Journey of the Mountain Man (18 page)

Smoke threw himself to one side just as the pistol roared. He could feel the heat of the bullet as it passed his arm. He twisted his body in the air and hit the muddy ground with a .44 in his hand, the muzzle spitting fire and smoke and lead.

Hartley took the first slug in his chest and Smoke fired again, the force of his landing lifting his gun hand, the second slug striking the gunhawk in the throat. Hartley, with a knot plainly visible on his rain-slicked head, the hair matted down, leaned up against a corral rail and lifted his six-gun, savage all the way to the grave.

A .44-.40 roared from the bunkhouse and Spring's aim was true. Hartley's head ballooned from the impact of the slug and he pitched forward, into a horse trough.

Riflemen from the ridges and the hills opened up, not really sure what they were shooting at, but filling the air with lead. Smoke lay where he was, as safe there as anywhere in the open expanse between house and bunkhouse. When the fire from the outlaws slacked up; Smoke scrambled to the bunkhouse and dove headfirst into the building, rolling to his feet.

“Thanks, Spring,” he told the old hand. “Hartley must have laid out there in the corral all covered up with hay since I conked him on the noggin last night.”

“Hell, he was dead on his feet when I shot him,” the old hand said. “I just like some in'shorence in cases like that.”

He poured Smoke a cup of coffee and returned to his post by a window.

Smoke drank the strong hot brew and laid out the plans. One by one, the old gunfighters began leaving the bunkhouse, heading for the house. Ring was the last to stand in the door. He smiled at Smoke.

“You always bring this much action with you when you journey, Smoke?”

“It sure seems like it, Ring,” Smoke said with a laugh.

The big man returned the laugh and then slipped out into the rapidly darkening day, the rain still coming down in silver sheets.

“I got to thinkin' a while back,” Spring said. “After Ring asked me how it was nobody come to our aid. Smoke, they's sometimes two, three weeks go by don't none of us go to town. Ain't nobody comin' out here.”

“And even if they did come out, what could they do? Nothing,” he ansered his own question. “Except get themselves killed. It'd take a full company of Army troops to rout those outlaws.”

There had been no fire from the ridges, so the men had safely made the house. Darkness had pushed aside the day. Those walking out would be leaving shortly, and they had a good chance of making it, for the move would not be one those on the ridges would be expecting. To try to bust out on horseback, yes. But not by walking out. Not in this weather.

When the wet darkness had covered the land for almost an hour, Smoke turned to Spring. He could just see him in the gloom of the bunkhouse.

“I don't think they'll try us on horseback this night, Spring. They'll be coming in on foot.”

“You right,” Donny whispered from the far end of the bunkhouse. “And here they come. You want me to drop him now or let them come closer?”

“Let them come on. This rain makes for deceptive shooting.”

A torch was lighted, its flash a jumping flame in the windswept darkness. The torch bobbed as the carrier ran toward the house. From the house, a rifle crashed. The torch stopped and fell to the soaked earth, slowly going out as its carrier died.

All around the compound, muzzle flashes pocked the gloom, and the dampness kept the gunsmoke low to the ground as an arid fog.

A kerosene bomb slammed against the side of the bunkhouse, the whiskey bottle containing the liquid smashing. The flames were slow to spread and those that did were quickly put out by the driving rain. Spring's pistol roared and spat sparks. Outside, a man screamed as the slug ripped through flesh and shattered bone. He lay on the wet ground and moaned for a moment, then fell silent.

Smoke saw a moving shadow out of the corner of his eyes and lifted his pistol. The shadow blended in with the night and Smoke lost it. But it was definitely moving toward the bunkhouse. It was difficult, if not impossible, to hear any small sounds due to the hard-falling rain and the crash of gunfire. Smoke left the window and moved to the door of the bunkhouse, standing some six feet away from the door. Spring and Donny and two other hands kept their eyes to the front, occasionally firing at a dark running shape within their perimeter.

The bunkhouse door had no inner bar; most people didn't even lock their doors when they left for town or went on a trip. If somebody used the house to get out of the weather or to fix something to eat, they were expected to leave it as they found it.

