Code of the Mountain Man Read online

  Bobby looked like a horse just kicked him in the belly. His face turned white and sweat popped out on his forehead. But he had made his bed—or in this case, dug his grave—and now he would be forced to lie in it. Unless he backed down.

  “Give it up, son,” Earl told him. “Sit down and live.”

  Bobby’s hands hovered over the pearl handles of his brand new matching .45s. Those raggedly-looking guns of Charlie’s looked to Bobby like they was so old they probably wouldn’t even fire. Looked like they’d been converted from cap and ball to handle brass cartridges.

  Bobby stepped down into the damp, chilly grave he’d just dug for himself. “You’re yellow, old man!” he shouted. “Charlie Starr’s done turned yellow. You’re standin’ on your reputation, and I’m gonna be the man who jerks it out from under you.”

  Charlie straightened up, his mouth tight and his face grim. Earl knew it was nearly over. A man can only take so much, and Charlie had given the young punk more than ample opportunity to back down. “Enough talk,” Charlie said. “Make your play, you stupid little snot.”

  “Here now!” Larry said. “This has gone entirely too far. You there,” he said to Charlie. “You stop picking on that boy.”

  “Shut up,” Earl told him.

  Louis Longmont, Johnny North, and Cotton Pickens had walked into the saloon, standing on either side of Earl. “Fifty dollars says the kid never clears leather,” Louis offered up a wager.

  “You’re on,” a young man at the table where Bobby should have stayed seated said. “That there’s Bobby Jones. He’s faster than Smoke Jensen.”

  “He couldn’t lick Smoke’s boots,” Charlie said.

  “What!” Bobby screamed. “Draw, you old fart!”

  “After you, boy,” Charlie told him. “I don’t ever want it said that I took advantage of a young punk.”

  “I ain’t no punk!”

  “Then show that you’re a man by sittin’ down and lettin’ me buy you a drink. That’s my final offer, son.

  “You mean, that’s your final statement. ’Cause I’m gonna kill you, Starr.”

  “That’s it,” Louis muttered. He knew, as did everyone else in the bar, that those words, once spoken, were justification to kill.

  Charlie shot him. His draw was so smooth, so practiced, so fast, so professional, that it was a blur to witness. Flame shot out the muzzle of his old long-barreled .44. Gray smoke belched forth, obscuring vision. Bobby was jarred back as the slug ripped his belly and wandered around his guts, leaving a path of pain wherever it traveled.

  He imagined himself jacking the hammer back on his .45 and pulling the trigger. He actually did just that. But his guns were still in leather. He leaned against a support post and finally dragged iron.

  Charlie let him cock his .45 before he put another slug in the punk’s guts. Bobby yelled and slumped toward the floor, sliding down the post and sitting down heavily. He pulled the trigger and blew off several of his own toes. He screamed in pain and tried to lift the .45. It was just too heavy.

  The .45 clattered to the littered floor.

  “By God,” one of Bobby’s friends declared. “That’ll not go unavenged.” He stood up, a pistol in his hand.

  Charlie drilled him in the brisket and doubled the young man over like the closing of a fan. The young man fell, landing on Bobby.

  Bobby screamed in pain.

  “You still owe me fifty dollars,” Louis reminded the gut-shot punk who’d wanted revenge for Bobby.

  “Help me!” the second punk bellered. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, my belly’s on fire.”

  “My God!” Larry yelled. “Somebody get a doctor and call the police.”

  He was ignored.

  Bobby’s other friends sat quite still at the table, their faces a sickly shade of green.

  “Gimme a drink and one of them eggs over yonder,” Charlie told the bartender. “Shootin’ always makes me hungry.”

  “You barbarian!” Larry yelled at him.

  Charlie noticed the man wasn’t wearing a gun, so he did the next best thing. He walked over to him and slapped Larry across the mouth, knocking him down.

  “I’ll sue you!” Larry hollered.

  Bobby broke wind and died.

  His friend yelled, “Help me!”

  Charlie punched out his empties, loaded up full, holstered his gun, and began peeling the egg.

  “Somebody run fetch that new undertaker feller that just set up business down the street,” the barkeep suggested. “I wanna see that shiny black hearse and them fancy-steppin’ horses.”

