Warpath of the Mountain Man Read online

  * * *

  In less than an hour, every living soul in the town was rounded up and gathered together in the largest saloon, called the Nugget. There were twenty-two men, ranging in age from thirteen years old to more than seventy. There were also fifteen women, ten of whom were obviously prostitutes or saloon girls. The other five were elderly women whose husbands were out at their mines working.

  Berlin stood at the bar, a bottle of whiskey next to him, as he looked over the prisoners, who were huddled on one side of the large room.

  The bartender was hurriedly pouring whiskey all around for the outlaws, while Moses Johnson and Billy Bartlett held shotguns on the prisoners.

  “Jesus,” Berlin said to Jesus Santiago, “you and Sam Cook get on over to the assay office and see if there’s any gold there we can take.”

  “Yes, sir, Boss,” Jesus said, gulping his whiskey down and heading for the door, followed by Sam Cook.

  “Now, you people, just take it easy an’ nobody has to get hurt,” Berlin drawled to the townspeople. “We’re gonna take some supplies an’ be on our way soon, so no need gettin’ all riled up and doin’ somethin’ stupid.”

  “You bastards will never get away with this,” an elderly man off to one side said, drawing himself up and staring at Berlin.

  “And just who’s gonna stop us?” Berlin asked in a low voice.

  “When the men get back from the mines they’ll track you down and kill every one of you sons of bitches!” the man answered.

  “Billy,” Berlin said gently, “teach this man some manners.”

  Billy Bartlett grinned and let go with one of the barrels of his shotgun. The gun exploded, sending a charge of buckshot into the man’s midsection, almost cutting him in half and spraying the people around him with blood and guts.

  “Now,” Berlin said loudly over the screams of the women in the room, “are there any other complaints I need to deal with?”

  Several of the men managed to quiet the women while looking over their shoulders at the gunmen who were covering them.

  When no one spoke up, Berlin nodded. “Good. Then that settles it.” He glanced out the window at the boardinghouse and hotel across the street, then walked over to the crowd and grabbed one of the women by the arm.

  “Get your friends and come with me,” he said gruffly.

  “Where are we going?” the woman asked, terror in her eyes.

  “My men an’ me been on the trail for a while now an’ we’re in need of some feminine companionship,” Berlin answered.

  As the younger women followed him out of the door, he called over his shoulder to his men, “Ten of you come on with us. The others can stay here and keep them covered. We can take turns till everybody’s had their fill.”

  Blue Owl grabbed his bottle and started toward the door. “Not you, Blue Owl,” Berlin said. “You got to go last.”

  “Why’s that?” Blue Owl said angrily.

  “’Cause I don’t want you an’ that pigsticker of yours spoilin’ the goods till everybody else has had a chance at ’em,” Berlin answered.

  Blue Owl grinned. “Oh,” he said, smiling and returning to the bar.

  “Moses,” Berlin said, “send a couple of men to stand guard at the town limits in case some of the miners come back before dark.”

  “Yes, sir, Boss.”

  * * *

  In two hours, all of the men with Berlin had their turns with the prostitutes, including Blue Owl. Only one of the girls was damaged beyond repair. Blue Owl had left his woman in pieces on a bloodstained bed in the hotel.

  Berlin gathered his men, along with twelve pounds of gold dust from the assay office, assorted food and supplies from the general store, and enough ammunition to replace what they’d used on the soldiers, and they prepared to take their leave from Rangely.

  “You people stay here in the saloon until after we’re gone, an’ nobody’ll be any the worse for wear,” Berlin said, walking back and forth in front of the townsfolk.

  “If you stick your heads out before then, we’ll blow ’em off,” he warned.

  He led his men out the door and they all mounted up. “Sam, you and Moses open up the livery and scatter the hosses so they can’t follow us later,” he ordered.

  After that was done, he trotted out of town, heading south by southeast toward the next town.

  * * *

  Sergeant Bob Guthrie arrived in town three hours later, just before dark. He was met by a group of men holding rifles and shotguns.

  “Who the hell are you?” a tall, thin man with a full beard asked angrily.

