Heart of the Mountain Man (20 page)

28

Jim Slaughter lay in bed next to the whore he'd bought for the night and listened to her snore softly. Finally, unable to sleep, he sat up in bed, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and lit a cigarette.

He leaned back against the headboard, smoking and drinking and thinking about Monte Carson. He realized he should have known there was something not quite right about the man the day they'd robbed the Army payroll, years ago . . .

* * *

Jim Slaughter sat on his dun stud in the early morning hour, hoping the fog that was just lessening with the coming of dawn wouldn't mess up his plans.

He had ten men with him, some still wearing remnants of the gray uniforms of the Confederacy and some wearing the blue of the Union. His gang wasn't made up of men who had any political ideals. Most were men who had been on the owl-hoot trail long before the North and South decided to settle their differences on the battlefield.

He pulled out a battered gold pocket watch and checked the time. The special train carrying the Army payroll was scheduled to be in Fort Smith, Arkansas, at ten in the morning. It was now half past eight, so it should be along any minute now. He didn't like planning the robbery so close to the fort, but it was the only suitable location for miles, so he'd have to chance having the fort send out a posse after them. Of course, if there were no guards from the train left to spread an alarm, he didn't have much to fear from any pursuit.

He grabbed his binoculars and looked down the sloping hillside at the twisted, blackened metal of the tracks where they'd dynamited them just before dawn. The section was at the end of a sharp curve in the tracks, and should be invisible to the engineer of the train until it was too late to stop the speeding locomotive.

His informant at Fort Smith had said this payroll, meant for the troops stationed at nearby forts guarding the Indian Nations, should total forty or fifty thousand dollars. The information had cost Slaughter fifty dollars, but was well worth it if true. The informant, a sergeant in the supply division, had also said there would be no more than eight guards on the train.

Slaughter glanced over his shoulder at the men sitting in their saddles, waiting his command. They were all experienced gunmen, some who hired out to various ranches involved in range wars, some stagecoach robbers, and a couple who'd had experience robbing trains in the past. It was a mixed bunch, men he'd hired with the promise of a big score and lots of money to split up afterward.

He looked to the east and could just make out through the morning mist what looked like smoke from an engine over the horizon.

“Get ready, men,” he called. “Load 'em up six and six an' don't worry none if some blue-belly gets in front of one of your bullets. We're gonna get that payroll no matter how many guards they have guarding it. In fact, I wouldn't be too concerned if none of the guards live through the robbery.”

One of his men eased a flea-bitten gray horse up next to Slaughter. “You didn't say nothin' about killing a bunch of guards when you talked about this,” the man said.

“What's your name again?” Slaughter asked.

“Monte. Monte Carson,” the man replied, his eyes meeting Slaughter's directly. The outlaw sensed there was no backing down in this man.

“What did you expect, Carson? You think we were gonna ride down there to that train and hold out our hands and them guards were gonna just hand over the Army's money without a fight?”

Carson hesitated. “No, but I figured if we got the drop on 'em there wouldn't be no need of killin' 'em.”

Slaughter turned back to his binoculars. “You let me worry about leadin' this here gang, Carson. You just fill your hands with iron and follow me, all right?”

Carson nodded and reined his horse back to the rear of the group of men, a worried look on his face.

Minutes later, a steam locomotive pulling a passenger car, boxcar, and caboose pulled into view. Slaughter pulled his bandanna up over his nose and motioned for his men to get ready. The dance was about to begin.

The train raced around the curve in the tracks, steam and smoke pouring from its smokestack as if the engineer was intent on making up lost time.
Hell,
Slaughter thought,
he must be doing twenty-five miles an hour!

Suddenly the engineer must have seen the ruptured tracks, for the screech of metal on metal as he applied full brakes could be heard even from where Slaughter and his men sat.

“Shag your mounts, boys,” Slaughter cried, holding his reins in his left hand and a Colt Army .44 in his right as he put the spurs to his horse and galloped toward the slowing train.

The engine was still speeding when it hit the torn tracks, veered sharply to the left, and tipped over. It plowed up thirty feet of Arkansas soil before it finally stopped with the engineer's and fireman's bodies hanging unconscious in the broken and twisted engine compartment.

The passenger car just behind the engine was also on its side with several bodies strewn along the furrow in the dirt where it'd been dragged. Four or five men dressed in Army blue were staggering from the wreckage, wobbly on their legs as they tried to figure out what had happened.