  “You’re all mad!” Larry said, getting to his shoes. “Somebody get a doctor for that poor boy.”

  “Ain’t no doctor,” a man told him. “Go get the barber.”

  “The barber!” Larry exclaimed in horror.

  “There’s a Ute medicine man down on the La Jara. But that young pup’ll done be swelled up and stinkin’ something awful time he gets here. That old Ute’s pretty good, but I ain’t never heard of him raisin’ the dead.”

  “Halp!” the second punk yelled.

  His voice was getting weaker.

  “Won’t be long now,” Earl said, bending over the gut-shot young man. “Where’s your next of kin, lad?”

  “I don’t wanna die!”

  “Then you should have chosen your companions with a bit more care. Next of kin?”

  “I got a sister up in Denver. But she threw me out a couple of years ago.”

  The batwings flapped open, and a man dressed all in black stood in the space. “I heard shooting!”

  “My, but your hearing is quite keen,” Earl commented drily.

  “I am the Reverend Silas Muckelmort. A minister of the gospel. I have come to this town to bring the word of God to the sinners who lust for blood money. Has that young man passed?” He pointed to Bobby.

  “Cold as a hammer,” Cotton told him.

  “Then it is my duty to tend to his needs,” the Rev. Muckelmort said.

  “You keep your shit-snatchers off my body!” a small man dressed in a dark suit said, stepping into the barroom. “I’m the undertaker in town.”

  “His spiritual needs, you jackass!” Silas thundered.

  “Pass the salt and pepper,” Charlie told the barkeep. “I can’t eat an egg without salt and pepper.”

  * * *

  Smoke holed up in the most inhospitable place he could find, very near the timber line, knowing the outlaws would, most likely, find the most comfortable spot they could to bed down for the night. He had already found a spot he would use to leave his horses, in an area so remote it would be pure chance if anyone stumbled upon them. Tomorrow he would ride there and leave them, packing on his back what he felt he would need in his fight against the bounty hunters and the Lee Slater gang.

  Smoke rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep. The next several days were going to be busy ones.

  He was up and riding before dawn, having committed to memory the trail to the cul-de-sac where he would leave the horses. He was there by mid-morning. He transplanted several bushes over to the small opening and carefully watered them. To get to the opening, he had to ride behind a thick stand of timber, then angle around a huge boulder, and finally take a left into the lush little valley of about ten acres with a small pool next to a sheer rock wall. The grass was belly high in places; ample feed for the horses for some time. If he did not return, they could easily find their way out.

  Smoke put together a pack whose weight would have staggered the average man. He picked it up with his left hand.

  He sat for a time eating a cold ... what was it Sally called a mid-morning meal? Brunch, yeah, that was it, and wishing he had a potful of hot, strong, black coffee. But he couldn’t chance that. He would hike a few miles and then have a hot dinner—lunch, Sally called it—and drink a whole a pot of strong cowboy coffee. He wanted the scum and crud to see that smoke. He wanted them to come right to that spot. By the time they got there, he would have a few surprises laid
out for them.

  He walked over and spoke with Buck for a few moments. Rubbing his muzzle and talking gently to the big horse. Buck seemed to understand, but then, everybody thinks that of their pets and their riding horses. Shotgun, the pack animal, and Buck watched Smoke pick up his heavy pack and leave. When he was out of sight, they returned to their grazing.

  Smoke hiked what he figured was about three miles through wild and rugged country, then stopped and built a small, nearly smokeless fire for his coffee and bacon and beans. While his meal was cooking and the coffee boiling, he whittled on some short stakes, sharpening one end to a needle point. After eating, he cleaned plate and skillet and spoon and packed them away. Then he went to work making the campsite look semi-permanent and laying out some rather nasty pitfalls for the bounty hunters and outlaws.

  That done, he tossed some logs on the fire and slipped back into the timber where he’d hidden his pack. He waited.

  Curly Rogers and his pack of hyenas were the first to arrive.

  Smoke was back in the timber with the .44-.40, waiting and watching.

