Heart of the Mountain Man (18 page)

“This way's better. By the time those men get to Jackson, their feet will be in such bad shape they won't be able to walk for weeks, and by then this will all be over.”

Muskrat shook his head and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Damn it all, man, I hadn't scalped anybody in a couple of years. I'm gonna git outta practice.”

24

Slaughter sat by the campfire as dusk closed in on his group of hired killers. He'd sent Whitey back along their back trail to tell the men he'd posted there to come in for supper and to get some sleep.

As he scraped the last of his beans and fried fatback off his plate, Whitey rode up in a cloud of dust, his face carrying a worried look on it.

Damn, looks like more bad news,
Slaughter thought as he built himself a cigarette and lit it off an ember from the fire.

“Boss,” Whitey said, squatting next to Slaughter, looking over his shoulder as if he was afraid someone was behind him.

“Yeah?”

“I rode at least six miles back, an' I searched both sides of the trail goin' an' comin'.”

“And?” Slaughter said, letting smoke trickle from his nostrils in his impatience.

“There was no sight of any of our men . . . not a trace.”

“You see any blood on the trail?”

Whitey shook his head. “Nothin'—no tracks, no blood, just an empty trail.”

“Damn!” Slaughter said, slamming his hand on his thigh. “I told you someone was out to get me, make me look bad.”

Whitey stared at his boss, an unbelieving expression on his face. “Takin' out eight men without leaving a trace or firin' a shot goes way beyond tryin' to make you look bad, Jim.”

Slaughter dipped his head, wiped his face with both hands, and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“What are we gonna do about it, Boss?” Swede, who was sitting next to Slaughter, asked.

“You don't dare post any more men away from the main group,” Whitey said. “We can't afford to lose any more guns.”

Slaughter waved a dismissive hand. “I can always hire more guns, that's not the problem. I just don't want the men to get the idea we're fighting a losing battle here.”

Swede cleared his throat. “Uh, you ever think that maybe we'd be better off just forgittin' 'bout that money Monte Carson owes us an' goin' on down the trail, Boss?”

Without warning, Slaughter backhanded the big man across the face, knocking him backward onto his back, his head stirring up coals and embers in the fire.

Swede jumped to his feet, frantically brushing small fires out of his hair, his face a mask of hate and fury as he glared at Slaughter.

Slaughter's lips curled in a slow grin, his fingers wrapped around the butt of a Colt Peacemaker. “Go on, keep talking like that, Swede, and I'll put one in your gizzard.”

Swede's face slowly relaxed and his fists unclenched. “I didn't mean nothin' by it, Boss. It was just a suggestion.”

Slaughter pointed his finger at Swede. “Just be sure you don't ever say anything like that in front of the men.”

Swede hung his head. “I won't.”

“Good, now you and Whitey go get some shut-eye. We're gonna need to keep a sharp lookout tomorrow.”

* * *

The outlaws' campfire had almost died out when Smoke waved his hand at Muskrat, pointing to the men sitting guard at regular intervals around the camp.

Muskrat nodded, the stubs of his teeth glowing in reflected moonlight as he grinned. Seconds later, he was gone from sight, moving as silently as a cloud.

Smoke hunkered down, moving on his toes and placing his feet carefully so as not to make a sound. He moved from shadow to shadow, never letting the guard he was stalking get a glimpse of his movement.

It took Smoke twenty minutes to cover the thirty yards to the guard. He came up behind him, put his hand over his mouth, and slit his throat with one quick slash of his Bowie knife.

He eased the man back and laid him flat on the ground, then he moved the knife blade in a semi-circle around the man's head. He hooked his fingers in the slit and gripped and pulled, yanking a bloody scalp off in one piece.

Smoke got no enjoyment from desecrating the dead man's body, but he wanted to sow seeds of doubt and fear into the men riding with him, and nothing did that quite like a bloody corpse, killed with no sounds.