Slaughter's men rode down on them, guns blazing. The soldiers quickly scattered and took cover behind the wrecked car. A man in the boxcar eased open the door, poked the barrel of a rifle out, and began to return the outlaws' fire.

One of Slaughter's men went down hard, a bullet having torn his throat out. His name was Johnny Rodriguez and he was from somewhere in Mexico. He'd been real proud of the long handlebar mustache that was now soaked in blood.

As bullets from Slaughter's men peppered the wall of the boxcar, the man inside pulled the door shut with a clang. Two of the soldiers behind the passenger car fell backward, wounded by gunfire, while another of Slaughter's men tumbled from his horse to be trampled by the men racing behind him. His broken, twisted body was thrown around like a child's rag doll before it came to rest in the dirt.

As the gang separated and rode around the train, circling behind the defending soldiers, the men realized their position was hopeless and they threw down their guns, raising their hands in the air.

Slaughter reined in his horse in front of them. “Keep them hands reachin' for the sky, boys,” he called, motioning for one of his men to keep the soldiers covered.

He took his remaining eight men and stood in front of the boxcar containing the payroll.

“Open up that door and come out with your hands up an' you won't be hurt,” he yelled.

“You go to hell!” a muffled voice from inside the car yelled back.

Slaughter went to his saddlebags and took out four sticks of dynamite tied together with string. He walked to the boxcar and placed the dynamite on the ground underneath the door. Pulling out a long black cigar, he struck a lucifer on his pants leg, lit the stogie, then lit the fuse to the dynamite.

“Get back, boys,” he called, running from the car.

Seconds later, the boxcar, which had remained upright after the wreck, was lifted off its wheels as the dynamite exploded and blew wooden boards and framework all to hell.

After the smoke cleared, Slaughter could see the car lying on its side, a strongbox among the wreckage lying next to the wounded guard, who was covered with soot and grime. He was holding his shattered right arm and glaring at the outlaws. His rifle lay nearby but was out of his reach.

Slaughter grinned at his men, pulled his Colt from its holster, and climbed up into what was left of the boxcar.

“I told you to come out,” he said.

“You'll pay for this,” the man said. “The Army will track you down and you'll spend the rest of your lives in the Yuma prison.”

“I don't think so,” Slaughter said calmly, and pointed his pistol at the man and shot him between the eyes, blowing the back of his head off and sending blood and brains all over the strongbox lying next to him.

“Goddammit! You didn't have to do that!” yelled the man who'd called himself Monte Carson.

Slaughter looked over his shoulder, smiled, and said, “I know I didn't HAVE to. I wanted to.”

He bent, picked up the box, and heaved it off the car to the ground in front of his men. “Get that lock off and let's see what we have, boys,” he called.

Carson, who was nearest to the box, jumped down off his horse and grabbed the box. He pulled out his pistol and shot the lock off, opening the top of the box.

He pulled several canvas bags out and laid them on the ground. Using a knife, he slit the top of one of the sacks and held it up to view. It was filled to the brim with fresh, new greenbacks.

The men nearby all cheered and shot their guns in the air when they saw how much money was in the bags.

“Gather up those bags,” Slaughter said as he climbed down from the car. “We still got some work to do.”

He walked around the passenger car toward the soldiers who were still standing with their hands in the air.

“All right, boys, get on your knees and face the car,” he said, drawing his pistol.

The soldiers looked at him with fear-widened eyes as they kneeled and faced away from him.

He stepped behind the men, eared back the hammer of his pistol, and pointed it at the back of their heads.

“Hold on,” called Monte Carson. “There ain't no need of that.”

Slaughter glanced over his shoulder. “I told you once, we ain't gonna leave no witnesses.”

Carson drew his pistol in a lightning-quick move and pointed it at Slaughter. “And I told you, we ain't gonna kill no defenseless men.”

Slaughter's face paled as he looked down the barrel of Carson's gun. “Listen, Carson. If we leave these men behind, they'll warn the Army post at Fort Smith an' we'll have a platoon of soldiers on our trail 'fore we can git away.”

“How they gonna warn 'em? Fly?” Carson asked, still holding his pistol pointed at Slaughter. “It's more'n fifteen miles to the fort. By the time these soldiers walk that far, we'll be in the next county, an' they ain't none of 'em seen our faces.”

Slaughter hesitated, then shrugged. “What the hell? I guess you're right.” He holstered his sidearm and walked to his horse. “Stick that money in your saddlebags and let's burn dust an' get outta here,” he said, relieved when Carson put his gun away and began to stuff the canvas sacks in his saddlebags.