The door smashed open and the doorway filled with men. Smoke's .44's roared and bucked in his hands. Screaming was added to the already confusing cacophony of battle. More men rushed into the bunkhouse, leaping over the bodies sprawled in the doorway. Smoke was rushed and knocked to the floor. He lost his left hand gun but jammed the muzzle of his right hand gun into the belly of a man and pulled the trigger. A boot caught him on the side of the head, momentarily addling him.

Smoke heaved the badly wounded man away and rolled to the far wall. Men were all over him swinging fists and gun barrels. Using his own now-empty pistol as a club, he smashed a face, the side of a head, Jerking the pistol from a man's holster, Smoke began firing into the mass of wet attackers. A bullet burned his side; another slammed into the wooden leg of a bunk, driving splinters into Smoke's face.

Jerking his Bowie from its sheath, Smoke began slashing out, feeling the warm flow of blood splatter his arm and face as the big blade drew howls of pain from his attackers.

He slipped to one side and listened to the cursing of the outlaws still able to function. Lifting the outlaw's pistol, Smoke emptied it into the dark shapes. The bunkhouse became silent after the battle.

“You hit, Smoke?” Spring called.

“Just a scratch. Donny?”

The young cowboy did not reply.

“I'll check,” Fitz spoke softly. He walked to the cowboy's position and knelt down. “He rolled twelve,” Fitz's voice came out of the darkness.

“Damn!” Smoke said.

 

 

Another attack from the outlaws had been beaten back, but Donny was dead and Cal had been wounded. Smoke's wounds were minor but painful. No one in the house had been hurt.

They had bought those walking out some time and distance. By this time, if they had not been discovered, they were clear. Clear, but facing a long, cold, wet, and slow march into the Big Belts. The house, the barn, and the bunkhouse were riddled with bullet holes. They had lost two horses, having to destroy them after they'd been hit by stray bullets. And no cowboy likes to shoot a horse.

The rain slacked and the clouds drifted away, exposing the moon and its light. With that, the outlaws slipped away into the shadows and made their way back to the ridges overlooking the ranch.

The moonlight cast its light upon the bodies of outlaws sprawled in death on the grounds. Some of those with wounds not serious tried to crawl away. Cord and Smoke and the others showed them no mercy, shooting them if they could get them in gunsights.

After the intitial attack had been beaten back, the outlaws fired from the ridges for several hours, finally giving it up and settling down for some rest.

The moonlight was both a blessing and a curse, for it would make their busting out a lot more difficult.

Smoke ran to the house to confer with Cord.

“I figure just after sunset,” the rancher said. “After the moon comes up, it'll be impossible.”

“All right. We'll head in the opposite direction of those walking out. We'll start out like we're trying to bust through the roadblock, then cut east toward the timber. That sound all right to you?”

“Suits me.”

Dooley had changed his mind about heading farther into the mountains, turning around when he was about halfway to Old Baldy. He rode slowly back toward Gibson.

At dawn of the second day of the attack on the Circle Double C, he was standing in front of the newly opened stage offices, waiting for the station agent. He plopped down his money belt.

“Stash that in your big safe and gimme a receipt for it,” he told the agent.

That taken care of, Dooley walked over to the new hotel and checked in. He slept for several hours, then carefully bathed in the tub behind the barber shop, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes. He was completely free of the effects of alcohol and intended to remain that way. Nuts, but sober.

He walked over to Hans and enjoyed a huge breakfast, the first good meal he'd eaten in days. Hans and Olga and Hilda eyeballed the man suspiciously.

“Vere is everybody?” Hans broke the silence.

“I ain't got no idea,” Dooley told him, slurping on a mug of coffee. “I ain't been to the ranch in two-three days.” Really, he had no idea how long he'd been gone. Two days or a week. Time meant nothing to him anymore. He had only a few thoughts burning in his brain: to kill Cord McCorkle and then turn his guns on his traitor sons and watch them die in the muddy street. And if he didn't soak up too much lead doing that, and he could find her, he wanted to shoot his wife.

That was the sum total of all that was in Dooley Hanks's brain. He paid for his meal and took a mug of coffee with him, sitting in a chair on the boardwalk in front of the cafe. He would wait.

He sat in his chair, watching the town wake up and the people start moving around. He drank coffee and rolled cigarettes, smoking them slowly, his eyes missing nothing.

