Journey of the Mountain Man (17 page)

“You reckon some of us ought to go with him?”

“Nope. You know Smoke, he likes to lone-wolf it.”

“He's been diggin' in his war bag and he's all dressed up in buckskin, right down to his moccasins. He was sittin' on a bunk, sharpenin' his knife when I left.”

Charlie's grin was hard. “Them gunhandlers is gonna pay in blood this afternoon. Bet on that, old hoss.”

“Who's gonna pay in blood?” Cord asked, walking up to the men.

“Them mavericks out yonder. Smoke's fixin' to go lookin' for scalps come the rain.”

“Sounds dangerous to me,” the rancher shook his head.

Silver Jim laughed. “Oh, it will be.” He jerked his thumb toward the hills. “For them out there.”

The sky darkened and lightning began dancing around the high mountains of the Little Belt, thunder rolling ominously. Then the sky opened and began dumping torrents of rain. With his rifle slung over his shoulder with a strap, hanging barrel down, and his buckskin shirt covering his six-guns and a long-bladed Bowie knife sheathed, Smoke slipped out into the rain on moccasin-clad feet. He kept low to the ground, utilizing every bit of natural cover he came to. He moved swiftly but carefully and made the timber and brush without drawing a shot.

Once in the brush, he paused, studying every area in his field of vision before moving out. He had shifted his long-bladed knife to just behind his right hand .44.

He froze still as a mighty oak at the sound of voices. Clad in buckskins, with the timber dark and gloomy as twilight, Smoke would be hard to spot unless he was right on top of a man.

And he was just about was!

“I shore wants me a crack at that Sandi McCorkle,” the voice came to him very clear, despite the driving rain and gusts of wind.

“We'll use all them pretty gals ‘fore we kill them,” a second voice was added. “You see anything movin' down yonder?”

“Naw. They all shet up in the buildings.”

“I be back, Tabor. I got to ...” His words were drowned out by a clap of thunder.... Must have been somethang I et.”

Slowly Smoke sank down behind a bush as a red-and-white checkered shirt stood and began moving toward him. The pair must be Tabor and Park. Two thoroughly tough men. When Park passed the bush, Smoke rose up like a brown fog. His Bowie in his right hand. He separated Park's head from his shoulders with one hard slash, catching the headless body before it could come crashing to the ground and alert Tabor.

Easing the body to the wet earth, Smoke picked up the head and placed it in a gunnybag he'd tucked behind his belt.

Then he went looking for Tabor.

Circling around to come in behind the Oklahoma outlaw, Smoke laid his bloody-bottomed sack down on a rock and Injuned up to Tabor, coming in slowly and making no sound.

Tabor never knew what happened. The big-bladed and heavy knife flashed in the stormy light and another head plopped to the earth. That went in the sack with Park's head.

Smoke moved on through the rain and spots of fog that clung low to the ground, swirling around his moccasined feet, as silent as his footsteps.

Someone very close to him began firing—not at Smoke, for at the sound of the hammer being eared back, Smoke had bellied on the gound—but at the house. More guns were added to the barrage and Smoke added his .44 to the manmade thunder, his bullet striking a gunman in the head.

“Hey!” a man shouted, his voice just audible over the roar of rifles. “Pete's hit!” He stood up, an angry look on his face, sure that someone on his side was getting careless.

Smoke shot him between the eyes and the man fell back with a thud that only Smoke could feel as he lay on the ground.

Smoke worked his way back into the timber, climbing up the hill as he moved. Behind a thick stand of timber, he paused for a break and squatted down, the bloody sack beside him. He hadn't made up his mind what to do with the heads, but an idea was formed.

He ate a biscuit and cupped his hands for a drink of rainwater. He did not have one ounce of remorse or regret for what he was doing. He knew only too well that to fight the lawless, one must get down and wallow in the muck and the crud and the filth with them, using the same tactics, or worse, that they would use against an innocent. To win a battle, one must understand the enemy.

Rested, Smoke moved out, staying above the positions of the outlaws. He circled wide, wanting to hit them at widely separated spots, wanting them to know they had not been alone and had been attacked by someone who had walked among them with the stealth of a ghost.

