The Last Mountain Man Page 9

  “I suppose I am.” He smiled at Preacher. “But I had a good teacher, didn’t I?”

  “The best around,” the mountain man replied.

  The house and bunk house was built of logs, with sod roofs. Burn easy, Smoke thought. He yelled, “Casey! Get out here.”

  “Who are you?” a shout came from the house.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  A rifle bullet wanged through the trees. High.

  “Lousy shot,” Preacher muttered.

  The rifle cracked again, the slug humming closer.

  “They might git lucky and hit one of the horses,” Preacher said.

  “You tuck them in the ravine over there,” Smoke said, dismounting. “I think I’ll ease around to the back.”

  Preacher slid off his mustang. “I’ll stay here and worry ’em some. You be careful now.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “’Course not,” the old man replied sarcastically. “Why in the world would I do that?” He glanced up at the sky. “Seven, maybe eight hours till dark.”

  “We’ll be through before then.” Smoke slipped into an arroyo that half circled the house, ending at the rear of the ranch house.

  Fifty yards behind the house, he found cover in a small clump of trees and settled down to pick his targets.

  A man got careless inside the house and offered part of his forearm on a sill. Smoke shattered it with one round from his Henry. In front of the house, Preacher found a target and cut loose with his Henry. From the screams of pain drifting to Smoke, someone had been hard hit.

  “You hands!” Smoke called. “You sure you want to die for Casey? A couple of your buddies already bought it a few miles back. One of them wearing a black shirt.”

  Silence for a few seconds. “Your Daddy ride with Mosby?” a voice yelled from the house.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your brother named Luke?”

  “Yeah. He was shot in the back and the gold he was guarding stolen.”

  “Potter shot him—not me! You got no call to do this. Ride on out and forgit it.”

  Smoke’s reply to that was to put several rounds of .44s through the windows of the house.

  Wild cursing came from the house.

  “Jensen? The name is Barry. I come from Nevada. Dint have nothin’ to do with no war. Never been no further east than the Ladder in Kansas. Nuther feller here is the same as me. We herd cattle; don’t git no fightin’ wages. You let us ride out?”

  “Get your horses and ride on out!” Smoke called.

  Barry and his partner made it to the center of the backyard before they were shot in the back by someone in the ranch house. One of them died hard, screaming his life away in the dust of southeast Colorado.

  “Nice folks in there,” Preacher muttered.

  Smoke followed the arroyo until the bunkhouse was between him and the main house. In a pile behind the bunkhouse, he found sticks and rags; in the bunkhouse, a jar of coal oil. He tied the rags around a stake, soaked it in coal oil, lighted it, then tossed it onto the foot of the ranch house. He waited, Henry at the ready, watching the house slowly catch on fire.

  Shouts and hard coughing came from inside the ranch house as the logs caught and smoldered, the rooms filling with fumes. One man broke from the cabin and Preacher cut him down in the front yard. Another raced from the back door and Smoke doubled him over with a .44 slug in the guts.

  Only one man appeared to still be shooting from the house. Two on the range, at least two hit in the house, and two in the yard. That didn’t add up to eight, but maybe, Smoke thought, they had hit more in the house than they thought.

  “All right, Casey,” he shouted over the crackling of burning wood. “Burned to death, shot, or hung—it’s up to you.”

  Casey waited until the roof was caving in before he stumbled into the yard, eyes blind from fumes. He fired wildly as he staggered about, hitting nothing except earth and air. When his pistol was empty, Smoke walked up to the man and knocked him down, tying his hands behind him with rawhide.

  “What do you figure on doin’ with him?” Preacher asked, shoving fresh loads into his Henry.

  “I intend to take him just outside of town, by that creek, and hang him.”

  “I just can’t figure where you got that mean streak, boy. Seein’ as how you was raised—partly—by a gentle old man like me.”

  Despite the death he had brought and the destruction wrought, Smoke had to laugh at that. Preacher was known throughout the West as one of the most dangerous men ever to roam the high country and vast Plains. The mountain man had once spent two years of his life tracking down and killing—one by one—a group of men who had ambushed and killed a friend of his, taking the man’s furs.