He watched as two very muddy and tired-looking riders rode slowly up the street, coming in from the north. Dooley set his coffee mug on the boards and stood up, staying in the morning shadows, only a dark blur to those still in the sunlight. He slipped the thongs from the hammers of his guns. The two riders reined up and dismounted, looping the reins around the hitchrail and starting up the steps to Hans. They stopped and stared in disbelief at the man.

Hector and Rod, two punk gunslicks Dooley had hired, stood with their mouths open.

“You 'pposed to be
dead!”
Hector finally managed to gasp.

“Well, I ain't,” Dooley told them. “And I want some answers from you.”

“We ain't got no quarrel with you,” Rod told him. “All we want is some hot coffee and food.”

“You'll get hot lead, boy,” Dooley warned him. “Where the hell is my no'count sons?”

“I . . .” Hector opened his mouth. A warning glance from Rod closed it.

“You'd better talk to me, pup!” Dooley barked. “'Fore I box your ears with lead.”

Hector laughed at the man. “You ain't seen the day you could match my draw, old man.” Hector was all of nineteen. He would not live to see another day.

Dooley drew and fired. He was no fast gunslinger, but he was quick and very, very accurate. The slug struck Hector in the heart and the young man died standing up. He fell on his face in the mud.

Dooley turned his gun toward Rod, the hammer jacked back. “My boys, punk. Where is they?”

“They teamed up with Jason and Lanny and Cat Jennings,” he admitted. “I don't know where they is,” he lied.

Dooley bought it. He sat down in the chair, his gun still in his hand. He would wait. They would show up. Then he'd kill them. He'd kill them all.

Rod backed up and led his horse across the street, to a little tent-covered cafe. Horace Mulroony had stood on the boardwalk across the street and witnessed the shooting. He motioned for his cameraman to bring the equipment. They had another body to record for posterity.

“Mister Hanks,” he said, strolling up. “I would like to talk to you.”

“Git away from me!” Dooley snarled, spittle leaking out of one corner of his mouth.

Horace got.

In the middle of the afternoon, in order to keep suspicion down, Smoke risked a run to the barn and began saddling all the horses himself. He laid four gunnybags or pieces of ripped-up blankets in front of each stall, to be used to muffle the horses' hooves when they first pulled out. Smoke went over each saddle, either taping down or removing anything that might jingle or rattle.

That done, he climbed up into the warm loft to speak to the men. Lujan was reclining on some hay. He opened his eyes and smiled at Smoke.

“At full dark, amigo?”

“At full dark. If you know any prayers, you best be saying them.”

The gunfighter grinned. “Oh, I have!”

The other men in the loft laughed softly, but in their eyes, Smoke could see that they, too, had been calling—in their own way—for some heavenly guidance.

He climbed back down and decided to stay in the barn until nightfall. No point in drawing unnecessary gunfire from the ridges. He lay down on a pile of hay and closed his eyes. Might as well rest, too. It was going to be a long night.

 

 

Gage and Del had led the party safely past the gunmen on the ridges. An hour later they were deep in the timber and feeling better. It was tough going, carrying Beans on the stretcher, but by switching up bearers every fifteen minutes, they made good time.

Dawn found them miles from the Circle Double C. But instead of following Cord's orders, Del had changed directions and was heading toward Gibson. He had not done it autocratically, but had called for a vote during a rest period. The vote had been unanimous: head for town.

By midafternoon they were only a few miles from town, a very tired and foot-sore group.

Late in the afternoon, they came staggering up the main street of Gibson. People rushed out of stores and saloons and houses to stand and stare at the muddy group.

“Them wimmin's wearin' men's britches! ' a man called from a saloon. ”Lord have mercy. Would you look at that.”

Gage quickly explained what had taken place and why they were here, Dooley listening carefully.

Rod stood on the boardwalk and stared at the group, his eyes bugged out. Parnell felt the eyes on him and turned, his hot gaze locking with Rod's disbelieving eyes. Parnell slipped the thongs from his blasters and walked toward the young man.

“I ain't skirred of you!” Rod shouted.

“Good,” Parnell said, still walking. “A man should face death with no fear.”

“Huh! It ain't me that's gonna die.”

