Guns of the Mountain Man Read online

  “I don’t know. Some of the other doctors in Austria say the man is crazy. But my feeling is it can’t hurt, so why not give it a try? I do know that since I’ve been doing it I haven’t had a single wound suppuration following surgery.”

  Smoke heard the buckboard pulling up outside the office. “Better get your hands washed, Doc. Here they are.”

  Smoke and Pearlie carried the unconscious Cal into the surgery and laid him on the table. Sally began stripping his clothes off. “You men go on outside. I’ll stay and help Cotton with Cal.”

  “Put the closed sign on the door, will you, Smoke? That way we won’t be interrupted.”

  “All right. We’ll get Monte and go on over to Longmont’s for some coffee. You can reach us there if . . . if anything happens or you need us,” Smoke said, his voice breaking as he realized it might be the last time he saw Cal alive.

  * * *

  As soon as they left, Cotton washed his hands in the weak solution of carbolic acid and had Sally do the same. Then he laid out his instruments on a side table next to where Cal lay unconscious, his breathing labored, bloody froth on his lips.

  Sally had stripped him to his waist and positioned herself next to the instruments, ready to assist in the surgery.

  “Scalpel, please,” Cotton said, holding out his hand.

  After Sally placed the razor-sharp knife in his hand, Cotton bent low over the table and made an incision horizontally over the entrance wound of the bullet in his chest.

  “I’ll work on the chest wound first,” he said, “since that’s the most dangerous.”

  After opening the incision wider, he took a long, blunt-tipped probe and used it to follow the path of the slug, being gentle so as not to cause any more bleeding than was necessary.

  Cal was so deeply asleep that he didn’t move when the probe was inserted.

  After a few moments of this, Cotton looked up. “It’s as I feared when I saw the froth on his lips. The slug is imbedded in his right lung. Luckily, from the depth the probe went in, it doesn’t appear to be deep in the lung but just on the edge. I suspect hitting the rib slowed the bullet up enough so it couldn’t penetrate any farther.”

  Taking the scalpel again, he lengthened the incision even more and used a clawlike tool to spread Cal’s ribs apart. Using blunt dissection, he followed the path of the bullet to where it lay against the lining of the right lung. After about an hour of painstaking dissection, he felt the metal object with the tip of his scissors, doing most of his work by touch since he couldn’t see the bottom of the wound.

  Sally handed him some long, narrow-tipped forceps and he plucked the bullet out, placing it in a metal basin with a clank.

  Using gauze he first dipped in the carbolic acid, he stuffed the wound full and used bandages to hold it tight and compress it so as to stop the bleeding and close the hole in the lung, allowing it to re-expand.

  Next, he gave his attention to the shoulder wound and was happy to find the bullet had passed cleanly through flesh, missing Cal’s arm bone. Cleansing the wound as best he could, he packed it with gauze and wrapped a tight bandage around the entire arm.

  Finally, exhausted and dripping with perspiration, he stepped back from the table and sleeved sweat off his face and forehead.

  “Now it’s in God’s hands. I’ve done all I can.”

  Sally slumped against the table, as tired as Cotton was.

  “You did a great job, Cotton. No one could have done more,” she said.

  * * *

  Louis Longmont was sitting at his usual table, playing solitaire, when he saw Smoke and Pearlie and Monte walk through the batwings. Noticing the serious expressions on their faces, he signaled a waiter.

  “Johnny, bring a pot of coffee and three more cups to the table.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Longmont,” the young black man answered.

  Louis got to his feet and held out his hand to Smoke. They’d been friends for a long time.

  Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man with strong, slender hands and long fingers, the nails carefully manicured and hands clean. He had jet-black hair and a black, pencil-thin mustache. He was, as usual, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and dark ascot—something he’d picked up on a trip to England some years back. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side. It was not for show, for Louis was snake-quick with a short gun and was a feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.

