Blood of the Mountain Man (25 page)

“Right here, Mister Jensen!” the ex-Triangle JB foreman hollered.

“Hold your fire. Let’s see if any want to ride out. If they do, let them have safe passage out of town.” 

“Will do.”

“You men across the street!” Smoke yelled. “You heard it. Any who want to ride can do so in safety. Just clear out of this area and stay clear. It’s up to you.”

A moment passed before the call sprang from a building. “We’re ridin’ out, Jensen! They’s eight of us. Hold your fire. You’ll not see none of us again.” 

“Ride out, then!”

“Damn you all to hell!” Biggers shouted. “You’re all dirty cowards!”

One of the retreating gunnies yelled out, telling Biggers where he could go and what he could do to himself while he was on the way. A couple more of those leaving yelled out some options for Biggers.

“That would certainly be an interesting sight to see,” Clemmie muttered.

“Twenty-four or twenty-five left,” Kit said, loud enough for Smoke to hear. “Maybe two or three less than that. But I could probably name those who stayed. They’re the bad ones, Smoke. They’ll not give up.”

“Then they’ll die,” Wolf grumbled.

“They know that, too,” Kit said. “They’re worthless trash and sorry human bein’s, but they ain’t cowards. They just ain’t got good judgment.”

Five hired guns rushed the front of the saloon. Rifles and pistols boomed and cracked from inside the Golden Plum. Five bodies lay still on the muddy street, the rain washing their blood into the wagon wheel ruts.

“How many?” Kit called.

“Five,” Smoke told him, punching out the empties and reloading.

“Ruined,” Fat Fosburn muttered from his position on the floor. “We had it all and now we have nothing. Jensen stripped us down to the bare bones. Even if we survive this, we’re all looking at long prison terms or a hangman’s noose. Too many people heard our offer to the gunfighters. I been to prison. I just ain’t goin’ back.” He stuck the muzzle of his rifle into his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing out the back of his head and splattering his brains on the wall.

Jack Biggers looked at the mess and swallowed hard. He cut his eyes to Major Cosgrove. “Now what?”

Cosgrove shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s only one way out of this damn town, and it’s blocked by Waco and those men with him. All my gold is up at the mine. I’ve got to get it. It’s all I have left. It’s a fortune, Jack. Come on. We can’t ride out, but we can walk out through the mountains. We can follow the ravines up to the rear of the mine office without being seen. All the townspeople have taken shelter from the rain in the sheds and the mouth of the pits. The gold is concealed under the office floor.”

“We can’t carry all that gold, man!”

“There are burros up there. They can go where a horse or mule can’t go. They can tote the gold. We got no choice, Jack.”

“If the gunhands see us leaving, they’ll kill us.” “You have a better idea?”

Jack shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

Jack Biggers and Major Cosgrove slipped out the rear of the office and stood in the hard-pouring rain for a few seconds. The rain would help conceal their movements. The pair pushed off, running hard and staying low.

Since the abortive attempt to rush the saloon, no shots had been fired from either side. The bodies in the street gave mute testimony to the secure position of those inside the Golden Plum. It was a standoff, but a standoff that the gunhands knew they could not win.

“Whisperin’?” the hoarse call came from the outside, just loud enough to be heard by those in the front room.

Whisperin’ moved to the busted window and looked out. Russ Bailey stood in the rain, pressed up close to the building. “Yeah?”

“Fat Fosburn is dead in the office. Looks like he blowed his own head off. It’s a real mess, I tell you. Cosgrove and Biggers is gone.”

Whisperin’ mouthed an extremely ugly word several times. “We been sold out, boys,” he told those in the room. “Cosgrove and Biggers has run. They got to be headin’ for the mine. I suspect that’s where he’s hid all that gold he talked about.”

“But there ain’t no way out of that place!”

“Yeah, there is. Mule knew a way through and told some of the boys ’fore he left. There’s a horse ranch just over the pass.”

“Just over the pass means
walkin’
through them damn mountains, totin’ the gold by hand.”

“We can do it. At least, we can carry some of it. Come on, let’s start slippin’ out one at a time. Don’t tell the others. Hell with them.”

