Heart of the Mountain Man (6 page)

8

Big Jim Slaughter sat at a table in the main room of a cabin and watched Mary Carson work in the kitchen. She was rolling dough into a long tube, fixing to bake a loaf of bread in the oven.

The cabin was one of five situated in a box canyon in the mountains just north of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. They were rough, had been made of weathered pine logs many years before, and had been used by hundreds of outlaws who'd holed up there while waiting for the law to tire of hunting for them.

There was only one road into the canyon, though there were several steep trails that could be used as exits in the event of a raid by lawmen or the Army. The trails were rough and winding and, though passable by men riding in single file, were too steep and narrow to be suitable for a force of men to use as an attack. Because of the remoteness of the area, and the many narrow passes that were heavily guarded, no one had ever attempted to roust the men hiding there, which made it an ideal place for what Slaughter had in mind.

Slaughter tipped his hat back on his head and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. He took a deep drink of the coffee Mary'd made and smacked his lips.

“I sure do appreciate you cooking for us, Mrs. Carson. It's the first time we've had any food worth eating in over six months.”

Mary spoke without turning around. “I don't mind. Keeping busy keeps my mind off . . . other things. I'd rather be doing this than sitting and worrying about Monte and what's going to happen when he finds you.”

Slaughter smirked as he took a cloth bag out of his pocket and began to build himself a cigarette. “You worried that maybe he'll get himself killed?”

She turned and leaned back against the counter, dusting flour off her hands on the apron around her waist. She shook her head. “No, not really. Monte's been a sheriff for some time now, and I know that every day there is the chance some drunken cowboy or thief will shoot him.” Her lips curled in a small smile. “It goes with being married to an officer of the law.”

Slaughter's face puckered in puzzlement as he struck a lucifer on his pants leg. “Then what are you fretting about?”

Mary's eyes bored into his, making the back of his neck tingle, as if he were being watched by a rattlesnake. “I'm worried about how he's going to feel after he kills you and your men. Monte's never liked having to kill . . . it upsets him for weeks after wards.”

Slaughter choked on a lungful of smoke as he reared his head back and laughed and coughed. When he could get his breath, he asked, “You mean you're afraid he might lose some sleep if he manages to put some lead in me?”

“That's right,” she answered. “He's not like you, Mr. Slaughter. Killing goes against his nature, though I'm told he's right good at it when he needs be.”

Slaughter nodded his head. “Well, let me assure you, Mrs. Carson. If Monte does manage to plant me six feet under, he sure as hell won't lose any sleep over it. Matter of fact, he's liable to dance a jig on my grave.”

He stabbed out his butt on the sole of his boot and dropped it in an empty can on the table that had once held tinned peaches. “But personally,” he said, looking back up at her, “I don't think Monte is that good with a gun.”

Mary stared at him with sad eyes, making him wonder just what was going through her mind. “Perhaps you've underestimated my husband, Mr. Slaughter. Have you heard back from the three men you sent to tell him what you wanted?”

The itch returned to the back of Slaughter's neck when she reminded him of the strange absence of Boots Malone, Blackie Johnson, and Slim Watkins. They'd had plenty of time to deliver his message to Monte Carson and make their way back to the hole-in-the-wall. If they didn't show up in the next couple of days, or if he didn't hear from Max or the other two he'd sent to find out what had happened to Blackie and the others, he'd have to ride into Jackson Hole and see if there was a telegraph message for him. Slaughter had been planning this operation for several years now, and he didn't much like being in the dark and not knowing how his plan was progressing.

“I'm sure they'll show up eventually, Mrs. Carson,” he answered her, though his voice was less sure now.

She gave him a slight smile, her eyes still sad. “If those men told Monte that you'd taken me, then they're probably dead, or in jail.” She turned and began kneading the bread dough. “And I wouldn't go making plans on how you're going to spend that money you want from Monte, because there's not a chance in Hell you're going to live to see a single dollar of it.”

