War of the Mountain Man (24 page)

“That's a good question,” the hired gun said. “And I don't know how to answer it.”

“I do,” Sal said, stepping off the boardwalk and into the street. “Howdy, Cobb.”

“Howdy, Sal. We all right proud of you, you bein' elected sheriff and all. Me and Benny and Hale and Stacy here, we got to talkin' about that this mornin'. After that no-good from Hell's Crick come talkin' to Red this mornin' about killin' the women and kids and burnin' this town down. We couldn't do that, Sal. You've ridden some trails with us; you know we're not that kind of men. Oh, we've hired our guns out—just like you've done, for fightin' wages. But there ain't none of us ever made war agin' nobody 'ceptin' grown-up men. And we ain't about to start now. Smoke, I guess that's the only answer we can give you.”

Smoke smiled and nodded his head. “It sounds good to me, boys.”

“Me, too,” Judge Garrison said. He wore two guns belted around his expansive waist. Two old Remington .44's—the Army model. Both guns looked to Smoke as if they'd seen some action. “There'll be stars in your crown for this, boys.”

Stacy shifted in his saddle. “I don't know about that, Judge. I just don't want no more black marks agin' me in the Judgment Book. The Good Lord knows I got aplenty of them already.”

“You boys stable your horses and meet me in the hotel dinin' room,” Sal said. “Glad to have you with us.”

“Right will prevail, Smoke,” Judge Garrison proclaimed. “Sometimes it just takes an outsider to prod those oppressed into action.”

Smoke looked at the .44's belted around the judge's waist. “When is the last time you fired those, Judge?”

The judge smiled. “I came out of the War Between the States a colonel, Smoke. Of cavalry. I had my law degree when I enlisted. I fought through nearly every major campaign.” He smiled. “With Lee. I graduated VMI, sir.”

“Then I won't worry about you, sir.”

“Coming from you, that is high praise. Tell me, since I haven't had a chance to ask, how did you leave Max Huggins?”

“Unconscious and tied across his saddle.”

The judge walked away, shaking with laughter. His booming laughter could be heard up and down the main street of Barlow.

Smoke was up and dressed for war long before dawn. He wore his customary two pistols in leather, his two spares were tucked behind his gunbelt, and he carried an American Arms 12 gauge sawed-off shotgun, a bandoleer of shells slung across his chest, bandit-style.

He and Sally had breakfast before the sun was up, and then he walked Lisa and Victoria back to the hotel, Lisa carrying her puppy, Patches, in her arms. Pete escorted Martha Feckles and the boy to the suite, and the women made ready for war.

The men tied red bandanas around the upper part of their right arms. Since there were no females among the raiders who were riding to attack them, the women dressed in their customary attire. More than a few of them, including Mrs. Marbly, Victoria, Sally, and Martha, wore men's britches.

Sal's eyes bugged out when he saw Victoria. “Lord have mercy!” he said. “What's next?”

“The vote,” Smoke told him.

“You have to be kidding! Votin' is men's business. Women don't know nothin' about pickin' politicians.”

“You'd be surprised,” Smoke said.

Smoke walked the town, inspecting each water barrel—and there were many. He checked to see if the buckets were ready in case of fire. They were. He checked each store that was to house fighters. They were ready and willing, even if many of them were scared. Mrs. Marbly, a very formidable-sized lady, had found herself a pair of men's overalls, and when she bent over, she looked like the rear end of a stagecoach. But she handled the double-barreled shotgun like she knew what she was doing. Smoke concluded that he wouldn't want to mess with her.

Pete was still in shock after seeing Mrs. Marbly in men's overalls, bent over.

“Close your mouth, Pete,” Smoke told him. “Before you suck in a fly.”

Jim was stationed two miles out of town, on a ridge, a fast horse tied nearby. As soon as he spotted the dust of the raiders, he was to come hightailing it back into town and give the warning.

Smoke walked to the north end of the town and leaned up against a hitchrail. He rolled him a cigarette and lit up, waiting for the action to start.

He looked back up the wide street. It was void of any kind of life. The horses were stabled safely and the children's pets were in the house, out of harm's way.

Smoke watched as a water wagon rolled down the street, then back up, watering the wide street to keep down the dust. He clicked open his watch: eight-thirty. He walked on down the street, coming to a nearly collapsed old building; a relic of a business of some sort that had failed. This was the last building on either side of the street. Smoke stepped up on the porch and pushed open the door. Rusty hinges howled in protest. He stepped inside and looked in both rooms of the structure. He tried the back door, working it several times to make certain he could exit that way. There was not a windowpane intact in any frame, so he did not have to worry about being cut by flying glass. He sat down on the dusty floor and waited.

