Revenge of the Mountain Man Read online

  “Sir, I—”

  Davidson whirled around, his face hard with anger. “Shut your goddamn mouth, DeBeers!” He shouted. “And never interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, she was raped—among other things. The men enjoyed taking their perversions upon her.” He was pacing the room. “Repeatedly. I enjoyed listening to her beg for mercy. Dagget can be quite inventive, too. But finally I wearied of it, just as I am rapidly wearying of you, DeBeers. You’re really a Milquetoast, Shirley. I think I’ll put you in a dress and parade you around. Yes. That is a thought.”

  Smoke kept his mouth shut.

  Davidson turned back to the window, gazing out over his town of scum and filth and perversion. “I have not left this place in years. I stay aware of what is going on outside, of course. But I have not left this valley in years. It’s mine, and no one is going to take it from me. I will not permit it. I know an attack is coming. But I don’t know when.”

  Smoke knew then why the sudden influx of outlaws. Somehow, probably through outriders, Davidson had gotten the word out to them: If you want to save your refuge, you’d better be prepared to fight for it.

  Or something like that.

  With King Rex, however, it had probably been put in a much more flowery way.

  “Ah, sir, Your Majesty?” Smoke verbally groveled, something he was getting weary of.

  “What do you want, Shirley?”

  “May I take my leave now, Your Magesty?”

  “Yes, you silly twit!” Davidson did not turn from the window. “And stay out of my sight, goofy. I haven’t made up my mind exactly what I’m going to do with you. Get out, fool!”

  I’ve made up my mind what to do with you, King Rex, Smoke thought, on his way out. And about this time tomorrow, you’re going to be in for a very large surprise. One that I’m going to enjoy handing you.

  He gently closed the door behind him. He was smiling as he walked down the hill from the King’s house. He had to work to get the smile off his lips before he entered the long main street of Dead River.

  In twenty-four hours, he would finally and forever shed his foppish costume and strap on his guns.

  And then Dr. Jenson would begin administering to a very sick town.

  With gunsmoke and lead.

  * * *

  Smoke was conscious of York staring at him. He had been sliding furtive glances his way for several hours now, and Smoke knew the reason for the looks. He could feel the change coming over him. He would have to be very careful the remainder of this day, for he was in no mood to continue much longer with his Shirley DeBeers act.

  York had just returned from town and had been unusually quiet since getting back. He finally broke his silence.

  “DeBeers?”

  “Yes, York?”

  “I gotta tell you. The word is out that come the morning, you’re gonna be tossed to the wolves. Davidson is gonna declare you fair game for anybody. And you know what that means.”

  Mid-afternoon of the seventh day.

  “Brute Pitman.”

  “Among other things,” York said.

  “What size boots do you wear, York?”

  “Huh! Man, didn’t you hear me? We got to get the hell gone from this place. And I mean we got to plan on how to do it right now!”

  “I heard you, York. Just relax. What size boots do you wear?”

  The cowboy signed. “Ten.”

  “That’s my size. How about that?” Smoke grinned at him.

  “Wonderful!” The comment was dryly given. “You lookin’ at gettin’ kilt, and you all het up about us wearin’ the same size boots. You weird, DeBeers.”

  With a laugh, Smoke handed York some money. “Go to the store and buy me a good pair of boots. Black. Get me some spurs. Small stars, not the big California rowels. Don’t say a word about who you’re buying them for. We’ll let that come as a surprise for them. Think you can do that for me, York?”

  “Why, hell, yes, I can! What do you think I am, some sort of dummy? Boots? ’Kay. But I best get you some walkin’ heels.”

  “Riding heels, York,” Smoke corrected, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his new friend’s face. “And how many boxes of shells do you have?”

  “One and what’s in my belt. Now why in the hell are you askin’ that?”

  “Buy at least three more boxes. When you get back, I’ll explain. Now then, what else have you heard about me, York?”

  “You ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It might give me more incentive to better do the job that faces me.”

  York shook his head. “Weird, DeBeers. That’s you. Well, that Jake feller? He’s been makin’ his brags about how he’s gonna make you hunker down in the street and eat a pile of horse-droppin’s.”