“Not me,” Tom Wilson said. “I was caught in a thunderstorm in the mountains one time. If you ain’t never seen it, you don’t want to be in it. There’s lightnin’ dancin’ and poppin’ everywhere. They was three of us down in Colorado when we got caught. I was the only one who made it out. You ever seen a man hit by lightnin’?” He shuddered. “I have. Johnny’s eyeballs popped out of his head. I’m stayin’ right here.”

“Somebody do something!” Russ said. “I’m freezin’ to death out here in the damn rain!”

“Let’s go.”

Five men slipped out the rear of the building to join Russ in the rain. Lonesome was the last to leave. Tom Wilson stayed where he was, all right. Lonesome Ted Lightfoot had cut his throat to ensure the man’s silence. They were all a real nice bunch of folks.

“Smoke!” Pasco called from the landing. “I thought at first I was seeing things. But now I’m sure. There’s some men heading for the mine. I saw two about three or four minutes ago. Then about four or five more.”

“That’s it? No more?”

“Not yet. What do you think is up?”

“Rats desertin’ the ship,” Kit called.

“Probably,” Smoke said. He checked his pistols and picked up a rifle, making certain it was loaded up full. “Hold it here, people. I’m heading for the mine.”

“You want some company?” Van Horn called. “No. You can be sure they’re keeping a good eye behind them. One man alone will be much harder to spot. Besides, I think you’re going to have your hands full with those still across the street. See you shortly.”

Smoke was gone out the back door, running hard for the mine, keeping to the alley and out of sight of those across the street. At the mine road that angled off from the edge of town, Smoke darted across the crushed rock road and took the hard and long way up to the mine, clambering over huge rocks and jumping young rivers of water that would vanish when the rain stopped. Since this route was very nearly impossible for a man to climb, Smoke knew it would be the last place those above him would look.

Once, when he paused to catch his breath, he studied the long stairs that led from ground level to the main offices. Since the mine was not working this day, the mule-drawn hoist was not being used and he could see two men just entering the offices, high above him. The big one was Cosgrove and the other one looked like Jack Biggers. It sure wasn’t Fat Fosburn. The size was all wrong.

The angled steps had four landings, five if you counted the landing at the top. It was a good three hundred feet off the ground.

Then Smoke saw a knot of men running up the steps. Five, no, six of them. They paused for breath at the first landing. Unless you were accustomed to it, this high up was no place to be running, and it could sap your strength quickly.

Smoke climbed on while the storm raged, lightning dancing all around the high peaks above him. He had slung his rifle, muzzle down, and made sure his pistols were snug in their holsters and thonged down tight.

He was winded when he reached the top, but as far as he knew, no one had spotted him. The temperance band had stopped tooting and oom-pahing and drumming, and the singing had stopped. The townspeople had taken refuge wherever they could find it, and none were in sight.

Smoke studied the situation. There was no way he was going to risk climbing those steps; he’d be a very conspicuous target. Unless . . .

He studied the sheer wall of the cliff behind the steps, where the hoist was located. He could probably climb up a couple of hundred feet of dry cable, but damned if was going to try it in a drenching rain.

Then he realized there was a road leading up to the mine proper. Naturally, dummy! he berated himself. How else could they build the damn complex way up there? The rain had obscured the narrow road, just wide enough for a wagon with a skilled driver at the reins and a stout rope or chain hooked to the rear of the wagon with the other end attached to a heavy-duty spoked gearbox of some type in case the wagon brakes failed.

Smoke left his dubious shelter and ran for the road. With his clothing soaked, he blended in against the gray water-soaked rock of the cliff the road had been carved out of.

Jack Biggers suddenly appeared on the top landing and started shooting at the men who were now at the second landing. The men returned the fire, driving the rancher back into the building.

Interesting, Smoke thought, as he squatted under a small overhang very near the mouth of the mine, which was on a level with the top landing. More steps led from the mine to the office. He unslung his rifle and wiped it as dry as he could, thinking: I’ll just stay here out of the rain and if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll kill each other.

No such luck. Patmos turned, spotted Smoke, and opened his mouth to shout out the warning. Before he could yell, Smoke drilled the gunfighter clean and Patmos went down on the slick landing. The shot was lost in the roar of rain, the howl of wind, and the crash of thunder.

