Code of the Mountain Man (16 page)

When he had worked his way several hundred yards above his last location, he paused and looked down. The sight did not fill him with joy. There were at least thirty men in position, grouped in a semicircle, around where the manhunters believed him to be.

A grim smile curved his lips. He took four sticks of dynamite from his roll and planted them under four huge boulders, making each fuse slightly longer than the other. Then he lit the fuses and got the hell gone from there.

The explosives moved three of the huge boulders, sending them cascading down the mountain, picking up small boulders as they tumbled. Even from his high-up location, he could hear the screaming of the men as the boulders, large and small, crushed legs and arms and sent the manhunters scrambling for cover.

“You opened this dance, boys,” he said. “Now it's time to pay the band.”

* * *

“Good God!” Cotton said, as the first of the shot up and avalanche victims came limping and staggering back into town.

Johnny stepped out into the muddy street and halted the parade of wounded. “Where'd you boys tangle with Smoke Jensen?”

A man with a bloody bandage tied around his head said, “Just south of Del Norte Peak. They's a half a dozen men buried under the rocks. Jensen is a devil! He caved them rocks in on us deliberate.”

“And I suppose you boys were just ridin' around up there takin' in all the scenery, huh?” Johnny said sarcastically.

The man didn't answer. But his eyes drifted to the badge on Johnny's chest. “You the law. I want to swear out a warrant agin Smoke Jensen.”

Johnny laughed at him. “Move on, mister. There's a new doctor just hung out his sign down the street.”

“You ain't much of a lawman,” another bounty hunter sneered at him. “What's your name?” He spoke around a very badly swollen jaw.

“Johnny North.”

The manhunter settled back in his saddle with a sigh and kept his mouth shut.

“Move on,” Johnny repeated. “And don't cause any trouble in this town or you'll answer to me.”

Cotton and Louis had stepped out, Louis out of his gambling house and Cotton out of the marshal's office to stand on the boardwalk and watch the sorry-looking sight.

Cotton and Johnny joined Louis. “I count twelve in that bunch,” Louis said. “Did he say there were half a dozen buried under rocks?”

“Yeah. Smoke musta started a rock slide. Earl said he took a case of dynamite with him. When's Earl gettin' back? I ain't seen him since he rode up to the county seat.”

“Today, I would imagine. He said he'd be gone three days. He was going to send some wires. I don't know to whom, but I suspect they concern Smoke.”

“You think he really knows the President of the U-nited States?” Cotton asked.

“Oh, he probably does.” Louis smiled. “I do.”

* * *

Smoke reared up from behind the man, jerked the rider off his horse and slammed on to the ground. He hit him three times. Three short vicious right-hand blows that crossed the man's eyes, knocked out several teeth, and left the rider unconscious. Smoke knew the guy slightly. Name of Curt South. He was from Utah, Smoke remembered. A sometimes cowboy, sometimes bounty hunter, sometimes cattle thief, and all around jerk. He released Curt's shirt, and the man fell to the ground, on his back, unconscious. Smoke left him where he lay and swung into the saddle. The stirrups were set too short, but he didn't intend to keep the horse long.

Smoke headed across country, for the deep timber between Bennett Mountain and Silver Mountain. After a hard fifteen minute ride, Smoke reined up and allowed the horse to blow while he inspected the bedroll and saddle bags. The blankets smelled really bad and had fleas hopping around them. He threw them away and kept the ground sheet and canvas shelterhalf. He found a side of bacon wrapped in heavy paper and some potatoes and half a loaf of bread that wasn't too stale. He smashed Curt's rifle against a rock and swung back into the saddle.

Minutes later, he came around a clump of trees and ran right into the outlaw Blackjack Simpson—literally running into him. The two horses collided on the narrow game trail and threw both Lee and Smoke to the ground, knocking the wind out of both of them. Blackjack came up to his knees first and tried to smash Smoke's head in with a rock. Smoke kicked him in the gut and sent the man sprawling.

Guns were forgotten as the two men stood in the narrow trail and slugged it out. Blackjack was unlike most gunmen in that he knew how to use his fists and enjoyed a good fight. He slammed a right against Smoke's head and tried to follow through with a left. Smoke grabbed the man's arm, turned, and threw him to the trail. Blackjack got to his feet, and Smoke busted his beak with a straight right that jarred the man right down to his muddy boots. The blow knocked him backward against a tree.

With the blood flowing from his broken nose, Blackjack came in, both fists swinging. Smoke hit him a left and right combination that glazed the man's eyes and buckled his knees. Smoke followed through, seizing the advantage. He hammered at the man's belly with his big, work-hardened fists, the blows bringing grunts of pain from Blackjack and backing him up.

