Heart of the Mountain Man (23 page)

Monte pulled the triggers on his shotgun and reeled back as both barrels exploded buckshot at the men. Both men and both horses were knocked off their feet by the force of the blast. When Ike Black struggled to his feet, Monte dropped the shotgun and drew his pistol, shooting the man in the top of his head and driving him to his knees, where he stayed, as if in supplication, though he was dead as a stone.

Otis Andarko, Charley Adams, and Joe Belcham ran their horses up on the boardwalk and made it as far as Longmont's Saloon. They dove off their mounts and scrambled through the batwings, huffing and out of breath from the exertion.

The three men had been
comancheros
in the past, making their living selling whiskey to the Indians, and guns that were then used to kill innocent settlers.

As they straightened up, they saw two men standing at the bar. One was dressed in a black coat, with starched white shirt and knee-high, highly polished black boots. The other wore a red checked shirt and Levi's jeans and looked like a cowboy.

“Well, looky what we got here, boys,” Otis said as he dusted off his pants. “A tinhorn cardsharp and a sodbuster.”

Louis Longmont picked up a shot glass and drained the whiskey in one draft. “Johnny,” he said to Johnny North, standing next to him.

“Yeah, Louis?”

“Should we kill them now, or have another drink first?”

Johnny pursed his lips. “Gosh, I don't know, Louis. What do you boys think?” he asked the three men standing in the doorway.

Joe Belcham couldn't believe his ears. He looked at his two friends, then back at the two men at the bar. “But we got you outnumbered three to two,” he said, his hand moving toward his gun.

Louis shrugged. “I know the odds aren't fair, but we don't have time for you to go get more men.”

“What?” Otis asked.

It was to be his last question as Louis and Johnny filled their hands with iron and blew the three men back out through the batwings. None of the three managed to clear leather, much less get off a shot, before they were dead.

“Louis, let me buy you a drink this time,” Johnny said.

“Don't mind if I do,” Louis said as Johnny poured.

Blackjack Tony McCurdy managed to get through Dr. Spalding's office door with only two minor flesh wounds. As he burst into the room, the doctor looked up and said, “I'll be with you in a minute, sir, as soon as I finish removing a bullet from this arm.”

Haywood Arden lay on the table with his wife, Dana, holding his hand. “I told you not to stand in the doorway like that,” she said. “I told you you'd get shot.”

Haywood nodded, his face covered with sweat. “I know, dear, but what can I say? It was my first shootout.”

Blackjack, who'd shot his first man when he was thirteen years old, and hadn't minded that it was his father he'd killed, stepped over to grab Dr. Spalding by the arm.

“Shut the hell up. What's wrong with you people? Can't you see I have a gun?” he said, sticking out his hand with the Colt in it toward Dana.

“Oh, that,” Spalding said casually. Then in one quick motion and with a flick of his wrist, he slashed the extensor tendons of Blackjack's right hand with the scalpel he was holding.

The pistol dropped to the floor as Blackjack screamed and grabbed his bleeding right hand with his left. He looked down and saw scarlet stains covering the boots he'd taken from Roscoe Archer's body. His face paled and he fainted, falling to the floor.

“That's right, have a seat and I'll see to that nasty wound as soon as I'm finished here,” Spalding said, turning back to Haywood.

Monte Carson climbed through the rooftop door and let himself down to the top floor of the hotel. He'd just finished punching out his empties and reloading his Colt when he heard a sound behind him.

He turned and found Big Jim Slaughter pointing a pistol at him.

“You're the cause of all this,” Slaughter said, a crazed look in his eye.

Monte smiled. “No, I'm not, Jim. It's your greed and your stupidity that's brought you here.”

“I'm gonna kill you, Carson.”

“I don't think so, Jim. Not now, not ever.”

As Slaughter eared back the hammer on his Colt, Monte dropped to one knee and raised his pistol, firing twice in rapid succession.

The first bullet hit Slaughter in the right chest and spun him around, while the second entered the back of his head and knocked him to the floor, where he landed facedown in a pool of his own blood.

Monte got up, walked over to him, and rolled him over. Slaughter's face was gone, blown away by the exiting slug from Monte's .44.

Big Jim, you don't look so big now,
Monte thought.

Monte stepped to the window and looked at the carnage below. All of the outlaws were either dead or wounded and out of action.

Slaughter's Marauders were as dead as their founder, and dead too was the past of Monte Carson, respected sheriff in Big Rock, Colorado.

EPILOGUE

Smoke and the acrid smell of cordite hung like an early morning fog over Big Rock, Colorado. The odors and sounds of men wounded and dying and dead assailed the townspeople, who were going about the grisly task of piling corpses in the back of buckboards for the short trip to boot hill, separating out the wounded, who would be first cared for by Doc Spalding, then jailed by Monte Carson, the man they'd come to kill.

Smoke Jensen walked from the livery stable, blood oozing from a close call on his neck. He looked up and down the street, his ears still ringing from the sound of his Colts when he blew Swede to Hell and gone, his pistol hanging at his side.

He took a deep breath, and realized with a start how much he loved the smell and feel and gut-wrenching excitement of a fight. It was not something he was proud of, but he was a pragmatic man, and he knew that one's basic nature could be suppressed, but never changed. He guessed it was something he was going to have to work on.

“Hey, Smoke,” Louis called from over by his saloon. “You all right?”

