Warpath of the Mountain Man Page 12

  * * *

  Once they were all gathered together, he put it to them straight. “Men, sooner or later, Ozark’s gonna get us all killed, running around shooting up the countryside like this.”

  “You figger on goin’ up again’ him?” Breckenridge asked, a doubtful look on his face. “He’s meaner’n a snake, an’ twice as fast with that six-killer of his,” he added as he cut a chunk of tobacco off a plug and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

  Cook shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t solve the problem. Riding with so many men just brings too much attention to us. I think we’d do better to go off on our own. Nobody’s looking for five men . . . they’re all looking for a gang of thirty.”

  “Berlin ain’t gonna take kindly to no suggestion we split up,” Four Fingers Watson said. “Matter of fact, he’s liable to get downright testy about it.”

  “That’s why we’re not going to ask his permission,” Cook said. He nodded at Watson. “You’re an experienced burglar, so I want you to sneak down to the barn where Berlin put all the horses.”

  Watson looked unsure. “What if they see me?”

  Cook shook his head. “They won’t. By now, they’re all whiskeyed up and sleeping like babies.”

  “What do you want me to do once I’m there?” Watson asked.

  “Take one of the packhorses and load it up with as much food and ammunition as you can, then come on back up here. If we take off on our own, we’re gonna need some grub to tide us over until we can get to a town.”

  “Where you figuring on heading to?” Malone asked.

  “The closest town is Pueblo, off to the northeast. I figure if we go in one or two at a time, they won’t place us as members of Berlin’s gang.”

  “Then what’re we gonna do?” Breckenridge asked.

  “Stay there a day or so until things calm down, then head on off to some smaller towns, where we can rob a bank or two to get traveling money.”

  “What if Ozark Jack comes after us?” Givens asked, a look of fear on his face.

  “He won’t dare come near Pueblo. He knows they’re gonna be on the lookout for his gang there, so he’s bound to steer clear of that town for sure.”

  “I don’t know,” Breckenridge said. “It all sounds pretty risky to me.”

  “Not half as risky as riding with Berlin until every U.S. marshal and Army man in the country is after us.”

  After some more discussion, the men agreed with Cook’s plan, and Watson got on his horse and walked it down toward the ranch, staying on the side of the barn where he couldn’t be seen by the men in the ranch house.

  Less than an hour later, the five men, along with their packhorse, were headed northeast, back along the way they’d come, toward Pueblo.

  “We’ll ride back along our back trail so as not to leave Berlin any tracks to follow,” Cook explained. “We’ll stay in the tracks we made coming here until we get a few miles up in the mountains, then cut over toward Pueblo.”

  He laughed. “By the time they realize we’re gone, it’ll be too late for them to take out after us.”

  * * *

  Smoke and his party were about a day and a half behind Berlin’s men. They’d been delayed by the necessity of taking care of the women the gang had left behind, but Smoke was pushing the horses as fast as he could to make up for lost time.

  Luckily, the snow was helping, for the gang had left a trail that even a blind man could follow. Thirty horses riding through snow made quite a mess, one not easily missed, and the outlaws were in too much of a hurry to try to disguise their trail. Berlin had not been smart enough to have his men ride off in different directions and join up later to confuse anyone on his trail.

  Smoke suddenly held up his hand.

  “What is it, Smoke?” Monte Carson asked, riding up next to him.

  Smoke leaned over his saddle horn and pointed at the ground. “Look there, Monte. There’s some tracks coming back in this direction along the back trail of the gang. See where they cut off and head off to the north?”

  “How many you figure, Smoke?” Jed McCulloch asked from behind Monte.

  “Looks like five or six, near as I can make it,” Smoke answered.

  “What’a you think’s goin’ on?” Pearlie asked. “You think they’re splittin’ up or somethin’?”

  Smoke wagged his head. “No. This looks like a party of men came back along this way six or eight hours after the main party went south. See how the snow’s covered some of the older tracks, but not the newer ones?”

  “If you say so, Smoke,” Jed said. “I never was much good at tracking.”

  “Smoke could track a field mouse in a blizzard,” Cal said.