At eight-forty-five, Jim came fogging into town from his post. Smoke heard him yell, “Here they come, folks. And there's plenty to go around.” He rode into the livery stable and disappeared.

Smoke eared back the hammers on the sawed-off and knelt by the window. Moments later, he could feel the vibration through the floor, the faint thunder of hundreds of hooves striking the ground.

As the pack of outlaws drew closer, Smoke stared in amazement. Robert was leading the bunch. He wore a pith helmet, the leather strap tied under his chin, and was waving a sword. God knows where he had found either article in Hell's Creek.

The raiders, more than a hundred strong, thundered into town. Smoke let Robert and a few behind him gallop past, then he gave both barrels of the sawed-off to the outlaws.

The hand-loaded charge of nails and buckshot cleared a bloody path in the middle of the outlaw horde. Smoke dropped the shotgun and jerked out his Colts, cocking and firing as fast as he could; deadly rolling thunder erupted from the small collapsing building on the edge of town. Horses began milling around, confused and frightened and riderless. Bodies lay in the street.

A wounded outlaw, his hands filled with guns, staggered up on the porch. He spotted Smoke and leveled his guns. Smoke gave him two .44 slugs in the chest and the man's days of lawlessness were over.

Smoke quickly reloaded his Colts, shoved fresh shells into the express gun, and ran out the back door, turning to his right.

“Red and his bunch are attacking from the south!” he heard the faint shout over the roar of battle.

Smoke ducked into the space between a home and a business and ran to the street. A hatless and bearded man stepped off the path and turned to face Smoke. Smoke pulled the trigger of the sawed-off, and the force of the charge lifted the outlaw off his boots and knocked him out into the street. Smoke ran to the edge of the street and gave the other barrel to a cursing raider. Blood smeared his saddle and the man hit the street, dead.

Smoke filled both hands with Colts and began emptying saddles. From the sounds of shotgun fire coming from the bank building, and the number of bodies littering the street in front of the bank, the Easterners were having a duck shoot and doing a damn fine job of holding their own.

Smoke stepped back and reloaded the pistols and the shotgun.

“Forward, men!” he heard Robert shout, the cry coming from behind him. “Slay the Philistines.”

Smoke turned around. Robert was charging him on horseback, waving his sword. Smoke ducked the slashing sword that could have taken his head off and swung up behind Robert as the frightened horse reared up, dumping both men on the ground. Robert lost his sword and Smoke gave him a one-two combination that dropped the man to the ground, out cold. Smoke tore the pith helmet off and used the leather chin strap to bind Robert's hands behind his back. He used the man's belt to securely bind his ankles, then rolled the doctor under a building. Smoke picked up his shotgun and stepped back into the fray.

Two raiders, apparently having lost their appetite for any further battle, came racing up the street, heading north. Smoke stepped out and gave them both barrels of the sawed-off. Two more saddles cleared.

Smoke stepped up on the boardwalk and ran toward the center of town, reloading the shotgun as he went. He turned down an alleyway and entered the hotel through the back door, muttering curses because the rear of the building was not guarded.

Just above him, on the second floor, Warner Frigo had kicked open the door to the presidential suite and was looking down at Lisa, huddled on the floor, holding her puppy close.

“Well, now,” the outlaw said with a sneer. “Won't you just be a juicy little thing to have.”

He holstered his guns and reached down for her, lust in his eyes.

“You'll hurt no more children and kill not another child's pet,” Warner heard the woman say.

He looked up. Sally stood in the foyer, holding a sawed-off in her hands, both hammers eared back.

Warner's lips peeled back in an ugly smile. “I'll have you after I taste little-bit here.”

“I doubt it,” Sally said, then pulled both triggers. The force of the blast knocked Warner off both boots and sent him flying into the hall. He hit the hall wall and slid down to the carpeted floor. The wall behind him was a gory mess.

Smoke looked up as the shotgun went off. If anyone had tried to mess with Sally, they picked the wrong woman. He went up the stairs to check it out.

He saw Warner's body and stuck his head into the foyer. “Everybody all right in there?” he called.

“Just dandy,” Sally said. “Would you please remove that garbage from the hall, darling?”

“Sure.” Smoke dragged Warner's body down the hall and threw him out the second-story window. The downward hurtling body hit Sid Yorke and knocked him out of the saddle. The outlaw stared in horror at what was left of Warner Frigo.

He looked up at Smoke, standing behind the shattered window, grinning down at him. Sid lifted his pistol, and Judge Garrison, standing in his office, fired both Remington .44's, the slugs knocking the man to his knees. The outlaw died in that position, his hands by his side. His hat fell from his head. The wind picked it up and sailed it down the street.

Sal stepped out from his position just as John Steele was rounding a corner.

“Hey, John!” Sal called.