  Guthrie held his hands out where the men could see them. “I’m Sergeant Bob Guthrie, United States Army.”

  “What do you want here?” the man asked, lowering his rifle, but keeping his hand on the trigger.

  “I’m followin’ a band of outlaws that killed my men up in the mountains. There’s about thirty of ’em, an’ they’re mean as snakes.”

  “Get down off your horse, Sergeant,” the man said. “Your outlaws have already paid us a visit.”

  He stuck his hand out. “I’m Jacob Walker, sort’a the mayor of Rangely.”

  Guthrie took his hand. “Howdy. How long ago did they leave?”

  “’Bout three hours or so,” Walker said, leading Guthrie into the saloon where the people had been held prisoner.

  Guthrie sank into a chair, exhaustion evident on his face. “I been in the saddle over twenty hours now, tryin’ to catch up to those bastards,” he said.

  “Emmett,” Walker said to the bartender, “get Sergeant Guthrie some grub an’ some coffee. He looks like he could use it.”

  While he ate, Guthrie told the townspeople the story of the prison break, the trouble in Lode, and the subsequent slaughter of his command.

  Walker looked around at his fellow citizens. “I guess we got off lucky then,” he said. “They only killed four here, along with stealing all our gold and some supplies.”

  “You folks have a telegraph here?” Guthrie asked.

  Walker shook his head. “Nope. Nearest one’s over at Meeker, sixty miles to the east.”

  “Which way did they head?” Guthrie asked.

  “Southeast. That means they’re either heading to Rifle or Grand Junction.”

  “How big are the towns?”

  “Rifle’s just ’bout the same size we are,” Walker said. “Grand Junction has a railroad line and is quite a bit bigger.”

  “You say Grand Junction has a railroad?” Guthrie asked.

  “Yeah. It goes over toward Crested Butte and then on down to Pueblo.” He walked over to the bar, reached behind it, and pulled out an assayer’s map of the territory. He unfolded it on the table and showed it to Guthrie.

  Guthrie thought for a moment as he studied the map. “I’d figure they’re gonna head for Rifle first, being’s it’s the smallest town an’ probably don’t have much law.”

  “You’re probably right,” Walker said.

  Guthrie looked up. “If I can trade for a couple of horses, I’m gonna hightail it to Grand Junction, notify the Army by telegraph there, then take the railroad down to Crested Butte. With any luck, I’ll be waitin’ for ’em when they finally get there.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Guthrie,” Walker said, “you don’t look in any shape to make that journey tonight.”

  Guthrie leaned back in his chair. “You’re probably right, Walker. I’m liable to fall off my horse and break my neck if I don’t get some sleep.”

  Walker poured him another cup of coffee. “From the looks of the sky, we got another winter storm coming in soon. Those outlaws won’t be able to make much time over the mountains between here and Rifle if it snows. Why don’t you get some sleep and start off first thing in the morning? That’ll still give you plenty of time to get to Grand Junction and get the train to Crested Butte ahead of those outlaws.”

  Guthrie drained his coffee and stood up. “I think I will, Mayor. I’m much obliged to you.”


  “You get the men who raided this town and we’ll call it even, Sergeant.”

  Guthrie turned eyes cold and black as stone on Walker. “Oh, I intend to do that, Mr. Walker. You can count on it!”

  10

  Sergeant Bob Guthrie awoke at noon the next day, to weather that was cold but with no traces of the storm of the previous week. The mayor of Rangely provided him with two fresh horses and he took off toward Grand Junction, a trip of approximately fifty miles. He planned to use the horses in tandem and hoped, if the weather held, to make the trip in three days or less.

  * * *

  Ozark Jack Berlin and his gang of outlaws didn’t fare so well. A blue norther, sweeping down out of Canada, hit them with the force of a freight train, dumping two feet of snow and dropping temperatures below zero on their trip toward Rifle, Colorado.

  They arrived at Rifle more than ten days after they left Rangely, a journey that would usually only take four days. They were cold, saddle-weary, and dead tired when they rode into sight of the small mining town.

  While on the outskirts of the town, Berlin gathered his men around him, their faces crusted with ice and snow.