A hard burst of gunfire came from the house, the bullets hitting the rocks and the rain-soaked earth several hundred feet below Smoke's position. As the outlaws returned the fire, Smoke leveled his Winchester and counted more coup, his fire covered by the outlaw's own noise. The lone outlaw—Smoke did not know his name and did not recall ever seeing him before—slumped forward, his rifle sliding from lifeless hands, a bloody hole in the man's back.

Smoke slipped down to the man's position and left the bloody bag of heads by the dead man's side. He added his ammunition to that he'd gathered from the others and moved on.

He had planned on sticking the heads up on poles but decided this way would be just as effective.

He continued his circling, which would eventually bring him out on the north end of the ranch complex. He caught just a glimpse of the Hanks boys. Bellying down, he started working his way to their position, freezing log-still as two gunslicks, wearing canvas ponchos, stepped out of the timber and headed in his direction. They were so sure of themselves they were not expecting any trouble and were not checking their surroundings. Smoke could catch only a few of the words that passed between them.

“. . . Never thought them boys would do it . . .”

“. . . Didn't like my old man, but I don't think I'd have had the . . . kill him with a shotgun.”

“... Be gettin'ripe layin' up in that bed . . . Sonny pulled the trigger, I reckon.”

“. . . All three of um's crazy as a bessy-bug.”

The outlaws moved out of earshot and Smoke lay for a moment, putting some sense into what he'd heard. The Hanks boys had killed their father with a shotgun, probably as he lay sleeping in bed.

Smoke broke off his head-hunting and began making his way back to the ranch. If the news was true, and he had no reason to doubt it, for the Hanks boys were as goofy as their father, that meant that part of the outlaws'plans had been accomplished. And everyone at the Circle Double C had to die for the outlaws' planned takeover to succeed.

Smoke moved quickly, always staying in the brush and timber. As he was approaching the ranch complex, he heard a horrified shout from the hills and knew that the bag of heads had been found . . . either that or the headless bodies of the outlaws.

Smoke began moving cautiously, for at this point he was open to fire from either side. Closer to the house, he began a meadowlark's call. Charlie waited for a moment and then returned the call. When a human gives a birdcall, a practiced ear can pick up the subtle difference, no matter how good the caller is.

Smoke ran the last few hundred feet, zigging and zagging to offer a hard target. But if the outlaws saw him, they did not fire; probably they were too busy searching the ridges for the unknown headhunter. On the back porch, Liz and Alice had towels for him, a change of clothes—Cord's long underwear and jeans and shirt—and a mug of coffee, for Smoke was soaked and cold.

Smoke broke the news to a horrified audience.

Liz shook her head but shed no tears for her husband or sons. And neither did Rita.

“Killed their own father!” Cord was visibly shaken by the news. “Good God!”

Parnell was the first to put the upcoming horror into words. “Then we—all of us—have to die if their plans are to succeed.”

The women looked at each other. They knew that for them, it would not be a quick bullet. They would be used, and used badly, until the outlaws tired of them. Only then would death bring relief.

“Reno comin' at a run,” Charlie said, looking out the window. “He's been out eyeballin' the situation close to home.”

The gunfighter was as soaked as Smoke had been. The women shooed him into a room and handed him towels and dry clothing. When he emerged, they had coffee waiting for him.

He took a gulp of the strong hot coffee. “They blocked off the road leading south and have men waiting in the passes. They have so many men it was no problem to seal us off. Any bust-out is gonna be difficult, if not downright impossible.”

“And walking out will be tough with the wounded,” Smoke added. “But if we stay here, they'll eventually overrun us by their number. Or they'll burn the buildings down around us. Beans is gonna have to be carried out of here. Pat and Corgill can walk out with him. I'm going to suggest that the women leave with them.” He looked at Parnell. “Parnell, you and Gage, Del and Bernie will spell each other with the litter. Me and Reno will make the litter right now. You people pack some food and blankets; make a light backpack and get ready to move out at dark. Let's do it.”

 

 

All knew that Smoke had casually but deliberately chosen the men to accompany the women. Then he irritated the hell out of Charlie Starr by suggesting that he accompany the foot party.

“I'll be damned if I will!” the old gunfighter flared up.

“Charlie . . .,” Smoke put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “They need you. They need your experience in guiding them and they need your gun.”

