Code of the Mountain Man (10 page)

The deputies collected their prisoner and pulled out that afternoon. The RCMP were due in town within the next several days. Mills looked at Earl, looking at him.

“You'll stay to sign the papers and give the prisoner to the Canadians?”

“Uh-huh. Where are you going?”

“I have a man to arrest.”

“You best use pen and paper in the office, then,” Earl said solemnly.

“To do what, sir?” Mills asked.

“To leave me the name of your next of kin.”

* * *

Foolishly, the outlaws in the camp Smoke attacked came after him. He led them on a goose hunt in the mountains and then tired of the game. He dismounted and took his rifle from the boot, then selected a position on a ridge where he could effectively cover his back trail.

The gang came in a rush, whipping their lathered and tired horses. Smoke emptied two saddles, and the others retreated down the slope, for the moment out of range. Smoke nibbled on a cold biscuit, took a sip of water, and waited. The old mountain man Preacher had taught him many things as a boy, one of which was patience.

After several moments, a man shouted out, “Who you be up yonder?”

“An avenging angel!” Smoke returned the shout, then shifted positions.

He could not hear the reply, if any, but he was certain the mutterings among the scum were highly profane.

“What's your beef with us?” someone finally shouted.

Smoke shifted his eyes, sensing that conversation on the part of the outlaws would be nothing more than a cover for someone trying to slip around and flank him.

But he had not chosen his position without an eye for detail. To his left lay a sheer rock face. To his right, a clear field of fire, virtually without cover for anyone except a very skilled Indian warrior. The outlaws would have to come at him from the front.

“You deef up there?”

Smoke offered no reply. A few shots were fired at him, but they fell far short of his position. It was an impasse, but one that Smoke knew he would win simply because he had more patience than the outlaws. The men he had shot lay sprawled on the trail. One he had shot dead, the other had died only moments before, gutshot and dying hard, calling out for God to help him. The same God the girls he had helped rape and torture had called out to, no doubt.

Smoke watched as the men broke cover and ran for their horses. He waited and watched as they rode back down the trail. Smoke slipped back to Buck, booted his rifle, and took off. He would hit another outlaw camp that evening. He liked the night. He was very good in the night. The Orientals had a word for it that Smoke had read in a book Sally had bought for him. Ninja.

He liked that.

* * *

“That dude is still at the hotel, ma'am,” a hand reported to Sally. “He's gonna get his ashes hauled if he don't stop with the bad mouth against Smoke.”

“He'd just sue you,” Sally told him.

“One of them,” the hand said disgustedly.

“I'm afraid so. What's he saying about my husband?”

“That Smoke has turned cold-blooded killer. That he enjoys killin'. That he's crazy. Monte is gonna have to put him in jail for his own protection if this keeps up.”

Sally nodded her head. “I wired friends back East to check into whether there is any connection between Judge Richards and Larry. They could find none – at least on the surface. I don't believe there is any connection. Larry is just meddling, hoping to discredit Smoke in my eyes.”

“You want me to conk him on the head and toss him in an eastbound freight wagon, ma'am?”

Sally laughed. “No, Jim. But I'm not going to ask anyone to protect him, either. Larry is, I'm afraid, going to learn a hard lesson about the West and its people.”

“He's liable to end up in a pine box, ma'am.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “There is always that possibility. But he's a man grown, and has to take responsibility for his words and deeds. I warned him of the consequences if he persisted in spreading vile gossip about my husband. We'll just let the chips fall, Jim.”

“It won't be long, ma'am. Somebody's gonna tell that greenhorn lawyer to check, bet or fold pretty darn quick.” He put his hat back on his head. “And, ma'am ... it's likely to be me that does it.”

Sally watched the hand walk back to the bunkhouse. She knew that the West was, in many respects, a very tolerant place. A person's past was their business. A handshake was a deal sealed. A person gave their word, it was binding. And if you bad-mouthed somebody, you had damn well better be prepared to back it up with guns or fists. It was the code, and the code was unwritten law in the West.

“Larry,” she muttered, “you're heading for a stomping if you don't close that mouth.”

“That's it, mister!” a cowboy said to Larry. “I've had your flappin' mouth. Now shut the damn thing and shut it now!”

Larry turned in his chair and stared at the man. The others in the cafe fell silent. For days the citizens in and around Big Rock had put up with the Easterner's bad-mouthing of Smoke Jensen. Most of them felt it was just the man's ignorance and let it slide. But it was getting wearing ... very wearing. The cowboy from Johnny North's ranch was one of those Smoke had befriended, and he had had quite enough of Larry's mouth.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Larry questioned, removing his napkin from his shirt-front and laying it on the table.

“I said for you to close that flappin' trap of yours,” the cowboy said. “Smoke ain't here to defend himself agin your lyin' mouth. And I for one have had enough of it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, walking to Larry's table.

“Sir,” Larry said, “I have a right to an opinion. That is a basic right. One only has to look at Jensen's record of brutality and callousness to see that the man has no regard for law and order and the rights of others. I ...”

The cowboy slapped him out of the chair. Larry's butt bounced on the floor. He stared up at the man, his mouth bloody from the callused hand of the cowboy. His eyes were wide from shock.