Muskrat, at the same time, was doing exactly the same to the other guard at the opposite end of the camp, but he was enjoying it considerably more.

Louis, Cal, and Pearlie had been waiting for almost an hour by the time Smoke and Muskrat returned, hands bloody from their grisly task. Smoke was carrying a pot in one hand.

Cal took one look at their hands and made a face. “Did you have to do that, Smoke?” he asked.

Smoke gave him a serious look. “Cal, once you kill a man, it doesn't make any difference to him what you do to his body, it's just a piece of meat. If scalping those men makes a few of the outlaws think better of this journey and they take off, then we've saved some lives by what we did.”

Cal shook his head. “No matter what you call it, I don't think I could do it.”

Smoke put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “That's why I didn't ask you to do it, Cal.”

“Did you scalp your man too?” Pearlie asked Muskrat.

The old mountain man nodded, grinning. “Yeah, but that's not all I did.”

Smoke cut his eyes at the old man. “What else did you do?”

“I cut some chunks outta his arm an' leg, and made a couple of slashes over his liver, like I was takin' some home to eat.”

“Oh, no . . .” Cal said, covering his mouth.

“Aw, come on, pup. I ain't gonna eat it. I jest wanted some of the men back there to git the idea that somebody was.”

Smoke grinned. “Good move, Muskrat. Wish I'd thought to do the same.”

Louis shook his head with a low laugh. “I don't know about those fellows over there, Smoke, but you and Muskrat are sure scaring the hell out of me!”

Pearlie sniffed the air, looking pointedly at the pot Smoke was carrying. “Uh, do I smell grub?”

Smoke nodded. “Yeah. Since we can't build a fire, I stole some of their beans and fatback. It's still warm, so help yourselves.”

As Pearlie grabbed for the pot, Cal knocked his hand away. “Uh-uh, Pearlie. You go last. That way there's a chance the rest of us will get something to eat too.”

* * *

Slaughter rolled over, brushing a light coating of snow off his ground blanket and sleeping bag. Covering a wide yawn with his hand, he grabbed the coffee cup lying next to his saddle and began to move toward what was left of the campfire.

That's strange,
he thought, eyeing the mound of coals and embers that were almost died out.
The guards are supposed to keep the fire going through the night.

Sensing something was not right, he glanced at the sky. There was as yet no sign of dawn, so it was still very early. He bent over and felt the coffeepot sitting on the edge of the fire. It was barely warm. Now he knew something was seriously out of kilter. The one thing men on guard duty made sure of was hot coffee to keep them awake during the long, quiet nights.

Slaughter went back to his sleeping bag and pulled his Colt pistol from his holster. He eared back the hammer and moved quickly over to Whitey and Swede, who were sleeping next to each other.

He shook Whitey's shoulder. “Whitey, wake up,” he whispered. “Something's goin' on.”

Whitey came awake with a start, his hand automatically grabbing for his gun. “What . . . ?” he said sleepily.

“Get up, and wake Swede up too. I'm going to check on the guards,” Slaughter said as he moved away into the darkness.

Whitey and Swede got out of their blankets and followed Slaughter toward the guard posts.

Just as they caught up to him, they heard Slaughter gasp. “Jesus!” he said, stepping back, a match flaring in his hand.

By the light of the match, Swede and Whitey could see what was left of the guard. Bare white skull gleamed, reflecting the light, and chunks of both arms were missing and deep cuts had been made over the man's liver.

Swede bent to the side and vomited in the grass, his gasping heaves loud in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours.

“Shut up, you fool,” Slaughter whispered urgently.

“But . . . but that's Joe Lacy,” Swede said. “Him an' me used to be saddle partners.”

“He's just dead meat now,” Slaughter said. “You and Whitey drag him off into the bushes over there. I don't want any of the other men to see this.”

“But, Boss, it looks like somebody ate on him,” Swede said, dry heaving again.