* * *

They'd been riding hard for twelve hours when one of the men shouted, “Hey, look behind us!”

As the gang reined to a halt, they could see trail dust rising from a patrol of Army men less than five miles behind them.

“How the hell did they get on our trail so fast?” one of the gang asked.

“One of them soldiers must've rounded up Rodriguez's or Benning's hoss,” another of the bandits replied, referring to the men who'd been killed in the battle. “He must've near rode him to death to get to the fort that fast.”

“Now look what you've done,” Slaughter growled at Carson. “You might've killed us all by lettin' those men go. I ought'a shoot you down right here.”

Carson turned his eyes on Slaughter and let his hand fall to hang next to his pistol. “You're welcome to try, Slaughter. Any time.”

Slaughter got a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looked into Carson's eyes, and he remembered how quick he'd been on the draw back at the train tracks.

“Well, it can't be helped now,” Slaughter said sullenly. “We gotta split up. Ever'body scatter, an' we'll meet in two weeks down in Del Rio.”

“What about the money?” an albino named Whitey asked.

Slaughter thought a moment, then said, “There's no time to split it up now. That posse's gonna be on us like ticks on a dog 'fore long. Carson, you keep the money with you an' we'll divide it up in Del Rio, then head down into Mexico.”

As a couple of men started to protest, distant gunshots could be heard as the Army patrol got closer, ending the argument and causing the men to spur their horses in different directions to get away from the patrol.

* * *

Slaughter took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed the butt out angrily.
Yeah,
he thought,
I should'a known a do-gooder like Carson wasn't to be trusted with the money.

He drained his whiskey, turned to the whore, and slapped her on the butt. “Wake up,” he snarled, “I ain't payin' you to sleep.”

29

Smoke glanced around at the changes to Big Rock since his last visit there as the group rode into town. They'd been greeted several miles from town by the sentry team stationed there, and he was glad the citizens of Big Rock were taking the threat posed by Slaughter seriously.

As they traveled down Main Street, he could see new construction on many of the rooftops, small wooden walls with gun ports built in, behind which men could kneel and have a clear field of fire to the street below. When he looked down the side streets they passed, he could see barricades at the end of the streets, constructed so men on horses couldn't pass. Windows of many of the storefronts were boarded up to protect the expensive glass panes that had had to be brought in from Denver by wagon.

“Wonder where ever'body is,” Cal said, looking around at the almost deserted streets.

“Inside, I suspect,” Louis said, “watching us pass by. It seems the town is exceptionally well prepared for the upcoming onslaught by Slaughter and his minions.”

Pearlie glanced at Louis. “I wish you'd speak English, Louis. That way a body could understand what you're sayin'.”

Louis's suspicions were confirmed when several men, some holding Winchesters and others shotguns, stepped from doorways to wave and shout hello to the returning heroes.

“Golly, they're treatin' us like we did somethin' special,” Cal observed.

“You did, Cal,” Smoke said, smiling and nodding at the townspeople. “You went out of your way and put yourself at some risk to help out a friend, all with no expectation of reward.” He glanced back over his shoulder at his young friend. “There aren't many people who'd do something like that, and that's why the citizens are treating you special.”

“Hell, it weren't all that much,” Pearlie said.

Louis looked at Smoke and grinned. Both knew it was indeed a brave and noble thing to do and that not many men had such friends as Monte Carson and his wife, Mary, had.

As they drew abreast of the sheriff's office, Monte walked out the door, a wide grin on his face and a long-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms.

“Damn, but it's good to see you made it back safe and sound,” he said. “Come on over to Louis's place an' I'll treat you all to some lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” Pearlie said before anyone else could speak, and he spurred his horse into a canter toward Louis's saloon and restaurant down the street, leaving the others to eat his dust.

Smoke laughed. “Monte, you should know how dangerous it is to mention food to Pearlie when he's astride a horse. You're liable to get run over in the rush to the table.”

They all gathered around a table in Louis's place and watched as Louis had an emotional greeting from his employees, especially his chef Andre, who actually wept with joy at seeing his old friend and boss back safely.

“Andre, cook us up some steaks, fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes and peaches, and some of your special coffee,” Louis requested. “It's been so long since we had a hot meal I can hardly remember what good food tastes like.”

“Uh, Andre,” Pearlie said, “could I have some sarsaparilla instead of coffee? My mouth's been waterin' all mornin' just thinkin' 'bout gittin' some more of that stuff.”