For a few seconds — enough time for Smoke to leap out and run for a small foreman’s hut —those on the landing with Patmos thought he had lost his footing and slipped. Whisperin’ knelt down beside him and got the word from the badly wounded killer-for-hire. From his hiding place behind the hut, Smoke watched Whisperin’ look wildly all around the spot where Patmos had pointed. Then the gunhand had to jump for safety as both Cosgrove and Biggers opened fire from above them, driving the gunfighters back. Whisperin’ leaped away, leaving Patmos exposed on the landing. Patmos’ body jerked in pain as half a dozen rounds were fired into him. He feebly lifted one hand, then the arm fell to the landing and he did not move again.

“That sure is a loyal bunch,” Smoke muttered. “Certainly true to one another.”

As he leaned against the hut, a thought came to him. Wherever miners are, there is bound to be dynamite. Smoke picked up a broken ax handle and used it to tear off a couple of boards from the rear of the hut. He smiled. The place was filled with cases of dynamite. Then he lost his smile as he realized what a lousy place he’d picked to hide behind. If a stray bullet hit the right spot, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to pick up. Not even with a spoon and shovel.

He grabbed a dozen sticks and some caps and fuses and vacated the area immediately.

While those on the middle landing were being sniped at by Cosgrove and Biggers, unable either to return the fire or do much looking for Smoke,

Smoke edged closer and capped and fused his dynamite. He lit a bundle and gave it a flip. The bundle of explosives bounced on the landing and went sailing off into space, exploding harmlessly in midair.

“What the hell?” Smoke heard Biggers holler from above him.

“You bastards!” Whisperin’ yelled at the pair on the top landing.

“That wasn’t us!” Cosgrove shouted.

There was only the howl of the wind, the rush of the rain, the snap and cracking of lightning, and the booming of thunder for a full half minute, as the men above and below each other gave that some thought.

“Oh, hell!” Lonesome led Lightfoot muttered. Then he raised his voice to a shout. “Cosgrove, Biggers! We better work together, boys. Smoke Jensen is up here with us.”

“Hell with you!” Biggers shouted. “You look out for your own butt, gunfighter.”

Smoke tossed another bundle of dynamite. It landed flat and stayed put on the slick boards. When it blew, it took about half the landing and forced the remaining gunfighters to press up against the face of the cliff. Patmos’ body rolled off the shattered landing and fell to the rocky ground below.

Cosgrove and Biggers laughed at the men below them. Smoke stopped their laughter by tying a bundle of explosives to the broken ax or pick handle and hurling it up to the top landing.

‘Jesus Christ!” Cosgrove yelled, as he and Biggers jumped for the dubious safety of the office building.

The charge blew off half the safety railing, tore a great hole in the floor of the landing, and shattered all the front windows in the office building. It also rattled the hell out of the office building constructed against the face of the cliff.

“That’s it,” Whisperin’ said. “That’s all for me. We can’t get out, boys. We got the vigilantes below us, Cosgrove and Biggers above us, and Jensen over yonder someplace. I’m done.”

“Might as well,” Jim Pell said. The others nodded their agreement.

“Jensen!” Whisperin’ shouted. “Can you hear me over all this damn stormin’?”

“I hear you,” Smoke called.

“Can you see us?”

Smoke shifted positions behind crates and broken wagon wheels and other discarded debris. “I can see you.”

“We’re done, Smoke. You hear me? It’s all over for us. We yield.”

“Throw all your guns over the side. All of you. Unbuckle and toss everything over the side.”

The men chucked it all over the side of the shattered landing. They even reached down into boots and behind their belts in the small of the backs and pulled out hideaway guns and knives. Everything went over the side.

“Now stay where you are. Press up against the face of the cliff. Cosgrove and Biggers can’t see you or hit you with gunfire. Is there a back way out of that office building?”

“No,” Dusty called. “They got to use this landing or the road you’re on. They’re trapped.” Just like us, he thought.

Far below him, Smoke could see men gathering, taking up positions behind rocks and boulders and wagons and rail cars. Two dozen rifles or more were now trained on the office building. He could make

out Waco and Wolf and Pasco and several others on his side. The storm had blocked the sounds of the final fight in Red Light. The outlaws were licked. 

Almost.