Slaughter slapped him across the face, gently so as not to make too much noise. “Shut the hell up, I said. You got to get a hold on yourself, Swede, or you ain't gonna be any use to me.”

Swede sleeved off his face and nodded. “All right, Jim, I'll try.”

“Now, do like I said and get Joe's body out of sight. I'm gonna go take a look at the other guard. I have a feeling he's gonna be in a similar shape or we'd've heard something from him by now.”

“But, Boss, who could've done this?” Whitey asked, looking around at the darkness surrounding them, a worried expression on his face.

“The same ones who attacked us at the hole-in-the-wall an' the same ones who killed or ran off our guards yesterday,” Slaughter said. “Now get movin', we ain't got all night.”

As dawn began to lighten the sky, the men in the gang began to move out of their sleeping blankets and stand and stretch and make their way to the campfire. Slaughter had gotten it going again and had several large pots of coffee brewing and beans and bacon cooking in large cast-iron skillets.

“Gather around here, men,” he called. “I got some bad news for you.”

As the outlaws crowded near the fire, warming their hands and getting mugs of coffee, Slaughter stood in front of them. “It seems some of the men I hired to go to Colorado with us have turned yellow and deserted us during the night.”

The men began to mumble and talk to one another, but no one questioned Big Jim Slaughter to his face.

He held up both hands. “No need to worry, though. We pass through several towns on the way to our destination, and I'm sure I can hire suitable replacements for the yellow-bellies that took off.”

Whitey, at a nod from Slaughter, joined in. “Yeah, an' I'll bet they'll be better to have by our sides in a fight than the cowardly dogs that left.”

“How many of us are there left now?” Billy Bob Justice called from the rear of the crowd.

“We still have over twenty-five hands, all good men with a gun,” Slaughter answered. “And with the extras I'm gonna pick up along the way, we'll have plenty of men to do the job I have planned.”

“By the way, Mr. Slaughter,” called out Jimmy Silber, “just what is the job we're headed for?”

Slaughter smiled and shook his head. “You'll find out when we get there, Jimmy. Until then, you're all being paid damn good wages to go for a ride in the country, so enjoy it.”

“Damn good wages don't do much good if'n we don't live to spend 'em,” Jimmy muttered, turning his back and walking toward his horse.

Sensing he was losing some of the men, Slaughter held up his hands. “And just to make things interesting, there's gonna be a thousand-dollar bonus in it for every man who stays the course until we're done. That's in addition to the hundred-dollars-a-month wages,” he added.

Jimmy Silber slowed, thought about it for a minute, then walked back to the fire, holding out his cup for more coffee. “I can always use an extra thousand or so dollars,” he said with a grin.

Swede and Whitey accompanied Slaughter back to his sleeping blankets.

“How the hell are we gonna give ever'body an extra thousand, Boss?” Whitey asked. “That won't leave diddly for us.”

Slaughter grinned. “Just how many men do you think are gonna survive this little expedition, Whitey? You know with Monte waitin' for us, he's gonna be loaded for bear.”

He struck a lucifer on his pants and lit a cigarette. “I figure we're gonna lose two out of three of these men just getting our hands on the payroll, and as for the rest”—he shrugged—“they may not survive to get their share either.”

Whitey grinned. “I getcha, Boss.”

Slaughter nodded. “Yeah, once we get our hands on that money, I may just retire and settle down someplace. I may even give up the owl-hoot trail.”

Swede grinned. “That'll be the day.”

25

Smoke eased back on his hands and knees from the bushes he was lying behind, until he could get to his feet and return to his friends without being seen by Slaughter's men. He'd been watching the efficient way Slaughter dealt with the dead men he and Muskrat had left for him to find.

“What'd you hear, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.

Smoke shook his head, reluctant admiration on his face. “Slaughter is a smooth operator. He hid the guards' bodies, and told his men they deserted the gang. He didn't say anything about them being killed.”