Smoke came out of his reverie and fingered the wound on his neck. “Yeah, Louis, I'm all right,” he answered, and moved to join his friend.

Louis and Johnny North picked up the three dead men in front of the saloon and heaved them in the back of the buckboard Ralph Morrow was driving down the middle of Main Street.

“Looks like you boys had your share of action,” Smoke observed.

Louis shrugged. “These men had the gall to interrupt our conversation over two glasses of Napoleon brandy. What else could we do but shoot them for their impertinence?”

Cal and Pearlie sauntered up to join them, Pearlie still reloading his pistol.

“You boys all right?” Smoke asked, relieved to see them walking and know they had no serious wounds. Sally would have his skin if anything ever happened to either one of them.

Pearlie was about to reply when a door slammed from across the street and a man staggered onto the boardwalk, his right hand bleeding and his left filled with iron. As he raised his pistol and fired, Pearlie shoved Cal to the side and stepped in front of him.

Blackjack Tony McCurdy's bullet hit Pearlie in the side, punching through the thin layer of fat on his flank half an inch under the skin and exiting out the back.

As Pearlie doubled over, four pistols were drawn and fired almost simultaneously by Smoke, Cal, Louis, and Johnny. The bullets all hit Blackjack, lifting him off his feet and flinging him back against the wall next to Doc Spalding's office just as the doc came bursting out of the door.

Spalding held out his hands, “I'm sorry, Smoke,” he said as he ran to take a look at Pearlie. “He was unconscious and I was removing a bullet from Haywood. He must've woken up and sneaked out the door.”

“That's all right, Cotton,” Smoke said from where he was squatted next to Pearlie, who was moaning and groaning and holding his side.

The doctor kneeled down and moved Pearlie's hand, checking his wound. Then he looked up and smiled. “I think all this cowboy needs is a small bandage and something to eat.”

“Did somebody mention food?” Pearlie said, sitting up and grinning.

“Why'd you do that, Pearlie?” Cal said. “Why'd you take that bullet for me?”

“Hell, boy,” Pearlie said as he struggled to his feet. “We done got a record goin' here. You been through two gunfights without gittin' wounded.” He shook his head. “I jest didn't want'a spoil your streak.”

“Go on in, Pearlie, and have Andre fire up the stove. Tell him I said to fix you anything you want,” Louis offered.

Pearlie put his arm over Cal's shoulder and began to hobble into the saloon.

Cal looked at him. “Now, I done thanked you fer takin' that bullet. Don't go tryin' to make it more'n it is.”

Pearlie straightened up and quit limping. “Can't blame a feller for tryin', can you?”

Monte Carson stepped through the door to the hotel and made his way across the street. His shoulders were slumped with fatigue and he looked dead tired, but he had a smile on his face.

“Well,” he said, “it's finally over.”

Smoke nodded. “Yes, I believe it is. Did you finish Slaughter?”

Monte nodded. “His raiding days are over.”

Smoke looked up and glanced around the town, watching his friends and neighbors emerge from their stores and offices and homes to begin cleaning up the town. “Then it was worth all this.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Smoke and Sally stood in front of boot hill. A light snow was falling and the white blanket over the graves and markers almost made the place look pretty.

Smoke nodded at the marker in front of them that said simply “Jim Slaughter.”

He put his arm around Sally. “You know, sweetheart, if it wasn't for you, I could've ended up like that.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean, Smoke?”

“I realized during the fight in town that I love the feeling of putting everything you are and everything you own on the line in a fight to the death.”

She shook her head. “I know you do, dear, and that is why I've never tried to change you, or to keep you from doing what you know you have to do. But you are as far different from the man lying there as day is from night. You may enjoy the contest of a fight, but you never start a fight or pick on someone who is weaker than you are.”

She put her hand on his cheek. “You have a wonderful soul, Smoke, and in the final analysis, that is what separates you from men like Jim Slaughter.”

They walked up the street away from the cemetery, arm in arm.

“What are your plans now, Smoke?” Sally asked.

He thought for a moment, then smiled. “After the snow season's over, I thought I might take Cal and Pearlie on a little trip down Texas way.”

She looked at him. “You're going to the King Ranch and get some Santa Gertrudis cattle like I wanted to, aren't you?”

He nodded. “That idea of yours to cross them with our shorthorns is a good one. Besides, there's nothing much going on down Texas way right now, no range wars or Indians left to fight, so it'll be a nice quiet trip and I need the rest.”

NEW YORK TIMES
AND
USA TODAY
BESTSELLING AUTHORS
W
ILLIAM
W. J
OHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone

 

 

 

 

The stench of death hangs over Happyville. When
Flintlock rides into town, he sees windows caked in dust,
food rotting on tables, and a forgotten corpse hanging at
the gallows. Citizens of Happyville are dead in their
beds, taken down by a deadly scourge, and Flintlock
must stay put or risk spreading the killer disease. His
quarantine is broken by Cage Kingfisher, a mad
clergyman who preaches the gospel of death. He orders
his followers to round up the survivors of Happyville and
bring them home to face the very plague they fled. To save
them, Flintlock must send Kingfisher to Hell. But the
deadly deacon has a clockwork arm that can draw a pistol
faster than the eye can blink. It will take the Devil to bring
him down. Or the frontier legend they call Flintlock.

 

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