  “Oh, is he now?”

  “Yeah. He likes to be-little folks. That Jake, he’s cruel mean, DeBeers. That one and them that run with him is just plain no-good. He makes ever’ slave that comes in here do that. I’ve had half a dozen or more men tell me that. All the men here, they think it’s funny watchin’ Jake force folks to eat that mess.”

  “I wonder how Jake would like to eat a poke of it himself?”

  York grinned. “Now that’d be a sight to see!”

  “Don’t give up hope, York. Would you please go get my stuff for me?”

  “Sure.” He turned, then stopped and whirled around to face Smoke. “I can’t figure you, DeBeers. You’ve changed. I noticed that this morning.”

  “We’ll talk when you get back, York. Be careful down in town. I think things are getting a bit tense.”

  “That ain’t exactly the way I’d put it, but whatever you say.” He walked off toward town, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. Smoke smiled at the young man and then set about preparing himself mentally for what the night held in store.

  And he knew only too well what lay before him when the dusk settled into darkness in the outlaw town.

  There was no fear in Smoke; no sweaty palms or pounding heart. He was deathly calm, inside and out. And he did not know if that was an asset or liability. He knew caution, for no man lived by the gun without knowing what was about him at all times. But Smoke, since age sixteen, had seldom if ever at all experienced anything even remotely akin to fear.

  He sat down on his ground sheet and blankets and calmly set about making a pot of coffee. He looked up at the sound of boots striking the gravel. Brute Pitman stopped a few yards away, grinning at him.

  “Go away, Bruce. The smell of you would stop a buzzard in flight.”

  Brute cussed him.

  Smoke smiled at him.

  “I’m gonna enjoy hearin’ you holler, pretty-boy,” Brute told him, slobber leaking past his fat lips. “With you, I’m gonna make it las’ a long time.”

  Smoke made no reply, just sat on the ground and stared at the hulking mass of perversion. He allowed his eyes to do the talking, and they silently spoke volumes to the big slob.

  Brute met the gaze and Smoke’s smile was wider still as something shifted in the hulk’s eyes. Was it fear touching Brute’s dark eyes? Smoke felt sure that it was, and that thought amused him. Brute Pitman was like so many men his size, a bully from boyhood. He had bulled and heavy-shouldered his way through life, knowing his sheer size would keep most from fighting back. But like most bullies, Brute was a coward at heart.

  “Something the matter, Brute?”

  That took him by surprise. “Huh! Naw, they ain’t nothin’ the matter with me, sissy-boy. Nothin’,” he added, “that come night won’t clear.”

  “You best watch the night, Brute,” Smoke cautioned. “Night is a time when death lays close to a man.”

  “Huh! Whatda you talkin’ ’bout now, pretty boy. I don’t think you even know. I think you so scared you peein’ your drawers.”

  Smoke laughed at him. Now he didn’t care. It was too close to the deadline to matter. By now, the men from the posse would be ap
proaching the ranch and would be changing horses for the last time before entering the mountain pass. Already, the Utes would be slipping into place, waiting for the guards to change.

  Everything was in motion; it could not be stopped now.

  “Get out of my sight, Brute. You sickin’ me.”

  Brute hesitated, then mumbled something obscene under his breath and walked down the small hill. Twice he stopped and looked back at Smoke. Smoke gave him the finger, jabbing the air with his middle finger.

  “Crazy!” Brute said. “The bassard’s crazy! Done took leave of his senses.”

  Smoke heard the comment and smiled.

  Brute met Cat Ventura on his way down. The men did not speak to each other. Cat stood over Smoke, staring down at him.

  “I would wish you a good afternoon,” Smoke told him, “but with you here, it is anything but that.”

  Cat stared at him, ignoring the remark; Smoke was not sure the man even knew what he meant by it. “I seen you somewheres before, artist,” the gunfighter, outlaw, and murderer said. “And you wasn’t drawin’ no pitchers on paper, neither.”

  “Perhaps if you dwell on it long enough, it will come to you in time, Mister-whatever-your-name is. Not that I particularly care at this juncture.”