Slaughter gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and stood up from the table. He wasn't going to let this woman and her faith in her husband's ability get to him. He turned and walked out the door without another word.

Mary glanced at his back as he left, smiling to herself. She knew Monte was coming for her and that they would be together again soon.

* * *

Smoke refilled his coffee cup and sat back after telling Monte and Sally about what had happened at Longmont's.

Monte was healing fast and was already up and walking around the cabin, anxious to get moving toward Wyoming.

Sally glanced at him with worried eyes. “I really don't think you're ready to make that long a journey on horseback, Monte.”

He took the bowl of beef soup she'd fixed him in both hands and drank the last of the juice. “There's no other way, Sally. Every day we wait puts Mary in that much more danger. There's no telling what those bast . . . uh, galoots are doing to her.”

Smoke put his hand on Monte's shoulder. “Calm down, Monte. I don't think Slaughter will let any harm come to Mary until he's gotten his hands on the money. He's going to know you won't turn it over to him until you're sure Mary is still alive.”

Sally nodded. “Smoke's right, Monte. From what you say, Slaughter is no fool, and he knows you're not the kind of man to give in unless he has Mary to hold over your head. I'm sure she is being treated well.”

Monte stood up, grimacing at the pain the movement caused him. “Nevertheless, I can't just sit around here while she's in the hands of those outlaws.” He looked at Smoke. “It's gonna take us more'n a week to get to Wyoming, longer if we have any early winter storms. By then, I'll be fit as a fiddle and ready to call the dance with Slaughter.”

Smoke shrugged. “If that's the way you want it, Monte.” He stood up. “I'll have Pearlie and Cal start packing our gear and getting some horses from the remuda for the trip. I figure we'll make better time if we each take a spare to ride when our mounts get tired.”

Sally shook her head. “If you men insist on this foolishness, I'll pack enough food for the trip so you won't have to live on beans and fatback.” She pointed her finger at Monte. “You're going to need steak if you want those wounds to heal without getting infected.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma'am. I ain't never turned down none of your cooking, Sally, an' I ain't about to start now.”

The sound of horses' hooves outside the cabin interrupted their talk. Smoke stepped to the window and pulled the curtains aside.

He looked back over his shoulder with a grin on his face. “Louis Longmont's riding up, and he's wearing his winter coat and pulling a packhorse. Looks like he wants to ante up in this game.”

Monte smiled. “Good. Louis is the best man with a gun I know, next to you, Smoke, and if those bastards are holed up in the mountains, we're gonna need all the firepower we can muster to blast 'em out.”

* * *

Tired of waiting for his men to return, Slaughter decided to ride into Jackson Hole to see if any telegrams had arrived for him. He left Mary in the care of Juanita Sanchez, common-law wife of one of the
bandidos
who lived full time in the hole-in-the-wall. He told her that if anything happened to Mary in his absence, he would personally slit her throat.

“You no need worry, Señor Slaughter,” she told him, patting the Army Colt in a holster on her hip. “Any
bastardo
try to touch the
gringa
going to have a beeg hole in his gullet.”

Slaughter took two of his top guns with him, Whitey Jones and Swede Johanson. Whitey, an albino with silver hair and snow-white skin and pink eyes, was a stone killer who favored a short-barreled ten-gauge Greener shotgun he wore in a cut-down holster on his right hip. Swede Johanson was a six-foot-six-inch giant of a man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a sweet-looking face that belied the fact that he had killed over twenty men, most of whom he'd beaten to death with his ham-sized fists. He wasn't quick on the draw, but he seldom missed once he cleared leather.

The three men tied their horses up outside the Cattleman's Bar, a misnomer since the only patrons were outlaws and footpads and other miscreants who rode the owl-hoot trail. There wasn't an honest rancher within twenty miles of Jackson Hole.

As they stepped to the bar, Slaughter stood next to an old man in buckskins and a beaver-skin cap who was leaning on his elbows watching the bartender fill a jug with whiskey.

Slaughter wrinkled his nose and glanced at the old mountain man. “Whew, what's that stink? Don't you ever bathe, old-timer?”