Smoke's boot struck a rock and threw him off balance. Blackjack grabbed a club from off the ground and tried to smash in Smoke's head. Smoke kicked him in the parts, and Blackjack doubled over, gagging and puking from the boot to his groin.

Smoke grabbed up the broken limb and smacked Blackjack a good one on the side of his head. Blackjack hit the ground and didn't move.

Smoke took the man's guns and smashed them useless, then caught up with the spooked horse. He took Blackjack's .44-.40 from his saddle boot and shucked out the ammo, adding that to his own supply. Then he smashed the rifle against a tree.

He knew he should kill Blackjack; the man was a murderer, rapist, bank robber, and anything else a body could name that was low-down and no-good.

But he just couldn't bring himself to shoot the man.

Trouble was, he didn't know what the hell to do with him.

“Can't do it, can you, Jensen?” Blackjack gasped out the words.

“Do what, Blackjack?” Smoke backed up and sat down on a fallen log.

“You can't shoot me, can you?”

“I'm not a murderer.”

“That'll get you killed someday, Jensen.” The man tried to get to his feet, and Smoke left the log and kicked him in the head.

Smoke took Blackjack's small poke of food from his saddlebags, cut Blackjack's cinch strap and slapped the horse on the rump. He swung into his saddle and looked at the unconscious outlaw.

“I should kill you, Blackjack. But I just can't do it. If I did that, I'd be across the line and joined up with the likes of you. God forbid I should ever enjoy killing.”

He rode into the timber, straight for trouble.

Those men who came into Rio thinking the hunt for Smoke Jensen would be no more than a lark took one last look at those manhunters who staggered out of the mountains and hauled their ashes out of the country.

With their departing, they left behind them only the hardcases of the bounty hunting profession. Men who gave no thought to a person's innocence or guilt. Men who were there only for the money.

“Amazing,” Earl said, gazing at the ever-growing number of manhunters converging on the town. “The mountains are full of members of the Lee Slater gang—all with a price on their heads—and these dredges of society would willingly consort with them to get to Smoke.”

“There isn't much to them,” Louis agreed. “I've seen their kind all over the West. Most lawmen don't like them, and few decent members of society have anything more than contempt for them. But I suppose in some instances, they do provide a service for the common good.”

“Name one,” Johnny said sourly.

“I would be hard-pressed to do so,” Louis admitted. He cut his eyes. “Well, now. Would you just look at this.”

The men looked up the street. Luttie Charles and his crew were riding in, and his crew had swelled considerably. The men of the Seven Slash turned in toward the marshal's office, where Earl and the other ‘deputies' were standing on the boardwalk. The men sat their saddles and stared at the quartet.

“Loaded for bear,” Cotton whispered, taking in the bulging saddlebags and bedrolls.

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I got a hunch this ain't no good news for Smoke.”

“I am here to announce our intentions, gentlemen,” Luttie said.

Earl stared at the man, saying nothing.

“Smoke Jensen is a wanted man, correct?” Luttie asked, his smile more a nasty smirk.

“That is, unfortunately, correct,” the Englishman acknowledged.

“That being the case,” Luttie said, “we have come to offer our services toward the cause of law and order.”

“Like I said,” Johnny whispered. “No good news for Smoke.”

“We want this to be legal and above board,” Luttie said. “So we came to the appointed law first.”

“Get to the point,” Cotton said bluntly.

“We are going into the mountains to bring back the murderer Smoke Jensen,” Luttie spoke around his smirky smile.

“Dead or alive,” Jake said.

The Karl Brothers, Rod and Randy, giggled. Both of them were about four bricks shy of a load, and were men who enjoyed killing.

Johnny spat on the ground to show his contempt for the goofy pair.

Rod grinned at him. “If you wasn't wearin' that tin star, I'd call you out for that, North.”

Johnny reached up, unpinned the badge, and put it in his pocket. “Then make your play, you stupid-lookin' punk.”

“No!” Luttie's command was sharply given. “We have no quarrel with the law, and that's an order.”

Rod relaxed and grinned at Johnny. “Some other time, North.”

“I'm easy to find, goofy.”

“Anything else you gentlemen need to know before we pull out?” Luttie asked.

“That about does it, I suppose,” Earl told him.

“Ain't you lawmen gonna wish us luck?” One-Eyed Jake asked.

“Personally, I hope you fall off your horse and break your damn neck,” Cotton told him.

“You ain't got no call to talk to me like that!” Jake protested.

“You wanna do something about it?” Cotton challenged.