“So all that was for nothin'?” Cal asked, remembering the sight of Smoke's and Muskrat's bloody hands.

Smoke shook his head. “Not for nothing, Cal. We cut the number of outlaws down by ten men, over a third of their strength. And more importantly, we showed Slaughter we can get to him any time we want to, which has got to be eating on him inside.” Smoke took a long drink from his canteen, wishing they were far enough away to build a fire so he could have some hot coffee.

Louis stepped over to Cal. “You don't realize how important that is, Cal. Once you break a man's confidence, make him know in his heart he is vulnerable, you are only a step away from breaking his spirit. And when a man's spirit is broken, it shows to those around him, making it tougher for him to be an effective leader.”

Muskrat nodded from where he sat on his haunches, and bit off a chaw of tobacco from the twist he always carried. “That's right, young'un. Men won't hardly foller nobody they don't have confidence in, 'specially if'n it means puttin' their butts in a wringer like a gunfight.”

Cal held up his hands. “All right, I understand,” he said with a grin.

Pearlie laughed. “Smoke, you know ol' Cal's like that mule we got back at Sugarloaf, the one we call Jezebel. Sometimes you have to hit her in the head with a two-by-four to git her attention, then she MIGHT do what you want her to.”

“Speakin' of gittin' somebody's attention, what do you plan to do now, Smoke?” Muskrat asked as he leaned over to spit a glob of brown juice at a ground squirrel nearby.

Smoke hesitated, looking back over his shoulder toward Slaughter's camp. “Well, I figure we're wasting our time here, and sooner or later we're going to make a mistake and I don't like the odds for a head-to-head fight with twenty hard cases.”

“Does that mean we're going to return to Big Rock?” Louis asked with a hopeful expression. He was getting awfully tired of cold food and missed Andre's kitchen magic back at his saloon.

Smoke nodded. “Yeah. Eventually. We need to get home and make sure Monte has the town ready for Slaughter and his men's attack.”

Louis looked at Smoke suspiciously. “I don't know as I particularly like that word ‘eventually.'”

Smoke grinned. “Well, I don't think we should leave without a little good-bye party first, do you?”

Pearlie slapped his thigh. “Hot damn! Now yo're talkin', Smoke. I'm sure gittin' tired of all this pussyfootin' around.”

Cal nodded his agreement. “Let's strike up the band and call the dance, Smoke. Those hombres'll never know what hit 'em.”

Smoke gave Cal a hard look. “You sure you're up to this, Cal? Your leg is going to take quite a beating if we ride into that camp with our six-guns blazing.”

Cal felt of his thigh. “It's a mite sore, I won't lie to you, Smoke. But it'll be all right, an' the wound's pretty near all healed up.”

“I thought you didn't like the odds of a head-to-head fight,” Louis said.

Smoke shook his head. “I don't plan on a siege, Louis. What I want to do is hit 'em hard, bust up and wound or kill as many as we can in one lightning strike, then hightail it toward Big Rock as fast as we can.”

“They'll come after us,” Louis cautioned.

“Sure, but it'll take them a while to get organized, and by then we'll be so far ahead of them they'll never catch us.”

“What 'bout me?” Muskrat asked.

Smoke looked at the old man. “Are you willing to continue to help us for another week or so?”

“I ain't never quit no job a'fore, young'un, an' I don't intend to now.”

Smoke grinned. “Then, what I need you to do is follow Slaughter's gang after our attack, but stay out of sight and don't do anything that might get you killed.”

Muskrat arched an eyebrow, as if the very thought that Slaughter and his men were good enough to kill him was an insult. “And jest what do you want me to do, 'sides foller them?”

“If we do this right, we're gonna kill another ten or so of his men, so he's going to have to hire more gun hawks in the towns between here and Big Rock. I need you to let us know just how many men we're going to be facing when he gets to Big Rock. You'll have to stay back out of sight and every time he leaves a town send me a wire telling me if he's managed to get any more men.”