Andre nodded. “For you, Monsieur Pearlie, anything you want for bringing my friend back alive.”

Once they had coffee in front of them, Smoke asked Monte about the preparations he'd made for Slaughter's raid.

The sheriff put a match to his pipe, took a sip of coffee, and began to talk. “We've fortified most of the buildings, both on the roofs and the doors. Double-backed the doors with two inches of wood to stop any bullets from penetratin' and covered most of the windows where people are gonna be stationed.”

“I noticed you've barricaded some of the side streets but not Main Street,” Louis said.

Monte nodded, smiling. “That was Sally's idea. The entire town is now a giant trap. The outlaws can get in on the main street, but once they're in town they're gonna play hell gettin' out again.”

“But,” Cal said with a puzzled look on his face, “what's to keep 'em from jest turnin' around and headin' back the way they came?”

Monte grinned. “We've got a couple of wagons loaded high with hay and boards in a circle in their beds. Once those bastards get past the city limits, I have some men ready to station the wagons blocking the street, and then they're gonna crawl up into the hay and defend the entrance just in case Slaughter's men try to get back out that way.”

“So, the entire town will be like a giant mousetrap,” Pearlie said. “The rats can get in, but they cain't get out again.”

“You got it, Pearlie,” Monte said, grinning around the stem of his pipe, sending blue clouds of foul-smelling smoke toward the ceiling.

“How about the citizens?” Smoke asked. “Are they all behind us?”

Monte nodded. “To a man. And that really surprised me. Even some of the men I've had to arrest on more than one occasion are standing firm with us.”

Louis smiled and shook his head. “It does not surprise me, my friend. The people of this town know you're the best sheriff we could ever hope to have, and the men you've incarcerated know it as well. I don't believe you realized just how many friends you have in Big Rock, Monte.”

Monte nodded. “You're certainly right there, Louis. Mary and I both thank our lucky stars we decided to settle here.”

Just then, Andre appeared with two kitchen helpers following behind him bearing platters heaped high with delicious-smelling food for the hungry men.

Pearlie reached down and fiddled with his belt.

“What are you doin', Pearlie?” Cal asked.

Pearlie looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Why, I'm loosenin' my belt to make room for all that food. If the sheriff is buyin', then I plan to eat my fill.”

Smoke laughed. “That I've got to see. I've never known you to quit eating because you're full, Pearlie. It's always been because you ran out of food.”

Louis glanced at Monte. “If the look on Pearlie's face is any indication, Monte, you may have to get an advance on your paycheck to pay for his meal.”

After they'd finished eating, Smoke and Cal and Pearlie headed out toward the Sugarloaf. As he passed the general store, Smoke saw Preacher Morrow and his wife, Bountiful, talking to Haywood and Dana Arden. Just as Smoke drew abreast of the foursome, they were joined by Ed and Peg Jackson, the proprietors of the store. When they saw him, the group all waved and shouted hello.

Seeing them together reminded Smoke of the time they'd all arrived from back East, hoping to make a life out West. They were the greenest pilgrims he'd ever seen, and before the day was out, he'd had to save their bacon . . .

* * *

Ever since gold had been discovered in the area, wagons had rolled and rumbled, bringing their human cargo toward No-Name Town. The line of wagons and buggies and riders and walkers was now several miles long. Gamblers and would-be shopkeepers and whores and gunfighters and snake-oil salesmen and pimps and troublemakers and murderers and good solid family people . . . all of them heading for No-Name with but one thought in their minds. Gold.

At the end of the line of gold-seekers, not a part of them but yet with the same destination if not sharing the same motives, came the pilgrims on a half-dozen wagons. Ed Jackson was new to the raw West—a shopkeeper from Illinois with his wife, Peg. They were both young and very idealistic, and had no working knowledge of the real West. They were looking for a place to settle. This No-Name Town sounded good to them. Ed's brother Paul drove the heavily laden supply wagon, containing part of what they just knew would make them respected and secure citizens. Paul was as naive as his brother and sister-in-law concerning the West.

In the third wagon came Ralph Morrow and his wife, Bountiful. They were missionaries, sent into the godless West by their church, to save souls and soothe the sinful spirits of those who had not yet accepted Christ into their lives. They had been looking for a place to settle when they hooked up with Ed and Peg and Paul. This was the first time Ralph and Bountiful had been west of eastern Ohio. It was exciting. A challenge.

They thought.

In the fourth wagon rode another young couple, married only a few years. Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt was a lawyer, looking for a place to practice all he'd just been taught back East. This new gold rush town seemed just the place to start.