  Louis was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money, and while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he did not cheat at poker. He did not have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory, could tell the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was one of the first to use the new method of card counting.

  He was just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a very small boy, with his parents, arriving from Louisiana. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.

  He had coped quite well, parlaying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.

  Though it was a mystery to many why Longmont stayed with the hard life he had chosen, Smoke thought he understood. Once Louis had said to him, “Smoke, I would miss my life every bit as much as you would miss the dry-mouthed moment before the draw, the challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others, and the so-called loneliness of the owlhoot trail.”

  Sometimes Louis joked that he would like to draw against Smoke someday, just to see who was faster. Smoke allowed as how it would be close, but that he would win. “You see, Louis, you’re just too civilized,” he had told him on many occasions. “Your mind is distracted by visions of operas, fine foods and wines, and the odds of your winning the match. Also, your fatal flaw is that you can almost always see the good in the lowest creatures God ever made, and you refuse to believe that anyone is pure evil and without hope of redemption.”

  When Louis laughed at this description of himself, Smoke would continue. “Me, on the other hand, when some snake-scum draws down on me and wants to dance, the only thing I have on my mind is teaching him that when you dance, someone has to pay the band. My mind is clear and focused on only one problem, how to put that stump-sucker across his horse, toes down.”

  Smoke took Louis’s hand.

  “You look worried, my friend,” Louis said.

  “Cal’s been shot, Louis. Bad shot.”

  “Is he—”

  “No. Doc and Sally are working on him right now.”

  Louis sat them at his table and poured coffee all around while Pearlie and Smoke built cigarettes and Monte fired up his pipe. Louis took a long, black cigar from his vest pocket and joined them in smoking.

  “I offered Smoke and Pearlie some coffee at my office,” Monte said, “but for some reason they wanted to come over here.”

  “Has that pot in your office ever been cleaned, Monsieur Monte?” Louis asked, trying to lighten the mood of their two friends, like Monte.

  Monte nodded. “Of course. Two year ago, I believe it was.”

  “Did you find any papers on the man Cal described?” Smoke asked, not in the mood for their usual banter.

  “Well, there were several it could have been, but none have been reported in this neck of the woods. ’Bout the nearest one I saw was a man name of Lazarus Cain. He and his gang did some raiding down in Arkansas recently, but there was no mention of his heading this way.”

  “Well, if this Cain has decided to pay us a visit and did this to Cal, he’s gonna wish he’d never left Arkansas,” Smoke said through gritted teeth.

  5

  It was over two hours before the solemn group gathered in Longmont’s saloon heard any news from the doctor. Longmont had tried cheering them up by ordering a special meal from his French chef, Andre, but in spite of the wonderful food they all just picked at their plates wi
th no real enthusiasm. Even Pearlie, who could normally eat his weight in foodstuffs, barely tasted the roasted duck with orange sauce and fried potatoes with sliced tomatoes and peach halves.

  When Sally walked through the batwings they were all on their feet asking questions at the same time. Exhausted, and looking as if she hadn’t slept for days, she flopped down at the table and requested coffee, and lots of it.

  After drinking half her first cup in one long swallow, she leaned back and pushed stray wisps of hair out of her face. “Cal made it through the surgery, though it was scary going for a while. Dr. Spalding says it’s in God’s hands, but that Cal is young and healthy and has a lot going for him.”

  “He’s gonna make it!” Pearlie said with conviction, his eyes wet with unshed tears. “That boy’s had plenty of experience with gittin’ shot, an’ he’s tough as an old boot. He’ll be all right, I just know it.”

  “Did he wake up at all, Sally? Was he able to say any more about who shot him?” asked Monte.

  She shook her head. “No, he didn’t even move when Doc made his incision. Doc says he’s in a coma from shock and loss of blood.”

  Seeing she was on the verge of breaking down, Smoke put his hand over hers on the table. “Come on, Sally. Let’s go home. Doc’ll let us know how he does.”