  “What do you think we should do, Smoke?” Bob Guthrie asked. “Should we split up an’ some of us follow these new tracks?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No. There’s too many of them for us to divide our forces. Since these are the most recent, we’ll probably stand a better chance of catching them before the larger party, so let’s see where they take us.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Smoke once again held up his hand. A couple of hundred yards ahead he could see a group of five men seated around a small fire under some pine trees.

  “You think they’re part of the bandits?” Jed asked, letting his hand fall to his pistol.

  “Don’t know,” Smoke said. “But, there’s only one way to find out,” he muttered as he spurred his horse forward at a slow walk toward the group ahead.

  As they got closer, Guthrie said in a low voice, “Be careful, Smoke. I think I recognize that big black man sittin’ off to the side.”

  “You sure?” Smoke said.

  Guthrie nodded. “Yeah. You don’t forget somebody that big, especially when he’s killin’ your friends.”

  Smoke released the rawhide hammer-thong on his Colt and kept moving forward.

  One of the men looked up and saw them coming. He rolled to the side and grabbed for a rifle lying next to the fire.

  Quicker than it takes to tell it, Smoke drew and fired in one lightning-fast movement. His slug took Johnny Four Fingers Watson in the side of his neck, blowing out his Adam’s apple and almost taking his head off.

  As the other four men drew pistols and began to return fire, Smoke leaned over his saddle horn and took his reins in his teeth while he steered his mount with his knees and spurred him forward at a full gallop.

  Cal and Pearlie drew and followed, catching Monte Carson, Jed McCulloch, and Bob Guthrie by surprise.

  Pearlie’s first two shots hit Sly Malone in the stomach and chest, doubling him over to fall into the fire, sending sparks and flames scattering in all directions.

  Cal and Murphy Givens fired at the same time. Givens’s bullet creased Cal’s neck at the shoulder muscle, spinning him sideways in the saddle just as Cal’s slug hit Givens low in the stomach, in the groin area. Givens screamed, dropped his pistol, and doubled over, holding what was left of his manhood with both hands.

  Smoke snapped off two quick shots at Sam Cook as he dived behind a nearby tree, pocking bark off the tree but missing the outlaw by inches.

  As Cook leaned around the tree and took aim at Smoke, both Jed and Guthrie fired simultaneously, followed seconds later by Monte Carson. One shot missed, the other two did not. Twin holes appeared in Cook’s forehead, snapping it back and breaking his neck as his brains exploded out of the back of his head.

  The big black man, Breckenridge, jumped behind his horse and pulled a short-barreled shotgun from his rifle boot. As he leaned over the horse to fire, Monte Carson shot, knocking the horse to its knees just as Smoke put a bullet in the middle of the big man’s chest.

  Breckenridge stumbled backward, still on his feet, and brought the shotgun up again, blood pouring from the hole in his chest.

  Pearlie, Jed, and Guthrie all snapped off shots, riddling the man’s body with holes and blowing him backward to land spread-eagled in the snow, blood from seven wounds staining the snow
bright scarlet.

  * * *

  While Jed and Monte rushed to kick Breckenridge’s pistol out of his reach, Smoke jerked his horse’s head around and rode over to Cal, who was sitting leaned over his saddle horn, his hand to his neck with blood running from between his fingers.

  “Are you all right, Cal?” Smoke asked as he jumped out of the saddle and ran to his side.

  “Hell, no, Smoke!” Cal replied, a lopsided grin on his face. “I been shot.”

  “Damn, Cal,” Pearlie yelled as he raced over to help. “If I told you once, I told you a thousand times, duck when you hear gunshots.”

  Cal gave Pearlie a look, his eyes filled with pain though his lips were still curled in a smile. “If I’d ducked, Pearlie, the bullet would’ve hit me in the head ’stead of the neck, you dumb cowboy.”

  Once Pearlie saw Cal wasn’t hit too bad, he grinned back. “That’s what I mean, Cal. Yore head’s harder’n any other part of your body. Wouldn’t’ve hurt near as much had you taken one in the pumpkin.”

