Revenge of the Mountain Man Read online

  He slipped to the south a few yards and found a good defensible position behind a stone wall that somebody had built around a small garden. Smoke pulled a ripe tomato off the vine, brushed the dust off it, and ate it while his eyes surveyed the street, picking out likely targets.

  He unslung the rifles, laid his sack of guns and cartridges by one side, the express guns by his other side, and then picked up and checked out a Henry.

  He had found a man stationed on top of a building. Sighting him in, Smoke let the other outlaws know he was still in the game by knocking the man off the roof with one well-placed shot to his belly. The sniper fell screaming to the street below. His howling stopped as he impacted with earth.

  Putting his hand to the ground, Smoke thought he could detect a trembling. Bending over, being careful not to expose his butt to the guns of the outlaws, he pressed his ear to the ground and picked up the sound of faint rumblings. The posse was no more than a mile away.

  “York!” he yelled.

  “Yo, Smoke!” came the call.

  “Here they come, Ranger! Shovel the coals to it!”

  Smoke began levering and pulling the trigger, laying down a blistering line of fire into the buildings of the town. From his position at the other end, York did the same. The Utes opened up from both sides of the town, and the night rocked with gunfire.

  * * *

  “For the love of God!” Sheriff Larsen cried out, reining up by the lines of tortured men and women on the outskirts of town. His eyes were utterly disbelieving as they touched each tortured man and woman.

  “Help us!” came the anguished cry of one of the few still alive. “Have mercy on us, please. We were taken against our will and brought here.”

  The posse of hardened western men, accustomed to savage sights, had never seen anything like this. All had seen Indian torture; but that was to be expected from ignorant savages. But fellow white men had done this.

  Several of the posse leaned out of their saddles and puked on the ground.

  “Three or four men stay here and cut these poor wretches down,” Jim Wilde ordered, his voice strong over the sound of gunfire. “Do what you can for them.”

  “Jim!” Smoke called. “It’s Jensen. Hold your fire, I’m coming over.”

  Smoke zigzagged over to the posse, catching the reins of a horse as the man discounted. “Your horses look in good shape.”

  “We rested them about a mile back. Let them blow good and gave them half a hatful of water. How’s your head?”

  “My Sally has hit me harder,” Smoke grinned, swinging into the saddle. He patted the roan’s neck and rubbed his head, letting the animal know he was friendly.

  “You comin’ in with us?” the marshal asked.

  “I got personal business to tend to. There’s an Arizona Ranger named York up yonder.” He pointed. “I forgot to tell him to tie something about his arm. He’s a damn good man. Good luck to you boys.”

  Smoke swung the horse’s head, and with a screaming yell from the throats of sixty men, the posse hit the main street hard. The reins in their teeth, the posse members had their hands full of .44s and .45s, and they were filling anybody they saw with lead.

  Smoke rode behind the buildings of the town and dismounted, ground-reining the horse. He eased the hammers back on the express gun and began walking, deliberately letting his spurs jingle.

  “Jensen!” a voice shouted from the forward darkness. “Smoke Jensen!”

  Stepping behind a corner of a building, Smoke said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Cat Ventura here. You played hell, Jensen.”

  “That’s what I came here to do, Ventura.”

  Step out and face an ambush, you mean, Smoke thought. “No, thanks, Ventura. I don’t trust you.”

  As soon as he said it, Smoke dropped to the ground. A half-dozen guns roared and sparked, the lead punching holes in the corner of the building where he’d been standing.

  Smoke came up on one knee and let the hammers fall on both barrels of the sawed-off shotgun. He almost lost the weapon as both barrels fired, the gun recoiling in his strong hands.

  The screaming of the wounded men was horrible in the night. Smoke thought of those poor people at the end of town and could not dredge up one ounce of sympathy for the outlaws he’d just blasted.

  He reloaded the shotgun just as Cat called out, “Goddamn you, Jensen.”

  Smoke fired at the sound of the voice. A gurbling sound reached his ears. Then silence, except for the heavy pounding of gunfire in the street.