  Pearlie stood up. “If it’s all right with you, Smoke, I’ll just hang around here for a while. Make sure Doc don’t need nothin’. I can watch Cal while he tends to his other patients.”

  “Sure thing, Pearlie. That’d be very nice, and I know that when Cal wakes up he’ll be glad to see a friendly face by his side.”

  “Friendly, hell! I’m gonna box his ears for lettin’ hisself get shot up without me there to take care of him,” Pearlie said with mock ferocity. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a dozen times—that boy’s a magnet for lead.”

  As Pearlie left to go over to Doc’s, Monte said, “I’m going to wire the surrounding sheriffs and see if anyone’s had any trouble lately with any tall, skinny galoots, or if they’ve heard of this Cain feller. I’ll get in touch with you at the Sugarloaf if I hear anything.”

  “Don’t bother, Monte,” Sally said. “As soon as we get the ranch house shut up, Smoke and I’ll be back to town to sit with Cal until he’s better.”

  “Yes, we’ll take a room at the hotel,” Smoke added.

  “Nonsense, I won’t hear of it,” Louis said with some heat. “You and Sally will stay at my place on the edge of town. I have a spare bedroom, and the food is guaranteed to be better than the hotel’s.”

  A year or so back, tired of living in hotels, Louis had bought a widow’s house on the outskirts of town. It was bigger than he needed, but he said he was tired of looking at the same four walls all the time. He wanted some room to roam around in when he wasn’t at the saloon. Since then, he’d fixed it up really nicely, with an extra bedroom for guests and a place in the back where his cook lived.

  * * *

  Smoke showed up at Louis’s house around nine that night. “Sally’s going to sit with Cal for a while. I’m supposed to pick her up at ten o’clock,” he told Louis when he opened the door.

  “Come in and make yourself at home, Smoke. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sure. It’s been a hell of a long day.”

  As they drank coffee and smoked, Louis one of his ever-present black cigars and Smoke a handmade cigarette, Smoke asked, “Did Monte hear anything back on his wires?”

  Louis wagged his head. “Not as far as I’ve heard. He said he probably wouldn’t hear anything for a day or two.”

  Noticing the worry in Smoke’s eyes, Louis asked, “How are you doing, pal?”

  Smoke looked up. “Not too well, Louis. Since our children have been over in Europe for the past two years with Sally’s father, Cal and Pearlie have been like sons to us. Now, with the prospect of maybe losing one, Sally and I are really worried.”

  “Like the doc said, Cal’s young and tough. I’m sure he’ll pull through.”

  “But I keep blaming myself for letting him go out there alone. Someone should have been with him.”

  “Nonsense, Smoke. Cal is a grown man, and this is a tough country. Like you always say, a man’s got to saddle his own horse and kill his own snakes.”

  “You’re right, of course. Whatever Cal got into out there on the Sugarloaf, he was ready and willing to do it. I figure the first shots I heard were his.”

  “Did you find any bodies?”

  “No, but there was a hell of a lot of blood, and it was scattered over too large an area to be all Cal’s. I think he got at least one, maybe two, before they took him down.”

  “So there must have been several men he was facing, if there were enough left after losing two for the others to cart off the bodies.”

  “That’s the way I figure it.”

  Louis shook his head, admiration in his eyes. “If that’s true, then Cal must’ve drawn on them knowing the odds were heavily against him.”

  Smoke nodded. “There never was any back up in Cal. That boy would bow his back and face down the devil himself if it ever came to that.”

  “Kind of like someone else I know,” Louis added with a smile at his friend.

  6

  Lazarus Cain was sitting at the table he’d appropriated as his own in the Dog Hole Saloon. His chair was in a corner, so he had walls on both sides at his back and an unobstructed view of the batwings that served as the entrance to the bar.

  It had been two weeks since he and his gang had settled in Fontana, and he was now the acknowledged leader of the town that was only a few citizens away from being a ghost town. Bob Blanchard, the man who’d been top dog here until Lazarus arrived, had accepted his new role as servant to Lazarus and his men without complaint, figuring it was the smart thing to do, and necessary if he were to go on breathing.