“Then make your play,” Parnell said, and with that he became a western man.

Rod's hands grabbed for iron.

Parnell's blaster roared, and Rod was very nearly cut in two by the heavy charge. It turned him around and tossed him through the window and into the cafe, landing him on a table, completely ruining the appetite of those having an early supper.

Beans had been keeping a good eye on Dooley; a good eye and his gun. Crazy as Dooley might be, he wasn't about to do anything with Beans holding a bead on him.

Dooley stood up slowly and held out his hand as he walked up to Gage. With a look of amazement on his face, Gage took the offered hand.

“You got a good woman, Gage. I hope you treat her better than I did.” He turned to Liz and handed her the receipt from the stage agent. “Money from the sale of the cattle is over yonder in the safe. I'm thinkin' straight now, Liz. But I don't know how long it's gonna last. So I'll keep this short. Them boys of ourn took after me. They're crazy. And they got to be stopped. I sired them, so it's on my shoulders to stop them.” Then, unexpectedly, and totally out of character for him, he took off his hat and kissed Liz on the cheek.

“Thank you for some good years, Liz.” He turned around, walked to his horse, and swung into the saddle, pointing the nose of the horse toward the Circle Double C.

“Well, I'll just be damned!” Gage said. “I'd have bet ever' dollar I owned—which ain't that many—that he was gonna start shootin.'”

Liz handed him the receipt. “Here, darling. You'll be handling the money matters from now on. You might as well become accustomed to it.”

“Yes, dear,” the grizzled foreman said meekly. Then he squared his shoulders. “All right, boys, we got unfinished business to take care of. Let's find some cayuses and get to it.”

Their aches and pains and sore feet forgotten, the men checked their guns and turned toward the hitchrails, lined with horses. “We're takin' these,” Del said. “Anybody got any objections, state 'em now.”

No one had any objections.

Hans rode up on a huge horse at least twenty hands high. He had belted on a pistol and carried a rifle in one big paw. “I ride vit you,” he rumbled. “Friends of mine dey are, too.”

Horace came rattling up in a buggy, a rifle in the boot and a holstered pistol on the seat beside him. “I'm with you, boys.”

More than a dozen other townspeople came riding up and driving up in buggies and buckboards, all of them heavily armed.

“We're with you!” one called. “We're tired of this. So let's ride and clean it out.”

“Let's go, boys!” Parnell yelled.

“Oohhh!” Rita cooed. “He's so manly!”

“Don't swoon, child,” her mother warned. “The street's too muddy.”

Del leaned out of the saddle and kissed Fae right on the mouth, right in front of God and everybody.

Parnell thought that was a good idea and did the same with Rita.

The hurdy-gurdy girls, hanging out of windows and lining the boardwalks, all applauded.

Olga and Hilda giggled.

Gage leaned over and gave Liz a good long smack while the onlookers cheered.

Then they were gone in a pounding of hooves, slinging mud all over anyone standing close.

Dooley rode slowly back to his ranch. He looked at the buckshot-blasted bed and shook his head. Then he fixed a pot of coffee and poured a cup, taking it out to sit on the front porch. He had a hunch his boys would be returning to the ranch for the money they thought was still in the safe.

He would be waiting for them.

 

 

“I don't like it,” Jason told Lanny, with Cat standing close. “Something's wrong down there. I feel it.”

“I got the same feeling,” Cat spoke. “But I got it last night while we was hittin' them. It just seemed like to me they was holdin' back.”

Lanny snapped his fingers. “That's it! Them women and probably a few of the men walked out durin' the rain. Damn them! This ain't good, boys.”

Cat looked uneasily toward the road.

Jason caught the glance. “Relax, Cat. There ain't that many people in town who gives a damn what happens out here.” Then he smiled. “The town,” he said simply.

Lanny stood up from his squat. “We've throwed a short loop out here, boys. Our plans is busted. But the town is standin wide open for the takin'.”

But Cat, older and more experienced in the outlaw trade, was dubious. “There ain't nobody ever treed no western town, Lanny. We done lost twenty-five or so men by the gun. Them crazy Hanks boys left nearabouts an hour ago.”

“Nobody ever tried it with seventy-five-eighty men afore, neither. Not that I know of. 'Sides, all we've lost is the punks and tin-horns and hangers-on.”