  He slipped out of the alley and looked down at what was left of Cat Ventura. The full load of buckshot had taken him in the chest and throat. It was not pretty, but then, Cat hadn’t been very pretty when he was alive.

  Smoke stepped over the gore and continued his walking up the back alley. The posse had dismounted and were taking the town building by building. But the outlaws remaining were showing no inclination to give up the fight. The firing was not as intense as a few moments past, but it was steady.

  Smoke caught a glimpse of several men slipping up the alley toward him. He eased back the hammers of the express gun and stepped deeper into the shadows, a privy to his left.

  Smoke recognized the lead man as an outlaw called Brawley, a man who had been in trouble with the law and society in general since practically the moment of birth. There were so many wanted posters out on Brawley that the man had been forced to drop out of sight a couple of years back. Now Smoke knew where he’d been hiding.

  Smoke stepped out of the shadows and pulled both triggers. The sawed-off shotgun spewed its cargo of ball bearings, nails, and assorted bits of metal. Brawley took one load directly in the chest, lifting the murderer off his feet and sending him sprawling. The man to Brawley’s right caught part of a load in the face. Smoke recalled that the man had thought himself to be handsome.

  That was no longer the case.

  The third man had escaped most of the charge and had thrown himself to the ground. He pulled himself up to his knees, his hands full of .44s. Holding the shotgun in his left hand, Smoke palmed his .44 and saved the public the expense of a trial.

  “The goddamn Injuns got Cahoon!” a hoarse yell sprang out of the night.

  Smoke turned, reloading the sawed-off, trying to determine how close the man was.

  “Hell with Cahoon!” another yelled. Very close to Smoke. “It’s ever’ man for hisself now.”

  Smoke pulled the triggers and fire shot out of the twin barrels, seeming to push the lethal loads of metal. Horrible screaming was heard for a moment, and then the sounds of bootheels drumming the ground in death.

  Smoke reloaded and walked on.

  At a gap between buildings, Smoke could see York, still in position, still spitting out lead from his Henry. The bodies in the street paid mute testimony to the ranger’s dead aim.

  A man wearing a white armband ducked into the gap and spotted Smoke.

  “Easy,” Smoke called. “Jensen here.”

  Smoke could see the badge on his chest, marking him as a U.S. Marhsal.

  “Windin’ down,” the man said. “Thought I’d take me a breather. You and that Arizona Ranger played hell, Smoke.”

  “That was our intention. You got the makin’s? I lost my sack.”

  The man tossed Smoke a bag of tobacco and papers. Squatting down, out of the line of fire, Smoke and the marshal rolled, licked, and lit.

  Smoke could see the lawman had been hit a couple of times, neither of the wounds serious enough to take him out of a fight.

  “I figure the big boys got loose free,” Smoke spoke over a sudden hard burst of gunfire. He jerked his head. “That’s Davidson’s big house up yonder on the ridge. . . .”

  Jim Wilde almost got himself plugged as he darted into the alley and slid to a halt, catching his breath.

  “I dearly wish you would announce your intentions, ol’ hoss,” the marshal said to him. “You near’bouts got drilled.”

  “Gimme the makin’
s, Glen, I lost my pouch. “Jim holstered his guns.

  While Jim rolled a cigarette, Smoke elaborated on his theory of the kingpins escaping.

  “Well, let us rest for a minute and then we’ll take us a hike up yonder to the house. Check it out.” He puffed for a moment. “I’ve arranged for a judge to be here at first light,” he said. “The hands from Red Davis’s place is gonna act as jury. Red’ll be jury foreman. Soon as we clean out the general store, I got some boys ready to start workin’ on ropes.”

  “Hezekiah Jones the judge?” Glen asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Gonna be some short trials.”

  “Yep.”

  “And they’s gonna be a bunch of newspaper folks and photographers here, too.”

  “Yep.”

  An outlaw tried to make a break for it, whipping his horse up the street toward the edge of town. A dozen guns barked, slamming the outlaw out of the saddle. He rolled on the street and was still.

  Glen looked at the body of the outlaw. “I’m thinkin’ there might not be all that many to be tried.”