“Well . . .” Charlie calmed down. “If you put it that way. All right. But I hate like hell to miss out on this here fight.”

“Damned ol' rooster with a busted wing.” Hardrock told him. “You look after them folks, now, you hear me, you old coot?”

“I've told them to head for the old Fletcher gold mine in the Big Belt,” Cord said. “It's been abandoned for years and we cache supplies there. From there, they can angle back East and make it into Gibson. But it's gonna be a long hard haul for them all.”

“You just get me in a saddle!” Beans groused. “I ain't never seen the day I couldn't sit on a hurricane deck.”

“Oh, hush up!” Lujan told him. “Just lay back and enjoy the trip. Amigo, you injure that leg again, and you'll be a cripple for the rest of your life. It's better this way and you know it.”

Beans did some fancy cussing, but finally agreed to shut up about it and accept his fate.

Smoke pulled Cord to one side. “How do you feel about leaving your ranch to those jackals out there on the ridges?”

“I don't like it. But I think it's gonna happen. See if my plan agrees with yours: We give them walkin' out a full twenty-four hours. Then we saddle up, put sacks on the horses' hooves, and lead them out a'ways. Then we all hit one spot just as hard as we can.”

“That's it. We'll get the foot party moving just after dark and pray that this rain doesn't let up. They're going to be wet and cold and miserable, but I think they've got more of a chance out there than staying here.”

Cord nodded his big head. “I'll pass the word to the hands. You sure you don't want a diversion?”

“No. That would be a sure tipoff that we're up to something. Anyway, I think they'll hit us at full dark. That 11 be enough.”

The afternoon wore on with only a few shots being exchanged from each side. Those in the house knew that the outlaws would be cold, soaking wet, miserable, and their patience would be growing thin with each sodden hour that passed.

And those in the ranch compound also knew, some more than others, that after finding the sack of bloody heads and several more of their kind shot to death, most of the outlaws would be wanting revenge in the worst sort of way, for they would know it had been Smoke stalking them silently on the ridges.

Smoke looked out onto the gray dripping afternoon. Twenty-four hours. They had to hold out for twenty-four hours.

Reno seemed to read his thoughts. “We'll hold, Smoke. Some of them might breech the house, but it'll be a death trap for them. One thing in our favor, they damn sure can't burn the place down . . . at least not this night.”

“From the outside,” Smoke stuck an amendment to that. “A couple of torches tossed inside, though . . .”

Cord heard it. “I've got some lumber out in the shed. Rock, Troy, you boys fetch the lumber while we get some nails and hammers. We'll board up windows we're not shooting from. On both levels of the house.” He began ripping down curtains and drapes to lessen the fire hazard.

As the sounds of the muffled hammering began drifting to the outlaws on the ridges, the gunfire picked up, forcing the men to work more carefully, without exposing themselves. Those inside the house didn't have to worry about breaking a window with all the hammering; all the windows were already shot out.

Those windows not being used as shooters' positions boarded up, Smoke went to find Fae.

He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I'm headin' back outside, Fae. I like to be outside when the action goes down.” He looked at the other women. “You ladies watch your step this night. We'll see you all in a couple of days.”

He shook hands with the men who were leaving that night. “You boys enjoy your stroll. As soon as it gets full dark, take off. And good luck.”

He walked back into the living room, leaving Cord to say his goodbyes to wife and daughter.

“I'm going to pull Ring and Hardrock, Silver Jim, and Pistol in the house with you and Cord and the boys,” he told Reno. “The rest of us will be in the bunkhouse and the barn.” He looked outside. “Be dark shortly. I'm heading out yonder. The others will be showing up one at a time about five minutes apart. Good luck tonight.”

“Luck to you, Smoke.”

There was nothing left to say. The two famed gunhandlers looked at each other, nodded their heads, and Smoke slipped out onto the stone and wood porch. He knew the chances of his being seen from several hundred yards away were practically nonexistent, but he stayed low from force of habit.

Smoke darted off the porch and to a tree in the yard, then over the fence and a foot race to the corral. Then, as he got set for the run to the bunkhouse, a cold voice spoke from behind him.

“I'll be known as the man who kilt Smoke Jensen. Die, you meddlin' bastard!”