Larry looked over at the sheriff. Monte Carson was recovering from his wounds, his left arm still in a sling where the .45 slug had busted his forearm. He stared at Larry with decidedly unfriendly eyes.

“Do something!” Larry hollered.

“What do you want me to do?” Monte questioned.

“This brute assaulted me!” Larry yelled, crawling to his knees and grabbing the back of a chair for support. “I want him placed under arrest.”

“You're under arrest, Clint,” Monte said, sugaring his coffee.

“The fine for disturbing the peace is two dollars,” Judge Proctor said, carefully cutting the slice of beef on his lunch plate.

Twenty silver dollars hit the floor from the pockets of patrons seated around the cafe.

Willow Brook, wife of the town's only lawyer, Hunt, counted the money on the floor. “I think that means you can break the law a few more times, Clint,” she said.

“What?” Larry screamed. “What kind of justice is this?”

“Western kind,” Clint said, and jerked the man up by his shirt.

“Unhand me, you heathen!” Larry yelled.

Clint did just that. He tossed Larry out the front door, and the man landed in a horse trough.

“And don't come back in here!” the cafe owner yelled, once Larry had bubbled to the surface. “You are now officially barred from dinin' in my establishment.”

“The cuisine was terrible anyway!” Larry yelled.

“I ain't never served nothin' like that in my life!” the cook screamed from the back.

“Ignorant oaf!” Larry said, stepping out of the horse trough with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “I'm going to sue everybody in that establishment!” He pointed at the cafe.

Monte walked to the door. “Get off the street, or I'll put you in jail for attempting to incite a riot,” he told Larry.

“You'll put me in jail!” Larry shouted. He shook his finger at the sheriff. “You've not heard the last of this, sir,” he warned. “I am an attorney of some reputation. I can assure you all that the consequences will be dire. I ...”

“You got nine more chances, Clint,” Monte said.

The cowboy stepped out onto the shaded boardwalk, and Larry took off running toward the Majestic Hotel. His shoes squished with every step. His ears were flame-red from the laughter he was leaving behind him.

* * *

Mills Walsdorf led his men some twelve miles out of town and halted the parade.

“What's up, Mills?” Moss asked.

“We make camp here.”

“Lot of daylight left,” Winston pointed out the obvious.

“We have to make plans,” Mills told them, swinging down from the saddle. “And that might take several days. Perhaps even a week or more. We can't just go riding willy-nilly after Smoke Jensen.”

The U.S. Marshals looked at each other and smiled. Harold said, “I wondered why you bought so many provisions.”

“We must always be prepared. We're on our own now, men. No one back in town knows where we are. I told Earl we were heading east.”

“But we rode north!” Sharp said.

“Precisely.”

“I'll gather some firewood,” Winston said, turning his head to hide his smile.

“We'll all gather wood,” Mills said. “Since we're going to be here for some time.”

* * *

Smoke saw to his horses' needs first, rubbing them down carefully and picketing them near graze and water. He then ate a cold and early supper. He slipped off his boots and stuck his feet into moccasins that had been made especially for him. They were Apache moccasins, with high leggings that would prevent his trousers from catching on low branches or underbrush. He blackened his face with dirt and tied a dark bandana around his forehead. He checked his guns and his knife, then picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

He knew where another of Slater's camps was, having checked the area carefully with his field glasses, spotting the smoke and mentally marking the location. This coming night was going to turn deadly for some of the outlaws.

Smoke was moving long before twilight placed its dusky hand upon the high country. He was dressed in clothing that would blend with the night and the terrain, and there was nothing on him that would rattle or clank. Moonlight, when it came up, might reflect off the brass of his .44 rounds in his ammo belt, but that was the only thing unnatural about him in the gathering gloom. He slipped through the timber and brush like a wraith.

The outlaws were a careless bunch. Smoke spotted their campfires long before he caught sight of any human movement. When he was within hailing distance of them, he squatted down and became as one with the brush. He moved only his eyes as he studied the encampment.

He concluded that Slater had split his people up into at least three bunches. Maybe four since he wasn't sure of the size of the gang. This gang of trash and thugs numbered about fifteen. They were all heavily armed, their weapons looking well-used but well-cared for.

Smoke moved closer, to better listen.

The outlaws were bitching about the inactivity and the lack of women and whiskey. They bragged about the men and women they had killed and raped and tortured. Smoke's face tightened in silent rage as the men laughed about the two little girls they'd had back up the trail.

Smoke knew which two girls they were talking about.

He'd buried them both.

He watched one man leave the bonfire-lighted area and move toward the dark timber, toward where Smoke squatted, waiting to strike. The man was removing his galluses as he walked to find a spot to relieve himself.

He was taking his last walk.

Smoke wiped his bloody blade clean on the dead man's shirt and shifted positions after rolling the body under some brush. He moved right to the edge of the encampment, very close to where an outlaw lay on his dirty blankets, his head on a knapsack probably filled with his possibles.

Smoke edged closer and looked with disgust at what was tied to the man's saddle. A human scalp. Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. He knew where that came from, too. One of the little girls he'd buried.

