Battle of the Mountain Man Read online

  “So you’ve hired your own gunmen,” Smoke observed. .“I guess it makes sense if it’s the only way.”

  “I feel .I’ve got no choice, unless our new governor takes some action. Things have gotten so far out of hand it isn’t safe to ride my own land any longer. These rustlers get more brazen as time passes, when nothing official is done about them. I’m hoping all that will change this summer. But if it doesn’t, I intend to fight fire with fire. I’ve hired two experienced manhunters… Buck Andrews and Curly Tully. If I lose one more cow or one more ranch hand, I’m sending them after whoever is responsible. I’m through sitting on the fence waiting for the law to come to my rescue. I’m taking things into my own hands.”

  “That’d be my way of handlin’ it,” Smoke agreed as they rode to a pine-covered ridge at the north end of the valley. “I’m a real firm believer in takin’ an eye for an eye.”

  “You’ll need to watch the cattle you purchase from me very closely until you get out of this area,” Chisum warned. “They won’t spare your herd if they think they can take it.”

  Now it was Smoke’s jaw tightening a little. “Let ’em try,” he said quietly as they neared the trees where the last groups of crossbred steers grazed peacefully.

  It was a sudden glint of sunlight on metal up on the ridge that made Smoke twist in the saddle, one hand reflexively going for a bolstered Colt. “Watch out!” he snapped, eyes glued to the spot. “Somebody’s up there with a gun.”

  Chisum wheeled his horse for the closest tree. “Get to some cover!” he yelled, wasted breath since Smoke was already heeling his borrowed horse in the same direction.

  Almost at the same instant, a rifle cracked somewhere above them. A pinon branch snapped above Smoke’s head just as they rode into the pines.

  “Stay here an’ draw their fire!” Smoke bellowed, jerking his other pistol free, caught up in a rush of white-hot rage over the attempt to drygulch them.

  He drove his spurs into the ribs of Chisum’s bay gelding, beginning a full-tilt charge toward the top of the ridge without knowing how many men he faced… At the moment he didn’t give a damn. . Smoke was hell-bent on teaching a bushwhacker some manners as he reined his galloping horse among the trees upslope. He heard a pistol bark behind him… Chisum was drawing their fire with his big Walker Colt .44.

  Smoke saw a man kneeling with a rifle to his shoulder, hiding behind the trunk of a pinon. Steadying his pistol, despite the gait of a running horse underneath him, Smoke snapped off a quick shot at fifty yards.

  A splash of crimson flew from the rifleman’s left ear as he was turning toward the sound of a speeding horse. The bushwhacker’s rifle discharged harmlessly in the air as he spun away from the tree with blood squirting from his skull.

  Another movement caught Smoke’s attention, a stocky Mexican in a drooping sombrero turning a rifle in Smoke’s direction. As the Mexican readied for a shot, Smoke fired a roaring pistol shot aimed at his chest.

  The Mexican staggered backward, dropping his Winchester to clutch his breastbone, where a dark red hole suddenly appeared in his soiled white shirt-front. Drumming his spurs into the bay’s sides, Smoke raced toward another shadowy shape in the dense pine forest, bending low over his horse’s neck, aiming as best he could with the bounding strides of the bay throwing his gunsights off a fraction.

  The outline of another Mexican gunman became clear enough for a tricky shot and Smoke took it, hearing the roar of his .44 fill his ears, a wisp of blue gunsmoke curling past his face.

  A sombrero-clad figure jerked upright next to a thick pine trunk, reaching for his shoulder, moving into plain sight just long enough for Smoke to fire again. A cry of pain filled the forest around them as Smoke pulled his bay to a sliding stop at the edge of a pinon thicket, leaping to the ground before the horse came to a complete halt… He had no way of knowing how many more men were hidden along this ridge, and now it was time to hunt them down individually, stalking them until he was certain no one else was there.

  The third man he’d shot slumped to the ground, groaning. Off in the distance, maybe a hundred yards further down the ridge, he heard voices, men yelling to each other in rapid Spanish, at least two more gunmen who would pay dearly for trying to ambush him and Chisum.