  “ ’Course you never went on the hunt for anyone?” Smoke asked, dumping the unconscious Casey across a saddled horse, tying the man on.

  The house was now engulfed in flames, black smoke spewing into the endless sky.

  “Well . . . mayhaps once or twice. But that was years back. I’ve mellowed.”

  “Sure.” The young man grinned. Preacher was still as mean as a cornered puma.

  * * *

  By the banks of a little creek, some distance outside the town limits, Smoke dumped the badly frightened Casey on the ground. A crowd had gathered, silent for the most part, watching the young man carefully build a noose.

  “I could order you to stop this,” Marshal Crowell said. “But I suppose you’d only tell me I have no jurisdiction outside of town.”

  “Either that or shoot you if you try to interfere,” Smoke told him.

  “The man has not been tried!”

  “Yeah, he has. He admitted to me what he done,” Smoke told the marshal.

  “Lots of smoke to the southeast,” Crowell observed. “’Bout gone now.”

  “House fire,” Preacher said. “Poor feller lost ever’thing.”

  “Two men in the back of the house,” Smoke said. “Shot in the back. Casey and his men did that. One died hard.”

  “That does not excuse what you’re about to do,” the marshal said. He looked around him. “Is anybody goin’ to help me stop this lynchin’?”

  No one stepped forward. Casey spat in the direction of the crowd. He cursed them.

  “No matter what you call this,” Crowell said, “I still intend to file a report callin’ it murder.”

  “Halp!” Casey hollered.

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord!” said the local minister. “Lord, hear my prayer for this poor wretch of a man.” He began intoning a prayer, his eyes lifted upward.

  Casey soiled himself as the noose was slipped around his neck. He tried to twist off the saddle.

  The minister prayed.

  “That ain’t much of a prayer,” Preacher opined sourly. “I had you beat hands down when them Injuns was fixin’ to skin me on Platte. Put some feelin’ in it, man!”

  The minister began to shout and sweat, warming up to his task. The crowd swelled; some had brought a portion of their supper with them. A hanging was always an interesting sight to behold. There just wasn’t that much to do in small western towns. Some men began betting as to how long it would take Casey to die, if his neck was not broken when his butt left the saddle.

  The minister had assembled a small choir, made up of stern-faced matronly ladies. Their voices lifted in ragged harmony to the skies.

  “Shall We Gather At The River,” they intoned.

  “I personally think ‘Swing Low’ would be more like it,” Preacher opined.

  “He owes me sixty-five dollars,” a merchant said.

  “Hell with you!” Casey tried to kick the man.

  “I want my money,” the merchant said.

  “You got anything to say before you go to hell?” Smoke asked him.

  Casey screamed at him. “You won’t get away with this. If Potter or Stratton don’t git you, Richards will.”

  “What’s he talkin’ about?” Marshal Crowell said.

&
nbsp; “Casey was with the Gray—same as my Pa and brother. Casey and some others like him waylaid a patrol bringing a load of gold into Georgia. They shot my brother in the back and left him to die.”

  Crowell met the young man’s hard eyes. “That was war.”

  “It was murder.”

  “Hurry up!” a man shouted. “My supper’s gittin’ cold.”

  “I’ll see you hang for this,” the marshal promised Smoke.

  “You go to hell!” Smoke told him. He slapped the horse on the rump and Casey swung in the cool, late afternoon air.

  “I’m notifying the territorial governor of this,” Crowell said.

  Casey’s boot heels drummed a final rhythm.

  “Shout, man!” Preacher told the minister. “Sing, sisters!” he urged on the choir.

  “What about my sixty-five dollars?” the merchant shouted.

  8

  The men road up the east side of the Wet Mountains, camping near the slopes of Greenhorn Mountain.

  “Way I see it, Smoke,” Preacher said, “you got some choices. That marshal is gonna see to it a flyer is put out on you for murder.”