  Jim Wilde ground out the butt of his smoke under his heel and stood up. “Yep,” he said.

  Jim was known to be a spare man with words.

  15

  The battle for the outlaw town of Dead River was winding down sharply as Smoke and the marshals made their way up the hill to Rex Davidson’s fine home. They passed a half-dozen bodies on the curving path, all outlaws. All three men were conscious of eyes on them as they walked up the stone path.... Utes, waiting in the darkness, watching.

  Somewhere back in the timber, a man screamed in agony.

  “Cahoon,” Smoke told the men.

  Glen replied, “Whatever he gets, he earned.”

  That pretty well summed up the feelings of all three men. Jim pulled out his watch and checked the time. Smoke was surprised to learn it was nearly ten o’clock. He stopped and listened for a moment. Something was wrong.

  Then it came to him: The gunfire had ceased.

  “Yeah,” Jim remarked. “I noticed it too. Eerie, ain’t it?”

  The men walked on, stepping onto the porch of the house. Motioning the lawmen away from the front door in case it was booby-trapped, Smoke stepped to one side and eased it open. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

  Smoke was the first in, the express gun ready. Jim and Glen came in behind him, their hands full of pistols. But the caution had been unnecessary; the room was void of human life.

  The men split up, each taking a room. They found nothing. The big house was empty. But everywhere there were signs of hurried packing. The door to the big safe was open, the safe empty of cash. Jim began going through the ledgers and other papers, handing a pile to Glen while Smoke prowled the house. At the rear of the house he found the rabbit hole, and he had been correct in his thinking. The home had been built in front of a cave opening. He called for Jim and Glen.

  “You was right,” Jim acknowledged. “We’ll inspect it in the morning. I’ll post guards here tonight.” He held out the papers taken from the safe. “Interestin’ readin’ in here, Smoke. All kinds of wanted posters and other information on the men who lived here. What we’ve done—it was mostly you and York—is clean out a nest of snakes. We’ve made this part of the country a hell of a lot safer.”

  On the way back to the town, Smoke spotted the Ute chief, White Wolf. The men stopped, Jim saying, “We’re goin’ to try them that’s still alive, White Wolf. Do that in the mornin’. We should be out of the town by late tomorrow afternoon. When we pull out, the town and everything in it is yours.”

  “I thank you,” the chief said gravely. “My people will not be cold or hungry this winter.” He turned to Smoke and smiled. “My brother, Preacher, would be proud of you. I will see that he hears of this fight, young warrior.”

  “Thank you, Chief. Give him my best.”

  White Wolf nodded, shook hands with the men, and then was gone.

  Cahoon was still screaming.

  * * *

  It was a sullen lot that were rounded up and herded into the compound for safekeeping. A head count showed fifty hardcases had elected to surrender or were taken by force, usually the latter.

  But, as Smoke had feared, many of the worst ones had slipped out. Shorty, Red, and Jake were gone. Bill Wilson’s body had been found, but Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, and Slim Bothwell were gone. Hart and Ayers were dead, riddled with bullets. But Natick, Nappy, LaHogue, and Brute Pitman had managed to escape. Tustin could not be found among the dead, so all had to assume the so-called minister had made it out alive. Sheriff Danvers had been taken prisoner, and Sheriff Larsen had told him he was going to personally tie the noose for him. Dagget, Glen Moore, Lapeer and, of course, Rex Davidson were gone.

  Smoke knew he would have them to deal with—sooner or later, and probably sooner.

  Smoke bathed in the creek behind the campsite, and he and York caught a few hours sleep before the judge and his jury showed up. They were to be in Dead River at dawn.

  * * *

  As had been predicted, there were several newspaper men with the judge, as well as several photographers. The bodies of the outlaws still lay in the street at dawn, when the judge, jury, reporters, and photographers showed up. Two of the half-dozen reporters were from New York City and Boston, on a tour of the wild West, and they were appalled at the sight that greeted them.

  Old Red Davis, obviously enjoying putting the needle to the Easterners, showed them around the town, pointing out any sight they might have missed.