  Smoke crept forward, both pistols at the ready, his anger slowly cooling to a more calculated revenge. Moving on the balls of his feet, he advanced toward the sound of voices. His horse trotted back downhill to escape the noise of guns. Darting from tree to tree, never knowing where another attacker might be, he heard the drum of pounding hoofbeats coming from the back side of the ridge, a lone horseman escaping the battle, apparently running out of nerve.

  Soundlessly, he stepped across beds of fallen pine needles, keeping to the shadows wherever he could. Now all was quiet along the ridge… The voices hac stopped.

  A moment later, he heard another horse take of at a gallop, and he wondered if the last bushwhacker had pulled out, until he caught a glimpse of a running man, a Mexican wearing a sombrero, carrying a rifle.

  It was a difficult target, requiring Smoke to steady his Colt against a tree trunk. When he fired, the report echoed back and forth throughout the pines accompanied by a yell as the potbellied Mexican went facedown, legs still pumping, trying to crawl.

  Staying behind trees, Smoke hurried over to the wounded man, who left a blood trail over dry pine needles and yellowed winter grass beginning to turn green near its roots. The Mexican had a flesh woum across his ribs. Before Smoke knelt beside him, he gave the forest a close examination, until he was satisfied they were alone.

  He put the muzzle of a Colt against the Mexican’s right temple and spat out a question. “Who sent you? You’ve got just one chance to answer before I scatter your brains all over this ridge.”

  “Jessie,” the Mexican hissed, clenching his teeth against the pain. “Jessie… Evans.”

  Smoke didn’t recognize the name, although it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. “You ain’t hurt all that bad, Paucho, or whatever your name is. Get on your horse an’ ride back to this Jessie Evans. Tell him if he ever messes with Smoke Jensen or any of my friends again, I’ll come lookin’ for him and I’ll kill him. I want you to make that real clear. My friends and me are ridin’ back to Colorado with a herd of cattle in a couple of days. If I lose so much as one cow or one bull, I’m gonna come lookin’ for Jessie. There won’t be no place in New Mexico Territory that’s safe from me if anything happens to my cows or my friends. I’ve got no stake in this range war, but I’ll goddamn sure take a hand in it if one more shot gets fired in my direction, or if I lose a single head of livestock. Understand, Pancho?”

  The Mexican nodded, glancing sideways to the gun Smoke held to his head. “Si, senor. I will tell Jessie.”

  Smoke wasn’t quite satisfied yet. “I killed three of your partners just now, an’ put a litde gash across your ribs ’cause you were lucky. Don’t count on bein’ lucky the next time. Tell Jessie Evans what I said.”

  “Si, senor. I swear I will tell him.”

  “I imagine Evans figures he’s pretty tough, pretty good with a gun. He can go on believin’ that if he wants, only be sure an’ tell him he’s never crossed paths with Smoke Jensen before. If he does it again, I’ll fill him so goddamn full of bullet holes he won’t have to take his pecker out to piss, ’cause he’s gonna be leakin’ all the time.”

  “I will tell him you are one bad hombre, senor. I have seen this… for myself.”

  Smoke lowered his Colt, lifted the Mexican’s pistol out of his gunbelt, and took his rifle before he stood up cautiously to check his surroundings. Then he spoke to the Mexican again in a voice like ice. “I don’t really figure it’ll do any good to give Jessie that warning, but I’m doin’ it anyway, just in case he’s got more sense than most. Men who think they’re tough usually have to be proven wrong. You can tell him Smoke Jensen is just the man who can get that job done. If it’s a fight he wants, I’m the man he’s lookin’ for.”<
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  John Chisum lowered his pistol when he saw Smoke riding down to the cattle pasture. He waited until Smoke rode up to him to speak. Both Chisum cowboys guarding the herd had ridden up to the north end of the pasture with guns drawn.

  “I heard all the shooting,” Chisum said. “You must have scared them off. I stayed put, not knowing whether I’d be in your line of fire. When these boys rode up, we were about to head up this slope, when all of a sudden, the shooting ended.”

  “You’ll find three dead Mexicans up there in those trees,” Smoke said. “I reckon somebody oughta bury ’em an’ notify their next of kin. I wounded another bushwacker and we had a little talk before I let him go. He told me he works for a man by the name of Jessie Evans…”

  “He’s the ramrod of Jimmy Dolan’s gang of rustlers,” Chisum said bitterly, “only I can’t prove a thing and nobody in official circles will look into it. Evans is a paid killer from down in Texas some place.” Chisum stared at Smoke a moment. “You said you killed three of them all by your lonesome?”