In the fifth wagon rode Cotton and Mona Spalding. A doctor and nurse, respectively. They had both graduated only last year, mulled matters over, and decided to head West. They were young and handsome and pretty. And like the others in their little caravan, they had absolutely no idea what they were riding into.

In the last wagon, a huge, solidly built vehicle with six mules pulling it, came Haywood and Dana Arden. Like the others, they were young and full of grand ideas. Haywood had inherited a failing newspaper from his father back in Pennsylvania and decided to pull out and head West to seek their fortune.

“Oh, Haywood!” Dana said, her eyes shining with excitement. “It's all so wonderful.”

“Yes,” Haywood agreed, just as the right rear wheel of their wagon fell off.

* * *

Smoke was up long before dawn spread her shimmering rays of light over the land. He slipped out of his blankets and put his hat on, then pulled on his boots and strapped on his guns. He checked to see how Horse was doing, then washed his face with water from his canteen. He built a small, hand-sized fire and boiled coffee. He munched on a thick piece of bread and sipped his coffee, sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes taking in the first silver streaks of a new day in the high-up country of Colorado.

He had spotted a fire down below him, near the winding road. A very large fire. Much too large unless those who built it were roasting an entire deer—head, horns, and all. He finished the small, blackened pot of coffee, carefully doused his fire, and saddled Horse, stowing his gear in the saddlebags.

He swung into the saddle, and made his way slowly and quietly down from the high terrain toward the road miles away using the twisting, winding trails. Smoke uncased his U.S. Army binoculars and studied the situation.

Five, no—six wagons. One of them down with a busted back wheel. Six men, five women. All young, in their early twenties, Smoke guessed. The women were all very pretty, the men all handsome and apparently—at least to Smoke—helpless.

He used his knees to signal Horse, and the animal moved out, taking its head, picking the route. Stopping after a few hundred twisting yards, Smoke once more surveyed the situation. His binoculars picked up movement coming from the direction of No-Name. Four riders. He studied the men, watching them approach the wagons. Drifters, from the look of them. Probably spent the night in No-Name gambling and whoring and were heading out to stake a gold claim. They looked like trouble.

Staying in the deep and lush timber, Smoke edged closer still. Several hundred yards from the wagon, Smoke halted and held back, wanting to see how these pilgrims would handle the approach of the riders.

He could not hear all that was said, but he could get most of it from his hidden location.

He had pegged the riders accurately. They were trouble. They reined up and sat their horses, grinning at the men and women. Especially the women.

“You folks look like you got a mite of trouble,” one rider said.

“A bit,” a friendly-looking man responded. “We're just getting ready to fulcrum the wagon.”

“You're gonna do
what
to it?” another rider blurted.

“Raise it up,” a pilgrim said.

“Oh. You folks headin' to Fontana?”

The wagon people looked at each other.

Fontana!
Smoke thought.
Where in the hell is Fontana?

“I'm sorry,” one of the women said. “We're not familiar with that place.”

“That's what they just named the town up yonder,” a rider said, jerking his thumb in the direction of No-Name. “Stuck up a big sign last night.”

So No-Name has a name,
Smoke thought.
Wonder whose idea that was.

But he thought he knew. Tilden Franklin.

Smoke looked at the women of the wagons. They were, to a woman, all very pretty and built up nice. Very shapely. The men with them didn't look like much to Smoke; but then, he thought, they were easterners. Probably good men back there. But out here, they were out of their element.

And Smoke didn't much like the look in the eyes of the riders. One kept glancing up and down the road. As yet, no traffic had appeared. But Smoke knew the stream of gold-hunters would soon appear. If the drifters were going to start something—the women being what they wanted, he was sure—they would make their move pretty quick.

At some unspoken signal, the riders dismounted.

“Oh, say!” the weakest-jawed pilgrim said. “It's good of you men to help.”

“Huh?” a rider said, then grinned. “Oh, yeah. We're regular do-gooders. You folks nesters?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Farmers.” He ended that, and summed up his feelings concerning farmers by spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the ground, just missing the pilgrim's feet.

The pilgrim laughed and said, “Oh, no. My name is Ed Jackson, this is my wife, Peg. We plan to open a store in the gold town.”

“Ain't that nice?” the rider mumbled.

Smoke kneed Horse a bit closer.

“My name is Ralph Morrow,” another pilgrim said. “I'm a minister. This is my wife, Bountiful. We plan to start a church in the gold town.”