“Let's ride, boys,” Luttie said. “We got a killer to bring to justice.”

“Maybe later,” One-Eyed Jake said.

“Anytime,” Cotton told him.

The Seven Slash crew and the hired guns who rode among them slopped out up the muddy street.

“Sixteen more after Smoke's hide,” Johnny spoke the words bitterly. “Smoke's gonna need all the luck and skill he can muster to come out of this alive.”

“How about them wires you sent, Earl?” Cotton asked.

Earl shook his head. “The marshal's service is out of it. But until a panel of federal judges can gather and review all the evidence against Smoke, the warrants stand.”

“Damn!” Louis said.

“Quite,” the Englishman said. “And Sheriff Silva said if we went into the mountains to help Smoke, there would be warrants issued for us. He said he was sorry about that, but that was the way it had to be.”

“I can understand that,” Johnny said. “He's stickin' his neck out pretty far for Smoke now.”

Louis looked toward the mountains. “We've all been concentrating on how Smoke is doing. I wonder how Sally is coping with all this?”

* * *

“Sally's gone!” Bountiful yelled, bringing her buggy to a dusty, sliding halt.

“What?” Sheriff Monte Carson jumped out of his chair. “What do the hands say?”

“I finally got one of them to talk. He said he took her down to the road day before yesterday, and she hailed the stage there. He said she had packed some riding britches in her trunk, along with a rifle and a pistol. She was riding the stage down to the railroad and taking a train from there. Train runs all the way through to the county seat. Lord, Lord, Monte, she's just about there by now. What are we going to do?”

Monte led her into his office and sat her down. Bountiful fanned herself vigorously. He got her a drink of water and sat down at his desk. “Nothin' we can do, Miss Bountiful. Sally's gone to stand by her man. And them damn outlaws and manhunters down yonder think they got trouble with Smoke. I feel sorry for them if they tangle with Miss Sally. You know she can shoot just like a man and has done so plenty of times. She's a crack shot with rifle and pistol. Smoke seen to that.”

“I just feel terrible about this. I should have guessed something was up when I saw her oiling up that .44 the other day. But out here . . . well, we all keep guns at the ready.”

“T'wasn't your fault, Miss Bountiful. She's doin' what she feels she has to do, is all.” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a bandana. “This situation is gettin' out of hand.”

* * *

Lee Slater and his bunch came upon Blackjack just as he was getting back on his feet. The man's face was swollen from the kick he'd received from Smoke. That kick had put him out for nearly half an hour.

“Cut my cinch and smashed my guns,” Blackjack mumbled. “I'm gonna kill that dirty bastard!”

“There's a lot of people been sayin' that,” Ed told him. “So far the score is Jensen about fifteen and the other side zero. And we're the other side.”

Someone rounded up a horse for Blackjack and loaned him a spare gun. Blackjack swung the horse's head.

“Where are you goin'!” Lee shouted.

“To kill Smoke Jensen,” Blackjack snarled. “And this time I'm gonna do it.”

Lee started to protest. Curt waved him silent. “Let him go. You know how he is. When he gets mad, he's crazy. Hell, we're better off without him until he cools down.”

“ 'Spose he gets to Jensen afore we do?” Ed asked.

“They'll be one less to share the re-ward money with,” Curly said. “Blackjack ain't gonna take Jensen; 'lessen he shoots him in the back.”

“Let's make some coffee,” Ed suggested. “I could do me with some rest.”

None among them had considered how, as wanted outlaws, they would collect any reward money should they manage to capture Smoke.

* * *

Nearly everyone on Main Street had seen the elegantly dressed lady step off the train and stroll to the hotel, a porter carrying her trunk. As soon as she signed her name, the desk clerk dispatched a boy to run fetch the sheriff.

Sally had signed the register as “Mrs. Smoke Jensen.”

Sheriff Silva was standing in the lobby, talking to several men, and he nearly swallowed his chewing tobacco when Sally walked down the stairs.

She was wearing cowboy boots and jeans—which she filled out to the point of causing the men's eyeballs to bug out—a denim shirt which fitted her quite nicely too, and was carrying a leather jacket. She had a bandana tied around her throat, and a low crowned, flat-brimmed hat on her head. She also wore a .44 belted around her waist and carried a short-barreled .44 carbine, a bandoleer of ammo slung around one shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Missus Jensen!” Sheriff Silva hollered. “I mean, holy cow. What do you think you're gonna do?”

“Take a ride,” Sally told him, and walked out the door.

Silva ran to catch up with her. “Now you just wait a minute, here, Missus Jensen. This ain't no fittin' country for a female to be a-traipsin' around in. Will you please slow down?”