  “Bob,” Lazarus called, “bring me and the boys another round over here.”

  As Bob brought another bottle of whiskey to the table, he stopped for a moment.

  “Mr. Cain, one thing I can’t figure out.”

  “What’s that, Bob?” Lazarus asked as he filled his glass to the brim with the amber-colored liquid.

  “Well, the boys all say you’re a holy man of sorts, having been called by the Lord to do his work.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, how is it you drink so much whiskey and beer? Doesn’t the Good Book speak out against such things?”

  Blackie Jackson cast a worried glance at his boss, wondering just how he would take this question. Lazarus’s moods were hard to predict. One time he’d laugh and throw his arm around someone. The next, he was as likely to draw his Colt and put a bullet in the offending man’s head.

  This time, Blanchard was lucky. Lazarus was in a forgiving mood.

  “Bob, I refer you to the Good Book, First Timothy, chapter five, verse twenty-three.”

  Bob pursed his lips. “Uh . . . Mr. Cain, I ain’t exactly on speakin’ terms with the Bible. I’m not familiar with that particular verse.”

  “It says, ‘No longer drink only water, but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake and your frequent infirmities’,” Lazarus quoted with a benign smile.

  “Oh,” Blanchard said, “wine.”

  “Yes, and since they didn’t have Kentucky bourbon in those days, I’m sure the Lord would have included it if there’d been any around to drink. The point is, the Lord recognized a man sometimes needs a little alcohol to soothe him when life begins to get too much to handle.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up,” Blanchard said, grinning. “I’ll have to remember that particular verse so’s I can quote it if’n someone ever tries to make me quit drinkin’.”

  Lazarus took a deep swallow of his whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Perish the thought, Bob, perish the thought.”

  After Blanchard walked off to stand behind the bar and await further orders, Blackie leaned back in his chair and gave Lazarus an app
raising glance. Since he seemed to be in one of his good moods today, he figured he’d ask him again about what the rest of the boys had been wondering.

  “Say, Lazarus, when are you gonna tell us what you got planned, an’ why we been stuck here in this two-bit excuse for a town for the past two weeks?”

  Lazarus pursed his lips as if thinking it over, then nodded and leaned forward on his elbows.

  “I’ve decided to stay around here and do a little gold mining.”

  “Gold mining?”

  Lazarus nodded. “From what I hear, that Jensen fellow’s land is absolutely brimming with gold. Word is it’s so thick over there you don’t even have to dig in some places. It’s just lying around on the ground waiting to be picked up.”

  “But boss, we ain’t miners. What made you decide to do this?”

  Lazarus leaned back, a look of smug self-satisfaction on his face. “Spreading the Lord’s word is expensive, Blackie. That’s why we’ve been having to spend too much of our time raising money by rustling and robbing the occasional bank. If I can make one big score, get me enough money to last the rest of my life, then I can devote all my energies to doing the Lord’s work. I might even open me up a church somewhere, one like my pappy used to preach at.”

  Blackie nodded, knowing it would do no good to try to talk Lazarus out of his scheme once his mind was made up. But there were other things to worry about.

  “What about this Jensen fellow? Blanchard said the last guy that tried to take that gold had twenty or thirty men and got plumb wiped out.”

  Lazarus grinned, as if he had a secret. “I know. It won’t be easy, especially since Jensen’s built that town of Big Rock and has all the citizens in it behind him.”

  “So, you think the twenty of us can pull it off, tree the town, and get the gold before the U.S. Marshals or the army finds out about it and sends in the troops?”

  “No, twenty of us can’t, so I’ve wired for some help.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve sent for some . . . special men who once rode for the Yellow and Gray, men who didn’t quit when that traitor General Lee surrendered. Men who kept fighting the good fight.”