  The outlaws didn’t come busting in. They laid back and looked the situation over for a time. They saw the lean-to Smoke had built, and what appeared to be a man sleeping under a blanket, protected by the overlaid boughs.

  “It might not be Jensen,” Taylor said.

  “So what?” Thumbs Morton said. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone got shot by accident.”

  “I don’t like it,” Curly said. “It just looks too damn pat to suit me.”

  “Maybe Slim got lead into him?” Bell suggested. “He may be hard hit and holed up.”

  Curly thought about that for a moment. “Maybe. Yeah. That must be it. Lake, you think you can Injun up yonder for a closer look?”

  “Shore. But why don’t we just shoot him from here?”

  “A shot’d bring everybody foggin’. Then we’d probably have to fight some of the others over Jensen’s carcass. A knife don’t make no noise.”

  Lake grinned and pulled out a long-bladed knife. “I’ll just slip this ’tween his ribs.”

  As Lake stepped out with the knife in his hand, Smoke tugged on the rope he’d attached to the sticks under the blankets. What the outlaws thought to be a sleeping or wounded Smoke Jensen moved and Lake froze, then jumped back into the timber.

  “This ain’t a gonna work,” Curly said. “We got to shoot him, I reckon. One shot might not attract no attention. Bud, use your rifle and put one shot in him. This close, one round’ll kill him sure.”

  Bud lined up the form in the sights and squeezed the trigger. Smoke tugged on the rope, and the stickman rose off the ground a few inches, then fell back.

  “We got him!” Bell yelled, jumping up. “We kilt Smoke Jensen. The money’s our’n!”

  The men raced toward the small clearing, guns drawn and yelling.

  Taylor yelled as the ground seemed to open up under his boots. He fell about eighteen inches into a pit, two sharpened stakes tearing into the calves of his legs. He screamed in pain, unable to free himself from the sharpened stakes.

  Bell tripped a piece of rawhide two inches off the ground and a tied-back, fresh and springy limb sprang forward. The limb whacked the man on the side of his head, tearing off one ear and knocking the man unconscious.

  “What the hell!” Curly yelled.

  Smoke fired from concealment, the .44-.40 slug taking Lake in the right side and exiting out his left side. He was dying as he hit the ground.

  “It’s a trap!” Curly screamed, and ran for the timber. He ran right over Bell in his haste to get the hell into cover.

  Smoke lined up Bud and fired just as the man turned, the slug hitting the man in the ass, the lead punching into his left buttock and blowing out his right, taking a sizeable chunk of meat with it.

  Bud fell screaming and rolled on the ground, throwing himself into cover.

  Thumbs Morton jerked up Bell just as the man was crawling to his knees, blood pouring from where his ear had once been, and dragged him into cover just as Smoke fired again, the slug hitting a tree and blowing splinters in Thumbs’ face, stinging and bringing blood.

  “Let’s get gone from here!” Curly yelled.

  “What about Taylor?” Thumbs asked, pulling splinters and wiping blood from his face.

  “Hell with him.”

  With Curly supporting the ass-shot Bud, and Thumbs helping Bell, the outlaws made it back to their horses and took off at a gallop, Bud shrieking in pain as the saddle abused his shot-up butt.

  Smoke lay in the timber and listened to the outlaws beat their retreat, then stepped out into his camp. He looked at Lake. The outlaw was dead. Smoke took his ammo belt and tossed his guns into the brush. He walked over to Taylor, who had passed out from the pain in his ruined legs. He took his ammunition, tossed his guns into the brush, and then jerked the stakes out of the man’s legs. The man moaned in unconsciousness.

  Smoke found the horses of the men, took the food from the saddlebags, and led one animal back to the campsite. He poured a canteen full of water on Taylor. The man moaned and opened his eyes.

  “Ride,” Smoke told him. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  “I cain’t get up on no horse,” Taylor sobbed. “My legs is ruint.”

  Smoke jacked back the hammer on his .44. “Then I guess I’d better put you out of your misery.”

  Taylor screamed in fear and crawled to his horse, pulling himself up by clinging to the stirrup and the fender of the saddle. He managed to get in the saddle after several tries. His face was white with pain. He looked down at Smoke.