Smoke cut the man's throat with a movement as furtive as a ghost and as fast and as deadly as a viper. He eased the man's head down until his chin was resting on his chest. With the bloody knife in his hand, Smoke backed away, again shifting positions, working his way around to the other side of the camp. He paused along the way to wipe his blade clean on some grass.

“Hey, Frank!” one outlaw yelled. “Did you get lost out in them woods?”

Frank lay as silent as the woods.

“Frank?” the call was repeated several times by half a dozen of the thugs.

The outlaws looked at one another, suspicion and a touch of fear entering their eyes.

“Dolp ain't moved none,” one outlaw observed, looking at the man with his head on his chest.

“All that hollerin' would have been shore to wake him up,” another remarked.

“Well, he ain't moved. Somebody go over yonder and kick him a time or two.”

A man walked over to Dolp and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Dolp's head lolled to one side and he fell over, the movement exposing the horrible wound on his neck.

Smoke eared back the hammer on his Winchester.

The outlaw screamed, “His throat's been cut.” Smoke shot him, the .44 slug severing his spine. The man slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

The camp erupted in a mass of yelling, running men, all grabbing for their weapons and firing in every conceivable direction, hitting nothing but air.

Smoke shot one in the belly, doubling him over, and dotted another's left eye with lead. He decided it was time to haul out of there; he'd pushed his luck and skill far enough.

He left behind him a camp filled with frightened and confused outlaws. They were still shooting at shadows and hitting no more than that. However, Smoke thought, if he was lucky, two or three of them might shoot one of their own.

“They had a bad home environment,” he muttered, as he silently made his way back toward his horses. “I'm going to have to remember to tell Sally about this new excuse for becoming a criminal. She probably could use a good laugh.”

* * *

An hour later he rolled up in his blankets and was asleep in two minutes. He did not worry about the outlaws finding his camp. They were probably still trying to figure out what had hit them on what they considered to be home ground. And had they been more careful, it would have been safe ground. It was rugged country; no country for a tenderfoot. And a man could easily live off the land – there were bear, deer, elk, and plenty of streams in which to fish. But an outlaw wasn't going to do anything like that; they were too damn lazy and sorry. If they couldn't steal it, they didn't want it.

Smoke woke up to the sounds of a jaybird fussing at him, telling him it was a pretty day and to stop all that lollygagging around in the bed. As was his custom, Smoke did not move for a moment, letting his eyes sweep the terrain around him for trouble. He spotted nothing to indicate trouble. Birds were singing, and the squirrels were jumping and dancing from limb to limb. He rolled out of his blankets and pulled on his boots, put his hat on his head, and slung his guns around his waist.

He chanced a very small fire to boil his coffee. When the coffee was ready, he put out the fire and contented himself with a cold breakfast of bread and some berries he'd picked from nearby bushes.

By now, he figured, riders would have gone out from the camps he'd attacked, and Lee Slater, if he was not a stupid man, and Smoke didn't think he was – just a no-good, sorry excuse for a human being – would be pulling in his people, massing them for some planning. That was fine. Smoke figured he'd done enough head-hunting in this area. Today he would begin his ride over to the Seven Slash range and see what mischief he could get into there.

He pondered his future as he sipped his coffee. It would be at least another day or two before his friend, the federal judge up in Denver, received his letter. Another day or two before whatever action he took – if any, and that was something Smoke had to consider – went into effect.

But a much more dangerous aspect of his situation had to be taken into consideration: bounty hunters. As soon as word hit the country that a reward was out for Smoke Jensen – and Judge Richards probably made it dead or alive – the country would be swarming with bounty hunters and those looking for a reputation as the man who killed Smoke Jensen.

Well, he thought, I've done this before, so it's nothing new to me. I'll just have to ride with my guns loose and my eyes missing nothing.

He broke camp, saddled up, and headed for Seven Slash range.

* * *

“Had to be Jensen,” Lee Slater spoke to some of his men. “Nobody else would be that stupid ...”

It never occurred to Lee that stupid had nothing to do with it. “Skilled” was the word he should have used in describing Smoke's attack on his camps.

“... He's got to be tooken out. And tooken out damn quick. He could screw up the whole plan.”

“What plan?” a gunny who called himself Tap demanded. “All we been doin' for days is sittin' around on our butts. If somethin' don't happen pretty damn quick, I'm pullin' out for greener pastures.”

Zack nodded his head in agreement. “I'm with Tap. We got money in our pockets and no place to spend it. They's thousands of dollars worth of gold and silver in this area, and we ain't doin' a damn thing about takin' it. I'm tarred of sittin' around. Let's get into action, Lee.”

Lee knew he could not hold his men back much longer. Not and keep his gang together And he knew he had to do that because there was strength in numbers. Luttie was moving too slow to suit Lee. He couldn't understand why his brother was dragging his boots. He needed to see Luttie, but it was risky leaving the mountains just for a visit.

“Couple more days, Zack,” the outlaw leader said. “I promise you ...”

The men all looked up at the sound of a rider coming into camp. “I got news!” the rider yelled. He swung down and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walked over to Lee, waving the other men close in.

“Well?” Lee demanded. “What news?”