“You think we'll have enough time to get ready, Smoke?” Pearlie asked.

“Sure. It's going to take Slaughter twice as long to make the trip with all those men, especially since they're going to want to spend a few nights in the towns along the way getting liquored up and whored up.”

Muskrat got to his feet, brushed the seat of his pants off, and stuck out his hand. “Then you best be on your way, little beaver,” he said to Smoke.

Smoke took his hand and gripped it hard. “Thanks for all you've done, Muskrat. We couldn't have done this without you.”

The mountain man nodded, a grin on his lips. “I know. But I been hankerin' to make a trip down Colorader way fer some years now. I figger it's 'bout time I looked ol' Bear Tooth up an' seen how he's doin'.”

Smoke turned to the others. “Let's saddle up and shag our mounts, boys. We're burning daylight.”

Louis, Cal, and Pearlie all pulled out their pistols and began to check their loads. Dawn was just breaking and they wanted to hit the outlaws' camp before the hard cases were up and functioning with clear heads.

As they got on their mounts, Muskrat said, “I'll give you boys a little coverin' fire from up here with my ol' Sharps. I ought'a be able to put lead in a couple of those bastards 'fore the fight's over.”

Smoke grinned and pulled his hat down low as he put the spurs to Joker, the reins in his teeth and both hands filled with iron.

* * *

Sally Jensen and Mary Carson strolled down the boardwalk of the main street of Big Rock, Colorado, watching the construction going on around town.

“I haven't seen this much activity since Smoke and I founded the town some years ago,” Sally said.

“That was during the Tilden Franklin affair, wasn't it?” Mary asked.

“Yes, about six months before you and Monte became engaged. He'd taken control of the town called No-Name, and we wanted decent folks to have a place to live and raise their children without having gunmen running the town.”
⁷

“Well, you've certainly succeeded.”

Sally glanced at her companion. “In a large part, that's due to Monte's influence, Mary. He manages to keep the riffraff out of town while letting men be men and not overly regulating their natural horseplay.”

Mary nodded. “Big Rock is a good town, Sally, and Monte is a good man. I'm so happy we have so many friends here that have pledged to help us in our fight with Jim Slaughter.”

Judge Proctor passed by the ladies on the boardwalk, tipping his hat in greeting.

“Good morning, ladies.”

“Good morning, Judge,” they both replied.

The portly man looked around at the men on nearby roofs, nailing up railings and walls with gun ports in them. “Looks like a fine day for construction,” he said.

Both ladies smiled. “Yes it does, Judge,” Sally replied.

As they were talking, the town preacher, Ralph Morrow, and his wife, Bountiful, approached.

Morrow tipped his hat to Sally and Mary, and Bountiful walked over to take Mary's hand. “Oh, Mary, I'm so glad you are all right after your ordeal.”

Mary smiled, winking at Sally. They both knew Bountiful. While she was a lovely young woman who cared deeply about her husband's congregation, she was inclined to be a bit theatrical at times.

“Oh, it wasn't so bad,” Mary replied. “Actually, Mr. Slaughter treated me quite well and made sure the other men did the same.”

Sally, while listening to Mary tell the men and Bountiful something of her journey with Jim Slaughter, noticed Ralph was wearing a gun tied down low on his hip. While he'd never actually been a gun hawk, Ralph was a tough man who knew his way around a six-killer and wasn't afraid to mix it up when duty or honor called for action.

“Ralph, I notice you're wearing a pistol,” Sally said.

“Yes, I am. And Bountiful and I have set up the church at the end of the street with cots and bedding and huge pots of soup and other food we're going to keep ready in case of a long siege. We intend to do our part to help protect Monte and Big Rock from the depredations of men like Big Jim Slaughter and his henchmen.”