  “You ain’t no decent human bein’. What you’re doin’ to me ain’t right. I need a doctor. You a devil, Jensen!”

  “Then you pass that word, pusbag. You make damn sure all your scummy buddies know I don’t play by the rules. Now, ride, you bastard, before I change my mind and kill you!”

  Taylor was gone in a gallop.

  Smoke shoved Lake’s body over the side of the small plateau and began throwing dirt over the fire, making certain it was out. Then he sat down, rolled a cigarette, and had a cup of coffee.

  All in all, he concluded, it had been a very productive morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The townspeople all turned out for the funeral parade that morning. Bobby had had enough money on him to have a fine funeral, complete with some wailers the Reverend Muckelmort had hired. He’d found someone with a bass drum and a fellow who played the trumpet. It was a sight to see, what with the thumping of the bass drum and the tootin’ on the trumpet.

  Muckelmort was something of a windbag. By the time he’d finished with his lengthy graveside harangue, nobody was left but the wailers – they were paid to stay—everybody else had retired to the saloon.

  Nobody knew the second punk’s name, and he’d only had ten dollars on him, so he was wrapped in a blanket and stuck in an un-marked hole. Two dollars went to the gravedigger, two dollars for the blanket, two dollars for the preacher, and the remaining four bucks went to buy drinks after the service. Somebody recalled that four of them had ridden into town together. But the other two had split just after the shooting. One of them was heard to say that milkin’ cows wasn’t all that bad after all. He was headin’ back to the farm.

  The RCMP had ridden in and collected the last prisoner, and the jail was empty.

  When the morning stage rolled in, it was filled with reporters, all from back East. “Be another stage in this afternoon,” the driver told Earl. “We’re gonna be runnin’ two a day while this lasts. We must have passed five hundred people on the road, all headin’ this way.”

  Sheriff Silva rode in, looked around, cussed, and then commented to Earl that he reckoned he’d better hire some more deputies. Fifteen minutes later, he swore in Louis, Johnny, and Cotton. Louis asked him if he’d received warrants for Smoke’s arrest.

  “I tossed ’em in the trash can,” the sheriff said. “There ain’t no lawman out
here gonna try to arrest Smoke Jensen. Not none that has a lick of sense. I know all about that shootin’ in Idaho years ago. It was a fair fight, if you wanna call Smoke bein’ outnumbered twenty to one fair. Those warrants are bogus.”

  A miner riding into town loping his mule as hard as he could cut off the conversation. He pulled up short at the sight of all the activity. When he’d been here last month there hadn’t been more than seventy-five people in the whole damn town. Now it looked to him like there was more than a thousand.

  With a confused look on his face, he tried to kick the mule into movement. But the mule was smarter than the rider. When a mule is tired or is loaded too heavily, it just won’t move and no amount of cussing or kicking or threatening will make it move. The miner slid out of the saddle and ran up to Sheriff Silva and the other deputies.

  The mule sat down in the street.

  “Big shootin’ about ten miles out of town, Sheriff,” the miner said, pointing. “I don’t know if they was outlaws or bounty hunters—one and the same if you ask me. But anyway, the man who stopped by my tent for bandages and sich had one ear tore slap off. He said another man dropped into a pit of some sort that had sharpened stakes in it; run through both his legs. Terrible sight to see, he said. Another feller was shot dead and another was shot plumb through his ass—both sides!”

  “Stay out of the mountains,” the sheriff told the man. “And tell other miners to do the same. That’s the Lee Slater gang—and some bounty hunters—chasing a man. It looks like some of them caught up with him.”

  “All them fellers chasin’ after just one man? Good Lord, who are they after?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  “Smoke Jensen!” the miner hollered. “Then they all must be nuts! I’d sooner run up on a pack of grizzly bears than tangle with him.”

  “I think they’re beginning to discover that,” Earl remarked. “But I’ll wager they’ll press on because they have no choice in the matter. They have to get Smoke out of the way.”

  The miner wandered off, muttering about crazy people. He tried to get his mule up off his butt, but the mule just brayed at him, telling him in no uncertain terms to get lost. He was tired, he was going to rest, so beat it.