  Smoke began reloading his pair of Colts. “Mexican pistoleros, by the look of ’em, I’ve tangled with their kind before.”

  “You must be one hell of a gunman yourself, Mr. Jensen. I’d like to offer you a job, if you’re interested.”

  “My guns ain’t for hire,” he replied, closing the loading gate on an ivory-handled .44 before he hoistered it. “But I did send Jessie Evans a little message, by way of his wounded sidekick. I told him if one more bullet came at me or my men, or if I lost a single cow on my way back to Colorado, I’d come lookin’ for him, and that I’d kill him.”

  “Evans won’t scare easy,” Chisum declared.

  Smoke gave the crossbred steers another look as he said, “I wasn’t meanin’ to scare him, Mr. Chisum. I meant every goddamn word. Whoever this Jessie Evans is, he’ll be a dead son of a bitch if he tests me on it. Now, if you’re ready, let’s take a look at those young longhorn cows you’re offering for sale.”

  Twenty

  Billy Barlow glanced over his shoulder as his horse ran up a steep incline. Another horseman was gaining ground on him. Was it the broad-shouldered crazy man with two pistols, he wondered. He relaxed some when he recognized Pedro Lopez racing away from the scene of the shooting, the same as Billy had when it became clear the man who rode with Chisum had no fear, no sense, like a locoed bronc, the way he’d charged up that mountain with both guns blazing.

  Billy slowed his horse to a walk at the top of the climb to scan the trail behind Pedro. The lunatic with two guns was not following them. He waited for Pedro to catch up.

  Pedro’s horse was floundering under the punishment of spurs when Pedro rode up beside Billy.

  “He ain’t followin’ you?” Billy asked, looking again at their backtrail, finding it empty.

  “No,” Pedro gasped, looking back himself. “El hombre loco is too busy killing Jorge and Carlos and Raul. This son of a bitch be muy loco, to come at us like that.”

  “He ain’t just loco,” Billy said. “He can goddamn sure shoot.”

  “Verdad, it is the truth,” Pedro wheezed. “He come straight at us like un idiota. I never see a man so foolish as him before today.”

  “It’s like he wasn’t afraid of our guns at all.”

  Pedro mopped his brow with a bandanna, glancing back again to look for dust or any sign of the stranger. “I see Roy Cooper ride off very fast when this idiota come up the hill. He ride to the east. I don’t understand. Cooper is loco himself, but he is also mean with a gun. But he don’t stay when this stranger come shooting. He run away, like he know this hombre don’t be right in his head.”

  “I didn’t see which way Cooper went,” Billy said. “I was too busy lookin’ out for my own ass. That guy, whoever he is, can’t have a lick of sense to charge us like that all by himself with just two pistols. He’s either dumb as a rock, or nearly the meanest bastard who ever stood in a pair of boots.”

  “Maybeso Cooper go back to get him when he think we all go away,” Pedro suggested.

  “I ain’t so damn sure,” Billy replied. “Maybe Mr. Roy Cooper ain’t as tough as we think he is. He lit out of there like his tailfeathers was afire.”

  Pedro shrugged. “Who can say? I see Cooper shoot those cowboys in the night like he enjoy it.”

  “Maybe he don’t enjoy it so much when somebody’s shootin’ back at him.”

  “Senor Jessie be plenty mad when he hear this,” Pedro said, as though he was speaking to himself.

  “Then let him face this crazy son of a bitch. We’ll tell him he’d better bring Pickett an’ every spare gun he’s got if he aims to kill that big bastard. I got a feelin’ this guy ain’t gonna be easy to kill.”

  “Is the truth,” Pedro muttered, looking over his shoulder yet another time. “I don’t see Victor. Maybeso this hombre kill him too.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” Billy added as he urged his horse to a lope. “Jessie sure as hell ain’t gonna like this when we give him the news.”

  Roy Cooper lay on his belly in tall grass near the mouth of the valley, putting his rifle sights on the square-shouldered cowboy who came at them earlier. He was riding beside Chisum and his ranch hands like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. Roy knew the others were either dead or they’d deserted him, which was typical of Mexican gunmen—short on courage when things got tight.