Over Ralph's shoulder, Sally saw Johnny North and his wife, Belle, riding into town, a packhorse behind them with a suitcase strapped on it. North, an ex–gun slick, had married the Widow Colby after the Tilden Franklin affair, and lived about twenty miles outside of Big Rock on a ranch next to the Sugarloaf. Evidently a lot of people who liked and admired Monte Carson were coming into town to stay until the fight was over.

“Hello, Johnny, Belle,” Sally called, waving to the Norths as they rode by.

“Mornin', Sally,” Johnny replied, a grin on his face. “Good day for a gunfight, ain't it?”

Sally nodded, her right hand unconsciously falling to check the short-barreled .32-caliber pistol she was wearing in a holster on her right hip. The people of Big Rock were used to seeing Mrs. Jensen wearing men's trousers and a tucked-in shirt with a pistol on a belt around her waist. Sally was very practical in her dress and didn't give a hang what the conventions said about what young ladies of refinement should wear. If she was going to ride a horse or engage in gunplay, she believed in dressing accordingly, and to hell with what anyone thought about it.

Sally and Mary said good-bye to the judge and the Morrows and continued their walk. When they came to the general store they had to step out into the street to avoid the crowd of men and women going in and out.

Peg Jackson, the owner's wife, was behind the counter, a curl of hair down over her forehead as she worked to get people's orders ready. Ed, her husband, was busy nailing boards across the big front window of his store. He stopped to tip his hat to Sally and Mary.

“Hello, Ed,” Sally said.

“Howdy, Sally, Mary,” he replied, sleeving sweat off his face.

“Business looks like it's booming,” Sally said.

He smiled. “Yes, it is. However, in view of the nature of this . . . emergency, I'm selling ammunition and building supplies at my cost.” He shook his head. “I wouldn't want to profit off the Carsons' troubles.”

“That's awfully nice of you, Ed,” Mary said.

“Heck,” he answered, blushing, “it ain't nothin'. Everybody's pitchin' in. That's what friends are for.”

They were interrupted by the approach of Haywood Arden, the editor of the
Big Rock Guardian,
the town newspaper. He was gray-haired with ink stains on both hands, and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a plaid vest.

“Mary, do you have time for a quick interview?” he asked.

“Why, what do you need to know, Haywood?” she asked.

He pulled out a pad and pencil. “I know the leader of the gang is Jim Slaughter, but I don't know the names of any of his cohorts.”

Sally put her hand on Mary's shoulder. “I can see you're going to be busy for a while, so I'll just go on up to Monte's office and see how the preparations for the attack are going.”

Mary nodded as she turned back to Haywood. “There was this albino named Whitey Jones, and this very tall man called Swede Johanson . . .”

Sally walked to the sheriff's office and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Monte called.

She entered to find him leaning over his desk, staring at a sketch of the town.

“Oh, hello, Sally.”

“Hello, Monte. I just came by to see how you're doing with the fortification of the town.”

“Here,” he said, “let me show you.”

She stepped to the desk and watched as he pointed out where the citizens of the town were building blockades and fortifications in preparation for Slaughter's attack.

When he finished, he stood back. “So you can see, Sally, once the outlaws come into town, the blockades will funnel them down to the center of Main Street.”

She glanced again at the drawing. “Where you have both sides of the street covered by men on rooftops and in buildings along the way.”

He nodded. “That's right. We'll have maximum firepower and minimum chance of any citizens getting shot.”

Suddenly, his face fell and he leaned forward, both hands on his desk.

“What is it, Monte?” Sally asked, sensing his discomfort.

He shook his head. “I just don't feel right, letting the town get in the middle of my problems,” he said. “There's bound to be someone that takes lead 'cause of me and what I did years ago. It just isn't right.”

Sally smiled. “This is our town, Monte, and you are our sheriff and our friend. There is not one person in Big Rock who, even if they know they are going to be shot, will not stand next to you in your time of need. Like Ed Jackson said to Mary a while ago, that's what friends are for.”