The man cut his eyes toward Slaughter and his companions and grinned. “Shore, sonny. I takes me a bathing ever' spring and ever' summer. I figger twice't a year is plenty. Any more'n that an' ya tend to git the fever.”

“You want me to run this stink-pot outta here, Boss?” Whitey asked, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

Before Slaughter could answer, the mountain man jerked a twelve-inch Bowie knife from a scabbard on his belt and had the point of the blade under Whitey's chin, forcing his head up.

As a trickle of blood ran down the albino's neck, the mountain man said, “Now, fellers, I didn't come in here lookin' fer no trouble, but if'n trouble is what yo're hankerin' fer, then I'll be glad to oblige ya.”

Slaughter laughed, liking the old man's guts. “No . . . no, old-timer,” he said, holding his hands out. “We don't want any trouble. Go right ahead and finish getting your. . . supplies.”

“Thank yee kindly, mister,” the mountain man said with some irony, as if he didn't need Slaughter's permission to do anything he wanted to do.

He holstered his knife and winked at Whitey. “Sorry 'bout that nick, feller, but if'n you reach fer that six-killer again, I'll skin you like a beaver 'fore you can blink.”

He took his jug from the bartender and picked up off the bar a Sharps .50-caliber rifle that was almost as long as he was tall.

He nodded at Slaughter and backed out the door, his finger on the trigger of the rifle. “See you gents later,” he said, showing yellow stubs of teeth in a wide grin.

Whitey grimaced. “Why didn't you let me drill that sucker, Boss?”

Slaughter smiled, turning back to the bar. “You don't appreciate history, Whitey. That man there is one of the last of a dying breed. Another couple of years and there won't be any mountain men left.”

Swede slapped his hand on the bar. “How about some whiskey, barkeep? My friend here needs something to calm his nerves.”

Whitey took a step toward Swede, his eyes glittering hate, but Slaughter stopped him with a look. “Whitey, why don't you go on over to the telegraph office and see if there's any messages for me? I'll order us some food while you're gone.”

“Yes, sir,” Whitey said, glaring at Swede as if he could kill him.

By the time Whitey returned, Slaughter and Swede were digging into steaks that looked as if they'd been burned to a crisp. “Damn,” Slaughter said as he tried to chew the tough meat, “this is making me appreciate Mrs. Carson's cooking more and more.”

Swede nodded. “Yeah, maybe we shouldn't kill her after we get Carson's money. We can keep her around for the winter to keep us warm on cold nights.”

Slaughter gave him a flat look. “Swede, Mrs. Carson is a lady and I don't want to hear any more talk like that. It's not her fault she married the wrong man.”

“You're not gettin' soft on us, are you, Boss?” he asked, a funny look in his eyes.

Slaughter glared at him. “Anytime you think that, Swede, just give me a try and you'll find out how soft I'm gettin'.”

Whitey sat at the table, glancing at the two men as if wondering what he'd interrupted. “Here's a telegram for you, Boss. It's from Max.”

Slaughter took the paper and opened it up. As he read, his brow furrowed. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“What's it say, Jim?” Swede asked, evidently willing to forget their words of a few moments before.

“Max says a man name of Smoke Jensen braced him in Big Rock. Said to tell me if anything happened to Mary Carson he was going to cut me to pieces.”

“Smoke Jensen?” Whitey asked. “The old gunfighter? I thought he was dead.”

Slaughter looked at him. “So did I. Haven't heard anything 'bout him in years. Evidently he's joined forces with Monte Carson and wants to deal himself into this little fracas.”

“What's he say about Blackie and Boots?” Swede asked.

“According to this, they won't be coming back. Jensen says they send their regards from Hell.”

Swede leaned back in his chair, pushing his half-eaten steak away. “This is gettin' complicated, Boss. I thought you said Monte would bring us the money once he knew we had his wife.”

Slaughter nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “I must've figured him wrong. Now it looks like we may have a little more trouble getting our hands on our money than I thought.”