  “All right, men, we been through hell on the way here,” he said. “We’re gonna need a place to rest up and recuperate from the trip, so I want you all to be on your best behavior while we’re here. No shootin’ an’ no killin’ till we’re ready to leave town. You got that?”

  The men nodded wearily, all anxious to get in front of a fire somewhere and warm up. Their blood lust was for the moment dampened by their misery in the frigid air surrounding them.

  As they rode slowly into Rifle, Blue Owl looked around at the clapboard buildings and tents of the town. “Hell, Boss,” he said, “it don’t look like there’s much here for the taking anyway.”

  “That’s true, Blue Owl, but I want you to keep a tight rein on the men while we’re here. Ain’t no need of gettin’ the town all riled up till we’ve rested a mite an’ got our strength back.”

  “You think they might’ve heard anything ’bout us yet?” Blue Owl asked, peering through the falling snow at the few townspeople who were foolish enough to be outside in such weather.

  “Naw. I don’t see no telegraph wires, so there ain’t no way they know anything ’bout us so far.”

  The men reined in their mounts in front of the largest saloon in town, called the Mother Lode, and hurried through the batwings, standing inside the door and stamping snow and ice off their boots before taking tables in the almost empty room.

  Berlin went over to the bar. “Bring my men whiskey, an’ plenty of it,” he growled. “We’re ’bout frozen to death.”

  The barman raised his eyebrows. “You men been out traveling in this weather?” he asked incredulously.

  “We were on our way here from up north,” Berlin said, “when the storm hit. For a while, we didn’t know if we were gonna make it or not.”

  “You’re plenty lucky to have made it through the passes ’fore the snow accumulated,” the barman said, bringing several bottles of whiskey out from under the bar. “Another day, an’ you would’ve been trapped up in the mountains till the snow melted.”

  Billy Bartlett and Moses Johnson walked over, picked up the whiskey bottles and some glasses, and took them to the nearby tables.

  Berlin inclined his head toward the large Franklin stove in the corner. “You think you could stoke that stove a mite?” he asked, shivering. “We’d sure appreciate a little extra heat in here.”

  “Sure thing,” the barman said. “An’ if you and your men want some grub and a place to bunk down, the boardinghouse up the street sets a fine table.”

  Berlin nodded, pouring himself a large glass of whiskey and drinking it down. “Much obliged, mister,” he said. “Soon’s we get a little firewater in our gullets, we’ll head on over there.”

  “Livery’s right next door too,” the man added. “With this storm, it’d be best to get your animals under cover soon’s you can.”

  “We’ll do that,” Berlin said, taking his bottle and heading over to the table where Bartlett, Blue Owl, and Sam Cook were sitting.

  “What’s the plan, Boss?” Cook asked.

  “I figure we’ll hold up here a couple’a days, till the storm passes. We can use the time to get our mounts rested an’ our bellies full.” He looked around at his men, some of whom were still shivering from the cold. “After all, we ain’t in no hurry to get anywhere since we took care of the Army.”

  * * *

  Guthrie rode into Grand Junction three and a half days after he left Rangely. He pushed his horses, both of which were on their last legs, and rode directly to the train station on the eastern edge of town.

  He dismounted and rushed to the ticket window. “I need to get to Crested Butte as soon as possible,” he said.

  The ticket master shook his head. “That might be a bit of a problem, mister,” he said. “Had a big storm go through the area south of here last couple’a days. Some of the passes might be blocked with snow.”

  “When will you know?”

  “We’re gonna send an engine with a snowplow on the front through this afternoon. If it makes it, the engineer will telegraph us from Crested Butte and we’ll send the next train on ahead.”

  Guthrie bit his lip, thinking for a moment. “Any chance of me hitchin’ a ride on that snowplow?”

  The ticket master frowned. “What’s so all-fired important about getting to Crested Butte in such a hurry?” he asked.

  “There’s a group of thirty outlaws headed that way,” Guthrie answered. “If I don’t get there first and warn the town, there’s liable to be dead people lyin’ all over the streets of Crested Butte by tomorrow.”