  “Let me see that,” Smoke said, prying Cal’s hand away from his wound.

  There was a shallow groove, half an inch deep, running from the front of Cal’s neck to the rear. Though it was bleeding fairly heavily, as neck wounds do, it wasn’t life-threatening.

  “Pearlie, get some fatback out of my saddlebags,” Smoke said. “We’ll put it on the wound and wrap it tight with a bandanna. That ought to stop the bleeding.”

  As Pearlie brought over a slab of pork fatback from Smoke’s saddlebags and unwrapped it, he shook his head. “It’s a waste of good bacon to use it like that,” he said.

  “Well, Pearlie, I’ll be sure an’ save it for you when I’m done with it,” Cal said sarcastically.

  “Hey, Smoke,” Monte called. “This one’s still alive,” he said, standing over Murphy Givens, who was rolling and writhing on the ground, moaning in pain.

  Smoke, once he saw Pearlie was taking care of Cal’s wound, walked over to the fire. As he passed, he used his boot to kick Sly Malone’s body out of the flames. He rolled it in the snow a couple of times to put out the fire in the outlaw’s shirt, but he was already dead.

  Then Smoke squatted next to Givens and peeled the man’s hands back from his wound. There was a large hole in his lower abdomen. Cal’s bullet had torn through the man’s bladder and coursed downward to take his penis and balls off. He was bleeding rapidly, and there appeared no way to staunch the flow of blood. The wound was too severe.

  “How bad am I hit?” Givens moaned through clenched teeth, staring up at Smoke through terror-filled eyes, afraid to look for himself.

  “You’re hit about as bad as can be,” Smoke said. “You better make your peace with whoever you believe in, ’cause you’re sure as hell going to meet your Maker soon.”

  “Goddamn!” Givens cursed. “I knowed I shouldn’t’ve listened to Cook.”

  “Where is the rest of the gang?” Guthrie asked, leaning over the dying man.

  “Go to hell, Army,” Givens said, noticing Guthrie’s uniform. “I ain’t no rat.”

  Guthrie straightened up. He took Givens’s pistol and emptied out all the shells but one. Then he squatted again and put his face next to Givens’s. “Tell us where they are, an’ I’ll let you have this pistol to put yourself outta your misery,” he said calmly.

  “Uh-uh,” Givens said, shaking his head.

  “All right then,” Guthrie said. He turned his attention to Smoke. “Smoke, you’re a mountain man. What do you think will get him first, the buzzards or the wolves?”

  Smoke scratched his chin. “With that much blood around, I’d bet on the wolves. Course,” he added, “the buzzards’ll finish up what the wolves leave.”

  “Damn you!” Givens said, holding out his hand. “Give me that pistol.”

  “Not until you talk,” Guthrie said, his voice hard.

  “All right, damn you. They’re holed up at a ranch ’bout ten miles south of here,” the man said, his voice harsh and clotted with pain.

  Smoke looked up, judging the distance and direction. “That must be the Sanders ranch,” he said to himself.

  He leaned over and stared into Givens’s eyes. “What happened to Mr. and Mrs. Sanders?” he asked.

  “What’a you think?” Givens said. “Now, I played square with you. Give me that pistol.”

  As Guthrie started to hand the gun to the man, Smoke reached out and took it from him. He squatted next to Givens, holding the gun just out of his reach. “Joel and Bertha Sanders were sixty years old, you scum. They were worth more than all of you bastards put together.”

  Givens’s voice took on a whining quality. “But they fired on us first,” he croaked through dry lips.

  Smoke pitched the pistol off to the side, where Givens couldn’t get to it.

  “When you get to hell, mister, tell the devil to keep the door open, ’cause your friends are gonna be coming soon.”

  Givens’s eyes opened wide when he saw Smoke throw the gun away. “But you promised. . . .”

  “So, sue me,” Smoke said, and stood up. “Come on, I know a shortcut to the Sanders place. Maybe we can catch them while they’re still there.”

  “What about these bodies?” Jed asked, looking around at the dead men scattered everywhere. “Shouldn’t we bury them or something?”