  “Huh! Boy, you got a damn smart mouth on you, ain’t you? I’m Cat Ventura.”

  “Not a pleasure, I’m sure. Very well, Mr. Meow. If you came up here to ask me to sketch you, my studio is closed for the time being. Perhaps some other time; like in the next century.”

  “You piss-headed smart ass! When the time comes, I think I’ll jist stomp your guts out; see what color they is. How ’bout that, sissy-pants?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Purr. I really have my doubts about you doin’ that.”

  Before he turned away to walk back down the hill, Cat said, “I know you from somewheres. It’ll come to me. I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll certainly be here.”

  Smoke lay on his ground sheet and watched a passing parade of outlaws visit him during the next few minutes. Some walked up and stared at him. A few made open threats on his life.

  He would have liked to ask why the sudden shift in their attitude toward him, but he really wasn’t all that interested in the why of it.

  Smoke checked the mountain sky. About three hours until dusk. He rose from the ground and got his fishing pole, checking the line and hook. Jake and Shorty and Red had been watching him, hunkered down at the base of the hill. Out of the corner of his eyes, Smoke saw them all relax and reach for the makings, rolling and lighting cigarettes. He stepped back into the timber behind his camp, as if heading for the little creek to fish and catch his supper. Smoke assumed his line of credit at the Bon Ton Café had been cut off. The food hadn’t been all that good anyway.

  Out of sight of the trio of outlaws, Smoke dropped his pole and walked toward the center of town, staying inside the thin timber line until he was opposite the privy and the pile of lumber behind the saloon. He quickly stepped to the lumber, moved a couple of boards, and spotted the rolled-up packet.

  The back door to the saloon opened, a man stepping out. “What you doin’, boy? Sneakin’ around here. You tryin’ to slip out, pretty-pants?”

  Smoke looked up as the man closed the door behind him and walked toward him. His hand closed around a sturdy two-by-four, about three feet long and solid. “Just borrowing a few boards, sir. I thought I might build a board floor for my tent. Is that all right with you?”

  The outlaw stepped closer, Smoke recognizing him as a wanted murderer. “No, it ain’t all right with me. You jist git your butt on out of here.”

  Smoke could smell the odor of rotting human flesh from those unfortunates hanging from the meat hooks at the edge of town. Those few still alive were moaning and crying out in pain.

  Smoke looked around him. They were alone. He smiled at the outlaw. “Playtime is all over, you bastard.”

  “What’d you say to me, fancy-pants?” The man stepped closer, almost within swinging distance. Just a few feet more and Smoke would turn out the man’s lights. Forever.

  “I said you stink like sheep-shit and look like the ass end of a donkey.”

  Cursing, growling deep in his throat, the outlaw charged Smoke. Smoke jerked up the two-by-four and laid the lumber up against the man’s head. The outlaw stopped, as if he had run into a stone wall. His skull popped under the impact. He dropped to the earth, dying, blood leaking from his ears and nose and mouth.

  Smoke dropped the two-by-four and quickly dragged the man behind the privy, stretching him out full length behind the two-holer. He could only be seen from the timber.

  Smoke took the man’s two .44s and punched out the shells from the loops of his belt. He grabbed up his own guns and walked back into the timber, heading for his campsite.

  He was smiling, humming softly.

  * * *

  They had said their good-byes to their wives and kids and girlfriends and swung into the saddle, pointing the noses of their horses north, toward the outlaw town.

  One deputy from an adjoining county had been caught trying to make it alone to Dead River. He had been brought back to face Jim Wilde. It turned out his brother was one of the outlaws living in Dead River. The deputy was now locked down hard in his own jail, under heavy guard.

  The members of the posse were, to a man, hard-faced and grim. All knew that some of them would not live through the night that lay before them. And while none of them wanted to die, they knew that what lay ahead of them was something that had to be done, should have been done a long time back. The outlaw town had been a blight on society for years, and the time had come to destroy it and all who chose to reside within its confines.