  “Well, since it’s a kind’a emergency, I’ll check with the engineer and see if he’ll let you ride along.” The man paused, then continued. “I gotta warn you, though. It won’t be an easy ride, what with the cold and snow and everything.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Guthrie said. “A lot of lives depend on me getting through.”

  The ticket man nodded, and Guthrie asked, “Where’s the telegraph office?”

  The man pointed toward the center of town. “Right up the street there, you can’t miss it.”

  * * *

  Guthrie walked to the telegraph office and entered. He grabbed a sheet of yellow foolscap off the table and began writing a message to the Army post at Glenwood Springs, fifteen miles east of Rifle. He hopped they could send men to the small town in time to avoid a massacre if Berlin and his men headed there. Fort Collins, a much larger post, was too far away to do anything in time. Guthrie had been stationed for a short time at Glenwood Springs and he knew it was a small post, but at least they might be able to warn the town of Rifle that Berlin was on his way.

  * * *

  It was a measure of the smallness of the post at Glenwood Springs that the commanding officer was a shavetail lieutenant. He was fresh from officers’ training and Glenwood was his first command. His name was Riley Woodcock. He was twenty-two years old, with a lack of experience to match his young age.

  Sergeant Mark Goodson was the real leader of the small command, and Goodson prayed nightly that nothing untoward would happen that would test his young commanding officer’s mettle.

  It was Sergeant Goodson who got the wire from Sergeant Guthrie, and he was shaking his head as he carried it into Lieutenant Woodcock’s office.

  Woodcock looked up from his morning coffee. “Yes, what is it, Sergeant?” he asked, not liking the worried look on Goodson’s face when he’d entered the office without knocking.

  “Just got this wire from Grand Junction, sir,” he said, handing the paper to Woodcock.

  Woodcock read the wire, then laid it on the desk, a look of anticipation on his face. As much as Goodson prayed for nothing to happen, Woodcock had waited eagerly for some trouble in which he could act heroically and make a name, and perhaps gain a promotion, for himself.

 
“What’s the status of the men, Sergeant?” Woodcock asked, standing and striding to the corner coatrack and buckling on his sword.

  Goodson sighed. He’d been afraid of something like this ever since he’d read the wire. “Ready, sir,” he said fatalistically.

  Deciding to try to salvage the situation, Goodson added, “It seems a small matter to occupy you, sir. Perhaps I could take a squad of men and ride over to Rifle and warn the civilian authorities there of what may be coming.”

  Woodcock glanced over his shoulder. “There are no civilian authorities in Rifle, Sergeant. You know that.” As he settled his hat on his head, he continued. “If anyone is to save the good people of Rifle from these desperados, it’s got to be the Army.”

  “Yes, sir,” Goodson said unhappily.

  “Gather the men together in front of my office, geared up and ready to ride. Full arms.”

  “Yes, sir,” Goodson said, snapping off a salute. As he walked out the door, he hoped the outlaws had headed someplace other than Rifle. He had no desire to go up against thirty armed and dangerous men with this kid leading the way. It was a sure recipe for disaster, he thought as he rounded up his men.

  Thirty minutes later, Goodson had fifteen men sitting on their horses in formation in front of Woodcock’s office.

  Woodcock strolled out the door, set his hat firmly on his head, and climbed into the saddle.

  “Sergeant, you may lead the men by columns of two off the post.”

  “Yes, sir,” Goodson said. “Forward, ride!” he called, waving his hand and leading the way south by southwest toward the town of Rifle.

  Lieutenant Woodcock rode alongside halfway down the column, sitting straight in the saddle, sure he was on his way to finding his destiny.

  11

  Ozark Jack Berlin was enjoying the first real rest he’d had since escaping from prison a couple of weeks before. He and his men had been constantly on the run, sleeping and eating mostly on the trail, through some of the worst weather he’d ever seen.

  This was the first time he’d been able to sit back and take it easy since he’d been caught after robbing that train up at Moab, Utah, and sentenced to ten years hard labor at the territorial prison. If he could only manage to keep his men in line and out of trouble, they might just stay here until the weather warmed up a bit. He didn’t relish any more mad dashes through the mountains with winter storms beating them in the face.