  “To hell with them,” Smoke said. “Wolves got to eat, same as worms.”

  As they climbed on their horses, Guthrie said in a low voice, “They didn’t bother to bury my dead, so let ’em lie here till something hungry enough to eat shit takes ’em.”

  21

  Blue Owl leaned over the bed where Ozark Jack Berlin was sleeping and shook his shoulder.

  Berlin came instantly awake, jerking a Colt from under the covers where he was holding it.

  Blue Owl held out his hands, “Whoa, Boss,” he said, stepping back a step. “It’s just me.”

  “What is it? What do you want?” Berlin asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “We got trouble, Boss. Sam Cook and his men took off during the night.”

  “What?” Berlin asked, sitting up in the bed and swinging his legs over the side.

  “Yeah. They snuck into the barn and took one of the packhorses, and some of the grub and ammunition too.”

  “That dumb son of a bitch,” Berlin growled, grabbing his hat from the table next to the bed and striding out of the room.

  He found the rest of the gang crowded into the parlor of the ranch house, waiting for him.

  “Any sign of anybody on our trail?” he asked.

  Blue Owl shook his head. “Not yet anyway. I got a couple of men up on the hill keeping watch.”

  “Anything else?” he asked, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the stove.

  “Yeah. Billy Bartlett thought he heard some gunfire a little while back.”

  “From which direction?” Berlin asked as he blew on the coffee to cool it before taking a drink.

  “Off to the northeast, he thought, though it’s kind’a hard to tell with all the echoes from the mountains.”

  Berlin shook his head. “That idiot must’ve headed back toward Pueblo, right into the hands of whoever’s on our back trail.”

  Blue Owl nodded. “That’s the way I figure it,” he said.

  “How long ago did Billy hear the shots?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “That means we don’t have much time. Get the men saddled up an’ let’s make tracks outta here, ’fore they get here.”

  “You think they’ll be coming here?” Blue Owl asked.

  “Of course. Whoever fired those shots ain’t ridin’ around in the mountains this time of year for their health. They’re on our trail, an’ I don’t suspect they’ll give up just ’cause they killed a few of us.”

  “You think they got Sam and his men?”

  Berlin grinned. “Yeah, an’ it serves him right too. He always was dumber’n
a snake. Now, let’s get movin’. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  * * *

  U.S. Marshal Ace Wilkins was having lunch at the Lucky Lady Saloon in Pueblo when a young boy came running up to his table.

  “Marshal,” the boy cried, breathless from his run, “Jake over at the ticket office told me to tell you the train’s finally coming in.”

  “The one that was due three days ago?” Wilkins asked around a mouthful of steak.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right over,” the marshal said, flipping the boy a shiny coin for his trouble.

  “Thank you!” the boy said, stuffing the coin in his back pocket and running out the door.

  * * *

  By the time Marshal Wilkins finished his lunch and walked the two blocks to the train station, the train was already in. He noticed there was quite a crowd around the passenger car, and some men were loading what looked like people into several buckboards standing nearby.

  He pulled his hat down tight on his forehead against strong north winds and walked up to one of the buckboards. A pretty woman with long dark hair and hazel eyes seemed to be in charge, giving orders for the men to be gentle with the women they were hauling out of the passenger car and loading onto the buckboards.

  “Miss,” Wilkins said, tipping his hat.

  Sally Jensen turned around, pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and said, “Yes?”

  “I’m U.S. Marshal Ace Wilkins,” he said. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  “Not at all, Marshal. My name is Sally Jensen, and these women were taken captive by a band of escaped prisoners from the Utah Territorial Prison while on the way here. During their trip, they were repeatedly raped and beaten within an inch of their lives, and three women were killed by the outlaws.”

  Wilkins’s expression grew hard. “How many men we talking about, Miss Jensen?” he asked, glancing at the women in the buckboards, then turning quickly away at the sight of their bruised and battered faces.

  “It’s Mrs. Jensen, Marshal, and I’m told there were about thirty or so.”

  “That many?” Wilkins said, as if to himself. He focused his attention back on Sally. “How is it you escaped similar treatment, Mrs. Jensen?”