  “See that fellow over yonder?” he pointed. The reporters and a photographer looked. “The man with a gold badge on his chest? That’s the most famous gunfighter in all the West. He’s kilt two/three hundred men. Not countin’ Injuns. That’s Smoke Jensen, boys!”

  The Easterners gaped, one finally saying, “But why is the man wearing a badge? He’s an outlaw!”

  “He ain’t no such thing,” Red corrected. “He’s just fast with a gun, that’s all. The fastest man alive. Been all sorts of books writ about Smoke. Want to meet him?”

  Foolish question.

  Luckily for Smoke, Jim Wilde intercepted the group and took them aside. “You boys from back east walk light around the men in this town. This ain’t Boston or New York. And while Smoke is a right nice fellow, with a fine ranch up north of here, he can be a mite touchy at times.” Then the marshal brought the men up to date on what Smoke had done in Dead River.

  The photographer set up his awkward equipment and began taking pictures of Smoke and the Arizona Ranger, York. Both men endured it, Smoke saying to York, “You got any warrants on any of them that cut and run?”

  “Shore do. What you got in mind?”

  The camera popped and puffed smoke into the air.

  “I think Sally told me she was going to give birth about October. I plan on bein’ there when she does. That gives us a few months to prowl. Tell your bosses back in Arizona not to worry about the expenses; it’s on me.”

  The camera snapped and clicked, and smoke went into the air as the chemical dust was ignited.

  And Marshal Jim Wilde, unintentionally, gave the newspaper reporters the fuel that would, in time, ignite the biggest gunfight, western-style, in Keene, New Hampshire history.

  “Smoke’s wife is back in New Hampshire. He’ll be going back there when she gives birth to their child. Now come on, I’ll introduce you gentlemen to Smoke Jensen.”

  * * *

  Judge Hezekiah Jones had set up his bench, so to speak, outside the saloon, with the jury seated to his left, on the boardwalk. Already, a gallows had been knocked together and ropes noosed and knotted. They could hang three at a time.

  The trial of the first three took two and a half minutes. A minute and a half later, they were swinging.

  “Absolutely the most barbaric proceedings I have ever witnessed,” the Boston man sniffed, scribbling in his journal.

  “Frontier justice certainly
does leave a great deal to be desired,” the New York City man agreed.

  “I think I’m going to be ill,” the photographer said, a tad green around the mouth.

  “Hang ’em!” Judge Jones hit the table with his gavel, and three more were led off to meet their maker.

  Sheriff Danvers stood before the bench, his hands tied behind his back. “I have a statement to make, Your Honor,” he said.

  Hezekiah glared at him. “Oh, all right. Make your goddamn statement and then plead guilty, you heathen!”

  “I ain’t guilty!” Danvers shouted.

  The judge turned to face the men of the jury. “How do you find?”

  “Guilty!” Red called.

  “Hang the son of a bitch!” Hezekiah ordered.

  And so it went.

  * * *

  The hurdy-gurdy ladies and shopkeepers were hauled off in wagons. Smoke didn’t ask where they were being taken because he really didn’t care. The bodies of the outlaws were tossed into a huge pit and dirt and gravel shoveled over them. “I’d like to keep my federal commission, Jim,” Smoke said. “I got a hunch this mess isn’t over.”

  “Keep it as long as you like. You’re makin’ thirty a month and expenses.” He grinned and shook Smoke’s hand, then shook the hand of the ranger. “I’ll ride any trail with you boys any time.”

  He wheeled his horse and was gone.

  The wind sighed lonely over the deserted town as Smoke and York sat their horses on the hill overlooking the town. White Wolf and his people were moving into the town. The judge had ordered whatever money was left in the town to remain there. Let the Indians have it for their help in bringing justice to the godforsaken place, he had said.

  Smoke waved at White Wolf and the chief returned the gesture. Smoke and York turned their horses and put their backs to Dead River.

  “What is this?” York asked. “July, August . . . what? I done flat lost all track of the months.”

  “I think it’s September. I think Sally told me the first month she felt she was with child was March. So if she’s going to have the baby the last part of October . . .”