  Smoke said nothing.

  “Son, you got nothin’ left to prove. I can’t believe your Pa would want you kilt for something happened years back.”

  “I won’t change my name, I won’t hide out, and I won’t run,” Smoke said. “I aim to see this thing through and finished.”

  “Or get finished,” Preacher said glumly.

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “I head to Canon City.”

  “We head to Canon City,” Preacher corrected.

  “All right.”

  “Been there a time or two.” Preacher had been everywhere in the West at least a time or two. “Son? You ain’t gonna ride in there and hogtie them folk. That town’s nigh on sixty year old. They got a hard man for a sheriff.”

  “But Ackerman’s there.”

  “That’s the one betrayed your brother? The one Luke thought was his friend?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Man like that needs killin’.”

  “That is exactly what I intend to do.”

  “Figured you’d say that.”

  * * *

  A few miles outside of Florence, two riders stopped the pair early one morning. They were rough-looking men, with tied-down guns, the butts worn smooth from much handling. Their Missouri cavalry hats were pulled low, faces unshaven.

  “Been waitin’ here for you,” one said. “Word of you hangin’ Casey spread fast. They be warrants out on you ’fore long. You made that marshall look like a fool.”

  “What’s your interest in this?” Smoke asked.

  “I rode for the Gray. Know the story of what happened from a man that was there. What we wantin’ to tell you is this: One of them hands that was on the range back at the TC beat it quicklike to Canon City. Seen him ride in, horse all lathered up and wind-broke. He ruined a good animal. Went straight to Ackerman’s spread, few miles out of town, east. They waitin’ for both of you.”

  “Much obliged to you,” Smoke said. “Where you heading?”

  “Back to Missouri. Got word that Dingus and Buck needin’ some boys to ride with ’em. Thought we’d give it a whirl. You shore look familiar in the face to me. We met?”

  “You was with Bloody Bill the night Jesse gave me this Colt. Tell him hello for me.”

  “Done. You boys ride easy and ready, now. See you.” The outlaws wheeled their horses and were gone, heading east, to Missouri—and into disputed history.

  “Now what?” Preacher asked his young partner.

  “We’ll just ride in for a look-see.”

  “Figured you’d say that.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Oreodelphia,” Preacher said, as they approached Canon City from the south. They stopped, looking over the town.

  “Oreo . . . what?”

  “Oreodelphia. That’s what one feller wanted to name this place—’bout ten year ago. Miners said they couldn’t say the damned word, much less spell it. Never did catch on.”

  “Gold around here?”

  “Right smart. Never got the fever myself. Found some nuggets once—threw ’em back in the crick and never told no one ’bout it.”

  “You may have found a fortune, Preacher.”

  “Mayhaps, son. But what is it I need that there gold for? Got ever’thing a body could want; couldn’t tote no more. I got buckskins to cover me, a good horse, good guns, and a good friend. Had me a right purty watch once, but I had to give ’er up.”

  “Why?”

  “One time a bunch of Cheyennes on the warpath come close to where I was hidin’ out in a ravine. I plumb forgot that there watch chimed on the hour. Liked to have done me in. Thought I was dead for shore. Them Injuns was so took with that watch, they forgot ’bout me. I took off a-hightailin’.” He laughed. “I bet them Injuns was mad when that watch run down and wouldn’t chime no more.”

  They urged their horses forward. “One more thing I think you should know, Smoke.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I hear tell the state’s gonna build a brand new prison just outside of town. They might be lookin’ to fill it up.”

  * * *

  The old mountain man and the handsome young gunfighter rode slowly down the main street of Canon City. They drew some attention, for they were dressed in buckskins and carried their Henry repeating rifles across their saddles, instead of in a boot. And the sheriff and one of his deputies were among those watching the pair as they reined up in front of the saloon and stepped out of the saddle.

  Boot heels clumped on the boardwalk as the sheriff walked toward them. Neither Smoke nor Preacher looked up, but both were aware of his approach, and of the fact that a deputy had stationed himself across the street, a rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Howdy, boys,” the sheriff greeted them.

