem he’s having with some U.S. Marshals up that way.”

  “Joey Wells is in Pueblo?” Cain asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard he killed more’n a hundred men durin’ the big war.”

  “More like two hundred, I reckon,” George said.

  “I rode for a while with Bill Quantrill’s raiders, an’ we would’ve given a lot to have him with us,” Cain said.

  Johnny smiled. “Joey had retired across the border, ’til a bunch of bandidos shot his wife an’ son. That’s what brought him up here, to make ’em pay for that.”

  Cain nodded. “I wouldn’t want Wells on my backtrail.”

  “Neither would I,” Johnny said. “That’s why I don’t aim to disappoint him after sayin’ I’d help out.”

  “I can see your point,” Cain said. “Well, tell Joey that there’s some work waitin’ for him here if he’s so inclined. Meanwhile, enjoy your journey and stop back by on your way south. We may still have need of your services.”

  “Thanks, we’ll do that,” Johnny said, flipping a gold coin on the bar for their drinks. Cain reached over and picked up the coin and handed it back to Johnny. “Your money’s no good here, Johnny. The drinks are on me.”

  “Thanks,” Johnny said.

  Cain grinned. “No problem. It’s not every day I get to meet a legend like Johnny North.”

  14

  After Johnny and George left the saloon, Cain held his glass out for a refill.

  “Bob,” he said, as he took a si
p of the alcohol, “you don’t see many like that anymore. The old gunfighters had class, something sorely lackin’ in these new young punks that seem so prevalent nowadays.”

  “Yes sir,” Bob said, wiping down the bar with a rag that looked as if it’d seen better days. “Only—”

  Catching the hesitation in his voice, Cain looked up at him. “Only what, Bob?”

  “It’s just that I seem to remember somethin’ ’bout Johnny North, somethin’ ’bout him hangin’ up his guns a while back.”

  Cain’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? Well if that were true, why wouldn’t he’ve just said so?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Cain. Maybe he found he didn’t much care for retirement an’ went back to gunnin’ fer a livin’.”

  “Yeah, maybe . . . only, if North lied about one thing, maybe he lied about other things, too. If he comes back, we’ll have to keep a special eye on Mr. Johnny North.”

  * * *

  Smoke was on his front porch having a cup of coffee and a cigarette when Johnny North and George Hampton rode up.

  “Light and set, boys,” Smoke said, giving the old mountain man greeting to his friends.

  While they dismounted, Smoke stuck his head in the cabin door and asked Sally if she’d make some more coffee for their company.

  Within ten minutes, they were all sitting on the porch, coffee in one hand and some of Sally’s pastries in the other.

  “Smoke,” Johnny said, “we rode out to Fontana and found that Lazarus Cain you been lookin’ for camped out there with all his men.”

  “What made you think to look in Fontana?” Smoke asked. “I thought it wasn’t much more than a ghost town.”

  “It were Johnny’s idea, Mr. Jensen,” George said around a mouthful of pan dulce.

  “Yeah. I got to thinkin’ after your visit when you tole me Cain’d disappeared without nobody havin’ laid eyes on him,” Johnny said. “There was only one place I knowed where that many men could hunker down an’ not be noticed.”

  Smoke nodded. “It was a good thought, Johnny. No one would see them there because no one around here ever goes to Fontana anymore.”

  “Did you talk to him?” asked Sally, who was standing behind Smoke’s chair with her hands on his shoulders.