  The riders each carried at least two pistols belted around their waists. Most had two more six-guns, either tucked behind their belts or carried in holsters, tied to their saddles. All carried a rifle in the boot; some had added a shotgun, the express guns loaded with buckshot. The men had stuffed their pockets full of .44s, .45s, and shotgun shells.

  The posse rode at a steady, distance-covering gait; already they had changed horses and were now approaching Red Davis’s place. While the hands switched saddles, the men of the posse grabbed and wolfed down a sandwich and coffee, then refilled canteens. All checked their guns, wiping them free of dust and checking the action.

  “Wish I was goin’ with you,” Davis said. “I’d give a thousand dollars to see that damn town burned slap to the ground.”

  Wilde nodded his head. “Red, there’ll be doctors and the like comin’ out here and settin’ up shop ’bout dark. Some of us are gonna be hard-hit and the slaves in that town are gonna be in bad shape. You got your wagon ready to meet us at the mouth of the pass?”

  “All hitched up.” He spat on the ground. “And me and my boys will take care of any stragglers that happen to wander out when the shootin’ starts.”

  Jim Wilde smiled grimly. Between the Utes and Red Davis’s hard-bitten hands, any outlaws who happened to escape were going to be in for a very rough time of it. Red’s ranch had been the first in the area, and the old man was as tough as leather—and so were his hands.

  Red clasped Jim on the shoulder. “Luck to you, boy. And I wanna meet this Smoke Jensen. That there is my kind of man.”

  Jim nodded and turned, facing the sixty-odd men of the posse. The U.S. Marshal wore twin .44s, tied down. He carried another .44 in his shoulder holster and a rifle and a shotgun in the boots, on his horse. “All right, boys. This is the last jumpin’-off place. From here on in, they’s no turnin’ back. You gotta go to the outhouse, get it done now. When we get back into the saddle, we ain’t stoppin’ until we’re inside Dead River.” He glanced at the sinking sun. “Smoke’s gonna open up the dance in about an hour—if he’s still alive,” he added grimly. “And knowin’ him he is. Anybody wanna back out of this?”

  No one did.

  “Let’s ride!”

  * * *

  Th
e guards along the pass road had just changed, the new guards settling in for a long and boring watch. Nothing ever happened; a lot of the time many of them dozed off. They would all sleep this dusky evening. Forever.

  One guard listened for a few seconds. Was that a noise behind him? He thought it was. He turned, brought his rifle up, and came face to face with a war-painted Indian. He froze, opening his mouth to yell a warning. The shout was forever locked in his throat as an axe split his skull. The Ute caught the bloody body before it could fall to the ground and lowered it to the earth. The body would never be found; time and wind and rain and the elements and animals would dispose of the flesh and scatter the bones. A hundred years later, small boys playing would discover the gold coins the outlaw had had in his pockets and would wonder how the money came to be in this lonely spot.

  His job done, for the moment, the brave slipped back into the timber and waited.

  Up and down the heavily guarded narrow road, the guards were meeting an end just as violent as the life they had chosen to live. And they had chosen it; no one had forced them into it. One outlaw guard, who enjoyed torturing Indians, especially children, and raping squaws, was taken deep into the timber, gagged, stripped, and staked out. Then he was skinned—alive.

  Their first job done, the Indians quietly slipped back and took their positions around the outlaw town of Dead River. With the patience bred into them, they waited and watched, expressionless.

  * * *

  York looked up and blinked, at first not recognizing the tall muscular man who was walking toward him, out of the timber. Then he recognized him.

  “Damn, DeBeers. I didn’t know you at first. How come you shaved off your beard?”

  “It was time. And my name is not DeBeers.”

  “Yeah. I kinda figured it was a phony. And I didn’t believe that Shirley bit, neither.”

  “That’s right. You get my boots and spurs?”

  York pointed to a bag on the ground. He had never seen such a change in any man. The man standing in front of him looked . . . awesome!

  Smoke was dressed all in black, from his boots to his shirt. His belt was black with inlaid silver that caught the last glows of the setting sun. He wore a red bandana around his neck. He had buckled on twin .44s, the left handgun worn butt-forward, cross-draw style. He had shoved two more .44s behind his belt.