  The range for his Winchester .44 was still too great to be sure of the shot, and thus Roy waited, holding his rifle against his shoulder, doing his best to keep the barrel from catching sunlight that might warn the riders below of his presence. He was sure he could take down the newcomer when the distance was right.

  The stranger’s head turned toward the grassy hilltop where Roy lay, but only for a moment. “He didn’t see me,” Roy whispered. Then the stranger did an odd thing… He got down off his horse and walked into a line of trees while the others halted to wait for him.

  “He needed to piss,” Roy told himself. “He’s too bashful to pull his pecker out while everybody’s watchin’. Maybe I can get him when he walks out of them pines…”

  Time seemed frozen, although it did seem to be taking the stranger a hell of a long time to let his water down. Roy was motionless, his rifle aimed for the spot where the stranger went into the trees, judging his chances of a quick kill with just one slug.

  Minutes passed. “Maybe he’s takin’ a shit,” Roy wondered softly. The others, including Chisum, sat their horses in clear view as though nothing was wrong, never once looking up at Roy’s hiding place.

  A sound behind him, something brushing against the grasses, made him turn. Then a towering figure blocked out the sun. The glint of a huge knife blade flashed.

  “Son of a…”

  A blinding pain entered Roy’s rib cage, along with a noise like snapping willow limbs. Cartilage was torn from his sternum by a single slash of a razor-sharp knifepoint. He heard himself scream, staring into a face twisted with hatred above him, and just as quickly, the scream died in his throat when a second swipe of the blade went across his windpipe, slicing through cords of muscle, ligaments, and skin.

  “Die slow, you backshootin’ bastard,” a grating voice said quietly.

  Roy’s backbone arched, and he struggled to bring his gun up at the same time until a heavy boot landed on his wrist, knocking the rifle from his hand.

  “You’ve got no balls, pilgrim. You’re just another yellow son of a bitch who can’t face the man he aims to kill. I’ve known half a hundred like you. I don’t know your name, but it don’t matter who you are. What you are is dead, only not yet, not till the ants feed on you for a spell, until your blood runs all over this hill.”

  Pain shot through Roy’s body from head to toe and for a moment he was sure he would lose consciousness. He made a second attempt to sit up, choking on his own blood, strangling when it entered his windpipe.

  “Wish you could live long enough to tell this Jessie Evans he’s messin’ with th
e wrong man. But you won’t. You’ll be dead in half an hour, maybe less.”

  Roy saw winking stars before his eyes, but he could still see the twisted face looming over him.

  “Bleedin’ to death is a helluva slow way to die, mister. I hope it don’t hurt too awful bad. But if it does, think about all the cows you stole that wasn’t yours, or the men you killed who never had a chance. Think about those things while you’re dyin’. You ain’t got long.”

  Roy fell back on the grass, unable to breathe at all now.

  “Adios, cowboy, whoever you are,” the same voice said as Roy slipped slowly into a black void.

  Jessie watched two men ride in at a hard gallop with a vague sense of apprehension. He recognized Barlow and Lopez by their horses. “Somethin’s wrong,” he told Pickett.

  Pickett came up from his bull hide chair, squinting in the sun’s glare, cradling a shotgun in the crook of his arm. “It’s that Barlow boy an’ Pedro Lopez. They’s after their horses with a spur mighty hard.”

  “Wonder where Roy is?” Jessie asked. “It ain’t like Roy to let ’em split up… ’less there’s been trouble.”

  Billy and Pedro galloped their winded mounts up to the cabin, and Barlow was the first to speak.

  “We got real problems,” Barlow said, dropping to the ground in more of a hurry than Jessie felt was warranted. “This stranger showed up at Chisum’s, We had it all laid out to kill him, only he come at us like a nest of hornets. He rode right up the ridge where we was hidin’ an’ started shootin’ like a bullet was never gonna hit him. Roy Cooper took off in the other direction soon as it happened.”

  “Is true, Serior Jessie,” Pedro agreed, climbing down from his lathered horse. “This stranger, he don’t be afraid of nothing. He ride his horse toward us while we be shooting, and he don’t act afraid.”

  Jessie stood up. “Where the hell is Roy?” he asked with a note of impatience. Roy Cooper had never run away from any man that Jessie knew of.