The foreman of the Lightning whirled in a crouch, both hands by his holstered guns.

“You always bragged how good you was,” the newly elected sheriff said, his voice carrying over the din of battle and the whinnying of frightened horses. “You wanna find out now?”

John dragged iron. He was far too slow. Sal put two slugs in his belly before Steele could clear leather.

“I guess now you know,” Sal told him.

“You sorry . . .” John gasped the words. He never got to finish it. The foreman fell off the boardwalk and landed in a horse trough.

“Have to remember to clean that out,” Sal muttered.

Judge Garrison went out the back door of his office and came face to face with Paul Cartwright. The judge smiled at the man. “You used to love to lord it over me, Paul. You have guns in your hands. Use them!”

The deposed sheriffs guns came up. Judge Garrison lifted his Remington Army Model .44's, and the muzzles blossomed in fire and smoke. Paul Cartwright fell backward, dead.

The judge reloaded and walked up the back of the buildings, conviction and courage in his eyes.

“Gimme all your goddamn money, you heifer!” Frank Norton yelled at Mrs. Marbly.

Mrs. Marbly lifted her shotgun and blew the outlaw out the back door.

“Nice going, mother,” her husband said.

Larry Gayle knew it was a losing cause. He had been thrown from his rearing, bucking horse and was now cautiously making his way out of town . . . on foot. He'd find a horse. To hell with Barlow, Max Huggins, and the whole mess. There had to be easier pickings somewheres else was his philosophy.

“Going somewhere, Larry?” the voice spun him around.

Pete Akins stood facing him.

Larry lifted his Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 and got off the first shot. It grazed Pete's shoulder. Pete was much more careful with his shooting. He shot Larry between the eyes. He walked to the prostrate and very dead outlaw and looked down at him. He shook his head.

“Whoo, boy. You was ugly alive. Dead, you'll probably come back to haunt graveyards.”

Ted Mercer stood facing Smoke Jensen. The outlaw felt a coldness take hold of him. His Colt was in his hand, but he was holding it by his side. Could Jensen beat him? He didn't know. He really didn't want to find out.

“You can drop that iron and walk,” Smoke told him. “Change your life. It's up to you.”

“You're only sayin' that 'cause you know you can't beat this.”

“You're wrong, Ted.”

“Your guns are in leather!”

“Drop it and walk, man. Don't be a fool.”

“I think I'll just kill you, Jensen. ”Ted's hand jerked up. He felt a dull shock hit him in the belly, another hammerlike blow beat at his chest. Impossible! he thought. No man is that fast. No man is ...

Smoke walked up and looked down at the dead outlaw. “I gave you a chance,” he said.

Fires had been started by the raiders, but they had been quickly put out by the ladies of the bucket brigades. The plans of the outlaws were put out as quickly as the flames. Lew Brooks jumped his horse over the body of a friend and went charging between buildings. Judge Garrison stepped out and gave the outlaw a good dose of frontier justice, not from a law book but from a .44. Lew hit the ground, rolled over, and came up with a .45 in his hand. Judge Garrison imposed the death sentence on the man, then calmly reloaded and walked up the alleyway.

Jake Stringer knew that John Steele was down and dead, along with several other Lightning men. He didn't know where Red Malone was. He tried-to calm a badly spooked horse and climb into the saddle. But the horse was having none of that. The animal jumped away and left Jake on foot.

“Damn that hammerhead!” Jake swore. “I ought to shoot it. ”

“Why not try me?” Jim Dagonne said.

Jake turned. Jim's guns were in leather, as were his own. A smile creased his lips. “I enjoyed whuppin' you with my fists, Jim. Now I'm gonna enjoy killin' you.”

Jim was no fast gunhand, but he was a dead shot. Jake cleared leather first and his shot went into the dirt at Jim's boots. Jim plugged the man just above the belt buckle. Jake sat down on the ground and started hollering.

Jim walked to him. He could see where the slug had exited out the man's back, right through the kidney. “You ain't gonna make it, Jake. You got anyone you want me to write?”

“I didn't even know you could write,” Jake said, then fell over on his face and closed his eyes.

Ella Mae, Tom Johnson's wife, was struggling with a man who had less than honorable intentions on his mind. He ripped her bodice open and stared hungrily at her flesh. Momentarily free, Ella Mae ran to the kitchen, jerked up the coffeepot from the stove, and threw the boiling contents into the man's face.

The outlaw screamed and went lurching and staggering through the living room, finding his way out the front door, his face seared from the boiling coffee. He stumbled out into the street and was run down by another wounded outlaw, trying to get out of the death trap named Barlow. The burned outlaw fell under the hooves and lay still.

Clark Hall made the bank and hurled himself through the door. He came up on his boots just in time to face several men with shotguns. He had time to say one word: “No!”