  He received a nod.

  The sheriff looked at their horses. “Been travelin’, I see.”

  “A piece,” Preacher said.

  The sheriff recognized him. “You’re the Preacher.”

  “That’s what I’m called.”

  “And you’re the gun-hand called Smoke.”

  “That’s what I’m called.”

  “You boys plannin’ on stayin’ long?”

  Smoke turned his dark eyes on the sheriff and let them smolder for a few seconds. “Long enough.”

  The sheriff had seen more than his share of violence; he had seen more shootings, knifings, and hangings than he cared to remember. He had known, and known personally, men of violence: Clay Allison, Wild Bill, and others who were just as mean—or meaner—but never gained the reputation. But something in this young man’s eyes made the sheriff back up a step, something he had never done before. And he silently cursed that one step.

  “I heard what happened to Casey,” the sheriff spoke in low tones. “Nothing like that is going to happen in this town. Don’t start trouble here.”

  Smoke suddenly smiled boyishly and disarmingly. “You don’t mind if we buy some supplies, have a few hot meals, and rest for a day or two, do you, sheriff? Take a hot bath?”

  “Speak for yourself on that last part,” Preacher said.

  “Confine yourselves to doing that,” the sheriff said, then brushed past the men.

  “That lawman’s salty, Smoke,” Preacher observed correctly.

  “But he backed up,” the young man replied.

  “Yep. They’s something ’bout you that’ll make a smart man get away from you. And that worries me, some.”

  “Why?”

  “Might mean I ain’t too smart.”

  They stabled their horses and told the stable boy to rub them down and give them grain. They went across the street to a small cafe and had steak, boiled potatoes, and apple pie for twenty five cents apiece.

  “These prices,” Preacher opined, “this feller’ll be retired in a month.”

 
As if by magic, the cafe had emptied of customers with the arrival of the buckskin-clad men. But when the regular diners—who, Smoke observed, ate for fifteen cents each—saw the pair meant no harm, the cafe once more filled with diners.

  “Coffee’s weak,” Preacher bitched, as he sucked at his fourth cup.

  “Any coffee that won’t float a horseshoe,” Smoke said grinning at him, “you’d claim was weak.”

  “True. What’s your plan this time?”

  “Check in at the hotel, then get some chairs and sit out front, watch the people pass by.”

  “Wait for them to come to us, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And ifn they force our hand, the sheriff can’t bring no charges agin us for defendin’ ourselves.”

  “That is correct.”

  Preacher ordered another piece of apple pie and another cup of coffee. “To be so young, Smoke, you shore got a sneaky streak in you.”

  “It’s the company I’ve been keeping for the past four years.”

  “Might have something to do with it, I reckon.”

  * * *

  For two days Smoke and Preacher waited and relaxed in town, causing no trouble, keeping to themselves. Smoke bathed twice behind the barber shop, and Preacher told him ifn he didn’t stop that he was gonna come down with some dreadful illness.

  The mountain man and the gunfighter were civil to the men, polite to the ladies. Some of the ladies batted their eyes and swished their bustled fannies as they passed by Smoke.

  “You boys sure takin’ your time buyin’ supplies,” the sheriff noted on the second day.

  “We like to think things through ’fore buyin’,” Preacher told him. “Smoke here is a right cautious man with a greenback. Might even call him tight.”

  The sheriff didn’t find that amusing. “You boys wouldn’t be waiting for Ackerman to make a move, would you?”

  “Ackerman?” Smoke looked at the sheriff. “What is an Ackerman?”

  The sheriff’s smile was grim. “What do you boys do for a livin’? I got a law on the books about vagrants.”

  “I’m retired,” Preacher told him. “Enjoyin’ the sunset of my years. Smoke here, he runs a string of horses on his ranch up to Brown’s Hole.”

  “You’re a long way from Brown’s Hole.”

  “Right smart piece for shore.”