“He's got a point,” Jason said.

“Let's ride!”

 

 

Dooley Hanks sat on his front porch, drinking coffee. When he saw his sons ride up, he stood up and slipped the thongs from the hammers of his guns. The madness had once more taken possession of his sick mind, leaving him with but one thought: to kill these traitor sons of his.

He drained his coffee mug and set the mug on the porch railing. He was ready.

The boys rode up to the hitchrail and dismounted. They were muddy and unshaven and stank like bears after rolling in rotten meat.

“If you boys come for the money, you're out of luck,” Dooley called. “I give it to your momma. Seen her in town hour or so back.”

The boys had recovered from their initial shock at seeing their father alive. They pushed through the fence gate and stood in the yard, facing their father on the porch. The boys spread out, about five feet apart.

“You a damn lie, you crazy old coot!” Sonny called. “She's over to Cord's place. Trapped with the rest of them.”

“Sorry, boys.” Dooley's voice was calm. “But some of ‘em busted out and walked into town, carrying the Moab Kid on a stretcher. Now they's got some townspeople behind 'em and is headin' back to Cord's place. Your little game is all shot to hell.”

Sonny, Bud, and Conrad exchanged glances. Seems like everything that had happened the last several days had turned sour.

“Aw, hell, Daddy!” Bud said, forcing a grin. “We knowed you wasn't in that there bed. We was just a-funnin' with you, that's all. It was just a joke that we made up between us.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Sonny said. “What's the matter, cain't you take a joke no more?”

“Lyin' scum!” Dooley's words were hard, verbally tossed at his sons. “And you knowed who raped your sister, too, didn't you?”

The boys stood in the yard, sullen looks on their dirty and unshaved faces.

“Didn't you?”
the father screamed the question at them. “Damn you, answer me!”

“So what if we did?” Sonny asked. “It don't make no difference now, do it?”

A deadly calm had taken Dooley. “No, it doesn't, Sonny. It's all over.”

“Whut you mean, Daddy?” Conrad asked. “Whut you fixin' to do?”

“Something that I'm not very proud of,” the father said. “But it's something that I have to do.”

Bud was the first to put it together. “You can't take us, Daddy. You pretty good with a gun, but you slow. So don't do nothing stupid.”

“The most stupid thing I ever done was not takin' a horsewhip to you boys' butts about five times a day, commencin' when you was just pups. It's all my fault, but it's done got out of hand. It's too late. Better this than a hangman's noose.

“I think you done slipped your cinches agin, Pa,” his oldest told him. “You best go lay down; git you a bottle of hooch and ponder on this some. 'Cause if you drag iron with us, you shore gonna die this day.”

Dooley shot him. He gave no warning. He had faced men before, and knew what had to be done, so he did it. His slug struck Sonny in the stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to the muddy yard.

Bud grabbed iron and shot his father, the bullet twisting Dooley, almost knocking him off his boots. Dooley dragged his left hand gun and got off a shot, hitting his middle son in the leg and slamming the young man back against the picket fence, tearing down a section of it. The horses at the hitchrail panicked, breaking loose and running from the ugly scene of battle.

Conrad got lead in his father before the man turned his guns loose on his youngest boy. Conrad felt a double hammer-blow slam into his belly, the lead twisting and ripping. He began screaming and cursing the man who had fathered him. Raising his gun, the boy shot his father in the belly.

But still Dooley would not go down.

Blood streaming from his chest and face, the crazed man took another round from his second son. Dooley raised his pistol and shot the young man between the eyes.

As the light began to dim in Dooley's eyes, he stumbled from the porch and fell to the muddy earth. He picked up one of Sonny's guns just as the gut-shot boy eared back the hammer on his Colt and shot his father in the belly. Dooley jammed the on his Colt and shot his father in the belly. Dooley jammed the pistol into the young man's chest and emptied it.

Dooley fell back, the sounds of the pale rider's horse coming closer.

“Daddy!” Conrad called, his words very dim. “Help me, Daddy. It hurts so bad!”

The ghost rider galloped up just in time to see Dooley stretch his arm out and close his fingers around Conrad's hand. “We'll ride out together, boy.”

The pale rider tossed his shroud.