Sally ignored that and kept right on walking at a rather brisk pace.

She turned into the general store and was uncommonly blunt with the man who owned the store. “I want provisions for five days, including food, coffee, pots and pans and eating utensils, blankets, ground sheets, and tent. And five boxes of .44s, too. Have them ready on a pack-frame in fifteen minutes. Have them loaded out back, please.”

“Now you just hold up on that order, Henry,” Sheriff Silva said.

“You'd better not cross me, Henry,” Sally warned him, a wicked glint in her eyes. “My name is Mrs. Smoke Jensen, and I can shoot damn near as well as my husband.”

“Yes'um,” Henry said. “I believe you, ma'am.”

“And you,” Sally spun around to face the sheriff, “would be advised to keep your nose out of my business.”

“Yes'um,” Silva said glumly, and followed her to the livery.

Sally picked out a mean-eyed blue steele that bared its teeth when the man tried to put a rope around it. Sally walked out into the corral, talked to the big horse for a moment, and then led it back to the barn. She fed him a carrot and an apple she'd picked up at the store, and the horse was hers.

“That there's a stallion, ma'am!” Silva bellered. “He ain't been cut. You can't ride no stallion!”

“Get out of my way,” she told him.

“It ain't decent, ma'am!”

“Shut up and take that pack animal around to the back of the store.”

“Yes'um,” Silva said. “Whatever you say, ma'am.” While Sally was saddling up, he turned to the hostler. “Send a boy with a fast horse to Rio. Tell them deputies of mine down there that Sally Jensen is pullin' out within the hour and looks like she's plannin' on joinin' up with her husband. Tell them to do something. Anything!”

“Sheriff,” the hostler said, horror in his voice. “Don't look. She's a-fixin' to ride that hoss astride!”

“Lord, have mercy! What's this world comin' to?”

* * *

“Looking for me, boys?” Smoke called.

Crocker and Graham spun around, dropping their coffee cups, and grabbing for iron.

But Smoke was not playing the gentleman's game. His hands were already filled with .44s. He began firing, firing and cocking with such speed the sounds seemed to be a continuous roll of deadly thunder. Crocker literally died on his feet, two slugs in his heart. Graham was turned completely around twice before he tumbled to the earth. He died with his eyes open, flat on his back and staring upward.

Smoke reloaded, listened for a moment, and then walked to the fire, eating the lunch and drinking the coffee the outlaws had fixed and no longer needed.

He drank the pot of coffee, kicked out the fire and left his tired horse to roll and water and graze, throwing a saddle on a fresh horse that was tied to a picket pin. He took what was left of a chunk of stale bread, sopped out the grease in the frying pan to soften it up, and finished off his lunch.

He looked at Crocker and Graham. “Nothing personal, boys. You just took the wrong trail, that's all.” He swung into the saddle and put the camp of the dead behind him. Ray's group came upon the bodies of Crocker and Graham and sat their horses for a time, looking around the silent camp.

“I'd like to think they et a good meal 'fore Jensen or that damned ol' Charlie Starr come up on them,” Keno said. “But if I was to bet on it, I'd wager that Jensen kilt 'em and then sat down an' et their food.” He shook his head. “We're gonna lose this fight, boys. Somebody is shore to get lead in Jensen, least the odds lean thataway, but in the end, we'll lose.”

Sonny shook his head. “It just ain't possible what he's a-doin'. By rights, we should have kilt him the first day or two. This makes nearabouts ten of us he's kilt—and half a dozen or more bounty hunters—and we ain't got no clear shot at him yet. I just ain't likin' this, boys.”

Jerry nodded his head in agreement. “I got me a bad feelin' in my guts about this fight. But, hell, way I see it, we ain't got no choice 'cept to go on with it.”

Ray swung down from the saddle. “Let's give the boys a buryin'. Stoke up that far, McKay, make some coffee.”

* * *

“We got no quarrel with you, Charlie,” Luttie told the old gunfighter. “It's Jensen we're after.”

Charlie had stepped out of the timber, blocking the trail. His hands were by his side, by the butts of his guns, and his eyes were hard and unblinking. “You got a quarrel with Smoke, you got a quarrel with me. That's the way it is. So I hope you made your peace with God.” He jerked iron and opened the dance.

Two of Luttie's hands went down before anyone could react to the sudden gunfire. Horses were rearing and screaming in fright; several of the riders were dumped from the saddle. Charlie shot Nick Johnson between the eyes, and he fell over against Luttie, knocking the man from the saddle and falling on top of him in the brush.